“Papa… who is she? What is she asking for?”

It was a deceptive winter morning in Gurugram—bright outside, but warm and insulated inside the closed compartment of my car. My son and I were driving back after dropping my wife at her office.

That familiar moment of separation had just passed. Usually, this is when my son’s eyes swell, his lips tremble, and his world begins to fall apart—especially when it is his mother walking away.

I know where he gets that from.
I, too, am terrible at goodbyes.

I consoled him, cheered him up, and focused on the drive home. We took a U-turn and stopped at a red light.

120 seconds.

I switched off the engine to save fuel. The silence was comfortable. Then came a knock.

The Data Point

On my side window stood an old woman. Dirty hair. Dirtier clothes. She tried to cover herself with whatever layers she had left against the chill. Her hands spoke before she did—a gesture for food, a plea for money.

My son forgot his own sorrow instantly. He stared at her, unmoving.

“Papa… who is she?”
“She’s a beggar,” I said.

“What is she asking for?”
“Money.”

“Why?”
“Because she doesn’t have any.”

“Is she hungry?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”

He asked that question again.
And again.
And again.

The light turned green. We drove away. But he didn’t leave it there.

The Interrogation

After a pause, the questions returned—gentler, but heavier.

“Why doesn’t she have food?”
“Because she doesn’t have money.”

“Why doesn’t she have money?”
“Because no one pays her.”

“Why doesn’t anyone pay her?”
“Because she doesn’t work.”

“Why doesn’t she work?”

I paused. This is where adult logic begins to fail.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe she wants to work and no one gave her a chance.”

Silence.

I returned my attention to the road, thinking the interrogation was over. Then—softly—he asked:

“Papa… do we have money?”

“Not a lot,” I smiled. “But enough to eat and live with dignity.”

“Why do we have money?”

“Because your mumma and I work every day.”

Another pause.

Then came the question that hit harder than the traffic ever could.

“If you had money… why didn’t you give the old aunty anything?”

The Logic Failure

I had no ready answer.

I usually don’t give money at traffic lights. Over time, you learn to look away. You tell yourself it’s practicality, not indifference. Caution, not cruelty.

But none of that fits into a child’s world.

He was waiting. Watching. Expecting truth.

So I gave him the truth of that moment.

“I didn’t have money with me.”

It was true. I had forgotten my wallet at home.

He thought for a second.

“If you don’t have money… will I have nothing to eat?”

“You’ll eat,” I said immediately. “I have money at home.”

“And she doesn’t?”
“Why?”

The Funeral of the Inner Child

That is when I felt it.

His questions were no longer his.
They were mine.

They were the questions I used to ask—before I learned which ones were inconvenient.

When did I stop asking why?
When did I learn to look away—politely, responsibly, intelligently?

We spend our lives teaching our children how to grow up.
But in that car, my son showed me what I had lost along the way.

How did I kill the child in me
without ever holding a funeral?

Just think over it