Chhedi and his box of crayons

Chhedi

Chhedi helps the vegetable vendor near my building. Ever since I gave him a colouring book and a box of crayons, he smiles at me that you-and-I-share-a-secret smile, at once hesitant and exultant, generous with the Bhindis and cucumber he is weighing for me. "Did you colour them all?" I asked him a few days after I'd gifted him the book. "Yes, all of it," he said, flashing a smile that hid a feeling of accomplishment.
The first time I saw him, he had no footwear. Delhi's summer can be excruciating, and walking on the concrete without footwear, severely unkind. I thought of my ten odd pairs of shoes lying in the rack.
The first time Chhedi came to deliver the vegetables, I asked him why he walked barefoot. He did not answer directly but brushed it aside, he must be all of 12, but he's a little guy with self pride.
"I live with the vendor, he feeds me, I help him," Chhedi told me one day when I asked him where he belonged. He'd travelled several hundred kilometers to Delhi, to earn some money. He did not tell me about his home, or parents or siblings.
A few days later Chhedi came again with vegetables, this time wearing a pair of slippers, hand-me-downs but worn rather proudly.
That's when I gave him the book.
I saw Chhedi again the other day. The Summer heat had sprouted heat boils on his face and hands, he looked scruffy and unwashed. I had forgotten about the book till he gave me that you-and-I-share-a-secret smile.