The Power Of One | Freewrite: 6/11/22 | Prompt: A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

I woke to the downpour. My heart raced as I jumped up from my bed and hurriedly dressed. My 12-hour day started two hours ago. I felt weak and tired as though overtaken by a cold. Suddenly chills ran through my body. But I couldn't afford to be ill. My Grandpa depended upon me. Our outdoor vendor stall in New Delhi required vigilant surveillance during business hours. A tall order for me, a boy of twelve. However, our livelihood was at stake.

The morning shoppers with their shopping bags had already lined the street. If I wasn't available to open our stand, my Grandpa would lose business as the shoppers moved on. The same goods were always available from more than one vendor. Not only that, the shoplifters arrived early also. An unattended stall was easy prey.

Our vendor station was situated in a nicer section, located on the far end of the street, opposite the shopkeepers' trash bins. By the time I arrived at our stall, my stomach was churning. My forehead felt warm. I knew I wouldn't be able to attend to our business. I hoped Grandpa would be able to take care of it today.

^{Image source provided by @freewritehouse for purpose of contest}

No sooner than I arranged our produce, a young boy ran past and grabbed several potatoes. I wanted to follow, but hesitated. I was too weak. Grandpa needed to run an errand. There was no one else to guard our business.

As rain began to fall faster soaking my shirt, I stood staring at the rear end of the boy who stole, immediately sympathizing with him. I surmised he was destitute like the others, unlike me and Grandpa. Our family business had been passed down from his dad. Besides, the vendors wouldn't miss a few produce and other wares.

However, a few months ago, I learned from friends that shopkeepers on our outdoor vendor's street aided the thieves' behavior. Stealing was only part of the youths' expertise. Terrorizing the vendors in vicious attacks had become their badge of honor.

I was afraid for Grandpa. His health was not good, and the tattooed youngsters showed no mercy toward elder vendors. Shoving them until they fell in the street, as the thieves attempted to evade capture, was a daily occurrence. The boys looked gruff and fearless. They had no need to be otherwise.

Grandpa finally arrived. I quickly told of my morning scrape. He just shook his head in disgust but happy I was not harmed.

"Grandpa, why don't the local authorities help us?" I realized he'd never fully explained this before.

"Advik, they're not on our side. We don't have hafta to pay for safety. Besides, it pays to steal if you know the right people." He turned toward the shopkeeper as he spoke.

Grandpa was a lighthearted and spirited man, but today, it seemed as if on this issue of theft and intimidation, he became sober with sadness in his voice.

Six years passed. Grandpa and I still ran the business; however, it had taken a downturn.

I'd seen enough of the shopkeepers' closed shop dealings to understand what Grandpa meant. They demanded the vendors pay for our stall situated in front of their door. It didn't matter that the the businesses were on the public street.

I was now grown and could fend for myself. Neither the thieves nor shopkeepers intimidated me.

I'd secured the confidence of all the vendors. I became known as the fearless street vendor of New Delhi. And, I didn't pay hafta to anyone. I was taking a risk, I knew.

My only concern was Grandpa and the harm that might come to him.

The next week late one afternoon, Mr. Kumar, the shopkeeper directly behind our stall approached Grandpa with a menacing glare. "You'd best take control of your boy and teach him manners, else you'll be paying out double!"

I stepped in front of Grandpa. "Anything you have to say to him, you can say to me. I run the business now." This was the first time I'd confronted Mr. Kumar.

Another well-dressed gentleman I'd not seen before silently rushed in front of Mr. Kumar. He grabbed his coat, then quickly guided him into the shop. An argument in hushed tones pursued behind closed curtains.

Then abruptly, the conversation ceased. The other gentleman left. Mr. Kumar didn't approach us again.

However, the next day by noon, Grandpa hadn't arrived at the stall. He was fine when I left him. Worried he may have met with an accident, I closed the cart.

By the time I arrived at the end of the street, Grandpa rounded the corner. He fell into my arms. My heart was beating faster as I tried to ascertain what happened. I was able to get him to a hospital. Within the hour, Grandpa was gone. I pressed and didn't receive a diagnosis for his death.

Word came to me of the shopkeepers' involvement. I already expected this as they'd labeled us troublemakers.

I couldn't afford to grieve too long. I was on my own. I needed to rectify the wrong done not only to Grandpa but to all the vendors on my street. Grief combined with anger propelled me to look beyond the local shopkeepers and hoodlums.

I was happy Grandpa urged me to continue my studies. I met with the vendors. We formed a pact. With my leadership, we arranged to take action against the shopkeepers, thieves, and local authorities. We deserved a livelihood free from theft and intimidation.

"Let's combine our voices. The power of one is greater than divided," I urged in the meeting. "Then the government will have no choice but to deal with us."

Afterward, the vendors gathered damaging information on the wrongdoings. We were prepared to go as far as we could.

Six months ago, I learned that a new law was passed called Street Vendors Act that would provide protection and give us some rights.

I took the day off and visited Grandpa to tell him the news.

However, as with anything that would help elevate the poorest people who need it most, local authorities have yet to implement the law.

^{Image used with permission of contest owner}