(Part 1/2) “If I go back to my earliest memories, I see my parents making clay pots. Unlike these days, back then a vehicle would not come to pick up the load. Mother and father would carry the load in their heads. They would go from village to village bartering these pots with grains and as time went by with some money. They would tie us up around their waist. There would be no one to look after us at home so they would just carry us wherever we went. Those were happy times for us. To see new villages, to see other children and to be with mother and father. Little did we know that we were also the witness to fathers and mothers struggles to feed us. Little did we know the weight of the load had scarred their shoulders. And little did we know that they would cry but never in front of us.

They would go all the way up to Tulsipur and Ghorahi. A Ghaitaa would sell for only 2 rupees. That might not sound much but that money was hard-earned. It’s worth immeasurable. Sometimes, taking us would not be practical for many reasons. Before they left they would set aside ration for us. We were to feed ourselves and stay alive until they returned. Sometimes what they left would not be enough. So we had to skip meals sometimes so that we could have at least one meal in a day. But sometimes, they would have no ration to leave us. They would tell the neighbours to feed us and promise them that they would return the grains. But we were shy children and we did not have the brains to ask for food. Sometimes we would sit hungry until someone came to fetch us or someone gave us food. We would see the well to do of the village and their children have bountiful food and pleasures inside their gardens but those things were distant for us.

Seeing father and mother return would bring us so much joy. It felt like we had triumphed over a war. We knew that they would bring enough grains to last a few weeks.

Father and Mother were good-hearted people with no ill in them, no stinging words came out of them but only innocent tears. They raised us, the best they could. They wanted us to have a good life, eat good food, wear good clothes but their lives were denied a future.

As I grew up, the struggles of my father and mother did not decrease. They still relied on selling pots to feed the family. One day, I remember a man came and told my father to send me to work as Kamlari to Ghorahi. He said, “If you send her, you will not have to worry about feeding her. She can work for the family and they will pay her. Maybe when she makes them happy, they might offer your son a job too.” Father just sat quietly. I will never forget his solemn look. He loved me and to send me away for him was accepting defeat. But he had no choice. He looked at me and said, “What will you do?” I quietly got up, left the room, went to my mother and cried.

It was final. I was leaving. I started to pack up my belongings.”

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