Graveyard Behind The Dumpster

By Geshna Sharma

The streets are filled with the noises of vehicles honking, pedestrians chatting by and beggars knocking at cars’ windows. Sweat drips down the faces of beggars with kids in their laps nibbing on their hands. Yet every time the signal turns red, they get up and go on about knocking at cars’ windows.

Their faces are parched and so is their throat. Their voice shakes for begging for money while the world goes on disconnectedly when the signal turns green.

One of the many faces on the street is that of Shyam. He roams on the streets of his city in search of something to pass his day with.

Abandoned by his parents when he was born, Ganpat, a local beggar racket lord, found Shyam in a dumpster adjoining a graveyard. While the others ignored the crying of a baby on a busy street, Ganpat heard the sound of opportunity. He picked up the crying baby and named him Shyam. To Ganpat, Shyam was just another target, an addition to his own wage.

Ganpat is a ruthless man with a paunch and bald head. He has stone eyes and a careless walk. A life into the begging mafia, he is trained not to get attached to the kids he finds in the street. Those kids are not allowed to have a childhood and so wasn’t Shyam.

To stop Shyam from crying, he had broken toys thrown at him. When he was young, he roamed at the red lights in the laps of ladies claiming to be his mothers. He always had his toys in his hands. When he grew a little, his toys were snatched from him to be given to other orphaned beggars Ganpat found on the street.

Growing up, he learned to speak and understand things and was taught to act as a cripple. He was one of those lucky ones whose body was not amputated for begging.

He began to understand what he was being used for. He did not like it.

“Do rupaye do na,” the man carrying him in wagon said, “Bacche ko khana khilana hai. Chal nahi sakta, ek pair kata hua hai.” But being little and naïve, he would move all the time, sometimes revealing the lies underneath his cot.

When he was not a fit to be carried in ladies’ laps, he was left on the streets to beg for himself.

Deprived of love from his father and mother, both birth and beggar, he lost his childhood to begging. But his love for toys never faded. Watching other toddlers play with his toys made him furious.

Toys were a luxury to him, a luxury he had grown accustomed to. Toys opened a world of fantasy for him. He would play with cars and think of driving one someday. He had seen cars on the roads he was forced to beg at. Some days he would get his hands on stuff toys and talk to them. Shyam’s eyes were dreamless yet they twinkled with an unknown hope when he was surrounded by toys.

No other boy of his age liked toys. He wasn’t anybody’s favourite either. The other boys mocked him and he was outcast. The ill-treatment does not leave a dent on his soul. Shyam was not like other boys. He never had the soul of a beggar. He abhorred their lack of respect for themselves and sense of submission to begging.

Yet every day, Shyam would be sent on duty at 8 in the morning to return with some money before calling the day’s account. He would return empty handed, every day, and get beaten up and abused. Shyam never understands a word of anything being said to him.

“Don’t you know how to beg, you son of a bitch? Learn something from others,” Ganpat said while thrashing the little boy with slaps across his cheek.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to beg. I don’t like it,” Shyam tried to speak with a bloody lip and misty eyes, “I want to play. Please don’t beat me, don’t abuse me. What have I done?”

He went on and on, day after day on the streets in search of a toy to play with. He sometimes finds a broken plane or rubber duck in the garbage to play with. To him, the dumpster is a treasure house. Dirtying his hands scrounging for toys in the Municipal Corporation dustbins gives him pleasure, which begging never does. He plays with whatever he finds in the bins all day long. Nobody disturbs him, for he is a nobody to the rest of the world. He is just another beggar sitting by the road.

Sometimes people throw to him a rupee or two. He collects them all in a gulluck he once found while rummaging through the garbage at dark hours of the night. The gulluck is his most prized possession. It is a sparkling object covered in glitter. It was probably a hand-me-down of a rich kid who didn’t want it anymore but it doesn’t bother Shyam.

Shyam is a clever boy. He has hidden his gulluck where no one will put their hands in. He knew he cannot take it back because he feared Ganpat will take hold of it. He knew he cannot hide it in the dustbins because he sees those being cleared out every morning.

He has hidden his gulluck in an abandoned graveyard which was right behind the dustbin where he found it. He doesn’t know it is the same dustbin he was picked up from. He keeps going back to it for more toys, maybe in search of a childhood.

Ganpat has stopped asking about Shyam’s whereabouts and stopped feeding him too. Now, he was just a liability, not fit to be a beggar. Ganpat decided it was time for Shyam to go away.

