A 10 year old boy - a child labour from Bihar is beaten to death by a factory worker in Delhi. An age for soft emotions, toys, candies and for cuddling unto mummy's lap, the boy already burdened by the cruel fate finally had been swallowed by the demonic master. Beyond everything it goes on to show how the unorganized sector still brazenly and brutally exploits human resources. The boy died of reportedly excessive beating and was being buried quietly by the crminal owner when a more 'human' cemetry caretaker alerted the police. I am shaken, very sad and angry.
Long back, I was in the midst of a traffic jam. Idling behind the wheels, I happened to glance sideways on the pavement. Just then something caught my attention, that I hardly realized at that time, an image that will continue to haunt me forever. A boy (aged between 9-10 years) was washing a milk-bowl outside a makeshift tea stall on the roadside. The boy was bare-bodied and bare-footed having a rugged half-pant in the name of cloth on his body. Dusty, dry and ruffled hairs, pale eyes and petrified face of the boy made it difficult for me to take my eyes-off him. He held the bowl sideways and hence the inner rim of the vessel was visible. It had semi-dried white layers of milk. The boy staring at the vessel for sometime could not resist the temptation that every child would have and ran his fingers on the rim before licking them. Just then a middle-aged man, supposedly the owner of the tea stall, demonic in his looks, saw the ‘act’ and gave a tight slap on the boy’s head, burbling some choicest abuses. Tears-rolled down the cheeks of the boy which he wiped-off quickly with his soapy hands and continued cleaning the vessel. The traffic lights turned green and I had to drive-on. But the image stayed and pricked me hard. I sat alone for hours and thought what would be the fate of such kids. I penned down something that hung between reality and imagination; but who knew even the part-imagined could be even a starker reality…
Little Kishen
In a small corner
Away from the teaming crowd,
sat Kishen, the little boy
covered in a shroud.
Tears rolled down his cheeks
as he cried in pain;
disgraced by the cruelty of his master
he had been whipped again.
Washing the utensils
earlier in the day
he had made a mistake,
for which he had to pay.
While cleaning the bowl of milk
his childhood had made a wish
to taste left-out drops of elixir
which other privileged relish.
But cruel was his fate
like the world and his master,
who kicked and abused him
for this ‘unpardonable blunder’.
His ‘mistake’ was to dream
to make simple wishes of life;
for he was poor and downtrodden
destined to struggle in strife.
Nine delicate years in this world
an age for sweets and toy,
Kishen, had so longed
even for a moment of joy.
Destined to work tirelessly
from the day he lost his father
he toiled to make both ends meet
to fend for himself and his sick mother.
The day ever since
with his small hands,
he searched for the mirage
in the myriad of sand.
By now hunger, thirst and pain
had pushed the young soul
into an unconscious sleep
or was it curtain to his role!
Rain splashed on his body
rudely awaking him to reality
as he struggled to stand,
he was mocked by humanity.
Drenched all over,
he trudged shivering in cold;
Suddenly he fell across,
when he could no more hold.
The storm had passed
as had the night;
there near the roadside
lay an object motionless in white.
Motionless, lifeless
he lay like a stone;
Kishen had died
his mother left behind to moan.
Onlookers and passer-byes
Stopped for a while in curiosity,
mercifully they threw few coins,
even a coffin was in scarcity.
Kishen’s mother couldn’t cry anymore
for even the tears had dried,
as she stared at the coins
for which her son had died.
She lifted her dead son
lovingly in her arms
and walked towards the cemetery,
leaving behind the alms.
She cried and smiled
and screamed in pain -
“How may Kishens have to die
of poverty and disdain?”
