By Mushtaque B Barq
He hadn’t always been this way, but he recognized and appreciated the change. Unlike his previously conventional outbursts, this time the sun seemed affable. It had all the way a cloud cover, making it more genteel and tender. The pinch this time was not like previous perforations deep down the skin. He was now like a freshly appeared crescent on the horizon, making its way to soar up to grab luster from stars. His shirt that appeared bathed in crimson like his face that had all the grace required for a man to believe in change. Confidence, like crimson on the horizon, cause like water to foster wastelands and concern like a nurse to manage a sick patient had crafted his looks.
He was out to send his ten year daughter to the city to work unlike his ancestors who even in their dimmest imaginations would have never mustered courage to allow this air to let their windows toss a bit. They like a rough rock in the backyard, a barrier, an ugly cumbersome despondency had never tried their muscles to smash it, to make a way to the river. Now that he was out to break that repugnant mount which in the oral scripts had taken the form of deity. The backyard to him was a graveyard where any dead animal would be left to be an ally of dust to please self raised deity. Never before anyone had dreamed about the change. Change to inject verve of Renaissance deep into the very nerves of the class of which he belongs to.
Downtrodden and an outcast section of broken society living in slums, where the sun and moon had no significance, where males and their counterparts had forgotten the word ‘shame’, where distinction had long forgotten decency and where education was a monster much bigger than poverty.
“You cannot afford to think this way”, an elderly man announced. His hope was well buried under the burden of his own wrinkled face; his eyes had lost all the power to perceive anything save darkness of which he has been a crucial part. His surrendered shoulders were burdened with obedience. Like a loyal citizen of tyranny, he had never in life thought of disobedience. To him this may violate his faith for his faith was fixed with obedience to suppression. Any violation of it would mean holocaust.
Shujata, a little girl, sensed the trouble. She pulled that mighty hand of his father. The jerk had hardly encouraged him. He could easily ignore that little first voiceless word from his daughter. He smiled, his cheeks reached to the far end of their limit, his forehead had just given a space for the cloudy sun to settle. Grasped her little lean hand , he pulled her close, rolled his fingers over that matted mass like a gardener to serve the roots of his newly planted tree in the middle of his garden after much criticism and opposition from neighbors.
“No one has taken his daughter out to work outside this slum”, the burdened old man continued. She tried to move her fingers, but the grip was tight. She couldn’t, but he could feel the need. This time he looked straight into her eyes. Lit a candle of hope, dropped a voiceless message as a clue. She felt a tremor which branched over her head and shook her entire body. The stare was both harsh and warm. He had fixed his eyes at her, but soon realized a change on her cheeks, he let the brows fall. The fall was encouraging and the stiff skin mounted over his brows was tough enough to pass a message to the little girl who perhaps was not willing to see his father arguing with that elderly man who among the children at slum was famous for storytelling.
His stories , like his own fall had only a fallen hero who could never afford to win his battle, but to die in the ditches like an oppressor in his own jail. His protagonist unlike the social heroes who perform under the garb of attires apt for the scene was always partially dressed performing under the scorching sun that one little scene of death. With every whip his blood would give birth to another protagonist like him who would perform the scene with a difference. This difference would make new protagonist better than before for obvious reasons. But the death was a common ending of his stories, his hero would never survive.
“I have already requested the newly appointed Headmaster to adjust Shujata at her house, she knows cooking, washing and dusting besides looking after kids”, he responded.
“How can you give your daughter to a stranger”, the old man reacted sharply.
He again felt a feeble progress of her fingers. This time he allowed her to express her unrest. He loosened her little hand. She was shocked to see her father’s response. From his master for whom he works in his farmhouse to look after the animals, he has learnt the lesson to be polite with subordinates. He let his daughter to decide.
Shujata stood like a frozen icicle between two poles of her little world. One demanding a change and the other like the fallen characters of his stories demand submission.
“I won’t be like my mother, who only has been forced to give birth to six children at the cost of her health”, she announced.
“See how your daughter is adding grace to your family, go and send her to the city, go and bear these utterances”, the old man taunted him.
“I don’t want to be like you, who can never administrate hope in his stories, who can never ever afford to see the blue sky up there to soothe the eyes”, she reacted.
“Your stories cannot teach them what they require, they need to go out to fetch their own needs”, he shouted at the old man.
“Needs, I know what the needs of a girl are, what she is all about, what she demands”, scolded the old man.
The tone was sharp. She was not too little to understand these cuss remarks from the old man. Ten year old girl in the slums means a matured girl who witness in the single room of her little house both rubbish and realities pertaining to her corporal and social needs.
She had along with her five siblings never slept in that one room. Her bedroom was always under the starry sky behind a shed. She at times had been a bystander of the argument between her parents at the bed. She has also witnessed her mother’s plight and submission to male dominance, muscular might and ugly urge.
Sujata moved ahead of her father. Raised her voice intentionally which was normal in the slums. Her objective was to bring all the women folk out to demand justice.
“I don’t want to be like my father even”, she shouted.
Her father stood stupefied behind her. Like a log unmoved and dry. Her statement flooded the yard with men, women, children and elder ones.
“What is wrong with your father”, the old man asked.
“He cares for none, my mother like all married women in the slum is meant for child birth. She has been utilized for satiating desires only. Her moans are silent like others. She has five children and the sixth one in the womb. How long she is going to suffer like it”.
His father moved ahead and with all his might whacked her. She was knocked down. Crimson of her cheeks had concealed the sun.
No one came forward save her mother.
“You have not given birth to any child, it is me who knows the pain and plight, you cannot use your muscles against her”, she responded.
He was shocked. Her words seemed sharp and clear. She has ruined his fort of confidence. Few females moved ahead. A little group, then some more joined, now a handsome gathering. More and then all the female folk surrounded the duo. It was a new dawn.
The storyteller who was there to narrate a new story has never seen his hero winning the hearts of the audience, but this time he was equally stupefied to see a change. Change in character and nature of character.
Sujata broke the circle and stood in front of her father, like a fort to defend her territory. He understood her stance.
“I won’t be like my mother who submits her will for every move of my father”, she continued.
“All men in the slum are like my father and all women like my mother, weak and worried”.
The storyteller broke the silence, came forward, patted him and whispered something in his ear.
A woman from the group too broke the wall and shouted at him.
“You the old man, you always whisper poison into the ears and spoil us, now no more poison”, she demanded.
“We know we have limitations, we are poor but we still have demands”, another voice from the group.
“Have you ever thought of us, how we have to bear the humiliation and criticism from nearby people when we have to go in open to attend natural calls. Have you ever thought how in that muddy pond boys and girls bath together? Have you ever thought how we have to hide our faces, for we have been seen in open by men and boys every morning, they enjoy our limitations”, Sujata announced.
“People in the market call us by the size of our butts, you know”, shouted another woman.
“If you men have guts to listen, then listen”, Sujata once again raised her voice.
Mushtaq B.Barq is a Columnist, Poet and Fiction Writer. He is the author of “Feeble prisoner, “ Wings of Love” and many translation works are credited to the author like “ Verses Of Wahab Khar” and “ Songs Of Sochkral”
