Who would answer this ragpicker's questions...

He didn’t even know his own name. His mother had died shortly after he was born. His father was caught smuggling drugs and sentenced to 13 years in prison. So, a social organization placed him in an orphanage. When he was four years old, a local businessman demolished that orphanage. Since then, he had been living on the streets. He didn’t know his name, his identity or even his religion — whether he was Hindu, Muslim, Christian or other religion.

He spent his days on the streets. He had no permanent place to stay. Wherever night fell, that became his shelter — sometimes under someone’s porch, in someone’s garden, or beneath a tree. The cold and the rain were his greatest struggles. There were times it rained for four straight days. During those times, he wandered in the rain, soaking wet.

One day, he suddenly ran into a boy from the orphanage. Seeing him made him very happy. That boy had taken up pickpocketing, but he didn’t like that at all. So, he chose not to hang around with him. Instead, he spent his days and nights going door to door, trying to survive.

One day, he saw a group of boys collecting paper. Curious, he followed them around the whole day and saw that they sold the collected paper at a scrap warehouse at the end of the day. He thought to himself that he would start doing the same from the next day. That night, lying under a tree, he kept thinking about it — how he would start working and his suffering might reduce. He would earn daily. The thought brought him so much joy that he couldn’t fall asleep. Eventually, sleep overtook him.

He woke up early and went out to collect papers. He gathered quite a few and took them to the warehouse in the afternoon. A worker at the warehouse asked, “Who told you to do this kind of work at such a young age?”

He replied, “I have no one. I haven’t eaten anything since morning. If you don’t take these, I won’t be able to eat today.”

The worker gave him 3 cent in exchange for the papers. He was overjoyed to receive the money. He was only five years old then.

At an age when a normal child lives with their family, nurtured with love and care, this boy had already been forced into hardship. He roamed door to door for food. Some gave, most didn’t. Sometimes he ate leftover food from dustbins, fighting with street dogs.

Two more years passed like this.

He would go near a school while collecting papers. He’d lean on the school gate’s grill and watch the students doing their morning PT (physical training). After the session, the students would go into their classes, and he would walk away. Sometimes, he mimicked their exercises standing just outside the gate. But he was never allowed to enter.

He often wondered — why was he born like this? He would cry but had no other choice. He carried on with his life. Thousands of questions swirled in his mind: Who am I? What is my identity? Where should I go? What should I do? But there was no one to answer.

The world was merciless against him.

He was seven years old then. One day while running, he hit his right leg against a construction rod, causing a deep cut. At first, he roamed around with the wound, thinking little of it. But soon, the pain intensified. Two weeks passed like this. He continued to work despite the pain. Then one day, he noticed small worms crawling inside the wound. He went to a hospital, but they refused to give him medicine without money. So, he left.

Three more weeks passed. By then, the infection had spread. He could no longer walk. He just sat by the roadside. People would occasionally throw him a one cent coin, maybe two cent or few. Meanwhile, the worms spread throughout the wound. The pain became unbearable. It felt like the worms were eating him alive. Eventually, his leg’s skin almost completely disappeared. The agony made him scream all day long. His cries annoyed people, and they drove him away, yelling and scolding him.

He was in terrible pain. He screamed and cried. His stomach was empty. His body was weak. His skin clung to his bones — it seemed even a skinny heron had more flesh than he did. It was like he had become one with the street. Dust and dirt became his home.

At such a tender age, he endured unbearable suffering. When children his age passed him by, he looked at them and wondered — “I am a creation of the same God as them. Then why am I like this? Why are they so happy while I suffer so much?”

Two days later, he couldn’t do anything anymore. He just lay there, silently. He didn’t even have the strength to cry out. His entire body was now overrun by worms. He sobbed in anguish. His little heart seemed to shatter inside him. He could bear no more. He was just seven years old — how much pain could a child endure?

Finally, in the late afternoon, his invisible soul left his frail body. His breath stopped forever.

What was his identity? What had he become at such a young age? His lifeless body was finally noticed when it became food for stray dogs. Then, it was removed from there.

Who was he? Where did he come from? What does a normal life even feel like? What was his crime that made him suffer so much at such a young age?

He received no answers. None at all.