A fake Apple Watch wrist

Time: 1:25 AM.

                         

                           "   AE ZINDAGI MERI, THODA KHAFA HU TUJHSE

                                KYUN TU THODA KISI OR KI NAHI HO SAKTI "

                                                                                                          -  PREM PARMAR 

Just wrapped up studying . My sleep schedule is wrecked, and instead of forcing sleep, I thought I’d take a little of your time. Not to rant, not to preach — just to share a real encounter that shook me a little.

A few days ago, my brother sent me a phone from home via his friend. His friend couldn’t make it to Kamla Nagar since he was with his family, so we decided to meet at Connaught Place instead.

I hopped on the metro with a friend, reached CP, met the guy, took the phone. Simple stuff.

We found a spot to sit. I handed over the phone box to my friend and told her, “You open it — your honor.” While she was carefully unboxing it, a small boy appeared out of nowhere.

Thin frame. Dusky skin. A fake Apple Watch on his wrist.

He looked straight at me with hopeful eyes, holding a few packets of papad.
“Bhaiya, ye papad le lo na…”

Something about his eyes… they weren’t begging, but they had seen too much. I felt a strange wave of empathy.

I asked my friend if she wanted to eat some papad — she declined. The boy’s face dropped a little. But then his eyes caught the phone box.

“iPhone hai pakka isme!”
I smiled. “Nahi chotu, Samsung hai isme .”
“iPhone hi hai,” he insisted.
I invited him to sit with us and look himself. He came, sat, and even after seeing it was Samsung, he kept insisting it was an iPhone.

For a moment, I thought of correcting him. Then I stopped.
If thinking it’s an iPhone brings him joy — why not let it be an iPhone?

We started chatting.

His name was Arjun. A name once associated with the greatest warrior of the Mahabharata… now reduced to a kid selling snacks on the streets of Delhi. 

He said he was 13 — but his body looked no older than 10. 

Thin. Malnourished. Almost no fat on his bones.

I asked, “Why are you doing this?”
He lied at first — said he was here on summer holidays, visiting his father from Bihar. That he was saving money to buy a real Apple Watch.

I smiled, bought him an ice cream, and told him:
“You’ll only get this if you can recite the table of 13.”
He tried. Knew bits of it. It was obvious he’d once studied, just hadn’t revised.

Then I asked for the table of 7 — Thala for a reason, right?

He blanked. Didn’t know it.

Something didn’t sit right. I gently pushed, asking questions.

Eventually, he gave in.
“Thik hai, main sach batata hoon…”

He’d been in Delhi for 4 years.
His father worked in tailoring.
But Arjun didn’t live with him.
Instead, he worked for the papad factory that made the very snacks he was selling.
All they gave him was food — just dal-chawal twice a day, and sometimes ₹10-₹20. 

No school. No play. No dreams.

I had heard about child labor and all this Beggar Mafia.
Seen videos.
But this was real. This was personal. This was a 13-year-old named Arjun sitting across from me, carrying the weight of a world he didn’t choose.

I asked if there were more like him.

He said yes — younger ones too.

Then I asked, “Where do you live?”
He told — behind the ______ police chowki. (yeah, I forgot the name)
That hit me hard.
Right under the nose of law and order.

Just as I was asking him,"To police ko pata hai ye sab?" two older boys came over, also holding papads.

One of them barked, “Ee Arjun, kya kar raha hai tu? Chal!”

I tried inviting them to sit with us.
They refused.
Took Arjun, and walked away.

And just like that, the boy with the fake Apple Watch disappeared into the crowd —
One face among a billion.

Some stories don’t end. They just fade.
Like Arjun did.
But I’ll carry his name, his eyes, and his truth — always.