Chains of Destiny

2022

Beneath the searing sun, Bhavaroopa pounded the pavement, her heart racing in her chest as she desperately scoured the area for her missing son. She darted from one humble abode to another, from one humble storefront to another, her eyes scanning every face that she encountered, begging for any scrap of information. But each time, her pleas were met with a swift shake of the head or a curt "no." It wasn't that these folks hadn't seen her boy, but rather that they were too preoccupied with their own daily grind to spare a moment for her plight. Women hefted laundry, while the men, with their skin blistered from the blazing sun, hauled sacks of spuds and cement powder, or pushed barrows full of bricks and other such knick-knacks. Bhavaroopa resolutely held onto hope. She persisted in her hunt, her face slick with sweat, her sarees clinging to her sweaty form, and her lungs struggling for air.

2015

It was a Monday morning, the clock striking nine, when Bhavaroopa was hit with a jolt of electrifying agony in her groyne. But she was a woman who knew the meaning of the word "laganasilata (perseverance)." She had to haul those heavy pails of water from the well, her burden only adding to the weight of the baby growing within her. This was her livelihood, her means of putting food on the table. There was no choice in the matter. She had to do what she had to do, for if she were to make her own decisions about her life, she'd be doomed to suffer. Her husband, Krishna, was a scarce presence, gone from dawn till dusk, first as a road construction worker, and then as a server at a street-side eatery. 

But then the pain began to spread, searing through her back and abdomen. The baby was ready to come out. "Not now. Please, not now," she pleaded through gritted teeth. Still, she carried on, those pails of water swaying with each laboured step. She couldn't move as quickly as she usually did, but she was moving all the same. One step after another, until she spotted it in the distance. The signboard with the name Abhinav Shop emblazoned upon it in English and Devanagari script. It was within reach, just beyond the narrow road that was teeming with a constant stream of vehicles. Those blasted motorbikes, in particular, seemed to be everywhere at once, ignoring any semblance of road rules. 

"Hey, Bhavaroopa! Get a move on!" Mr. Raju's voice rang out, edged with irritation. 

"I'm coming!" she called back, and then, just like that, the pails slipped from her grasp and she pitched forward onto the asphalt. The wetness that seeped through her pleats at first she attributed to the spilled water, but then she felt it. The unmistakable thumping of her unborn child wriggling in her cervix and belly as if yearning to be born into this world. And then the gush, as her waters broke, flooding through her. 

Several women hurried towards her, their faces creased with concern, but she pushed them away with a fierce glare. "I told you, not now!" she raged at her unborn child, her cries echoing out across the street.

In a matter of mere moments, a new life was brought into this world, right there on the street, under the watchful gaze of a small crowd of onlookers. Bhavaroopa looked down at the tiny, wriggling infant, no bigger than a box of eggs, his red skin aglow in the unforgiving sunlight. 

"Beautiful!" an old woman remarked, "Let's get you both cleaned up." 

Meanwhile, Mr. Raju observed the blood-soaked Bhavaroopa as she limped away from the bus stop with sympathy in his heart. It wasn't that he didn't care, but the constant stream of customers meant that he couldn't leave his shop unattended. 

"Faneel," Bhavaroopa uttered, to which the old woman looked up in confusion. 

"What?" 

"My baby's name. Faneel," she declared, her eyes fixed upon the naked babe in her arms, no longer crying, while the umbilical cord and placenta remained intact, swirling gracefully.

With a smile, the old woman wrapped an arm around Bhavaroopa's shoulders and led her towards her shack just a short stroll away. 

In the end, Faneel made the decision to defy his mother's wishes, opting to enter the world regardless of her desperate pleas. It would be the only decision he would make for quite some time to come.

2022

Bhavaroopa made her way along the cramped thoroughfare of Gadura-Saman, the verdant trees and foliage of Shree-Baba stretching out to her right. But her mind was weighed down by an indescribable sense of unease. A medley of worries all jostled for space in her head. She had deserted her post as a housemaid for the Batsa family. Faneel was nowhere to be found. And he was only seven years old, for goodness' sake. 

