It was a baby. No more than a month old. Ten small fingers and toes. Lying face up to the morning sun. On a sheet of newspaper. In the desolate back alley of the neighborhood, a narrow cobbled lane meant for garbage pick up. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I looked left and right. There was no one in sight. I walked to the end and peeked out. Saw no adult lurking around. How could a baby just be lying on the street? I went back and stood over the baby, the little chest was rhythmically moving, eyelashes flattened. I stood paralyzed. Who shall I call? The police? Shall I pick up the baby and take him to a safe place? I stood with my numb fingers clasping the cell phone.
A man walked into the alley. He wore a t-shirt that said Alabama and a pair of filthy pajamas. His eyes were blood-shot, hands were calloused. His hair unwashed and clumped. He quickened his pace when he saw me, hurriedly picked up the baby.
“Is this your kid?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why did you leave the kid on the road, all alone?”
“I had gone to pee.”
“What do you mean? You left the baby inside this alley, alone?” I had raised my voice.
“My wife works as a maid, she is working in one these houses. She left the baby with me.”
“What do you do?”
“I am a ricksha-walla.” The cycle rickshaws were still a large part of the city. Transporting people in a carriage pulled by a cycle.
“How can you leave the baby, just like that?”
“What can I do, Mam? ”
He walked away.
I stood there, stunned.
I was in the largest democracy of the world.