A Letter(SUDESHNA MAJUMDAR) Dear Santa,

I know how busy you must be today, but there's a little girl called Shanti in Mumbai who really, really needs you. She doesn't know of your existence, even though she's been selling cute, fur-lined Santa caps at the traffic signal for the past week. Her customers are well heeled motorists who shamelessly haggle over the price - TWENTY BUCKS!!

They sort. Get lost. The tiny margin that Shanti makes on each cap, represents the day's rations for her family. Shanti is seven years old. Already a veteran. She has been raised on the mean streets of Mumbai. Survival is one thing she doesn't have to be taught.

Shanti's ailing mother watches her little girl from the safety of the footpath as the kid darts in and out of the traffic snarls, deftly carrying an armload of bright red Santa caps. Some have battery-operated, twinkling lights along the rim. Shanti tries hard to push these pricier ones to anyone who makes eye contact. "Only thirty rupees," she pleads, as she dances a little jig to amuse the aunties in the back-seat.

Keeping a watchful eye on her is her father who along with his two sons, makes the caps that Shanti sells. So, in a sense, the entire family works for you! Isn't that amazing! Think of it, Santa. There you are flying around the world in your fancy sledge, saying, "HO, ho, ho", and distributing gifts to the pampered children. And here on a busy street in distant Mumbai, is a poverty stricken family, labouring hard over caps that will be worn for a few short hours, by drunken revellers hugging and kissing strangers while yelling, "Merry Christmas" to nobody in particular. Sweet Irony!

I asked Shanti whether she'd heard of Santa Claus. She giggled and shook her head saying vaguely, "Is he an old man?" then she asked me in all seriousness, "Did you meet him?" Frankly, I was stumped for an answer. I didn't have the heart to tell her I'd seen countless fake Santas in my life but was still waiting to meet the real one - You!!

Shanti said, "Who cares? All I know is people like my father's cap. He makes them well. Better than the ones made by that other chap at the next traffic light, who sells his caps for Rs.15. Our caps are the best because we use the best material. By next year, both my brothers will become experts too. We will sell more caps and my mother will not have to worry about buying expensive medicine. Maybe, we'll make enough to get her admitted into a hospital."Shanti was momentarily distracted by a girl of her age who was staring fixedly at the two of us. "What's that?" Shanti asked looking at the nifty blue tooth stuck on top of the other two kid's ear.

With my limited techno knowledge, I tried explaining to Shanti that it's a hand free way of communication. She burst out laughing and offered one of the caps to her counterpart in the car. "cheeeee.... ," explained the other little girl, "Get out... not required". Did that bother Shanti or make her angry? Far from it. she stuck her tongue out cheekily and scampered off before the other girl could react.

"Sometimes these people hit me," she sighed philosophically. "They get annoyed and spit on my face" "but I don't react. My job is to sell these caps. Nobody will buy them once this week is over. If we don't sell them on time, my father will suffer a loss and my mother will fall more sick..."

That's little Shanti's story. She isn't begging for anything. She is doing her duty as a daughter and contributing to the family kitty. Delegation is key in their little enterprise. Each link matters. For them, you, dear Santa, are nothing more than an old man, whose crazy cap is worn by the sophisticated log. It sure would make this particular little girl very happy if you were to make her mother well again. How about it, Santa...?

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