Kindness

 Unknown to Roslan he was born to a couple who should not have been - first generation cousins whose parents, his grandparents, had been also separated by just one additional degree. He would have said his slight stutter were a result of copious and very surprising inbreeding, in this day and age, had be been able to. Roslan's mother and father had been quite young and when it had become apparent that matters had gone too far, they'd been married to save the family's honour. What the new parents had not taken into account had been a slightly odd looking, hyperactive child that would not stay put. All the baby videos that they'd planned on posting would never happen because their baby was not cute enough, the opposite, in fact. With a rather large, elongated head and bulbous eyes he did not cry out 'lift me up'. Resentment grew in moments and hours at the loss of social stature, partly by the ugly child god had given them as punishment and partly realizing parenthood wasn't really as what it was made out to be. 

With everything going against them, Roslan, sadly, was the only one they had any control over and so bore the brunt of all their frustrations. While his father escaped to go into their wood carving workshop, spending as long as he possibly could there, his mother would cringe at the very prospect of having to pick him up or feed him. He would not be touching her breasts, that was a given, she shuddered at the thought of having him latch on and had him weaned off after three weeks, right after all the muted social festivities around the birth of a boy child had concluded. Her own parents had never extended a warm smile or hug to Roslan, let alone coddle him or fuss about as grandparents were prone to doing. 

He was surely a devil child, his mother mused, washing the unnaturally thick hair that stank worse than the door rug, giving it a hard tug and immediately regretting it as the boy started to wail in the most unpleasant of tones - rather than the beguiling, sympathy inducing cries of other children, Roslan's was a cry that would make one want to slap him, and that's what she'd do. Though it had been five long years since, he still looked two - a feral two year old, with a large head covered by thick glossy hair, eyes that were always flitting about to catch a whiff from where the next punch or slap would land, and forever wrapped in a cocoon of putrid scent that was more a defence mechanism, fending off not just his mother but also the other bullies - the children in his neighborhood. 

When he turned ten, his mother had had enough, one morning he slept in till late on the floor besides the bathroom, without the standard beating by a broom to wake him up, he woke up silently, stretching out on his mat lazily, his muscles didn't ache because he's had a full night's rest. But then a wave of fear gripped him, the house seemed quiet and he worried if there'd be hell to pay for not having been up - maybe there were guests in the house but for sure his mother would not have forgotten that he had not left the house early enough - that had been the pattern, his father would clothe him in a fresh pair of clothes, mostly his old clothes that hung about him making him look worse than the vagabonds that loitered around, and send him off with a whack to his head. Roslan was not to get back to the house before the lights had gone on - his mother had demanded that and to maintain peace in his life, his father had acquiesced.  His father would make a monthly payment to a local eatery on the corner and they would throw him a bun or a plate of fritters twice a day, he was on his own after that. 

His lack of coordination did not help, maybe it was all the whacks to his head he had got but he somehow walked in a strange fashion, his hands pulled close to the chest, as a boxer would to defend themselves, at all times while he shuffled around slightly sideways, like a crab, which again was probably to defend himself for he got abuses hurled at him, sometimes a shove or even a punch if he bumped into someone. No one wanted a stinky vagabond running into their fresh clothes at the start of the day, especially getting emboldened to physical abuse due to his tiny stature. Walking sideways gave him a better chance at avoiding touching people as he wandered about the locality,  stopping often to stare at any one or any thing new -  anything except for his father's shop where he was forbidden to visit. Since he didn't have anyplace to be, he'd spend hours rooted to a spot when he found something interesting, absorbing like a sponge all that they did or said.

That morning he ran out of the room into an empty house. His mother was no where to be seen, The house stood dark, in the shadows of the brilliant sunshine outside.  An air of heavy staleness wafted in from the kitchen. He did not know what she was doing with the rope but she seemed busy, swaying slightly. And then she jerked, he saw her eyes red as usual and bulging out staring straight at him, she had seen him and would soon be lunging  straight at him any minute for her hands had gone to the rope clawing at it, trying to take it off, screaming he ran out, stumbling into the streets. He wandered about a bit, his mind running wildly with the various ways he was going to be beaten up later that day. She had been gurgling some sounds too maybe she had told him what she would be doing to him, but he had not understood a word of it - to him it had sounded like water trying to escape a dried up faucet. His tiny shoddy feet stumbled on and eventually he found himself in a new street, he had seen it from afar but had never gone there for he had been told to stay on his street where he could be found if he were to ever get lost. Roslan did not know this but his parents had a secret desire that it is what would happen one day, that they would hear of his untimely passing and had complete futures planned around that event, to the exclusion of one another, of course. 

All the new sounds and sights flooded Roslan's budding senses, everyone seemed to be running about there and all the screaming and shoves and punches that he had learned to manage on his own street came bounding at him at twice the speed. He started to run, holding his head and kept running till he fell. Laying in the dust he finally opened his eyes and looked up -  the sky looked down at him serenely. He stayed still observing, this was something new he had discovered. When he woke up later, hunger clawing at his innards he found a mangy dog panting right next to him. A rush of musty breeze hit his face sharply slapping minute jagged edged debris into his nostrils and eyes. Rubbing his face he raised himself to breathe better and saw the road just a few feet away from him, cars and buses zipping past him, dumping even more dirt and putrid smoke each time they crossed him, unseeingly. Had it not been for the dog, the filthy Roslan, indistinguishable from a rag, had a very good chance of getting squished under one of those enormous wheels. Tottering up he let his hunger guide him towards a shack, the dog followed. 

