“Bhaiya, ten rupees for a dozen,” Munna said, his voice hoarse.
It was a sweltering Tuesday afternoon in Chandni Chowk. The narrow lane near the Sisganj Gurdwara was a symphony of chaos: rickshaw bells, the sizzle of samosas from a cart, and the nasal drone of a kiteseller. Rohan, a Class 9 student of St. Stephen’s School, was walking home, his school bag heavy with the weight of an unfinished Physics worksheet.
He placed it all on the newspaper. ₹120. Almost half his phone case.
Munna stared. He didn’t understand. Rich people didn’t kneel. He touched the money, then touched Rohan’s shoes. “Sir, your shoes are dirty now.” english bbc compacta class 9
Rohan stopped.
His pocket, however, was light. It contained exactly three crumpled ten-rupee notes and a half-eaten packet of digestive biscuits.
He looked at the boy’s feet. No shoes. Just cracked heels wrapped in blue polythene. He looked at his own sneakers – new, white, the ones his father had ordered online last week. “Bhaiya, ten rupees for a dozen,” Munna said,
He was saving for a new mobile phone case. Every rupee mattered.
“For all the matchboxes,” Rohan said. “And for the photograph. Keep it safe.”
As he turned the corner near the old clock tower, he saw a crowd. A small, dirty-fingered boy, no older than eight, was sitting on the pavement. He wasn't begging. He was selling matchboxes. They were arranged in a neat, pathetic little pyramid on a torn newspaper. His name was Munna. Rohan, a Class 9 student of St
Rohan didn't think this time. He didn't calculate.
He decided on a compromise. He walked up to the boy, bought one matchbox for ₹10 (a steep price, he knew), and started to walk away.