It was raining heavily since the last three days as if heaven wanted to wash everything on the ground. Incessant rain, murky ferocious clouds accompanied with thunderstorm seemed lethal. Monsoons may be so romantic when it’s perceived from India Gate but it was a spell of sorrow for Etwari. Etwari, though it possibly may sound bizarre and comical is a 14 year old boy.
In a ragged, worn out T-shirt and a half-pant almost resembling mud, it was difficult to spot flesh on his body. Cuddling in the mud, his eyes gleamed as he won two rupees in the game of Gulli(Marble). His foot sprang as he has won thousand ton gold and he reached his shed. His mother was tying the cow in the tiny hut that failed to house even four persons from top to toe. Very soon, the odor of cow-dung moved the family out exposing them to downpour and storm.
His mother yelled, “gaaye k shaani paani kab karbbae.” (When will you make fodder for the cow). Unwillingly and hesitatingly, he took out the spade and started to stab the grass batting hard as if he was sailing against the waves of thoughts. Tragically Etwari hit hard on his index finger. The finger seemed to betray its attachment from his body. It was paining sour; he didn’t even sighed a word. Fearing his mother, he tried to pick up his spade again but couldn’t. His sister noticed it and screamed ‘Hae dekho, bhaiya kae ki ho galo’. (Look what has happened to bhaiya’s finger). Entire family gathered near Etwari. His mother was traumatized. The thought of having five daughters and loss of sole male working hand, made her to blow slap on his cheeks though shaking and trembling.
It began to downpour heavily. It seemed even the sky was lamenting. She rushed inside, opened the earthen box. 43 rupees was all inside. She tied it to the corner of her sari and took her to a Quack. He was given a tetanus injection. It cost 24 rupees; she was left with the less than twenty rupees. Etwari’s finger needed a stitch that would cost 500 rupees including the medicines. She didn’t have it.’ Daktaar babu, haath jod ke kha tani, paisa baad mein de dium, taaka kari da hmra etwariya ke’. (I plead you Doctor Babu, I would return the money soon, please stitch my son’s finger). The world by no means cares for the down-trodden. They were scorned, slapped, mistreated and verbally abused. Had he been any other like you or me, his fingers would be attached back to his hand. Five hundred is not even a one spending at KFC.
Etwari was in the threat of infection. His mother detached the floating flesh from his hand. Blood was dripping onto the ground, sickeningly swift, like fat blots of ink on a paper napkin. She tied with a strip of cloth which she pierced from the corner of her sari. His heart was weeping like the torrential downpour at that moment, but it all got vanished before reaching his eyes. His mother thanked almighty that the mishap happened in the left hand’s index finger not in the right. His working potential won’t suffer a set-back. Etwari was numb, I wonder about the immeasurable pain he was suffering. Even a minute cut can’t resist me to apply Boroplus, take medicines. His finger was dethroned from his bodily empire. Deep in the fold of evening, scowling his teeth, he tried hard not to shed any tear because he feared his mother would arrange for medicines, sacrificing food for his sisters. He didn’t wish so and prayed that the precipitation ceases and he could earn in the meadows- 17 rupees every day.