What have I done to deserve this? I gave every bit of myself to all of you. What was my fault? I just wanted food, only as much as you could afford for me. And a corner of your house to sleep in. Then why are you so cruel? I have always loved you all selflessly. Then what have I done to deserve this?

I do not know how long I stood next to you, Durga Amma. You repeated these lines numerous times. But now I will take you to a better place. Just follow me carefully. This new home will be drier, calmer, greener. There we will eat a stomach full, sleep the nights and dream uninterruptedly.

Durga Anna, look at these vehicles passing through the highway, leaving behind no reminiscences but trails of floating dust. They seem more caring than our own families. These vehicles navigate ahead, leaving us unscathed. Yes, I know that you will debate about those carcasses of cows we passed yesterday. Maybe reckless driving is not to be disregarded. There are fallacies - the hurry of reaching to family or giving into the trap of a fatigued wink of sleep. Undeniably, since the heavy downpours have started we have become vulnerable to warmth.

The heat was becoming unbearable. The monochromatic afternoon sky glared with all its aridness and dried up every hint of moisture from our villages. We prayed for the arrival of monsoon, Durga Amma. But nothing satisfies us. Now we are struggling to escape the waterlogged muddy fields that mirror the cloud-smeared skies. And we have sought refuge in these roads. They have become our luxurious abode. These roads bring misery into our lives as well. But isn’t misery our constant companion? She is just another Anna, who comes without an invitation and accompanies us as long as we go on. It is time Durga Amma that we find a road divider to spend the night. Roadsides are still damp from the heavy spell of afternoon showers.

The insects have already reached the inner parts of my ears and nostrils. They bother constantly with a ringing sensation of pain. I no longer have the power to flap them away with my ears. They go on breeding close to my right eye. Their numbers are only gradually increasing and my eyesight fading. I can only accept the eventuality of them feasting on my wounds. Every day there is more food for them and lesser for me. I am fading away day by day. But you are no better, Durga Amma. Your hands are emaciated, feet frail. I keep wondering how much strength is remaining in you to survive. I do not want to lose you, Amma.

One fine day they stopped talking to me. They would only communicate when they wanted me to move from one corner of the house to another. Even the food was thrown at me most reluctantly. As if it was a mere obligation. Since childhood, I have never craved for food. I enjoyed playing in the vast open fields of our village with other children. Sometimes my father would accompany me with roti and bhaji, to ensure that I eat on time. My husband did the same. I made sure everyone eats on time but never cared much about my meals. To be honest, I would never eat until my husband would constantly pursue me. No doubt that both my father and husband spoilt me heartily.

We got married when I was just a little girl. My husband took care of all my needs, pampered me in every way possible. My dreams were no longer dreams, they became tangible – the village, the dry riverbed, the greenery, my home. Instantly I became a part of these surroundings. Our first son was born after six years of marriage, followed by a second, third and then a fourth. But I craved earnestly for a daughter. Along with my husband I visited the Durga temple in our village. But maybe for the first time in my life, I was denied. Although I loved my sons, gradually I stopped longing for anything.

The story of my life was not strikingly different from you, Durga Amma. They prayed for years before they had me. The succeeding three bulls, galloped all day long, feasting on all that is green and the not so green fodder. None bothered to name the young bulls but I was named as soon as I breathed the first breath out of my mother’s womb. Maybe I was named even before I was born. They too dedicated a prayer to Durga Ma. The young bulls had no idea about their impending destiny. To the men, they were nothing but nuisance, wasting the fodder. But to those young boys, I was their little sister, apple of their eyes. They would always look out for me. And one fine morning, all three were gone in the blink of an eye. I waited for them, for days, for them to come back and lick me fondly, preparing me for the rest of the day. But I never saw them again.

Soon the fields were barricaded by sharp barbed wire. Were they put to protect the crops from us? But how is one supposed to navigate through these sharp nails at night? No, Durga Amma, I was not trying to steal food. I was just trying to take a short cut through the field. Suddenly I felt a piercing pain as the wires clawed into my flesh. There was a sharp pain in my right eye. I wanted to move ahead but I remained stuck there, trembling with pain. I cannot even remember when I lost my consciousness. The severity of the injury made itself apparent when flies started constantly accompanying me, not letting go of a single opportune moment to feed on my wounds.

Noone said anything, but their gestures spoke louder than words. I was being thrown from one corner of the house to another. The food that was thrown at me became less to lesser. Anna Durga, I did not protest. I loved them and gave every bit of myself. Then what was my fault? Why did I deserve this cruelty? I needed little food, whatever they could afford for me. A sparse corner of the house or even the courtyard to sleep in. My love for them never lessened under any circumstance.

My eldest son was the cruelest, not that the others were kinder. Soon I arranged his marriage to a girl I met during the visit to my father’s place. She was like a breath of fresh air and as my eldest daughter-in-law she became my best friend. Suddenly one day, without any notice, my husband left this world, deep in his sleep.

Durga Amma, you never shed a tear while remembering your life, your family, and your journey as an Anna. I can feel the extreme pain in your eyes, I can feel the teardrops creating a turbulence within you. But you never cry. I have no control over my teardrops, they stream down my cheeks even before I realize.

You are not crying Durga Anna, it is the insects troubling your right eye. And your left eye is arid like our village. But I know that you are crying right now, as you do when you do not get food, when you see me going hungry or when you talk about your life. All these memories of fulfillment fill up the dry caverns of your eyes and of your heart.

