A Journal of Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya

find her carrying loads of grass on her head
every day, but her palms you’ll not find
calloused, nor dirty. Her skin is still dark,
but not with the sullenness of the stagnant
pool. It now bears the rippling music of the
Kalindi, with many a Gopal playing their
flutes on its banks, and many other Nandlals
dreaming of a romantic union with her.
Wherever in the open fields she walks, life
surges and sways. Her black locks are now
set with fragrant jasmine oil, her forehead
adorned with a resplendent tikli. In place
of one Gopal in the Vrindavan with a
thousand gopis around, you now have one
gopi surrounded by a thousand Gopals. Even
Gopal wouldn’t have felt the gaiety in slinging
the thousand-headed Kalia serpent and
dancing on its hoods which this Budhia now
feels in stringing together so many Gopals
and making them dance to her tunes. As
if, Radha of the dwapar era is avenging
herself through Budhia on today’s menfolk
in this kaliyug. That Radha ever pined for
Krishna’s love, and this Budhia makes all
the Gopals always crave for her company.
Damned wretch! - My virtuous soul
cried. And in the growing darkness I slowly
wended my way, with bent head, back home.
Jagdish, too, went his way. And hardly had
I walked some distance towards the village
when I suddenly felt an electrifying touch
of someone rushing past myself. Instinctively,
I looked back. ‘Kindly forgive me for
this second fault’. She said and stood still.
It was Budhia. I fumed in anger - ‘Wicked
girl’, I shouted. ( I’d almost said - Slut!) But
instead of blushing or looking bashful, she
burst into a loud laughter. Coming closer,
she giggled - ‘D’you remember, Babu, my
goat-kid had eaten your chameli plant?’ And
her pearly teeth shone in the dark. ‘Get lost,
naughty girl!’ My face must have burnished
like red coal.
‘And that bridegroom and his bride, that
wedding-night chamber, that flower-bedecked
bed, and that song! Should I sing
it again for you, Babu?’
The wedded bride goes to her hubby’s
home,
And yet she trembles in fear as she
goes ...
Singing it tunefully she ran away, swinging
and laughing. Oh, how shameless, how
brash indeed! - I kept muttering between
my teeth. But her giggles and laughter kept
echoing as she fled.
The wheat harvest was on. My brother
said, ‘Bhaiya, there’ll be a large number of
labourers today. They might try to steal.
Come to the fields with me. You’ll have only
to be there. The work will go on smoothly.’
It must be the farmer’s blood in my veins
which made me walk to the fields just to
have a new experience. The harvest had
already begun in the small hours of the
morning, so that the ripe corn would not
be jerked off the stalks. With the pale moon
still on the horizon casting its fading light
in the fields. It was already over - the
harvesting. The labourers were tying up
January-March 2012 :: 79