The cool morning air at Dhanbad Junction carried the familiar scent of diesel and the distant murmur of voices. It was a Sunday, a day typically reserved for leisurely mornings, but for us, it was time to bid farewell to our son, Judhajit. His train, the New Delhi-Sealdah Rajdhani Express, was scheduled to depart around 6.30 am, whisking him away to Kolkata. Platform No. 1, usually a hive of activity, held a quiet anticipation, poised to receive the prestigious Rajdhani twins in quick succession.

Amidst the relative calm, a small figure caught my eye. A boy, no older than twelve, moved with a practised air, a worn shoe-shining kit slung over his shoulder. He was diligently polishing the shoes of a seated passenger. Spotting the slight dust on Judhajit’s footwear, he approached us with a polite offer of his services. Just then, the announcement for the Rajdhani echoed through the station, surprisingly indicating an early arrival. “It’s early,” I remarked to Jagrata, but the boy, with a surprising confidence, assured us, “Don’t worry, sir, the train will still leave on time. It only stops for five minutes.”

Intrigued by his earnestness and industry, we agreed to let him shine Judhajit’s shoes. Always quick to seize an opportunity, he suggested adding extra rubber soles. We consented, hoping it would add a little more to his earnings. My mind wrestled with the inherent wrongness of child labour, a stark reality that coexists with the aspirations of a developing nation. Yet, in that moment, faced with his palpable desire to work, I felt a conflict. After paying him Rs 80 for his efforts, we walked Judhajit to his coach, the rhythmic rumble of the arriving train growing louder. True to the boy’s word, the Rajdhani departed promptly at 6.28 am.

As Jagrata and I turned towards the car park, the same young boy approached us again, his eyes hopeful. “Sahab, your shoes?” he offered. I readily obliged, handing him my dusty loafers. As he worked, the rhythmic snap of his cloth and the gentle application of polish became the soundtrack to our conversation. He introduced himself as Rahul Kumar Ravidas, a fourth-grade student at Khalsa School in Bank More. His family, he shared, consisted of four siblings – three older sisters and a younger brother, barely three years old. A small comfort settled within me as he mentioned that all his siblings, except the youngest, were also attending school.

Rahul’s father was a cobbler, a profession that likely barely sustained their large family. His daily routine painted a picture of remarkable resilience. He arrived at the station at 6.00 am, worked diligently until 9.00 am, then hurried home for a quick wash and breakfast. School started at 10.20 am. After school and a hurried lunch, he would return to the station around 5.00 pm, working until 7.30 pm. Evenings were reserved for homework and studies, leaving little room for the carefree joys of childhood.

“Do you miss playing games after school, Rahul?” I asked gently. He admitted that he did, a flicker of longing in his eyes, but his priority, he explained with a maturity beyond his years, was supporting his family’s income and ensuring his siblings’ education. “Sau-sau rupay lag jaate hai,” he said, the weight of school fees, books, uniforms, and shoes evident in his voice. Working hard now, he reasoned, was better than the risk of dropping out of school later. His sense of responsibility was both admirable and heartbreaking.

When I inquired if he had eaten breakfast, Rahul confessed that he usually came to the station on an empty stomach, waiting until his 9.30 am return home to eat, a small sacrifice to avoid unnecessary expenses. Occasionally, if hunger pangs became unbearable, he would treat himself to a plate of kachoris from a vendor on platform No. 2. On a typical day, he earned between Rs 100 and Rs 150, with lucky days bringing in Rs 200 to Rs 250.

Jagrata and I were on our way to a nearby tea stall for our morning ritual, and we spontaneously invited Rahul to join us. He followed us with a shy smile, and Jagrata thoughtfully bought him a packet of cake. His face lit up, a genuine, unadulterated expression of joy. “Sahab, aj to mera din bahut accha hai, subah-subah 250 rupay mil gaye,” he exclaimed, his voice brimming with cheer – today had indeed started exceptionally well for him. I took the opportunity to reiterate the importance of his education, urging him to continue his studies no matter the challenges. As we parted ways, a silent prayer for his future, for his dreams to find fertile ground, escaped my lips.

Rahul’s innocent eyes, his mature understanding of his circumstances, and his unwavering determination left an indelible mark on my heart. Child labour is a cruel irony, a societal ill that robs children of their childhood and their right to education.

While laws exist to abolish it, legislation alone is insufficient. Every child deserves the chance to learn, to play, to grow without the burden of adult responsibilities weighing them down. Every family should have the dignity of earning enough to provide for their children’s basic needs, including education.

Until that day arrives, stories like Rahul’s will continue to unfold in the bustling corners of our nation, each one a poignant testament to the resilience of the human spirit and a stark reminder of the work that still needs to be done.