🎀* A Childhood etched in Earth and Empathy*🎀

                                                   * A Childhood etched in Earth and Empathy*

                                                                 Mohammed Tajul Islam

In a village mud house, with an open courtyard stretching into an empty field, a few of us students sat studying under the veranda’s straw-thatched roof, supported by tall mud walls. A gentle southern breeze whispered through the dawn, the sun yet to rise. The crisp morning air refreshed our minds and bodies as we immersed ourselves in reciting lessons aloud, determined to master the day’s topics. The tangled clusters of conjunct consonants tripped our tongues, but our pace never faltered, whether our pronunciations were right or wrong. Impatient, some classmates left for home, tired of waiting for the tutor. I stayed behind, alone.

The house faced a vast open space, flanked by a rugged north-south path leading toward the town. Ahead stood tall palm and date trees, alive with the flurry of weaver birds. Their intricately woven nests swayed from the palm fronds in the wind. The birds, master craftsmen, split date leaves with their beaks into fine strands, twirling and knotting them around palm leaves. Their synchronized movements—beaks darting, heads tilting—were a dance of instinct and ingenuity. Their vibrant energy, teamwork, and absence of rivalry were mesmerizing. Lost in their world, I barely noticed time slipping away.

Suddenly, my mother’s voice broke the spell: **“Counting passersby won’t fill your belly! It’s past time for school—finish your chores and go!”**

A conflict stirred within. The thought of trudging to the town’s high school dimmed my quiet contentment, my face betraying unease. Yet there was no turning back.

The school was five to six kilometers away via the paved road, but cutting through village trails—past ponds, granaries, and neighbors’ homes—shortened it to a kilometer or two. Still, the journey offered little joy, especially under the blazing sun. Each morning, I walked eastward, squinting against the sunrise.

Exhaustion and frustration once made me skip school for days. But before my family could chain me to ploughing fields or herding cattle, I returned to my books.

It was monsoon—Asharh or Shrabon. The shortcut was now a swamp, ponds and canals overflowing. So, eight to ten students from nearby hamlets trekked together along the paved road. One morning, the sky hung heavy with clouds, but rain held back. We walked, chatted, and reached school on time.

In summer, we’d dart between the shade of ancient mango trees lining the road, each 50–60 yards apart. The tar melted under the scorching sun, forcing us to tread the earthen edges. The trees, as old as banyans, cast dense, cool shadows.

> *Shaded and tender,*
> *Walking together in groups—*
> *How sweet were those childhood days!*

In monsoon, villagers trimmed leaves from these trees to feed goats and sheep. The trunks, knotted with parasites and moss, seemed as ancient as the road itself. Branches buzzed with nesting birds; during rains, their straw nests dangled precariously.

Most days, we encountered bands of beggar women—sometimes laughing, sometimes quarreling—walking toward town. On designated days, they’d beg in specific villages. Mostly middle-aged or widowed, their group included a blind, elderly woman. They’d leave her under a mango tree at Chakpathuria’s entrance, a silver plate before her. Passersby tossed coins, which shepherd boys collected for her.

By evening, the women returned, ecstatic at the plate full of coins. They’d smoke bidis, gossip, and revel—a spectacle no traveler could miss.

One afternoon, drizzling rain greeted us on our way home. Cold, needle-like drops stung as gusty winds swept through. Sheltering under a mango tree, I wrapped my books in my shirt. The western sky brooded with red-black clouds.

Near Chakpathuria, I spotted the blind beggar woman crumpled under the tree, her blue sari soaked and clinging. A short, muddy woman in her 60s stormed toward her, face twisted in rage. She began snatching coins from the plate.

**“Where’s the money?”** she barked.
The blind woman whimpered, **“I won’t give it! Who’ll pay my dues at the shop?”**
The woman yanked the plate, shoved her, and left the beggar facedown in the mud, sobbing. I stood paralyzed. **“Stay quiet! You’ll repay my debt?”** the attacker snarled before vanishing down the sludge-road.

Dusk thickened with storm clouds. Walking home, I wondered: What became of the beggar? How did she return?

I witnessed this—no embellishments, only raw truth. Does it seem believable? Reader, that truth rests with you.

I walked on, haunted: What happened to that wretched soul? How did she find her way?
Her face lingered in my mind, long after the mud house came into view.