The man rose before the sun each day. He would ensure he finished taking care of his cows and bulls before he proceeded to his lands. Being a poor farmer was tough, but he never questioned Fate, or God.
He spent his mornings in the fields patiently carrying out his back breaking chores, tilling the dry parched land, tending the saplings with the sweat of his brow, toiling under the harsh sun with no promises of a Golden harvest.
Every year he and his wife would be blessed with a child, bringing joy to their arid lives. Like small bubbles of oasis, but as you know the desert always swallows up the small oases erasing them from the face of the earth. They would spend lavish amounts on gifts and celebrations, money they couldn’t afford, only to escape from the accusing fingers of the cruel society admonishing them. Not many lasted beyond the first winter of their lives.
Somehow, Bhima had escaped the wrath of Destiny. All of 10 years now, a tall, thin lad with a sparkling smile and intelligent eyes. Always ready to lend a helping hand to his mother and father. But he didn’t have the strength in his arms or legs. They had named him well, hoodwinked Yama. He used to make the most beautiful toys out of anything he could lay his hands on, twigs, rags, scraps of paper or stones and pebbles from the riverside.
Every time he looked at his son, his heart would swell with love, after all he was the only one who would carry the family name forward, for whatever it was worth and light his pyre when he finally left this earth.
He took a break when the sun was right over head, the bulls needed to rest. Taking off his turban, he wiped the sweat off his arms and back as he made his way to the spindly Babool tree, at the corner of his field. He waited for his lunch to arrive, brought to him by Bhima. The slight breeze stirred the miniscule leaves and scattered the warmth far and wide over the sizzling earth.
“Baba! Baba!” He turned to watch his eldest son, skipping bare feet, over the heated earth carrying his rotlas and onions. Today there seemed to be something else too. As he came closer, the child with the sparkling eyes handed over the measly meal to his loving father and showed him what he clutched. To a bystander it would look like twigs draped in rags, but he proudly announced “Puppet!”
“Is that so? And what can your puppet do?”
“Anything Baba! It can dance and sing and even tell stories!”
“OK! Let me see then,” said the loving father.
And the boy started his puppet show …. The father dug into his thick rotlas, the taste of his sweat turning sweet in every bite, punctuated with the bites of the sharp, pungent raw onions from his very fields. He thanked God for the food and his son!
“ Once there was a wicked king who demanded more and more tax from his people. He punished the hard-working people, till there arose from the common men, a man so strong, so conscientious, so popular that he overthrew the wicked king.”
The puppet sang, lurched, danced, twirled, and fought, to the delight of its spectator. He laughed a lot and asked, “ What’s the name of the Braveheart, son?”
“Bhima!”
A Tear rolled down the father’s cheek as he hugged his son to his bosom and prayed ‘Oh Shiva! We are puppets in your hands, accepting everything you have destined for us but today you have shown puppets can become puppeteers too! Thanks for your blessings, my Divine Father. I need nothing for myself. My life I dedicate to thee, just shower your blessings on my little poppet, your puppet!”
Picture for representation. Courtesy: Google
