She survived the blood-loss, her kid survived all possible infections could happen by living by the drain. Now a healthy seven months old kid plays on Ramya’s lap and she forgets all the pain she takes in her everyday life. She forgets the pain of not knowing the father of this baby; few law-keepers had a fun time together with her in last winter in return of couple of pieces of bread. The three-days’-unfed body couldn’t register the consequences of begging to the law-keepers of the town on a wintry night with attractive body & revealing torn clothes.
Seasons kept on changing, like the biological changes kept on making Ramya bigger at the middle. And on the day when I was coming out of that prime hospital with little pride on my feet for being a father, Ramya was struggling to give birth to a new life right across on the footpath. Few ladies, the street-sake of Ramya were helping her out, and finally the baby comes out – tiny, but full of life! ‘Kolkata-r Jishu’ (‘Jesus of Kolkata’ – a famous poetry from Nirendranath Chatterjee) – is what I murmured.
Ramya-s born, they give birth – silently. I wish each from their womb become a powerhouse of equality & humanity. I wish Ramya’s son and mine, share a cake.