Shyam’s recluse became the graveyard behind the dumpster. The caretaker of the graveyard gave him a space to sleep, taught him how to cook and in return, Shyam helped the caretaker with minor tasks.

A year passed by and Shyam grew a year older. He didn’t know how old he was exactly. All he knew was that he was growing old. When, where, why? He had no answers to these questions. His admiration for toys lessened.

A year older has made him a year wiser. He knows toys don’t respond. Now he wants a friend. In search of basic human emotion, he outgrew his toys but his gulluck and his collectibles are safely dug in the graveyard behind the dumpster.

Now that he is his own master, he works at a tea stall. The graveyard is his home and one of the coffin holes his bed. He has put husk on the soil to get through the sweltering summer nights and cold wintery weather. Days have become synonymous to nights.

It was an unforgiving cold morning and the biting breeze travelled up Shyam’s legs, disturbing his sleep. Even though his legs were cold, his back felt warmer. He turned around to see and to his surprise, he had woken up to a three-legged dog sleeping next to him.

The dog too had taken refuge to escape the frosty wintry night.

Shyam figured one of its legs must have been injured in a car accident or something. He could not be sure for dogs cannot speak otherwise he would have asked it.

Shyam didn’t shoo the dog away. He knew how it felt to feel cold — physically and emotionally. He thought that the dog too was an outcast just like him, going on with its life deprived of love, companionship.

Preparing breakfast, he threw in an extra egg to be fed to the dog. The aroma woke up the dog, who stood on his three legs behind Shyam waiting impatiently to have some food. He growled and barked. He sat down with his amputated limb staring Shyam in his eyes.

Shyam was moved to tears when he saw the dog’s face. He could see his old own self in the dog. He remembered his hungry days.

Although an orphan, subjected to begging against his will, left to fend for himself, Shyam’s heart was human. He fed the dog and left for work.

Shyam’s days were long. His job at the tea stall is serving customers. Sometimes, he will eavesdrop on customers' conversations to amuse himself. They tip him a rupee or two. Sometimes they buy him biscuits. A few even ask him about his life. He remembers when passersby threw him a coin. He understands the difference between the two.

That day, Shyam told them about the dog. He likes working at the tea stall. He is learning to make tea from the owner of the stall. Shyam thinks he will be promoted. The owner taught him to make omelette.

He returns home around nine every night. He looked around for the dog but couldn’t find him. He was preparing dinner and that is when he heard the dog bark. He saw it walking from behind the dumpster that blocked the gate. He had missed the dog while walking in.

He fed himself and the dog. They slept on the same husk bed and had breakfast together the next day.

Though Shyam didn’t have enough to feed himself, he is ready to share it with the dog. He named him Bhola. They became best friends who could share their loneliness with each other. Shyam has finally found his favourite toy.

He plays with Bhola in the evenings. He can leave Bhola to roam around for he knows it will come to the graveyard behind the dumpster.

Two years passed. Shyam and Bhola grew. Shyam now works at a dhaba and is Rs 200 richer every month. He has enough to feed him and Bhola three times a day.

Bhola also began following him to work and stayed with him till his shift got over. A lot of things changed but their recluse has stayed the same. The graveyard has become their home. Shyam has long forgotten about his dug toys. He no longer feels unwanted or emotionally void.

But fate takes an ugly turn one day. Life hits Shyam with the most cruel reality.

Coming back home one day, Shyam was walking way ahead of Bhola. He didn’t take notice that he had left Bhola far. He turned around and saw Bhola running towards him in heavy traffic

Time slowed down for Shyam. He could do nothing but stand and watch their friendship being crushed by a speeding truck. A four-year-old boy also died in that accident.

Everybody rushed to the spot to pick up the four-year-old but not Shyam. He rushed to pick his friend up and ran towards the graveyard as fast as possible. Shyam knew Bhola was dead and there was nothing he could have done to save him.

Shyam readied his only friend’s grave that evening. The blood, the mess, the smell, any of it didn’t bother him at all. He rested his friend in peace and covered it with soil.

Shyam was numb. He had once again no recluse to go to. He would sit every evening after work near Bhola’s grave and talk to him about his day. He once again was wrapped around with loneliness. No one followed him to work and back home. No one waited with hunger in its eyes watching him cook. He threw the toys that he had hidden. Nothing made him happy anymore.

He had lost his only friend, his favourite toy.

By Geshna Sharma