The Beggar Boy

From the northern gate of the Burns Garden sprawls a footpath for about
forty steps. On that footpath can be seen at one time or the other a few
families of the wandering Gedari tribe, temporarily dwelling there. The
footpath turns from western corner in the southern direction for another
forty steps and passing near the gate of the Sindh Muslim Law College, it
terminates abruptly near the threshold of a newly-built mosque. Opposite
this mosque three rows of five-storied building stretch towards the Macklod
Road.

These magnificent buildings actually sheltered once some other persons who
migrated to Hindustan after the establishment of Pakistan. Other
creatures of Allah came over from Hindustan, some by compulsion and some of
their own sweet will, to occupy these mansions. The new holy mosque bore
testimony to the devout spirit of these mujahid migrants; otherwise, on the
site of that mosque, there used to be a nursery of fragrant and
multi-colored flowers.

The last Ramzan (the month of fasting for the Faithful) happened to
coincide with the season of Spring. In that month of fasting and penance
and blessings, as I was returning from the garden after the evening
stroll, I saw on the footpath a young child about eight years old belonging
to that gypsy tribe.

He was an innocent-looking child with a bare back, his hair in knots, his
body powdered with dust and dirt and his shorts torn in shreds. He was
pushing a low, wooden cart in which lay a crippled relation of his, maybe,
his own father. The wailing cry of the cripple rose in the dusk of that evening: "Poor me a hungry, helpless man... Oh,
little father! Give something in the name of Allah! Poor me a hungry,
helpless man... Oh, little father....."

As I turned round the western corner and walked a few steps, I saw a young,
well-dressed boy of about twelve years emerging from one of the mansions. He had in his hands a
plateful of post-fast dinner, duly covered, probably intended for some
lucky soul who had fasted for the day. But it was already past the hour of
sunset when the fast is broken and the devotees who had finished their
namaz in the mosque were about the come out. The boy with the meal walked a
few paces towards the cripple. The beggar boy stretched forward both hands
for the alms. The rich boy admonished,

"No, not like that! Bring a utensil for the food!"

No sooner did the beggar child hear these words that he abandoned the cart
and took to his heels. The cripple's wail ceased.

Suddenly, somebody thundered from a distant corner,

"Tufail, oh, Tufail! Give the food to some Muslim beggar, you wretch!"

Tufail's father had come out of the mosque after breaking his fast there and he had caught his son red-handed offering the food of holy Ramzan to a non-Muslim. He was in a fine rage.

An old Muslim beggarwoman was standing at a distance. Considering herself
worthier for the alms, she crept hopefully forward. By this time the Gedari
child was also running back with an earthen pot in his hand. Taking the plate
from his son's hands, Tufail's father poured the contents in the beggarwoman's bowl. The beggar boy put forward his bowl with the plaint, "My
Lord, a little for me also!" The cripple resumed his wail, "Poor me a
hungry, helpless man... Oh, little father! Give something in the name of
Allah!"

Tufail and his father went away; but as soon as they disappeared, the old
beggarwoman took out all that had been put in her bowl - two buttered
loaves, some dates and dry fruit, a sweet ladoo - equally divided
her food in two portions and passed on one portion to the beggar boy.
Patting him on his head, she then went her way.

Donning the vestment of Spring, dismayed life stood smiling in front of me and I felt my faith in humanity flicker and rekindle in that holy month of Ramzan.