Memories

 

I was born poor. We lived in a rented house by a garbage dump. The terrace was a cemented one, with peeling paint and sharp exposed iron rods jutting out from the sides. Bare bricks outlined the back of the house, where my mother washed utensils. I dutifully carried them to the kitchen, with a wobbling gait. 

Every day in the morning, a bunch of village kids spread out over the dump like a swarm of mosquitoes. There was a buzz of activity, as they busily segregated the waste with their hawk like eyes. Rarely, one would spot a glistening object, maybe a shampoo bottle or a discarded pack of half-eaten sweets. He would hold it up, in a way an archeologist would, to a rare unearthed Harappan coin. He would shout out to his mates, they all would huddle around him, with shining eyes and some of them would even dance in glee. Happiness is free.