'Give Back Our Childhood': A Labourer's Fervent Plea To India's Justice System

A personal reflection on complexities of millions of disadvantaged kids, this is an ode to lost innocence & dreams.

(With almost 15 years of experience of working on issues relating to children, the author of this poem invariably feels a range of complex emotions every year when 'Children's Day' arrives. 

She particularly recounts the account of a ten-year-old who she helped rescue during her Master's days. This child referred to a certain pillar number on Delhi's Safdarjung Flyover as his address where he lived with his mother and siblings. The boy was inconsolable as he didn’t want to go to a children’s home and would rather live and work off the streets with his family. At that moment, it dawned on her, that ‘justice’ through ‘rescue’ may have been the right thing to do, technically, but perhaps wasn't in the complete and best interest of the child. 

Despite India's robust juvenile justice system, without structural changes in society and the response system, it's difficult to celebrate childhood for all sans adequate care and protection. In a personal reflection on the complexities of millions of disadvantaged kids, this poem is an ode to lost childhoods and dreams..)

Gushing recklessly in the midst of road, towards that halted car;

Somehow, today, inside me, I got reminded of my mushrooming scar.

I also have a lot of lovely toy cars, for the boy inside to buy and for me to sell;

Knowing this at ten, a lot of dissent explodes deep within, that I struggle to quell.

Contrariety of these two kingdoms of childhood has left me no more tender;

May his innocence sustain, I will learn to keep this burning heart within fender.

Gazing longingly at his cushioned life, even I dare to think of breaking free;

Oh, mother! I am too tired of doing this every day, please give me that swing on tree.

I know for real while he learns and plays in naivety;

I continue to live a life of burning wounds, torments and no pity.

And how I know the world so sooner and better than the school-going him;

Trust me, dangerous is this knowledge, that I wish I could trim.

Today, I also demand my fairytale and freedom to not fret about my future;

In my golden pool of magic, now I will play with lovely creatures.

So that one day when I grow old, that beautiful butterfly can, in my ears, sing;

a song stirring such childhood memories to which I would want to cling.

But here stands a black today, writing doom in the pages of my book;

It's dirt of roads not mud of playgrounds when I carefully look.

Carelessness and willfulness were never for me, tells this book that seems bound for life,

in the black filaments of chance and circumstance, and difficulties getting rife.

I better be sentient and conscious of a life that I live and hate;

Everyday, nights on streets and daily mornings on roadside, reaffirm it to be my fate.

Getting up, I then pretend, oh boy, all is just perfectly fine;

You better get ready and leave for work, or you will have only dreams at night to dine!

(Dr. Neha Nimble is the Senior Manager of Research at The Centre for Social Impact & Philanthropy, Ashoka University. This is an opinion piece and the views expressed are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)