The rich girl

I had met her often. She just lived in the street perpendicular to our slum road. Our slum was pretty huge, with over 150 huts lined in one street. It was parallel to the railway line of the city’s metro rail, and our huts shook with tension every time a train passed through. Trains had become so much a part of we kids’ lives, that we would feel odd when trains didn’t pass through at their designated times.

The little girl was just my age, and lived in a neat 3 floor apartment. Her house was in the second floor, I knew. She would often play in their balcony, and look out at us from time to time, curious to see what we played with, while she poured out tea to her dolls from a tiny teapot.

I was in awe of the doll house she had in her balcony. It was pink and purple, every little girl’s dream. The only dolls I had were a yellow car with black wheels, given by the boy 4 huts away, and another girl doll which had only one eye. But I still held these precious toys to myself, tending to them day and night. The girl doll would sit on the car which I would pull around the slum street with a coir rope. Not having enough money to afford school, I would be either pulling the car or running around with a cycle tyre and a stick.

And one day, that girl came down to our place. Our place. I knew it was forbidden for her to come here, but I didn’t know why she did. I was busy playing with my friends, until one noticed that the rich girl was staring at us. We then shyly retreated to our huts and hid behind the doors to see what she was up to.

She came to my hut and called out ‘Ei, velila va…unakku onnu kondu vanduruken’ (Hey, come out, I’ve brought something for you). I shook my head silently, and refused to come out.
She took out a shiny, metallic, blue car out of a plastic bag, and put it down near the door. The car already had a cord that could be pulled to drag it around.
‘You can have it,’ she said, and left.

I waited for more than five minutes to make sure that she wasn’t around, and then stealthily stepped out and picked up the car. It was beautiful. My yellow car was nothing compared to this one. I dragged it out at once and showed it to all my friends, and generously gave each of them one turn to pull it around. I was pleased. I felt special.
‘The rich girl gave it to me, and not any of you,’ I felt. I was her friend, not any of them.

I saw the rich girl again, two days later, when we were playing with my new car. She was coming down with her father. They started walking towards the slum. As she neared, I realised with shock, that she was crying.
I hurriedly grabbed my blue car and hid behind my door again, peering out anxiously. ‘Have any of us done anything wrong?’
She pointed to my hut and they both came toward the door. I was terrified, and hugged the blue car closer to my chest.

Her father spoke first. ‘Give the car,’ he told me, pointing to the blue car I was holding. I refused, and shook my head vigorously.
‘She gave it to me,’ I said.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘You’re not supposed to take anything that people give you. Now give it back.’
I knew then why the girl was crying. Her father had scolded her for giving me the toy. I gave it back, realising that my refusal would only end up in her getting scolded more. My shiny, blue car, which already had a string, was gone.