The broken pavement that turns left into Bentinck Street from Prafulla Sarkar Street, with unexplained little rivulets of dirty water flowing through it, is unnavigable also because of the number of people it attracts during office hours. It has Haldiram’s and Monginis on the built side and a row of carts spilling into Bentinck Street on the other, heaped with hot kachoris, samosas, jalebis and telebhaja (some made with different kinds of leaves). Where the pavement turns into Meredith Street sits a cart that sells bel panna.

Behind the cart, as the evening thins the crowd and darkens the pavement, sit four boys. It turns out that three of them — two are very small — are visiting from their Bihar village. All three go to school. Only the fourth is a regular worker.

He looks about a boy of 12, who only understands Hindi. He says his name is Shovik. He has a wide grin.

Shovik? Yes, Shovik. Surname? He does not answer. The others laugh. They seem to say that anyone trying to talk to them seriously is funny. Peals of laughter punctuate the conversation.

The cart belongs to his “chacha”, says Shovik. He is from the village Kurba Bareta in Bihar, five hours from Patna by bus or train, he says.

All the boys are from the same village, he explains, but he is the only one who works because the other older boy is the son of the owner, and the two smaller boys are the sons of the owner’s brother. Shovik is not related to the owner; he calls him “chacha” because they are from the same village.

Chacha has helped him out by bringing him to the city, because at home he was doing “nothing”. His father, once a farmer, does nothing; his two elder brothers do “nothing”. They tried to put him in school. “But I always used to run away to the fields. Play all day,” grins Shovik again. “Uska padhai nahi hoga,” agrees the older boy, who is a student of Class IX. Shovik is 15, he adds.

“So my parents used to beat me. They beat me too much. My brothers used to beat me too, but not too much. My sister has been married off,” says Shovik.

It was a blessing when he was offered the chance to come to the city.

He gets up early in the morning in room no. 62, on top of Haldiram’s, which all of them share, and opens the shop at 6am. The older men, the cart-owner and his brother, are also with him then.

The panna is prepared at frequent intervals on the cart. The fruit is crushed and put through a large sieve. The juice is served fresh and unmixed with anything. Salt and sugar can be added on demand.

It goes on till eight in the evening or so.

Does he like it here? “Yes,” says Shovik. What else does he do? “Nothing,” he says, happily.

By this time the cart-owner has arrived with some of his friends, anxious to know why the children are being interviewed. “No one works here really,” he says. “They were all visiting to see the Durga Puja. They will all leave very soon,” he says. “They just hang around here. They play all the time,” he adds.

Where? He waves generally in the direction of Bentinck Street. Shovik is not paid anything. “But still he is far better off here, you know,” he says, confidingly. “At home he has nothing. We were farmers too. But our fields have dried up. No rice, no wheat grows there any more. But we go back still,” he says.

“My brother and I take turns to look after this business. Now I will go back home with the children and he will be in charge,” he adds.

Shovik is also going back home with them. His eyes light up. “I will come back after a month,” he says.

Back home, he will play the whole day. Kabaddi, cricket and football. With these friends and others. And once in a while, he will go to Samastipur. The auto ride costs Rs 15. “I will just roam about the streets, see the shops,” says Shovik.

Shovik had no clue that the Nobel Peace Prize was announced on Friday