Rohan froze. He had accidentally touched the boy’s most private treasure. He saw panic in those eyes – the panic of a child whose last piece of home was being stolen by a stranger in a white sneaker.
He walked away. The Physics worksheet was still unfinished. The phone case was now a distant dream. But as he stepped into the shade of the Gurdwara, he felt a strange, quiet warmth. He realised that for the first time that week, he wasn't calculating anything.
He placed it all on the newspaper. ₹120. Almost half his phone case.
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. english bbc compacta class 9
His pocket, however, was light. It contained exactly three crumpled ten-rupee notes and a half-eaten packet of digestive biscuits.
“For all the matchboxes,” Rohan said. “And for the photograph. Keep it safe.”
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. Rohan froze
Rohan ignored him. He had seen a thousand Munna’s before. But then, the boy did something strange. He didn’t shout or cry. He just carefully straightened a crooked matchbox, looked up at the grey sky, and whispered, “No rain today, please. If the matchsticks get damp, no one will buy.”
He was saving for a new mobile phone case. Every rupee mattered.
Rohan smiled. “Shoes get clean, Munna. But a photograph doesn’t come back.” He walked away
Rohan stopped.
“Bhaiya, ten rupees for a dozen,” Munna said, his voice hoarse.