The Boy with the Stickers

It was a hot morning in May. I had to go to Coimbatore for work. I missed the Mettupalayam–Coimbatore train and had to take a long bus ride instead. All the buses in front were full, so I boarded a private one that was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes. With the front and back seats already occupied, I settled on the edge of a three-seater in the middle.

The average height of an Indian man is around five feet five inches—but for this bus company, it seemed to be five. The seats were small and space was scarce. My knees were pressed against the seat in front. Road and bridge work lay ahead, and just the thought of the bumps on the way made my knees ache already. A lanky man in the back seat muttered curses under his breath, angry that he couldn’t fit properly into his seat.

Hearing a noise outside, I turned to the window on the opposite side. A middle-aged woman with a hard, withered face was playing a dholak with surprising ease; apart from her hands, her entire body was motionless. In front of her, a girl of about eight or nine was bending and twisting, performing gymnastic tricks. Nearby, a man was whipping himself. A handful of people had gathered around them. A few tossed coins onto the cloth that lay on the ground It was a common sight at bus stations, so I didn’t pay much attention and pulled out my phone for distraction.

The summer heat was unforgiving, and my handkerchief was already soaked with sweat. I looked toward the front to see if the driver had arrived. Just then, a small boy climbed aboard. He couldn’t have been more than eight years old—thin, dusty, wearing a dirty shirt and torn shorts. It wasn’t unusual to see children begging on buses, so I turned my head away. But then I noticed he wasn’t begging.

In his hands, he carried a few cardboard pictures, some pens, and packets of stickers printed with Tamil and English letters. There were also miniature cartoon dolls and notebook labels. He moved from seat to seat, trying to sell his items. Some passengers replied politely, “No, boy.” Others said it sharply, and a few didn’t even look up from their phones. All his items were meant for schoolchildren, yet there wasn’t a single child on that bus. It didn’t look like he would make a single sale.

When everyone ignored him, he came to me with a slightly sad face.
“Brother, there are stickers. Please buy one,” he said, holding out the bundle.

“No, boy,” I said politely.

“One, at least,” he pleaded in a tired voice, leaning against the side rail of the seat.

He looked exhausted—perhaps he hadn’t eaten breakfast. I had met many such children selling small items on buses, but I’d never spoken more than a few words to them. Mostly "No" and "Not needed". For the first time, I asked,

“What’s your name?”

“Balu,” he replied with a small smile.

“Where are you from? Where are your parents?” I asked.

He looked at me for a few seconds, rubbed one of his stickers, and pointed toward a large banyan tree at the edge of the bus station. Beneath it, a few tarpaulins hung loosely, providing shade for some homeless people. A couple of elderly men were lying under them.

“Father said he’ll come after work, in the evening. Akka is selling stickers in the next bus,” he said.

“And your mom?”

“Dead,” he said softly, stroking a small rubber Pikachu keychain that hung from his hand.

There was no emotion in his voice—she must have died long ago.

I took a ten-rupee note from my pocket and handed it to him. He accepted it with a faint smile.

“What do you want, brother?” he asked, showing me all the stickers in his hand.

I didn’t need any of them, so I said, “Keep it. I don’t want anything.”

“These stickers are good. Take them—or look at these keychains,” he said gently.

Just then, the conductor climbed into the bus and called out, “Time’s up, Ravi. Let’s go!”

The driver, who had been smoking outside, took two quick drags, crushed the cigarette under his foot, and climbed into his seat.

“Hey, let’s go!” someone shouted from the back. A girl about ten in a yellow skirt and shirt hurried off the bus, carrying the same kind of items as the boy. I guessed she was his sister.

The conductor whistled, signaling the bus to start. The boy ran toward his sister. I assumed he had left and turned back to my phone.

But within seconds, he came running back. “Here, brother, take this,” he said, and before I could refuse, he placed a keychain in my hand and ran away. The driver started the engine, and the bus shook slightly as it began to move.

He hadn’t come to beg. He refused to beg. I don’t know if his father would ever be able to send him to school—his childhood might slip away like this—but one thing was certain: he would not beg for anything.

I had given him ten rupees out of pity, but when he offered me the keychain, I realized how much that small note meant to him. If he had just taken the money and walked away, I would have felt guilty—as if I’d encouraged him to beg. But he showed me that what he did was not begging. It was business. Honest business.

I felt a quiet sense of relief as I looked at the little Pikachu keychain resting in my hand.