by Saikat Rudra
The smile was clumsy and awkward, though the eyes glinted, signifying joy of success. The autumn sun was blazing hot. We sat in a sling of rope 'charpoi' in the deep and dark shadow cast by the mud hut. An emaciated goat was munching grass while her kid was prancing around.
'What do you want to do now?'
The shy, gawky teenager looked up, groping for an answer.
'I wish to continue my study.' His voice faltered.
His name was Bipul Das. The eldest son of an agricultural labourer had won through the Secondary Examination this year in first division, obtaining an average of 91%. But now the road ahead appears to be a blind alley that stops before him.
His father, a bony, prematurely old person, wiped his perspiring face with a napkin hung over his shoulder, and muttered phlegmatically, 'Where is the money, sir? I have five family members to feed and we don't have our daily fill.'
The man paused a little and, waving his hand to the son, said, ' None in my family has ever gone to school, and he has brought glory to us. But...'
It was an unending 'but'. The old man looked blank.
The success story came out in major dailies and news channels. He did not know whether any good Samaritan would ever come his way. Did he expect any ?
The man got to his feet and said, ' Sir, I will sell the small piece of land I have, and I wish to see him walking down a thoroughfare, as far as he can...I will not commit the sin of truncating a growing tree.'
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
Artwork by Kusumika Mukherjee