A boy dragged himself down the floor of the train, tracing the footsteps taken but a few minutes ago by the singer. His scabby brown knees were grimy with the accumulated dirt from the floor. He entered our compartment, passengers watchful, keeping an eye on their belongings. Removing a rag from under his maimed knee, he began scrubbing the floor under our feet, removing the accumulated peanut shells, scraps of food and plastic and newspaper. He moved it into a small pile off to the side. This accomplished, he stared at us wordlessly, one by one, big eyes in his small brown head, a child’s hand outstretched for but a single coin, for it would fit no more than one.
Many years later I read a book named “Shantaram”. The author says that Indians make the best actors, because they “shout with their eyes”. When I read that phrase, I remember that boy shouting at me with his eyes, at all of us, that day in a dusty train. But he wasn’t an actor, not really.
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What you sayin'?