Supermarket Desire

As I wait for my food in an Islamabad market, I am inevitably approached by two boys begging for money. I tell them, “I’ll buy you dinner, if you eat with me.” They promptly sit down, grinning.

“My name is Basharat,” says the first boy. “This is Dildar.” I ask them what they are doing here so late at night. Instantly, they begin chattering. By the time our food arrives, we have gotten to know each other quite well. Then, I realize we have company. The man who has been emptying the nearby trash cans is now hovering over our table. As soon as I look up he starts off:  “Baji please give me something as well, baji please, anything.” His small, yellowed eyes start leaking tears. “Baji, I am hungry too, baji please.”
 
I guiltily tell him to go away, but he still stands there, trembling, hovering. I am about to tell him to leave again, when I hear a small voice pipe up: “Baji can I give him the rest of my burger?”
 
I am at once at a loss for what to say. I feel unreasonably possessive of the burger. I want Basharat to finish it. I want him to be full. Yet, I don’t want him to ask my permission to share something that is his now. “If you want,” I say. “It’s your burger, not mine.”
 
“Thank you, baji,” he says, visibly relieved. “Here,” he says to the man. “Eat this.” The garbage man grabs the tray and practically scurries away to eat. 
 
I ask Basharat if he wants something else. “I can order you another burger if you want. Do you want another burger?”
 
“No baji, I am full. I have no desire for more.”
 
He looks at the man scarfing down his fries, then turns to me, this thin little beggar child, this tiny ball of vibrance and energy forced into a life of begging and labour. “Baji,” he says to me, almost apologetically, “today you fed me, so now I will feed him.”
 
I am awestruck by the simple logic of his kindness. I am speechless. I am humbled. I am ashamed. I nod mutely at this small, hugely selfless boy, and I know that I will never forget this moment.

baji = miss