Angels without wings
One Sunday evening, my mother and I decided to abandon our monotonous routines and seek solace at a serene lakeside park. This expansive, verdant sanctuary, encircling a breathtaking lake, offered a tranquil retreat from the frenzy of daily life. As we strolled leisurely, the park caretaker’s whistle abruptly signalled the end of our visit. “We’ve only just arrived, anna. Might we indulge in one more round?” I implored.
Perceiving my mobility challenges, the carer acquiesced. With renewed vigour, my mother and I continued our promenade, savouring the invigorating air. However, as we approached the gate, content with our outing and prepared to depart, we were met with the disconcerting sight of a hefty lock. We called out desperately for the gatekeeper, but our voices were absorbed by the vast emptiness of the park. The light was waning, and the cheerful chirping of birds had given way to the unsettling sounds of nocturnal creatures. What once appeared to be a charming park now felt decidedly ominous.
My mother advised me to remain by the gate while she ventured into the encroaching darkness to locate the elusive gatekeeper. Shivering in the evening chill and beseeching aid from unseen angels, I noticed a group of diminutive figures approaching. These were the children of migrant labourers from Bihar and Nepal, previously expelled from the park by the gatekeeper. With concern etched on their faces, they enquired about my predicament. Despite my protests, the children deftly scaled the imposing gate and scrutinised the lock with keen interest.
“We’ll break the lock,” one of them declared confidently. “How?!” I asked, astonished. “With a stone,” the little mastermind proclaimed. He procured a stone and spent the ensuing minutes attempting to prise open the lock, undeterred by my objections. The other children, whom I had nicknamed “Tiny Titans” and “Little Einsteins,” stood by, keenly observing and suggesting sharper stones for the task.
By this time, my mother had returned, brimming with indignation. The gatekeeper had vanished, leaving us ensnared in the dark, isolated park. As we roamed aimlessly, searching for an alternative exit, the children insisted on accompanying us. They diligently scoured for any gap or opening through which we might escape. One particularly earnest child, whom I affectionately named “Mini Houdini,” discovered a potential exit, but the determined boy who had attempted to break the lock, sagely noted, “We can squeeze through, but it may not be possible for aunty.”
Throughout our quest for an alternate gate, the children remained steadfastly by our side, brainstorming ways to aid us. While children from more privileged backgrounds are often sheltered and coddled, these intrepid youngsters already perceived themselves as capable adults, astutely devising solutions for those in distress. Their maturity and compassion shone brilliantly, transforming a potentially harrowing ordeal into an experience of unexpected camaraderie and hope.
As I bid them farewell, I realised my prayers had indeed been answered. Angels, albeit without wings, had come to our rescue.