It was at ten in the morning when an eleven-year-old boy named Garvesh had brought the news of Faneel's disappearance to her attention, just as she had been busily procuring kitchen essentials for Mr. Batsa’s clan from Raj store. 

"He didn't show up today," Garvesh had explained. 

"That's impossible. I saw him walking by this morning. I thought he got in the company’s jeep," Bhavaroopa had countered. 

"You need to find him, or I'll be held responsible. You know I'm in charge of keeping an eye on all the younger boys," Garvesh had warned. With a sprint, he made a beeline for the blaring factory jeep, the driver's impatient scowl signalling the gravity of the situation.

So now Bhavaroopa was fraught with worry on multiple fronts, including the welfare of young Garvesh. But there was another reason, one that she was loathe to admit even to herself. 

2017

Thursday was just another forgettable day, one that would have blended in with any other if not for what was to come. Bhavaroopa was busy gathering fallen branches, dead wood, and twigs that she had scrounged up from the construction sites, piling them up for future use. She was exhausted, not just from the backbreaking labour of carrying bricks upon her head but also because she had no choice but to bring two-year-old Faneel with her everywhere she went. Dhanvi, the neighbour who usually took care of Faneel, was out of the house, leaving her with no other option. 

But Bhavaroopa didn't have time to complain. She needed to get things done, and fast. Faneel's thin frame was already sprawled out on the floor inside the house, looking drained. She knew he would be hungry when he awoke later, so she gathered enough wood for the stove and tossed it in, watching as the flames licked at the logs. Satisfied, she then made her way to a small table covered with a piece of cloth bearing a mandala pattern, reaching for ginger, coriander, and cumin. 

That was when it happened. A man, sweaty and out of breath, came running up to her door, shouting at her. "Didi! Didi!" 

Curiosity piqued, Bhavaroopa asked the man, whose name was Rambaboo, what was wrong. She couldn't quite make out the exact words he spoke, something about an accident, a hit-and-run involving a car, work. The details were a blur. But one piece of information clung to her mind like a burr: her husband was dead. He had been in an accident, and they had already buried him. They had to do it fast. 

Her mind was reeling with so many thoughts that she didn't even know what to feel. So, in the end, she lashed out at Rambaboo, telling him to shut up and get lost. She didn't know why she was angry. Was it because her husband wouldn't receive justice for his death? That was unlikely, given that they were Dalits, the lowest caste in their country. She looked down at Faneel, still sound asleep, now fatherless. She knew she would need to feed him soon. So, she returned to the task of preparing food, crushing the ingredients with more force than usual. And as she did, she came to a realisation: she wasn't angry about the injustice her husband had faced, but rather the fact that she felt nothing upon hearing the news of his death.

The grip of external forces on her existence had desensitised her to the point where grief no longer registered within her emotional spectrum.

2022

Time had slipped through Bhavaroopa's fingers, its passing unnoticed as she clung tightly to the plastic bags of groceries, the sweltering sun threatening the delicate chicken meat within. She held those bags as if her life depended on it, each one meticulously knotted to prevent the ever-present dust and smoke from tainting the food. The last thing she wanted was to face Mr. Batsa's reprimand later. In truth, she couldn't be certain if Mr. Batsa would still have her as his maid. It had been over an hour since she had vanished, and surely they were growing concerned about her whereabouts by now. 

Bhavaroopa found herself traversing the chaotic Gadura-Bazar road, a constant stream of people, vehicles, and the occasional cows, goats, and buffaloes. In this place, animals mingled seamlessly with humans, unperturbed by their shared space. She continued to ask anyone she encountered if they had seen Faneel, even though their responses were always negative or outright dismissive.

She walked on until her eyes fell upon the familiar sight of a green building she held in high regard. She had often daydreamed about running a grocery shop like this one. Approaching the owner, Mr. Kiran, she sought his permission, her voice filled with hope, "Sara, can I borrow your phrijara?" 

