Break Or Make - I

#1
There is more food on the plate today. Slightly more than the usual quantity. I can tell from the amount of the watery liquid covering the surface of the plate. I hope he doesn't notice. If he does, he will probably beat the servants as badly as he beats me. I can't put the servants in peril. They didn't even talk to me, not even when I beseeched them to have the slightest mercy on me. The kind cook perhaps slipped in a teaspoon more food out of pity for my wrecked form.

I stare at the food dismally. I have forgotten what real food tastes like. I miss Aai. I miss the sound her bangles made everytime she wrestled me into eating my food. I miss the warmth and the softness of her hands when she patted my back lightly to sleep.

I can't feel their touches anymore. Every time rough, calloused hands make marks across the expanse of my broken skin, I will myself into imagining Aai's hands on me when she rubbed fragrant oils on my body.

I have given up the hope of ever being set free. He will keep me around, even when I will have ceased to breathe. They will probably continue throwing my dead body around like that of a rag doll's. I will never see my Aai again. Now, all things good and pure only exist inside my head.

#2
I stare at the shoes. They are caked in muck. I reach behind my seat made of piled plastic rubbish and grab one of the brushes in my small hands. I immediately set to work. I can hear the low breathing of the man as he sits, waiting, in the plastic chair. He doesn't sound impatient. Yet.

After many long minutes of toiling, I manage to remove every trace of the last rain from his shoes. I feel the expensive leather with my dirty hands, willing the years spent in penance to manifest on my face as a calm, stoic expression, despite the storm brewing inside. Every day, I feel the unfairness of my situation with every different pair of shoes that I polish; but on particular days, days like today, it hits me harder than usual.

I let out a soft sigh and start polishing his shoes. He sits patiently, probably looking at me, at my work. He hasn't pointed out mistakes in my work. He doesn't seem to be one of those people who want their shoes to be polished a thousand times so that they can catch their reflections in them. I already like him. So, I polish his shoes a little more than I usually would. He kneels down to take the shoes and hands me a crisp 50 rupees note.

Startled, I look up to see the face of my benevolent customer. A man, perhaps in his late twenties, with a pleasant countenance and a beautiful smile looks back at me. He says softly, "You deserve this money. Keep it safe and use it wisely." And with that, he walks away.

He keeps returning over the month, almost daily. Every time, he has either dirt or mud on his shoes. Every time, I clean them with utmost diligence. His generous payment has ensured I have a minimum of 1000 rupees in my box at all times.