If he wanted to, he could have reached out and touched the plastic garbage container next to him, by the table—if he wanted to. Instead, he tosses the fist-full of paper on the ground, at his feet. I can only think that there must be some mistake, that he didn’t see the container, that he was thinking something else, that. . . Meanwhile, because she does not want the children to be bored, the mother shows them how to scatter pieces of bread on the ground which immediately brings a rush of pigeons out of the nearby palms. Once the children are gleefully surrounded by birds, the father and mother can now return to their cellphones.
I look down again at the wadded paper he threw on the ground, and that is when I think about turning to him, pointing to the paper and then to the plastic garbage container, showing him what is what, thinking he will look where I am pointing, and smile, maybe even shrug, along with a long sigh as if to say here we go again; and now clearing his throat while the children begin to squeal because the pigeons are fighting over scraps of bread, he will say, “No worries, my friend. I know what you are thinking, what you are going to say but allow me to explain the logic involved.”
By now his wife will be talking to someone on her phone, laughing and talking so everyone can hear, “That’s funny, Sara.” The father will continue: “It is very simple: I am giving someone a job, sah? You see these people?” And he will motion to the nearby cleaners in yellow jumpsuits who are armed with small brooms and rakes and plastic bags as they sweep here and there, busily collecting the dust and dirt and forever garbage. “You see this?” Holding out both arms. “These people from Bangladesh, Pakistan, and India are here to work, to make money, to feed their families back home in Karachi, or whatever villages they come from. Am I right? Am I? Of course, I am.”
When the children stop squealing and become too quiet, the mother must turn to see why. But never mind, because he is not done. “So yes, I am throwing garbage on the ground, I am littering the neighborhood, and why? Why? To feed others’ families. You see how it works? See the logic? My littering is their income, their money to buy medicine for Grandma, to purchase milk for their children, to pay the rent So yes, yes, ..” And he will stop long enough to wad up a paper napkin and neatly let it slip from his hand to the ground. “Yes, I litter to feed others, and I say to you, and all the others, you’re welcome.”
Meanwhile, the mother will go back to her phone, smiling, but I cannot tell if she is smiling at his logic, or the children who are back to tossing more scraps of bread. By now one of the yellow jumpsuit cleaners has swept his way toward our tables, and spying the papers under his table, at his feet, comes closer.
Photo by Taylor Wilcox on Unsplash