Mr. Kiran regarded her with bewilderment, prompting Bhavaroopa to explain her decision to abandon her duties as Mr. Batsa's maid in order to search for Faneel. 

Thankfully, the old man proved generous as ever. Not only did he offer his freezer to safeguard the chicken meat, but he also handed Bhavaroopa a sum of money and enlisted his son, Devnand, to drive her to Chandra. 

With repeated gestures of gratitude, Bhavaroopa bowed her head and uttered, "Dhanyabad. Dhanyabad." 

She climbed into Devnand's small, open-aired white jeep, sinking into the seat with a profound sense of relief. Her legs welcomed the respite after hours of walking and standing. She held onto the hope that she would find Faneel soon, convinced that he couldn't have strayed too far from Chandra.

2020

The weight of poverty bore down upon Bhavaroopa, squeezing the life out of her already difficult existence. It wasn't a simple matter to make a decision, but she had no other choice. With Faneel in her care, she now had two hungry mouths to feed. And so, donning a stern countenance, she steeled herself and set about teaching Faneel a multitude of tasks—hauling wood, fetching water from the well, laundering clothes. His tender hands soon blistered from the arduous labour, yet Bhavaroopa forbade him from uttering a complaint, scolding him whenever a whimper escaped his lips. 

Faneel needed to toughen himself, for he was a boy, and boys were not meant to shed tears. 

In truth, Bhavaroopa's maternal heart shattered each time she treated her son with such harshness. She would be lying if she claimed not to despise herself for it. But she had no choice. She had to remain strong, and, more importantly, she had to instil strength in Faneel. He needed to comprehend, from a tender age, the brutal reality of living as a Dalit, devoid of any semblance of agency or the right to make decisions for oneself.

In the waning hours of the afternoon, a man dressed in a chequered button-down shirt materialised at Bhavaroopa's door. He sported a clean-shaven face and emitted the scent of soap—a sharp juxtaposition to the existence of Bhavaroopa and Faneel. 

Introducing himself as Mr. Hritik, the man silently surveyed the humble abode, and without uttering a single word, Bhavaroopa could sense his disdain for the pervasive poverty that surrounded them. The walls, tinged with a grey hue and a faint hint of brown, bore witness to the ceaseless assault of wind-blown soil and dust. 

Outside, clothes were strung along a jute twine forming a U-shape, their once-clean fabric now stained with a stubborn layer of grime, defying even the act of washing. 

Mr. Hritik exhibited no interest in venturing inside the dwelling, much less accepting the glass of water Bhavaroopa offered him. 

"Where is he?" he demanded instead. 

"Wait, Sara," Bhavaroopa replied, mustering her composure. She called out loudly, her voice carrying through the air, "Faneel! Faneel! Come here! Jaldi karo!" 

Within moments, Faneel emerged, gripping his mother's arm tightly, positioning himself behind it as if to shield a portion of his face from the imposing figure before him. Mr. Hritik nodded approvingly and inquired, "Good. When can he begin?"

2022

After a journey spanning roughly 20 minutes, they arrived at the Chandra Bricks Kiln. Deep within her heart, Bhavaroopa clung to a flicker of hope that he would be there, immersed in the task alongside the other boys and girls.

As Bhavaroopa clambered out of the car, a wave of dizziness and disorientation washed over her. The kiln's elongated, thin chimneys appeared to waver and twirl against the haze-filled sky, prompting her to steady herself before embarking on her first few steps. Throughout her life, she had never grown accustomed to travelling by car. 

Approaching the children toiling away, she inquired whether Faneel had returned, but their collective response was a resounding "no," accompanied by a chorus of shaking heads.

"Where do you reckon he's gone?" she probed further. "Has he done something like this before?"

A boy piped up, "No, never. We have no clue where he and two other boys went this morning."

