The blast of the AC, accompanied by the high-pitched singing from the radio created a fog of numbness around me. I heard three knocks on the window and turned my head to see a young girl, maybe fourteen, with a baby in her arms. She thrusts the baby towards the window, then gestures towards her mouth for food. She is one of the many beggars who use traffic light junctions to either beg or sell items like balloons, flowers or soft toys. “It’s all a scam, you know? All the money goes to someone else. Be cautious didi.(sister)” The driver warns before catapulting into a conversation about politics in India. As the red light flips to green, my car drives off, leaving the two children at the side of the dusty road, forgotten. I slowly slip back into my fog of numbness, except this time it’s tinged with apathy. Cramped into the back of a minivan, my family and I barrel down the sounds, smells and sights that made up India. As someone who was born here but raised in Singapore, India was, simply put, an enlightening experience. The smell of street food, laced with saffron rose through the land, blending with the vibrant colours the country was known for. I must admit that I was aware of the vacuum I lived in whenever I visited India, that I wasn't as in touch with the locals on the ground as I would like to be. We reached our destination, which was the tourist hotspot known as the Taj Mahal. It was here, among the throngs, that I got separated from my family. As I knew where they were planning to go, I decided to ask around and find them. The Taj Mahal’s popularity was a beacon for the entrepreneurial who sold everything. It was here that I met “Chotu” (little boy). He was selling foot bags made from cloth which you could fasten around your feet and walk around in. He was short and scrawny, dressed in a striped shirt and shorts with neatly combed hair. He had large, doe-like eyes that were characteristic of the children I often saw on the streets. He refused to give me his name but told me that he had overheard me telling people that I was lost and wanted to help. As we wandered down the multiple parks, with the ever-changing autumn leaves, Chotu told me about his family and how he worked here to earn money for them. He told me about his sisters, who went to school in their uniforms and his mother who would wait for him to come home and cook his favourite meals. His idle chatting filled me with wonder and coloured my interaction with him more vibrantly. “Do you go to school?” I asked him when our conversation lulled. “Yes, but not today,” he replied. The answer was too fast, almost like it was rehearsed. He looked me in the eye when he said it, and I could tell from his shifting gaze that he was lying. It hit me that not going to school was never a decision I had to make. My heart broke a little at the look on his face and under the burden of my own guilt. We spoke more, until I found my family. They showered Chotu with appreciation and even bought some shoes from him so that he could go home earlier. As I got back into the car, I looked over at him and smiled. I knew that I would never see him again. We waved at each other and then he walked away. Soon, his tiny figure was consumed by the crowd. On my way back, I was forced to look at all the people on the streets in a new light. I could no longer ignore them like my family would. The journey back was no longer a blend of colours and smells, but the faces of all the people who would appear outside my car window and knock.