A Scoop Full of Dreams

In the chaotic hum of Ayodhya Nagar’s slums, where the smell of open drains mixed with the sweet steam of boiled tea, lived a five-year-old boy named Shantanu. His world was stitched together with tin roofs, crumbling walls, and dreams floating in the scent of jalebi from the far-off sweet shop.

That evening, as he wandered barefoot on the pockmarked street, dodging rickshaws and cows, something pink caught his eye—a soft toy, soaked in a muddy puddle, limp and sullied. It had slipped from the window of a speeding car, snatched from the tiny hands of a little girl dressed in glittering party clothes.

“Papa! My doll!” the girl had cried, pointing back.

Her father, in a crisp suit and holding a phone to his ear, didn’t even turn. “We’ll buy another one. Don’t throw a tantrum now. The press is already at the launch venue.”

And just like that, the car disappeared into the glow of city lights, leaving the toy behind, like an emotion society no longer had time for.

Shantanu ran up and scooped it. His heart bloomed like a festival. “Maa! Dekho! Mujhe kya mila? gudiya!” His voice, high-pitched and thrilled, echoed through the labyrinth of huts.

His mother, Savita, turned from the chulha, sweat streaking her dusty face. Her sari was faded, sleeves burnt at the edges, but her eyes softened.

“Yeh kahaan se mila, Shantu?” she asked, looking at the muddy toy.

“Road pe gira tha. Main isse dho loon na?”

She didn’t say no. How could she? He had asked her for a toy many times. Each time, she had said, “Next month.” But ‘next month’ was a myth in their life.

She fetched a bucket of water and soap saved from last week’s ration. Together, they cleaned the toy, scrubbing it gently like a wounded hope.

“Thoda daag toh reh gaya hai,” Shantanu said, worried.

Savita smiled faintly. “Koi baat nahi. Us din Neha madam ke Ghar pe TV par dekha tha na-Daag achhe hote hain... Yaad dilaate hain ki kuch kahaniyon mein sachchai bhi hoti hai.”

She took an old piece of her red sari and stitched a tiny frock for the toy. That night, Shantanu slept holding it tight, dreaming not of castles or cars, but of a scoop of Chocolate ice cream he had seen on a poster outside a restaurant.

A Scoop of Dream

Morning came with the clatter of utensils and the screech of an auto rickshaw outside their tin home. Babu—Shantanu’s father—was readying for another day, shirt crumpled, eyes red with fatigue and unspoken rage.

“Tumhare sangh ke Gopi anna ne kya bola?” Savita asked as she packed his lunch of dry rotis and pickle.

“Sab chor hain! Saaf Paani toh sabko chahiye, lekin kisi mein dum nahi hai..” he grunted, slinging his bag across his shoulder.

Shantanu peeked from behind the door, hugging his now semi-clean doll. “Bapu, ice cream kab khilaoge?”

Bapu looked at him, paused. “Jab paisa hoga, tab leke chalunga, thik hai?” he muttered, and walked out, lighting a beedi with trembling fingers.

His elder brother, Arjun, sat in the corner, head buried in a borrowed law book, lips moving as he murmured articles of the Constitution.

“Mujhe bhi advocate banna hai, maa,” Arjun said one night, “aisa jo garibon ke liye lad sake.”

Savita had smiled then, her eyes wet. “Tu banega, beta. Bas sapna mat chhodna. Sapne hi toh hain jo is jhopdi mein humein zinda rakhte hain.”

But amidst dreams and debates, Shantanu’s was the smallest of all. A scoop of ice cream, just once. And he had heard from boys near the nala that there was going to be a party—big, shiny, with food and music—at the rich colony just ten lanes away. One of the builders’ kids was celebrating a birthday.

“Ice cream free mein milta hai party mein,” said Imran, his slum friend, licking his lips.

So, with his doll in hand, wrapped lovingly in a cut piece of a red dupatta, Shantanu made a plan.

The Fall

That evening, while Savita was hanging clothes and Babu hadn’t yet returned, Shantanu quietly slipped out. He wore his best shirt—two sizes larger, passed down by Arjun—and tiptoed his way to the colony lit with fairy lights and gatekeepers.

He waited, watching. Then, at just the right moment when a waiter stepped out with used dishes, he slipped inside.

The music was loud. Balloons floated in the air. Kids in shiny clothes ran around with frosted cupcakes and ice cream cones.

Shantanu’s eyes widened. He clutched his doll tighter.

Just then, a man’s voice thundered: “Who is this kid?! Where is his invite?!”

A woman shrieked. “He touched the table! My God, the gifts!”

One of the children pointed, “He’s from the slum. Look at his doll—dirty!”

“Ice cream chahiye tha bas,” Shantanu murmured, voice shaking.

“Thief!” someone yelled.

In a moment, Shantanu was dragged by the collar, his doll falling to the floor.

He screamed. “Maa! Mujhe mat maaro! Maine kuch nahi liya! Sirf dekha…”

But nobody listened. A man slapped him hard, and the doll was torn under someone’s foot in the chaos.

Back home, Savita waited. Hours passed.

When a neighbor came running—“Didi, Shantanu ko colony ke party mein pakad liya. Usko maar rahe hain”—her heart raced in fear.

She rushed there, breathless, only to be stopped by a guard. “Is this your son? Teaching him to steal, are you?”

“I’m his mother! He’s just five!” she cried. Then they blamed her, “Yeh dekho is aurat ne bete ko bheja chori karne ke liye. Pata nahi kya churaya Hai ab thak.”

Babu arrived, having heard the news at the auto stand. One look at Savita’s tear-stricken face and his child with a bloodied lip, and he exploded.

“You people think we’re dirt, don’t you?” he yelled, pushing a security guard. “Tumhari galtiyon ke liye bhi gareeb hi zimmedar hai?!”

Another slap. Another shove.

The police intervened. “You’re creating a ruckus. One-night custody.”

“No! Please, not my husband,” Savita begged.

“Tum logon ko samajh mein nahi aata? Side ho jao, abhi mantri ji aa rahe hain — raasta saaf karo,” the officer snapped, slapping the cuffs shut without hesitation.

Just then, an AM-stickered Fortuner raced past them, kicking up a cloud of dust, leaving behind silence and a woman’s scream swallowed by sirens.

The Scoop That Never Came

That night, as Ayodhya Nagar lit up only by dim lanterns and the chirp of crickets, Shantanu lay silently on the cot. His doll lay beside him, torn.

His mother stitched it again in the dark, her fingers trembling. “Main hoon na,” she whispered, tears falling onto the cloth, “Tera koi khilona toot bhi jaye, main tujhe jodne ka hausla sikhaungi.”

And still, Shantanu’s biggest wish was the same—just one scoop of Chocolate ice cream with colourful sprinkles…

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