What We Choose Not to See

A Sunday That Felt Easy

It was a slow, relaxed Sunday. A day meant for unwinding, good food, and easy laughter with friends and family after a hectic stretch of work. We had slept in without guilt, waking up late in the afternoon, the sunlight already harsh and unforgiving.

When we finally stepped out for lunch, the day greeted us with a scorching summer heat. The sun hung heavy overhead, pressing down on everything. The streets looked tired — shops half-shuttered, many completely closed. The ongoing LPG cylinder crisis, worsened by disruptions from the Middle East war, had clearly taken its toll. Even the usually lively eateries were either shut or struggling.

People moved slowly, shielding themselves from the heat — scarves wrapped tightly around their faces, umbrellas tilted against the burning sun. The air felt dry and restless, and the roads seemed quieter than usual.

After wandering for a while, we finally found a small hotel that was open. Relieved, we pulled over to park our two-wheeler. Even that simple act felt unbearable — the seats were scorching, almost untouchable under the sun.

And then, amidst all of this, something caught my attention.

The Man on the Road

An old man. He walked barefoot on the burning road, dragging a worn thermocol box tied to a string, pulling it slowly along the ground. His steps were slow, heavy, and determined. There was no shade around him, no protection from the heat — just him and the endless stretch of road.

While we complained about hot seats and closed restaurants, he carried on, silently enduring far harsher realities.

A rope was tied to the box, and he held it in his hand, dragging it forward step by step. In the other hand, he used a stick to support himself. Every step looked heavy. Every movement felt painful.

For a moment, I wondered what he was doing.

He approached someone in front of us, spoke briefly, and moved on. Then he came toward us.

He wasn’t selling anything. He was asking for money.

My friend didn’t understand at first. He thought the man was selling something. But he wasn’t.

He was carrying his life.

What That Box Meant

That box contained plastic covers, clothes, and small things — everything he owned.

Not luggage. Not storage.

That box was his home.

Every crumpled plastic cover, every worn-out piece of cloth inside it wasn’t just an object — it was a part of his survival.

There was no cupboard waiting for him. No room to return to. No place where he could set things down and rest.

Everything he owned had to move with him, everywhere he went.

The rope in his hand wasn’t just pulling a box — it was dragging the weight of his entire life.

The Thoughts That Followed

As he slowly walked away, the image stayed with me longer than I expected. It made me wonder how many people like him pass by us every single day, unnoticed.

Elderly individuals moving through life with quiet exhaustion. People carrying everything they own in a bag, a box, or a piece of cloth. People who have no fixed destination — only movement.

There was no guarantee of food, no certainty of rest, and no one waiting for them.

Their struggles don’t announce themselves. They don’t demand attention. They simply exist in the background of our busy lives.

We often think about helping. But almost immediately, it is followed by hesitation.

What if the money is misused?
What if it goes to alcohol or cigarettes?
What if I’m encouraging the wrong thing?
What if my help doesn’t actually help?

These questions feel valid. Logical, even.

And sometimes, it also depends on something as simple as what we have in our pocket. If we have more, we give without thinking much. If we have less, all these questions become louder.

A Knock on the Glass

We stopped near an ice cream shop.

A small family approached us. The children stood near the glass door, quietly watching. One of them kept staring at me, not saying anything — just looking.

My friend noticed. He stepped inside to buy ice cream for them.

And then she came closer.

A little girl, maybe five or six years old, walked up to the glass and knocked. Once, then again, and again.

And then she said:

“Gulfi nahi… paisa chahiye.”
“I don’t want ice cream… I want money.”

What That Meant

Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

There was something in it — not demand, not anger — just survival.

At that age, children are supposed to choose flavors. Chocolate or vanilla. Cone or cup.

But she wasn’t choosing joy. She was choosing need.

The Gap We Don’t Notice

We live in a digital world now. We tap cards, scan QR codes, and rarely carry cash.

But when it comes to them, even if we want to help, we often can’t make a digital payment.

The system has changed. Their situation hasn’t.

There have been moments when I’ve said,

“Sorry, I don’t have money,”

even though I had money in my digital account.

And sometimes, even when we want to help, we hesitate.

We offer food. But they ask for money — not because they are wrong, but because their needs are different from what we assume.

No Perfect Answer

Should we give money? Should we give food? Should we walk away?

There is no perfect answer.

But one thing is clear.

They are not just invisible. Sometimes, we choose not to see them. Sometimes, we ignore what they are saying.

What Stayed With Me

We talk about growth, progress, and development. But behind all of that are real people.

A man pulling his life on the road.
A child knocking on glass for money.

People who are not part of the system, but still living within it.

We may not be able to solve everything. But we can stop pretending we don’t see it.

That day, we stepped out for something simple. But we came back with something that stayed.

Not a solution. Not an answer.

Just a clearer understanding of something that was always there.

The world is moving forward fast. But at the same time, there are people who are still struggling just to get through the day.

This is not something new. It has always been there. The difference is whether we choose to acknowledge it — or just move on as if it doesn’t matter.

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Thank you for reading.

With 💚,

Hari Ramanathan