Stories  
Folk Song at My Doorstep – 3
by NS Murty

If one song depicted the frolicking of farm boys, the other gave Colour to the budding desires of a young girl coming-of-age; another spoke of marriage practices of Gulbarga tribes, yet another one about the fear and blushing of newly weds on their nuptial-bed; still another the heart-rending scene of people migrating to towns in search of food. He listened to the songs as if he had almost become a statue hearing them. He tried to offer her money once more when she wanted take leave. She once again refused. He mock admonished her not to come if she wouldn't take any money. She then turned her head gracefully. There was an inexplicable meaning in that look. A meaning without any color.

He pulled her right hand suddenly and tucked the ten-rupee note into it and closed her fingers.

She laughed at him for taking such liberty. She came out into the street. There wasn't a light anywhere. That white dame from Telangana, that folksinger, walked away like a walking-lamp.

In that itinerant Thanda, raised about six months back, there were about thirty huts huddled together. They were all asleep now in dirt. Here and there, a light was bickering; a vague incoherent talk was heard as of the yawning of dogs.

Just about that time –

A lone distressed voice "my god! I am killed!" was heard.

As she entered the hut, her man held her by her hair and dragged her out.  She faltered and fell into the mud there. He went near her again, pulled her and kicked indiscreetly on her chest. Wriggling in pain she fell at a distance. She tried to speak between her wails but he did not allow her.

" Am I blind? Lame? You leave me and flirt with that townsman?" He roared at her.
" Am I flirting? What did you say? Are you blind? You drunk…” she said in a shrill voice, struggling to get up.
“Is mine a blurb of the drunkard, you bitch...”

He ran up to her again and pulled her by her blouse. It seared. He took a stick near by and beat her wildly on her face, chest, abdomen, legs and what not. Unable to bear the pain she ran in every direction to escape from his onslaught. She tried any number of times to explain to him the reason for her delay in coming home, but not once did he allow her. In that hard-to-see glimmering light, she was looking like an idol sacrileged. There was blood oozing from her face, her chest, abdomen, hands and legs. She lost her senses.

The Thanda, which witnessed the atrocity perpetrated on her half-asleep, went full sleep thereafter. She was lying in the mud beside her hut. The mutilated ten-rupee note in her hands – given in appreciation of the song – was looking as if it was on its deathbed.

About twelve noon the following day –

That village girl came to his room. She held her two-year-old child in her arms. He was surprised to see her at that time.

“Didn’t you go for work today?"
"I am not feeling well."

Then he looked into her face. There were cuts and bruises on her lips, a thin line of clotted blood on the bruised nose and healing wounds on her cheeks.

"Is it your child?" He asked.
'Yes.' She returned the ten-rupee note.
"Had that been hard earned money it would have done me good," she said. He thought something went wrong at home.
"Like to have some tea?” He asked and before she answered, ordered the Muslim prop of the tea-stall for two teas with a shout.

The tea was ready in five minutes. He gave her one.

Angry with her husband, she did not take anything since morning. Her husband went to work as usual early in the day. Women folk of her Thanda called on her. Some greeted her while others advised: if husband suspects his wife, life would be difficult for her; there are many wonders in the town and man was one among them. Be careful.

She was not guilty. She took rest for sometime closing her eyes. His mind went woolgathering.

After a while she felt like having a tea and walked up to the four roads junction when she remembered the ten-rupee note and then she decided to return it to him. That's why she walked up to his room.

"Had you been educated, learnt the language, you would have become a great singer. I was hearing your songs late into the morning."

– Continued

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