My Child, My Child

It was end of April and was getting hot and dry in the lower hills. This time shepherds move up to higher regions of the himalayas with their flocks of sheep, buffalows, cows, mules and ponies. There where they find flat green meadows they pitch their small tents or make huts with leaves and grass for their stay through monsoon. Away from the world they live their simple life in the midst of wild nature with easy acceptance of weather and climate as they come and change. The sheep give wool and cows and buffalows give milk from which they make ghee. These they take down to nearby village shops to sell and from there they purchase their needs and provisions as they require. Sometimes for extra needs they sell sheep too.

Buddhi and his wife Lachmi with other shepherds of a village Gangol, three miles from Gopeshwar, were moving up the way to Rudranath to a grassy meadow about six miles up, where they had camped in the previous year. It was about evening when they came up to the Spot. Surrounded by forested hills it was a beautiful place of open grassy land with a thin flowing stream cutting across it. Here the shepherds stopped, halted and unloaded their animals and set about pitching tents and making huts. Buddhi and Lachmi were behind the rest. Buddhi had on his arms a few months old lamb of a sheep which was named Shyama by Lachmi. Lachmi had on her her little a-few-months-old child. They came and putting the lamb down, Buddhi collected their belongings and started putting up their small tent. He helped his father and mother, who had also come, to put up their tent close to theirs. In a couple of hours the shepherds were settled in their establishments. Then they lighted fire and started, cooking their meals. The animals were loose and grazed about freely. For sometime there was stir, movement, noise and calls on the quiet hill-side; thereafter there was serene quietness again. Inside and outside their tents and huts they had stretched themselves and fallen asleep under the faint shine of a thin moon.

So they lived away from the world and vet within it. The world goes with man wherever he goes, as go with him his needs and desires, urges, feelings and emotions. He may leave a place and move to another, but these he cannot leave. They make his life and make him do and act, behave and function as he does.

Buddhi and Lachmi were young. They had their first child six months ago. Shyama’s lamb was about the same age. Leaving the other sheep to graze about Lachmi kept Shyama with her because of Shyama’s young lamb.

Lachmi one evening said to Buddhi that when coming through Gopeshwar she had seen in a shop a pink little frock which she would love to have for her child.

“But where’s the money to purchase?” asked Buddhi. She said nothing and looked away. The child was on her lap.

“We’ve to sell a sheep for the money” he said after a pause. She winked at him and her face brightened a little, but she stood up with her child to go into the tent.

Next day a man from Gangol came up to purchase a sheep. His daughter was to be married and he wanted to sacrifice a lamb at the altar of the village deity to have the deity’s blessings on his daughter. He went, about talking to the shepherds and came to Buddhi also. He liked Shyama’s lamb and offered to purchase, but Buddhi hesitated. Lachmi came out with her child and heard. She loved Shyama and her lamb, but the offer was tempting. With the money the pink frock for her child could be purchased. The purchaser was in hurry to return. His daughter’s wedding was on the next day. He took out fifteen rupees and put that in Buddhi’s hand. Then he lifted the lamb which looked to her mother, “Ma Ma,” but her mother stood helpless and stared hard. “Ma Ma.” “Ma Ma” from her and from the lamb went deep into Buddhi’s ears. He sat down on a stone and the money dropped from his hand on the ground. Lachmi returned to the tent. The lamb’s “Ma Ma” and Shyama’s “Ma Ma” and Shyama’s hard look at her lamb as the lamb was carried away agitated her mind which she could not divert, though a vision of her child in the pink frock floated before her eyes.

The next day Buddhi went down to Gopeshwar and brought the pink frock. Lachmi stood up to take it from his hand. It fitted her child beautifully. She kissed her again and again and held her up to Buddhi. Buddhi gave her a kiss; but not with the same ardent emotion. He went to the place where the sheep were grazing. He saw Shyama, gave her a tender pat on her and moved away.

That night Lachmi did not take off the frock from her child when she put her to bed. In the frock she looked so beautiful, so bright. Putting an arm round her, Lachmi fell asleep. The night was dark and cold. All was quiet. All were asleep. Lachmi had a dream, a terrible dream. She saw the purchaser of Shyama’s lamb coming with Shyama by his side. He came along near her. Shyama said to him. “Lachmi sold my child to you. I shall sell her child to you.” The man came up and lifted Lachmi’s child as he had lifted Shyama’s little one. Lachmi shrieked “No, no Shyama, give my child. Shyama, Shyama.” She fell at Shyama’s feet, but the man carried away her child and Shyama went with him. Lachmi cried out and stood up and ran out of the tent. Buddhi woke, stretched his arm to feel but Lachmi was not in bed. He shook up, lighted a pine stick torch and going out of the tent followed the cry of Lachmi’s “Shyama. Shyama, give my child.” He ran after her and called “Lachmi. Lachmi”, but, Lachmi heard not. She ran down the hill till over a stone she stumbled and fell and was unconscious. The shepherds heard the cry and came and did all that they could do, but Lachmi remained in her dream. She saw them not, heard them not; before her wide open eyes was only that man from Gangol carrying away her child and Shyama going with him. Now and then she shivered in fear and cried–“Shyama, Shyama, give my child.” Buddhi held her child to her, but she did not see, did not take her. She was in dream. “Shyama, Shyama, give my child” was all that she would say, and then stand up and run and cry again “Shyama, Shyama.” They brought Shyama before her and said “Here is Shyama.” But she did not look at her and cried as before. She ate, slept and moved about, but her dream never broke. Her child, her husband and none she looked at. None could break her dream, none could call her mind to the environment, none could divert her from crying out “Shyama, Shyama, give my child,” and stretching out her arms to take her child.