The Seller of Words

The dung beetle pushed the tiny ball of faeces backwards towards its home, she had seen him do it every day for the last year. It was the only thing that had focused her attention away from this uncomfortable piece of uneven pavement in the musty heat of Jodphur’s afternoon sun. She had wondered at its determination, the way it veered off course at times but with a small pause and a redistribution of the legs, it was quickly on its way again. She imagined what its house might be like, a bit smelly but cool and protected from the fierce sun. At that moment Aanya wished she could make herself small enough so she could follow the beetle back to his home, perhaps there would be enough room for her to bring her son too she thought.

Himmat was six now, his thick crop of ink-black hair sat like a damp mop on top of his head, several greasy strands weaving themselves around both ears. He sat adjacent to his mother in his grubby white t-shirt and muddied blue jeans and copied every move she made. After watching the beetle he now mimicked her quick fingers replacing the sari around her shoulders before it uncovered her, he placed his shallow bowl in between his crossed legs shifting his weight on his buttocks into the hard ground. As he did this, the two rupees clinked together reminding him that a few more silvery coins would mean an afternoon snack, perhaps a samosa, his favourite. His stomach felt empty and raw but he didn’t complain, instead he cupped his tiny hands and rocked back and forth in time with his mother as a procession of rich reds, pinks, greens and purples rippled silently past them both. The girls were barefoot, ankle bracelets and body jewellery chinked together like percussion instruments, their eyes flickered from the street boy to each other.

“There’s that stupid mute boy, why does his mother still keep him? I would have given him away” said one girl turning to her friend for a continuation of taunts.

“I know, me too, what is the point of somebody if they cannot speak?” said another and laughed before all six had disappeared into the crowded street bazaar.

Aanya turned towards her son and smeared a teardrop from his face. She blamed herself, life hadn’t always been this hard and her heart broke every time she saw her only son copying her shame.

The young girls were soon followed by a cow, who had obviously decided this would be his street of choice today, which was no good to Himmat, he knew he couldn’t eat the cow or get money from it so he showed the beast his scariest fist and opened his mouth to shout but no words passed his lips. The cow looked briefly at Himmat, slightly confused it continued to pass and then stopped to drink from a leaking tap attached to the side of a shop. Aanya took hold of her son’s small fist, uncurled it and kissed it gently.

“One day you will find the words my son and that silly cow will do what you tell it.”

Himmat smiled in agreement with his mother even though he knew she was just being kind. He thought that his words had probably gotten lost trying to find him or maybe they had been given to somebody else, oh how he wished that could be true so he could find that person and somehow buy them back.

As hope for extra rupees began to fade and the bowls teased them both with their meagre offerings, a tatty piece of yesterday’s newspaper blew into Aanya’s lap, perching precariously on the edge of the bowl, in bold capital letters it read THE SELLER OF WORDS; curious, Aanya read on.