A BOY’S STRUGGLE TO FEED HIS BROTHER
At last the lights of the Asthana Arcade went off. The sudden
darkness that now covered the Talchar Lane woke him from his
slumber just as a sudden lightening would awaken us. If he makes it
hurriedly, he may still make it before anyone else did. He jumped
over the sleeping bull, made a cut to avoid the wider portion of drains
and dashed towards the gulmohur tree which should be at the tiraha
where the Lane meets a bigger road. There he found what he was
looking for. Others had not reached there. He laughed at their
lethargy, but the second thought made him envious, what if they’ve
found something better. Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he
ventured to find something he could use to carry it. He hated doing
what he was to do. But many like him were doing the same. The
floods last year the ongoing drought saw the prices of, even, course
grains skyrocket to an unprecedented high. The meager ten rupees
that the owner of the restaurant, where he cleaned dishes, gave him
did not suffice for even one time meal these days. Government had
made tall promises; the CM visited the affected areas himself. But
what good it was for the people. What good it was for Chukka
himself who thought government to be a powerful goon, from
whatever he could gather from the talks of some grown ups he knew.
For his only worry presently was to find a polythene bag or any paper
to take home (a particular spot under an over bridge that protected
them form sun and rain) for his younger brother.
At last, he found a large poster, one of the kind city was over strewn with these days. He
was sure the writing on it was in English. He could read a bit of Oriya
and recalled himself as a clever school going boy, before his father, a
daily wager was overrun by a very big car. He wrapped the paper
around five guthlis (the hard seeds of mango fruit) obtained from the
spot from where a tall man (he had often seen at the liquor vend) ran
a mango shake stall and rushed to his brother, lest the latter start
worrying. He had barely made the cut around the drain when a
shaggy man, came around and stood in his way. His breath smelt of
liquor. He slapped the boy hard. Chukka swayed dangerously over
the edge of the drain but managed to save himself from falling into it
the man abused him and went on stumbling along his way. In tears,
he found that he no longer had the wrapped package, which had
fallen on the earth and his dinner-to-be guthlis, all of them save two,
had rolled into the drain. He picked the two of them and struggled
against his tears. The world had taught him to mature at a tender age
of twelve. And he liked it that way. He liked to put up a brave face to
his brother whom he loved more than anything else. (A matter of fact,
he did not have anything else). Wiping every trace of the encounter
from his person, he stood up and looked around himself. Except the
inaudible grumbling of the drunkard everything was silent and
motionless. Almost running, he reached the under-side of the over
bridge to find his brother asleep. He kicked him mildly as usual he
woke up without a start, knowing by the ‘kick’ of it who it was.
Chukka produced the two guthlis he could salvage today after that
face-off with the drunkard. The little one assuming that Chukka
might have had his share already (being late today than usual), took
both of them, tore them open to take out the soft inner-part and ate it
unrelishingly, so that his stomach won’t ache with emptiness. They
sat down awhile and admired the dancing lights cast by the myriad
vehicles passing by them around the curvy flyover. Chukka, tired
himself after a day of toiling, felt the head of his little brother fall
against his shoulder and his nostrils blowing up and down in a funny
manner, they did whenever he was sleeping. He laid the little one
over the khes and himself fell beside his brother gazing into a sky so
polluted that not a star was to be seen anywhere. He covered himself
and the brother with another piece of rag, and wondered what they’ll
do this winter as his employer had discontinued their sleeping in the
stores. Maybe he’ll have to buy a blanket, but how? He will have to
save for it and find some work for his brother. Tired he fell asleep
soon.
The next thing he knew was a loud truck with blaring horns
going past him and waking him up at five in the morning. He put
aside the rags, rolling his brother a foot in the process and tucked
them safely in the enclosure meant for the Transformer. He showered
his brother with his usual kicks but he was adamant to sleep. Unable
to hold back the mounting pressure on his rectum he picked up a
bisleri bottle he had filled in the night, emptied his pocket of the
poster he had used in the night to carry the guthlis and set off for the
nullah to empty his innards, unaware that the paper he had let flow in
the morning air was an official appeal from the government to the
poor not to eat the mango seeds as they can be fatally poisonous,
complete with the photographs of the state Health Minister, the CM
and the Agriculture Minister wearing a content smile on having
fulfilled their duties.
