A Child in Me

by Sofiya Khan (Australia)

I didn't expect to find India

I used to stubbornly, naively shout at the top of my lungs that ‘I will never change’. The child in me knew that adulthood is an impending doom adamant on turning happy people into sighing husks of human beings. The child grew up. She inevitably changed despite her childhood's protests. The stresses of growing up clawed at her dragging down her bubbly spirit. The same spirit that once swaggered through the streets of India with village children flanked by her loyal gang of cousins. She was a girl hungry for mischief and mayhem. A female Jack Sparrow. I didn’t expect to find that girl again. After all, we parted in middle-school years, she was supposed to be a forgotten memory. Like a petal from a dandelion drifting away, in the wind with no anchor to reunite it to its stem. I didn’t expect to catch the petals and clutch them against my chest. That was until I went on a surprise trip to India. Walking out of the crowded airport there’s an intense smell that hits you. A distinct smell of intense fertiliser and something I just can’t put my finger on. It was oddly comforting to know nothing had changed. The cars waged war battling for dominance, the street animals scurried for their lives and the beggars cupped their hands at every street light. As I heard the familiar knock from a beggar I readied my purse. I rummaged through it only to find it beautified by credit cards but not a single note or coin. As I peered down at the incessant knocking I saw a little boy. The sun had dusted his dark hair into shades of blonde and his frail tawny hand reached to the top of the window as he stood on his tippy toes. When he folded his fingers and put it to his crackled sangria lips…for food. His eyes screaming something louder than his actions than mere words. Something in my heart shattered. His desperate knocking stopped and tears filled his Bambi eyes. I rushed to find food in the car. Thankfully, I found a box of half-eaten Gulab Jamun under a seat. I rolled the window down. An infectious smile took over the boy’s sombre features. I passed him the box he looked at me puzzled, nonetheless, a grateful sigh escaped his lips. He nodded in thanks and dashed off as fast as his little legs could propel him. Finally, he came to a stop and hugging a girl no more than two years old, under a gloomy bridge. The baby girl’s white billowy dress was sullied into a mustard brown. Her almond eyes stared up in adoration at the boy as he picked up with familiar ease. There was drool sliding down her face which the boy diligently wiped away. He rushed to open the box and gave her the first sweet. He hugged the girl tighter pulling back to start moving his shoulders, bobbing his head to the beat of a secret song that played only for them. Could a few sweets really make them happy? I didn’t transform their lives. Tomorrow would be another day of scavenging, another day of pain. No. This wasn’t happiness. These kids had something more powerful. Hope. A longing for beauty in the face of the vile monsters of poverty and misery. So while, Delhi’s skyscrapers towered over dozens of broken families taunting them and relentless honking agonised my sanity it did nothing to that boys’ spirit. Not even the darkness of life under a bridge could dull the sparkle in his eyes. Did my eyes ever shine as bright as theirs? They had a childish hope that gave the power to carry ambitions as big as the stars themselves. I longed to be that girl again. A fearless warrior. An outspoken woman. A person with dreams unshackled by realities. A person radiating with childish hope. It took me a trip to another continent to discover that girl again. I hope you can find the child in you. Untainted, unscarred and uncorrupted by the politics of adulthood. May you be in touch with a child’s wonder, their curiosity and hope.