Monday, April 18, 2011

A Flower Crushed, no one to cry...!

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?”

1 comment:

Unknown said...

heart touching story!!