He sat alienated at a sleepy, forlorn bus stop, as the whole town was exploding with fireworks, so typical of the festival. He retreated into silence once again. And then he looked up. Bitterness shone on his tender face. But thankfully it soon faded a little. As if he had spotted some affection, some empathy in my eyes. He banged his frayed shoes into the cemented sidewall of the bus stop. "Sir, can you help me? Can you beat up those scamps?"

Sunny appeared to be a regular school-going kid. Well-behaved. And from a good family. He dropped another bombshell. "My dad is a b***, you know." I took out a chocolate from my pocket and offered it to him. "I am not a kid; I never was. How I wish I were!" he saidwith a maze of lines forming on his forehead. "Why do you dislike your dad and Diwali?" I politely asked him. "What does he do?"

"I don't hate him. He is a bloody gambler. Whipping my mom for money is his primary occupation. He has left us in tatters. We were not always that bad," he said, covering the skin exposed by his torn shirt. "I hate him. Dads are not like that. Unconcerned and cruel like him. All he wants is booze. Which he gets by beating and abusing me and my tiny brothers and my little sister. My mother does such petty jobs -- and he takes away all the money. She relents to save her kids, and herself." By now he had lost all control over his emotions. At first the tears trickled down his face, and then they literally flowed. But he quickly wiped them off. I was weeping too. But I had my tears in control. Still. I patted him.

"The police should shoot dead such dads," Sunny continued. "But how is he at fault? The real criminals are these bullies who claim to be his friends. They who invite himto ruin himself. And he complies. He takes all his money, even picks an item or two from home.

"I know he must be savouring his sips somewhere and tossing his cards around. And they all will be enjoying turning him into a pauper. I know he will return home at midnight. Then he will beat her up. And mom will give him another bangle, or maybe a ring. And he will again go. Then when it's time to go to school, a rickshaw will be carrying him back half-dead. And Mama will say something to him and he will beat her and all of us. This is what happens on Diwali. Year after year. The government must ban the festival." Not that his father gambles only on Diwali, but on this particular day and other festive occasions, he is all too fond of gambling his fortunes away, he added.

Why does he not approach the police? "They will arrest him and throw him behind bars. And he will be thrown out of his job. And the police will beat him up and he will cry. How can any son allow that to happen?"

He said that his father is amiddle-rung government employee who deals in cash. On Diwali he gambles away the company's cash too and then he faces recoveries to add to the family's miseries.

I was set thinking. Can a game of innocuous-looking cards be that harmful? I was reminded of a rustic uncle of mine who too hates cards like anything. Although I do not know the history behind his dislike, he is known to murmur: "Taash kare naash." He often hums the three words, making them sound like an elegy.

I was still thinking. What can be done? How can such innocent kids be saved? Should I talk it over with his father? Maybe a social organisation could help. I looked around for answers. The boy had disappeared by then.