They started pampering me more when my brothers left to be Anna. Maybe they were forced to leave. Now that we are going through this journey, I can sense their plight of being driven by the constant fear of not getting enough food or a piece of dry earth to rest. I strongly believe that I received all the pampering just because they wanted favors from me. And for the longest time I did not accept that my brothers would never come back. I use to search for them every day when they took me out for grazing in the half-barren fields. My gaze would be fixed at the greying horizon. There will be no sign of them. Soon I gave birth to a very handsome male calf. He had perfect white stripes on his back. We used to play all day long and used to steal our time together so that he gets his share of milk. He was a clever and agile boy, who wasnever apprehensive of the stick. Soon the physical and emotional pampering became sparse, although the food was still adequate, but not for my child. I knew they wanted to get rid of him, like my brothers. All they wanted is my milk.

There was not a single drop of rain last year, Durga Amma. The scorching sky sucked the land dry just like the drops of milk that were extracted of me. I could clearly fathom the disappointment in the eyes of the ladies when the last drops of milk were taken from me. I cried for days and night together when my only child was taken away from me. The old man of the house could not sleep but I could not hide my sorrows and accepted the punishment without any resentment. Akin to my eyes, my heart became arid like vast yellow fields, shimmering with waves of afternoon blaze.

I was also under the same misconception, Anna Durga. I too thought that it is time that they would send me to my father’s village when my youngest son came and said, “Take care of yourself, Amma.” “Dear son, I am fine as long as you are around and taking care of me”, I replied with a smile while trying to get up from the worn mattress, gathering my tattered saree. He waited there lingeringly, wanting to say something more. But left after a few moments of silence. Although I wanted to, I could not ask what he was meaning to say. It was my eldest son, who took me to the main road, beyond two villages. After several years I walked such a long distance. The last time I walked so much when I went to my father’s village to attend my aunt’s funeral. I gave them all I have, love, affection, everything I had. Then what have I done to deserve this? Why did I have to drag myself for such a long distance, when I did not even have a morsel of food for the last two days?

The sun overhead was at its scorching best. During the long, arduous journey my son did not exchange a single word with me. Throughout his childhood, I filled his world with stories. How naughty he was, what his father wanted him to be, how much he loved him. I was retelling those tales as we walked but he was walking well ahead of me. Not even a single word of mine reached his ears. He would only pause when I failed to catch up with him. His expression was of irritation, maybe he was hungry or just annoyed with my pace of walking. He did not utter a single word during the entire journey.

The bus was packed to its maximum capacity. My eldest son held my hand and dragged me inside. I felt his touch after several years. I wanted to hold him close to my bosom. My mind did not bother about the crowded bus; I wanted to give him all my warmth. The bus swayed in all possible directions as it moved on. I craved to catch a glimpse of my son among the interweaved meshes of dangling hands.

Neither could I see him nor could I ask him about our destination. I did ask him on our way, but he never bothered to respond. My mind was wandering back to the strong desire of wanting to hold him tight. Everything else at that moment, all questions, all doubts seemed trivial. I was sure that we are not going to my father’s village, as we have never taken a bus to go there. The bus stopped from time to time. Hoards of people would get down and fresh faces would replace the vacuum created by their departure. I waited for my son to call me when our destination arrived. The bus reached a place, which seemed like its final stop. Everyone got down including the driver. I remained still. There was no sign of my son.

It was a small town, Durga Anna. I arrived there penniless, draped in my faded saree and blouse, which I have been wearing for as long as I remember. I walked on through the unknown village, although there was a striking similarity with my home and this village. At home, as I would lie in one corner, food was thrown at me. Here it was just the same. People would throw food from behind their doors, while passing by or near the gate of a dhaba where I waited for a bit too long, causing embarrassment to customers. The only ones who did not throw food at me were other beggars. They would always share a morsel with me. My husband would never have food if I had not eaten. That compassionate man cared for every bite of mine. Then I met you, we chanced upon each other. We decided to live only on green grass. I would feed you with my hands and take some of it from your swollen mouth. We shared the greenness with much affinity.

We will have to travel longer, Durga Amma. The dividers here are too narrow for both of us to fit in. Are you too tired to walk on?

Do not worry about me, Durga Anna. I can walk on but you be safe. Let us walk on the left side of the road. Passers-by like us are insignificant to hurrying vehicles. They are trying to chase to their destination where someone is waiting for them, maybe a soft warm bed or a plate of comforting food. For us, we must find a place to sleep for the night. Maybe we can look for some food tomorrow at the daybreak. We must go on, Durga Anna.

Durga Amma, can you see the other side? An overgrown tree on the divider is beckoning to us for a night’s shelter. This seems perfect, Durga Anna. Let us wait patiently to cross the road. The vehicles care more about you than me. I do not mean to offend you, just cover for me if you can.

The night sky was studded with stars. I was trying to find my husband amidst them. I was fondly thinking of the nights when he would remain awake and drive away mosquitos so that I could sleep peacefully. I was lost in my thoughts and wanted to pour my heart out to you. But Durga Anna, where are you? You were right there next to me and now you are in the middle of the road, your legs severed from your body. Why did you leave me, Durga Anna like everybody else? What was my fault? I loved you with all I ever had. Why did you leave?

Alive are the insects, still hovering around your nostrils. Did I see a quick breath escaping your chest? Did I see you move, your gaze still fixed at me?