Her helpless eyes were moist. Not from the rain. But there was nothing I could do to save her. Tears rolled down my cheeks and onto hers. It was time to part ways.
I had known Radha since I was a kid. She was extremely docile and cute. We almost grew up together. She was born at my neighbours’, but they abandoned her in the fields. It was father who got her home. He told me that she was like a member of our family and instructed us to take good care of Radha.
We ran across the fields at sunrise and till sunset. Radha sat under the tree while I napped next to her, under its maternal shade. A peek into her eyes and one would think that she was day dreaming. At times, I would study my alphabet while she pranced around.
It was harvest time, one of our most significant festivals. The entire village was reaping the fruits of its labour. Lanterns adorned every dwelling and rangoli of myriad patterns decorated the doorsteps. One could see a mélange of colors in the dupattas, tops, skirts, shawls of the womenfolk.
I was dressed in my best – a blue brocade kurta and a pair of trousers that Maa stitched herself. Father bought me a cap – he said it made me look like a prince.
I looked for Radha. But she was nowhere to be seen.
She might be in the fields.
But she wasn’t.
Just then I heard her voice behind me. There she was, clad in a red dupatta and smeared with red paint. She was tethered with a cruel rope to a wooden plank along with a few other kids.
May be it’s not red paint.
I ran and embraced her tight.
“Leave her son, we have to take her now. It’s time,” shouted an old paunchy uncle who could barely walk. His lips peeked through a big grey moustache and he had his ears pierced in two places. His eyes sliced through my fear with seething wrath.
“Time for what?” I sobbed.
“It’s time for her to be with God. They are all born to die, my boy. You don’t have to cry. Wait till I cook her delectably for you!”
Radha was going to be sacrificed to please God.
No way! Aren’t we all supposed to die? But not like this! It’s carnage in the name of God.
Her soft and fluffy neck grazed against mine one last time.
She put her tiny paws on my palm. I would never see Radha again.
Radha cried– loud and clear.
But is there any dearth of deaf ears, blind eyes, and numbed senses?
Our helpless eyes were moist. Not from the rain. But there was nothing I could do to save her. It was time to part ways.
Vaishali Shroff is a freelance writer, editor, columnist, and runs a reading club (www.eikthirani.wordpress.com) for children in Pune. Her work has been published in over 10 titles of the Chicken Soup India Series, her children’s stories can be read at smories (http://www.smories.com/author/vaishali-shroff/) and she can’t wait for her first children’s book to be out.