Mitra explores relationships, social realities, and sacrifices. Guddu, a canteen boy, is no exception. Find out what happens in this short story, exclusively for Different Truths.

Our engineering college was on the city’s outskirts, just like most engineering colleges of that time. The early 2000s were not easy for us engineering students without Wikipedia and YouTube. I had recently created my email, which I mainly used for chatting on Yahoo messenger, which, as you know, no longer exists. It’s incredible how technology has accelerated our lives and how small-town Bhubaneswar has turned into a smart city. Life is fast now. Thinking of that era where labels and malls were not a common thing makes me only sigh.

Now being on the city’s outskirts, our food options were also limited. It was either the dahi bara, a typical Odia food by the hawker or the college canteen. I wouldn’t say I liked the usual lunch in the canteen. So, mostly I carried my lunch box prepared by my mom, but then she made the same stuff every day, aloo paratha. When asked, she would complain that she is a working woman, and I must not ask her for ‘fancy’ dishes. No wonder eating the same kind of food every day was dull, and I, along with my best friend Sneha, would trade our lunch boxes with the hostel girls to have chicken noodles in the canteen. The hostel girls, on the other hand, enjoyed our home-cooked food. Chicken noodles or egg chicken noodles were a must for us on Wednesdays and Fridays when we had non-veg. The rest of the days, we managed with our lunch boxes with a grumpy face thinking about dining in the finest restaurants once we were out of engineering and started earning on our own.

Sneha and I met Guddu, the boy canteen. He was almost a kid, not even in his teens. Sneha gave me a crossed look, “Isn’t employing him illegal? How old is he?

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” was my nonchalant reply while enjoying my food. “Let me tell you; I hate talking while eating.”

“I know”, Sneha replied sternly. “This is a serious matter!”

Most of the things were serious for Sneha; when the canteen was closed one Friday afternoon because the owner was sick, Sneha said it was a serious matter. When she spotted Arpana’s boyfriend just talking to another girl, she also said it was a serious matter. However, this time I chimed with her.

“Okay, I agree; let’s talk to him,” I said after chewing my noodles and making some sense.

Guddu told us shyly that he was from a nearby village and had studied till class four but then had to drop off. His father had left them when he was younger, and his mother worked in the fields. He had come to the city hoping to make money for his sister, who was already eighteen and hence had to be married off as soon as possible. Sneha was taken aback; she whispered to me after he left the table that this boy had so much responsibility on his young shoulders, and we must help him. “How?” I asked, perplexed and drinking my Sprite.

“Let’s just give him our one day’s pocket money today and make sure that we tip him every time he brings us noodles.”

“Hmm, that’s a good plan; we can save for a cause”, I was again making sense.

I returned, and Google searched his village; there was only one news about it in the local online newspaper related to an honour killing that had happened a week before. The guy was of a lower caste than the girl, and hence he had been hanged to death by the girl’s folks even if she had married him with her consent. A photo of an Odia actor who had been recently divorced was just below. His wife had filed a case against him for abuse. All this made me sad; it is a lie that marriages are made in heaven and that a man completes you. Why can’t people learn to live alone and love themselves? They say all is fair in love and war, but I think love sometimes causes war, and there is nothing acceptable about war.

Gradually Sneha and I grew fond of the little boy. He, too, liked serving us and sometimes put extra pieces of shredded chicken in our noodles. As decided, we tipped him regularly.

Months passed, and it was time for the semester. After the exam, we went to the canteen one fine afternoon, but Guddu could not be found. Sneha made some inquiries and learned that his sister had eloped to the city after marrying a guy from a different caste in the village temple. So, he was no longer required to work in the canteen. The guy, they said, was an electrician in the city and made a decent living. Guddu’s sister was to start tailoring as she was skilled enough to do delicate embroideries and make garments.

We smiled at each other; the job and tips must have given Guddu enough money to save for the government school in the village. We hoped for the best for him and his sister; after all, the world is not a very sad place to live in if you desire to live.

Picture design by Anumita Roy, Different Truths

Mitra Samal

Mitra Samal writes poems, stories, and memoirs. She is a software professional with a passion for both technology and literature. She has published a book of poetry called, ‘Beginning’. She participates in poetry open mics and has her works published in various online and print media. She is also an avid reader and a toastmaster, who loves to speak her heart out.

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