A Journal of Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya

their bundles of the harvest. And their
womenfolk and children were picking up
the stray fallen ears of corn. I had been
deputed to watch lest they stole some of
the harvested stalks instead of the fallen
corn. I just stood there keeping an eye, when
I saw, at a little distance, in a corner of the
field, behind a labourer, a middle-aged
woman, her children hastily picking up corn,
and also, perhaps, doing some ‘foul play’.
‘Aye, you there, that woman, what’re
you doing there?’
She seemed to be completely oblivious
of my loud call. Though her man appeared
to be warning her. Once, twice, thrice -all
my shouting went unheeded. Seething in
anger I proceeded towards them. Seeing me
coming all four of her children - well within
six years of age - all got close to their
mother. The youngest one of a year and
a half hid behind her feet. From a distance,
I shouted again - ‘Aye, what’re you doing?’
Bending down in the field, without
stopping work, she just turned her face
towards me and said, ‘Salam, Babuji’.
‘Arre, Budhia?’ It was Budhia, the same
Budhia, the little girl who wore the red rag
wrapped round her waist. The Budhia whose
choonar never went faint. Uff, but what had
happened to that merry childhood, that
blooming youth ... and now this old woman,
in a torn sari, and even the choli gone, hair
all dishevelled, face shrunken, cheeks and
eyes - all sunken. And, oh, those two wellrounded,
proud blossoms of her youth
which once maddened the young men of
the village, as she was bending at work, hung
like the udders of an old goat -lifeless and
cold!
‘Budhia?’
‘Yes, Babuji.’
Turning her faded face, she gave a faint
smile, and went working. Her man, who had
by then tied up his pile, called her - ‘Hey,
come and give a hand.’ Budhia left her work,
straightened up, gave me another wan smile,
and proceeded to help. with heavy steps.
As she stood straight, I noticed a pregnant
belly.
‘Wait, Budhia, let me help,’ I
blurted.
“Na. Babuji. I wouldn’t ask you to do
it: You may get angry.’ Her two front teeth
glowed with emotion. My heart missed a
beat. Old memories cascaded in. That dark
evening, her bundle of grass, her pleading
for help, Jagdish’s sarcastic remarks, my
exasperation, her frivolity. Just then her
youngest child broke into a cry. She turned
to the child, and I went to help her man
lift the pile. The strong, hefty young man
walked away in a swaying rhythm with his
pile on his head. And Budhia, trying to push
her shrunken breast into her child’s mouth,
kissing, smooching and pacifying him, said
to me -’How many children do you have,
Babuji. Look at these kids. The wretches are
so wicked. They have sucked me dry, spoilt
my body, and still would not let up. They’re
a pest.’
The other three children stood by her
side. She would stroke the head of one, and
80 :: January-March 2012