A Rainy Morning
Today, Poran was in high spirits. Things had gone exactly as he had hoped.
Mr. Paresh had called attendance and dismissed class right away — only six students had turned up. How could lessons be held on a day like this?
Since early dawn, the rain had been falling without pause, and even now it poured relentlessly. His mother had warned him again and again not to go to school in such weather, but Poran had insisted — dragging his little brother along. He knew it would be a “rain day.” That plan had been forming in his head for days, though he hadn’t dared to tell his mother.
The Brothers and Ramu
He knew that in this season of heavy monsoon, his mother would never let both brothers leave home together. But he had to go to the field. Ramu hadn’t eaten properly in days. The few bundles of hay they’d had were long gone by the time the month of Jaistha ended.
Their roof was old and patched; every monsoon, rainwater poured straight into the room. There wasn’t enough to mend it — because that would mean Ramu going hungry.
Mother always said that on the day Poran was born, Ramu had come into the world just moments earlier. So, in a way, Ramu was his older brother too.
Their father had died one monsoon night when the boys were still tiny, leaving their mother to manage everything alone. Their paddy land was barely enough for four or five months of food each year. How she managed the rest, Poran could never understand.
Since childhood, he had watched Uncle Moni from next door take Ramu to the fields to plough. Besides their own small plot, Ramu worked others’ lands too — earning a few coins here and there.
But now Ramu was old, thin, and frail. For two years he hadn’t been able to plough at all — how could he, when he barely got enough to eat?
Last year, Jamsed Chacha from the next village had come, wanting to buy Ramu, but Mother couldn’t bring herself to sell him, torn between need and love. The brothers couldn’t even imagine life without Ramu.
A Plan for Ramu
On the way to school that morning, Poran had noticed fresh young grass sprouting along the edges of the paddy fields — perfect for Ramu to eat. But Ramu couldn’t be brought there now; the fields had been sprayed with fertilizer and pesticide. So the brothers had planned: the next time school got dismissed early, they’d cut as much grass as they could for Ramu. That way, he’d have enough for a few days. If they did this every now and then, they could get him through the rainy season.
So today, despite the downpour, Poran had stubbornly gone to school, his little brother in tow — Naran, a fifth-grader, while Poran himself was in seventh.
Everyone called them “the twin oxen.” Their mother sometimes said lovingly, “As long as I have my pair of bulls, I’ve nothing to worry about.”
But Poran knew that wasn’t true — they needed Ramu.
Before leaving home, he had slipped an old sack into his schoolbag. It was torn, but it would do; the long blades of grass wouldn’t fall out anyway.
He was thrilled — so thrilled. Why was Naran taking so long? Ah, there he was at last, smiling wide.
“Dada, let’s go to the western field,” Naran said. “The grass there is taller.”
And the two brothers ran off in the rain.
The Journey Home
By now, it was getting late. Mother must be terribly worried.
Rainy day or not, they’d stayed out too long. Well, we’ll make something up, Poran thought.
Naran carried Poran’s schoolbag while Poran balanced the heavy bundle of grass on his head. He urged his brother to hurry. Naran’s small hands had turned red — scratched raw by the coarse grass — but neither complained. They were happy.
Today, Ramu would eat his fill.
For so many years, Ramu had ploughed their fields and others’, feeding the family. Now it was their turn to repay that debt.
As they walked, Naran suddenly said,
“Dada, if Ma asks why we’re so late, tell her we stayed for the mid-day meal.”
“Idiot,” Poran scolded. “Who serves mid-day meal on a rainy day?”
Naran replied wisely, “I just said you should say it! It’s not like Ma will go check at the school. And anyway, didn’t you see her yesterday? She said there’s no food left for today.”
Poran’s chest tightened — he remembered.
Yesterday, he’d seen tears in his mother’s eyes.
She’d stroked his head and whispered, “Tomorrow’s your birthday, but what do I have to give you?” Then she’d wiped her eyes with the corner of her sari.
So today was his birthday.
Which meant it was Ramu’s birthday too.
That morning, before leaving, he’d told her, “It’ll be fine today, Ma. I’m going to school. We’ll eat mid-day meal there. Don’t you worry.”
Neither of them had eaten a single bite since morning. Their stomachs twisted with hunger, but Poran didn’t care. When they got home, surely Mother would have something for them — maybe the shushuni greens that grew near the pond.
In his mind, Poran saw Ramu closing his eyes in bliss, chewing the fresh grass they had brought. Yes, today Ramu’s birthday would be perfect.
The Mother’s Silence
Before they knew it, they were home. Mother was waiting for them by the pond.
From afar she called out,
“School was over ages ago! Where were you two? Come quickly!”
Poran had planned to sneak the grass into the cowshed quietly. But there was no chance now. She must have guessed anyway — the boys had clearly been out in the field, knee-deep in rainwater, cutting grass despite the leeches and insects.
Yet she said nothing. Her face was pale, blank.
Poran quietly went to the cowshed, thinking he’d feed Ramu first.
But where was Ramu?
The rain had lessened; maybe Mother had tied him under the palm tree.
But Poran couldn’t wait any longer.
He blurted, “Ma, I’ll go feed Ramu!”
“Ramu will eat later,” Mother said softly. “First, you and your brother eat. You haven’t had anything all day.”
“No, Ma, Ramu first.”
“Eat,” she said more firmly. “Now.”
Poran fell silent. He washed his hands and face, then sat heavily on the floor.
Naran sat beside him.
The Birthday Feast
Mother brought two bowls and set them down.
Poran blinked — was he seeing right?
Payesh. Sweet milk-rice pudding.
He rubbed his eyes.
No, it was real.
But how? Yesterday there wasn’t even a grain of rice in the house.
Where had she found this?
His head spun.
Naran clapped his hands in delight. “Payesh, Ma! We haven’t had this in ages! It’s Dada’s birthday today — such a happy day! We’ll eat till we’re full. Ramu will eat too!”
Mother couldn’t hold herself any longer.
All the pain she’d been holding in burst forth.
Tears streamed down her face as she clutched the bamboo post for support and slowly sat down.
The Truth
Poran froze.
Then he knew.
He knew.
He ran to her and cried,
“Ma, tell me the truth — where’s Ramu? Bring him here right now!”
Her sobs broke into a wail that drowned even the sound of rain.
“Ramu is gone, my son. He’s gone… he’ll never come back.”
Poran couldn’t speak.
A thousand thoughts swirled in his mind.
He wanted to scream,
“We could’ve gone hungry for a few days, Ma — but why did you… why did you have to feed us Ramu?”