The shack was a haphazard one, he could not tell what it was for - it must be a shop but of what he thought - there was only garbage piled up in the front, it had broken chairs, old beds rusted metal everywhere. Roslan didn't know to avoid those death traps, but somehow managed to navigate beyond the war zone to find a clean patch of tiled floor. The shack only had a roof over the debris, the tiled patch was open to the sun, which by now was beating down severely. He found what had drawn him to the shack - an open fire with a pot on it - something was cooking and to his starving self, it seemed like manna. Tottering as close as he could to the pot , he crouched down in front of it hoping a plate would appear from the boiling pot for him. The dog followed suit, salivating just as his new master was. 

Observing the pair from the shadows the hunched man who looked like he was in his eighties decided the pair were not a threat. He hobbled towards them making warning sounds as Roslan, unable to bear the clawing in his stomach reached out to the hot pot. Startled both Roslan and the dog gave out loud yelps but calmed down upon seeing him. To the rest of the world, he was an outcast, a ragpicker, chased by wild dogs and people alike for his ugliness caused hatred and fear even in the saintliest of hearts. Like Roslan, he had a misshapen skull. A paralytic attack had left the right side of his face drooping and even when he had bathed himself in the pond behind the shop he would still look filthy. Life had knocked him around so he looked sixty but was barely a day over thirty. To Roslan, he seemed to be the kindest person he had ever met.

The man told Roslan he would serve him, atleast thats what Roslan understood for all the man uttered were grunts and big gestures. If Roslan had learnt how to, he would have smiled, he continued to stare at his movements as the man ladled steaming hot broth onto a plate for him and to Roslan's surprise he pulled out a spoon and scooped a little blowing on it. Satisfied he pretended to eat by taking the spoon towards his mouth before handing it over to Roslan, teaching him how to eat. How he had known that Roslan had never been able to feed himself was a mystery to Roslan but he followed the instructions clumsily with each spoon. The man and the dog sat there on their haunches, observing him eat, his unbridled joy with the bland meal tugged at the man's heart. He not only understood what Roslan's life had been until then but also shivered thinking of the years to come. As the tiny duo polished off the pot the man laid down in a corner, dozing off instantly. His was a hard life, the physical labour of loading all the iron and metal junk into the truck earlier in the day had exhausted him fully. He knew he had been cheated by the man for the work he had done but was grateful to have got some money, few more years and then he would be able to go back to his father's village. He dreamt pleasantly on an empty stomach of a future that in most likelihood would not materialize, but it was the most content he had ever been and he slept and slept. 

It had started to rain he thought when he woke with a start, but found that it was only the dog and Roslan chasing each other in the yard. Panicking he sat up, why was the child still there, he had assumed he would leave on his own after eating, it would not bode well for him if someone found a child, even if it was a child as deformed as this, in his shop. He yelled, stopping the madness, gesticulating he pointed to the road outside but Roslan continued to stare at him instead of looking at his outstretched arm. The sun was setting now and the street lights had come out, some of his customers would start to come now. Once again he yelled at the two, trying his hardest to look unwelcoming but they just crouched together sitting on the ground. the man picked up a stone and pretended to throw it at the dog, the dog barked at him and then slunk away after a while. Taking Roslan by the arm the man dragged him out to the road, pointing to it he indicated as best as he could for him to leave. Roslan looked at the traffic lights, he had never seen those before for he knew what would happen if he reached home after the lights had come on. Suddenly, events of the morning flashed through his mind, he started to wail thinking of his mother and the stick she would beat him with once he was home. What had she been doing playing with that rope. He had after all not listened to her when she had called out to him that day, there'd be hell to pay. Startled at the volume of his sobbing the man came back out, he'd have to drop him off somewhere else.

Roslan's protective stance of holding his closed fists in front of his face while walking sideways were back, the man tried to make him rush but it only caused him to stumble and fall. His wails grew louder and coarser with each step, sounding less than the cries of a child and more the annoying blasts from a damaged megaphone. The ragpicker smacked him on his head, all love for the child evaporating in front of the dread he had started to feel. Lifting the boy onto his hunched back he tried to distance the boy away from his shack as fast as he could, making for a peculiar sight. Cars slowed down as drivers rolled down windows to get a photo or just stare at the sight of a despicable old man lugging away a wailing boy. 

He had barely gotten to the cross section where Roslan had wandered in from when a small group of people blocked his way. He knew they were asking about the boy but he could not stop till he had dropped the pest on the other side of the road. He grunted at them trying to brush past but one of them pushed him back angrily. He and Roslan took a nasty fall, the man landing partly on top of the boy's leg. Roslan let out the shrillest of screams, stunning the onlookers who had circled them. Prostrated on the floor, the ragpicker tried to answer but all he could get out in his fearful, frenzied state were disjointed words slurred by his paralysis and that seemed to incite the man even more, he said something to the rest of the crowd and all nodded in unison, some rolling up their sleeves and making fists at the pitiful man slurrily making garbled sounds. Roslan, in the meanwhile had noticed a welder nearby using a welding gun with a bright helmet across his head. Curious he had wandered off to watch. He was so immersed in the bright light that he missed out on the spectacle taking place behind him.

By the time the crowd dispersed, they had beaten the ragpicker so badly that the cops had to call an ambulance to pick up his mangled body for the hospital, he would be returning neither to his shack nor to his village No one remembered the boy the ragpicker was supposed to have been kidnapping.