English Bbc — Compacta Class 9

But as he opened the matchbox to check if it was full, he saw it. Inside, hidden under the tiny sticks of pinewood, was a small, folded photograph. A woman. Probably Munna’s mother.

He felt a pinch. Not guilt. Just… a thought.

He decided on a compromise. He walked up to the boy, bought one matchbox for ₹10 (a steep price, he knew), and started to walk away.

“Bhaiya, ten rupees for a dozen,” Munna said, his voice hoarse. english bbc compacta class 9

Rohan ignored him. He had seen a thousand Munna’s before. But then, the boy did something strange. He didn’t shout or cry. He just carefully straightened a crooked matchbox, looked up at the grey sky, and whispered, “No rain today, please. If the matchsticks get damp, no one will buy.”

Munna stared. He didn’t understand. Rich people didn’t kneel. He touched the money, then touched Rohan’s shoes. “Sir, your shoes are dirty now.”

“For all the matchboxes,” Rohan said. “And for the photograph. Keep it safe.” But as he opened the matchbox to check

Rohan’s brain began its usual argument. Side A (The Self): “You need that ₹300 for the phone case. If you give him money, you’ll be short. Dad will say ‘I told you so’ about wasting pocket money.” Side B (The Human): “The phone case is plastic. This boy is buying dinner. A matchbox costs less than a toffee.”

It was a sweltering Tuesday afternoon in Chandni Chowk. The narrow lane near the Sisganj Gurdwara was a symphony of chaos: rickshaw bells, the sizzle of samosas from a cart, and the nasal drone of a kiteseller. Rohan, a Class 9 student of St. Stephen’s School, was walking home, his school bag heavy with the weight of an unfinished Physics worksheet.

As he turned the corner near the old clock tower, he saw a crowd. A small, dirty-fingered boy, no older than eight, was sitting on the pavement. He wasn't begging. He was selling matchboxes. They were arranged in a neat, pathetic little pyramid on a torn newspaper. His name was Munna. Probably Munna’s mother

Based on a true incident from the lanes of Old Delhi.

He looked at the boy’s feet. No shoes. Just cracked heels wrapped in blue polythene. He looked at his own sneakers – new, white, the ones his father had ordered online last week.