Expectations Die (#2)
Recap: Orphan girl longing for getting adopted--life at the Missionary--getting adopted--finds that they're fake and going to cut her organs to sell--scapes and runs.
She didn’t know how long had she run. She had run without even turning back to see if they followed her. She would have covered, at least, two kilometres by foot, which, to her age and figure, is incredible to have been accomplished. During predicaments, from somewhere will come a power that has the ability to accomplish almost anything at all—proofs were strewn all over in history. Incidences like a mother lifting a car, single-handedly, to rescue her entrapped child beneath, and the like, are examples of the divine, or the indescribably mystic power, that is available for human, in stock.
Her tender nine year old legs couldn’t carry her anymore. Her hamstring started to char; she reconsidered her running.
She felt relieved as well as joyous to find that she was not been followed, like the joy a stranded weary man stranded in a desert will get on sighting mirage for the 1st time. No one would believe that she ran nonstop for about two kilometres. Not even herself. Thanks to her naïveté that failed to underscore the distance she “travelled,” else she will faint in disbelief.
Panting and sweating hard, she bent down her upper torso, placed hands on her knees and facing down, took some deep breaths. In this act, her brain asked her how did she run so fast to much distance. She wondered how did this sudden power surge inside of her, for she’d never—almost never—ran to this extent in her short lifetime, save for running 100 metres during Game Hour.
She took a good circumspection again and saw that no one is around her except for a few vehicles and passersby, who not even will spend time in inspecting her unusual presence alone. She started to walk slowly seeing everything happen around her, as the world unfolded before her eyes, newly. She gazed at everything in wonder—her eyes in an increased circumferential area.
The park. This is a place where she could find her peers; the blessed ones who got their own mother and father; children who are not born under the wax feet of Jesus Christ; children who could get their mother’s peck every night before sleeping; children who have a separate pink-painted room with whim-whams strewn all over; children who can have all the privileges that she has not.
The park, that is free of cost. Free of worries. Free of serfdom.
It is not unusual that at this hour, it will be deserted. Her 9 year old brain has enough common sense to can predict that. The sun is almost at its peak. The swelter played its part very well, the proof being the sweat all over her face. She sat in a lonely bench that stood under a tree, in penumbra. She chose the darker side.
She started to contemplate on what to be done and how to be done to get back to her asylum. Yet, she longed to find a ‘real’ parent, after getting to the missionary, again.
Children are always the same—even if they get sick because of overeating ice creams, once the sickness is doffed, they ask for the same! And she yet donned the same mindset even though she had just eschewed from an irrevocable tragedy.
“Child!” a voice stole her attention. She turned to find a dirty middle-aged man, who looked like a beggar. Mother Diane had always preached not to weigh any person based on their looks, especially their clothes. She remembered her words precisely, “Do not conclude any person as something based upon their external appearances. Never weigh any person on first impression. Whenever you see anyone new, some voice inside you will say something about that person. Dear children, remember that that voice is Satan’s. Just ignore that voice and smile at everyone.”
She smiled at him.
“Where ya parents? What ya doin’ at this ‘our ‘ere? Ya don’ go school?”
She felt a little insecure hearing his faulty language. Initially, she was afraid to speak, but then she remembered Mother Diane, and with boldness, she spoke, “Sir, I, I was lost. I don’t know how to get back home.”
“Oh ya laasht?” he said, pausing for a moment, and continued, “Where’s yo’a home? I get ya there?”
“Thank you so much, sir.” She never forgot her mannerism. “Can you get me back to Infant Jesus Christian Missionary?”
“Holy crap! That I know. That I know. We go lat’a, ‘kay?” he paused for her response. She nodded. “An’ we get now to ma play’sh an’ I get ya eat somethin’, kay?”
“Sir, sir, don’t-” she screamed, “what are you doing, sir?”
He continued suppressing her, pinning her down against the old dirty floor. His hands dominated her body totally and he shifted his whole weight on her. She struggled very hard and hollered. That was a desolate spot, his perfect choice to molest a child. She had no time to pray, not in the situation to remember Mother Diane, no time to think. As if driven by reflex, she bit his nose as hard as she could.
He got up rubbing his nose as fast as he could, cursing her. His anger reached its extremities, her insecurity too. Using that little time gap, she, deftly, got up. Ignoring the pain, he tried to catch her again.
“Oh ya ugly *****.” He yelled out in pain, clutching his pants at his masculine part—the repercussion of her targeted kick.
She’d no idea how long she ran. Again, she was back in the streets. Again, the searing sun almost numbed her. Again, her case was reduced to despondency. She doesn’t know where she is, where to and how to go, who to trust, what to ask for. No nothing. Her throat demanded water; her stomach churned inside.
Back in her home, the Missionary, she never had been empty-bellied, and thirsty. Tears started to trickle down her cheeks, involuntarily, realizing her abject condition. Like a cat that burnt its mouth over hot milk, she felt bad for ignoring the gifts she was bestowed with, back in the Missionary. She said to herself that that is her home.
She decided to approach a roadside shop for water. She saw a bakery; while approaching it, she discovered a little boy squat, glued to a wall, and crying. She could see only his back. She observed that no one was there around him and some pedestrians chose not to disturb. She neared and touched him.
He was frightened at her touch, which got manifested in his face. She could sense his fright and tapped his shoulder again, lovingly, and her eyes reassured him that nothing is there to worry about. She spoke to him and came to know that he was only seven and that his parents died in a fire accident 2 weeks ago; he had had lived the whole fortnight begging and crying. He had no relatives, and no money to continue his education (2nd grade.) and someone had battered him for stealing some edible.
“Brother, you’re not alone!” She said, hugging him and kissed his forehead. He found salvation in his newly-found-sister’s bosom. She bought them both a glass of water, and started to walk in a random direction, with their hands entwined. She walked for some distance when a policeman called for them to stop.
“We’ll take action against them, Mother. Fake address, fake ID. There are already 2 complaints. We’ll soon catch them. Thanks for filing the case, ma’am.” The Chief Inspector said to Mother Diane, and handed the siblings each a chocolate.
“When someone gives you anything, you must say ‘thank you’ to them.” The bigger sister preached her brother, in a whisper. He conformed to it readily.
“Thank you, sir.” They said synchronously.
Mother Diane opened her arms wide, and the kids entered into her embrace.
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