"Hē bhagavāna! Where could they have disappeared to?"

Devnand, who had remained silent until now, wore a look of concern and interjected, "What does he enjoy doing?"

Bhavaroopa, taken aback by the unexpected query, sought clarification. "Who?"

"Your son, Faneel," Devnand said, his concern deepening.

A bewildered expression etched across her face, Bhavaroopa struggled to conjure an appropriate response. Much to her astonishment, she realised she was utterly ignorant about her own flesh and blood, unable to provide even the slightest glimpse into his world.

"I have an idea," Devnand offered.

2020

The early morning sky remained shrouded in a purplish-black hue, the sun yet to ascend to its lofty position. Five-year-old Faneel sat inside the jeep, his demeanour fraught with nerves and confusion, uncertain of what lay ahead. A surge of nausea engulfed him, and he hastily stumbled out, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the soiled ground beside the vehicle. 

As Faneel regained his composure, his eyes fell upon a group of boys and girls, not too far from where he stood. Some were his own age, while others appeared older, all bearing the unmistakable signs of dirt and neglect. There they squatted on the ground, each one diligently packing thick mud into a rectangular implement resembling a box. 

"That," Mr. Hritik declared, "is what you'll be doing.” He paused briefly, ensuring Faneel got it. Then, he pointed at the tallest boy. “That’s Garvesh. He's gonna be your brick-making tutor."

2022

Moments later, Bhavaroopa found herself back in Devnand's jeep, the vehicle propelling them away from the factory and onto the Sira-Bhawani Road.

"They couldn't have gone too far," Devnand broke the silence, his voice brimming with reassurance. "We'll find them. We'll find your son."

Bhavaroopa simply nodded, her silence enveloping the jeep as it traversed an interminable stretch, flanked by an endless parade of shops and houses lining the roadside.

Eventually, they arrived at a sizable pond shimmering on their left, the sun's rays casting a mesmerising dance upon its surface, causing Bhavaroopa to squint.

Suddenly, her mind cleared, and she exclaimed, "Reading!"

Befuddled, Devnand queried, "What?"

"You asked me what he enjoys. He once spoke of his yearning to be able to read."

Without a moment's hesitation, Devnand veered the steering wheel to the left, executing a sudden turn that sent Bhavaroopa's head lurching in that direction, her temple making contact with the windowpane with a resounding thud.

"Mapha," Devnand apologised, and Bhavaroopa simply shook her head, signalling that she was unharmed. "I've got an idea of his whereabouts," he added, his foot firmly depressing the accelerator as he deftly executed a sharp U-turn, steering the vehicle in pursuit. 

In a matter of minutes, Devnand skillfully manoeuvred his jeep to the side of the road, right beside Kirana Pasal. Bhavaroopa couldn't be certain if Devnand's instincts were accurate, but she had no time for doubt. She hastily disembarked from the vehicle and sprinted toward the bookstore. As it turned out, Devnand's intuition had been spot-on. 

There they were, seated cross-legged on the floor before one of the bookshelves—Faneel and two other boys. Their faces were adorned with smiles and laughter, engrossed in the enchantment of the picture books that graced their hands. They seemed like any other children, basking in the joy of storytelling. 

Without wasting a moment, Bhavaroopa took decisive action. "Faneel!" she bellowed, causing her son and the two boys to widen their eyes in trepidation. She approached Faneel with determined strides, seizing his ear and delivering slaps upon his arm, leg, and back in a fit of anger. "What do you think you're doing?" she seethed, drawing the gaze of the shop owner, while Devnand made a subtle gesture to discourage interference. Bhavaroopa pressed on, her voice brimming with fury, "There's no income for you today because of your foolish decision to shirk your responsibilities at the factory. How on earth are we supposed to buy food now?"

"Sorry, Amma. I didn't mean..."

"You're a damn Dalit. You don't call the shots," Bhavaroopa snapped, her grip tight on Faneel's arm as she yanked the tearful boy away from the bookstore.