Bhim

“Bhim,” he heard someone shouting. “Bhim, wake up.”

Wiping the drool dripping from his lips, he slowly got up. He had been dreaming, of what, he couldn’t quite remember, but it was a pleasant dream. He was walking by a lake or a river, the waves gently lapping the shore, the sunlight streaming through the trees, a breeze caressing him, and then in the distance a silhouette calling out to him; a mumbled shout, that kept getting louder and louder.

He checked his watch, it was almost ten thirty. He’d been sleeping for twenty minutes and he wished he could sleep for twenty more. He brushed the dust and leaves from his uniform, picked up his topi, gave it a vigorous shake before pulling it over his head. The kids would be out shortly, let out for their morning break. He walked over to the hose and turned on the tap and as the water gushed out he sprayed some over his face. It felt cool and refreshing and he cupped his hand and drank a few gulps. Then dragging the hose he walked towards the toilet and started dousing the stalls with water.

Bhim, his father had named him, after the second born Pandava brother from the Hindu epic, Mahabharat. Bhim, the strong, the formidable, the fearsome one. But unlike his namesake, he had spent most of his childhood in bed, sick and miserable, emaciated and feeble. The school in his village, only went up to the sixth grade, and in any case, Mahars like him weren’t expected to get an education. In his teens he had left the village and joined his brothers and cousins in a slum in Pune. Too weak to work as a day laborer or a coolie or just about anything that required him to lift something or be on his feet for more than an hour and having no skills to lean on, he’d taken up a job selling guavas from a bicycle. Meandering his way through the streets of the city, he’d found that the fastest way to sell his load was to stand outside a school during the lunch recess.

Over time he made friends with the peons at the school and when one of the them died unexpectedly, he jumped at the opportunity to replace him. A school peon, a steady job, a steady income., he felt his luck was finally turning. He got married, had a child, a daughter, and then another. Just one son, to carry his name forward, he had pleaded to his wife, but despite daily prayers offered to Purshuram and visits to various durgahs around the city and candles lit at churches, they had ended up with four more daughters.

If only he had a son he thought. He’d send him to school, he’d grow up, get a proper job, a government job with a pension, there were jobs reserved for Mahars he had heard, and they’d be finally able to move out of the slum. Maybe he’d hear his wife’s laughter again or at least see her smile. He’d drink some beer, or whisky from those fancy bottles rather than the crap moonshine he had every other night. But he realized none of this was possible. Not in this life time anyway. Not with seven daughters to marry.

The break was over and the children were back in class. The toilet reeked of piss and shit. He turned on the tap, and hosed down the stalls again. He looked at his watch. An hour till the lunch break. Bhim, walked back to the shade of the Eucalyptus trees in the corner of the school, placed his topi in his pocket, laid down amongst the leaves and curled up into a ball.