My world had already collapsed by the time I managed to reach my village, Bariarpur Purvi, under Khodawandpur block in Begusarai, Bihar. My only son, the apple of my eye, had died from illness, while I, the hapless father, was stranded during the first lockdown in the searing Delhi heat of May 2020.
I was one of the countless migrant workers from Bihar in the nation바카라s capital, working for Rs 250 a day at construction sites and living on rent in Najafgarh. Two months into the lockdown, with resources running low, I was exploring ways of making my way back home like so many others, when I got the fateful call from my wife Bimal, telling me in a desperate voice that our one-and-a-half-year old son was seriously ill.
I wanted to return home as soon as possible so that I could get my son treated. But there was no public transport. Lakhs of people like me had walked or cycled to reach home. I thought if they could do it, why can바카라t I?
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On the humid morning of May 11, I left Najafgarh and started walking back to my village. I reached Nizamuddin bridge by noon, but found there was a huge police force deployed out there. They were charging the desperate and fearful crowd with batons to prevent them from venturing out on the highways on their way home to their villages.
Unsure and restless, I was trying to figure out what to do when I again got a call from my wife. She was crying. She said the child바카라s health had deteriorated and he could die. She asked me if I was returning home or not. Her wails shook me to the core. There I sat on the road, crying, as I spoke with my wife on the phone.
A photographer passing by saw me and took my photo. After a while, he turned back, approached me and asked where I wanted to go. I told him I wanted to cross the bridge, but the police were not allowing me to do so. He gave me a lift in his car. He also gave me biscuits and water. After crossing the bridge in his car, I started walking again and reached Ghazipur flyover.
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Rampukar Pandit at home with his wife and daughters. Photograph by Sarvesh Kashyaph
That바카라s where I met Salma Didi. She came to my life like an angel and helped me in every possible way in my attempt to reach home. I narrated my story to her. She listened patiently and then told me to hide behind a pillar of the flyover. That바카라s what I did, and spent the next two days there. Salma Didi would bring me food and supplies in her car. On the third day, i.e., May 13, Salma Didi booked me a train ticket and gave me Rs 5,500 in cash. I managed to reach Nizamuddin railway station and boarded the train.
I don바카라t know what I would have done had I not met Salma Didi. Perhaps I wouldn바카라t have made it back from Delhi. Perhaps I바카라d have gone mad. I may be poor, but I바카라m not ungrateful. I바카라ll always remember her for helping me. As a memento, I바카라ve held on to and laminated a Rs 100 note from the cash she had given me, as well as her visiting card and the railway ticket she had bought for me.
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But, to get back to my story, reaching Begusarai was not easy. Everywhere, police were lathi-charging people for coming out on the roads. But what could people like us do? We are daily wagers. With no work due to the Covid lockdown, earnings exhausted, migrant working class people like me had started walking on foot, defying government orders. Even I had embarked upon this perilous journey upon hearing the news of my son.
But it was to no avail. By the time I reached my village, my son had died and had been cremated. Had I lived and worked in the village, I could have tried to seek better medicare by taking a loan. My wife did whatever she could, but perhaps it was written in fate.
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That바카라s when Bimal바카라devastated by the tragedy바카라told me for the first time not to return to Delhi, ever. Over the next few days, she kept on insisting that I should do whatever I could back home, but never again migrate for work. Her words resonate in my ears: 바카라Don바카라t go. We바카라ll together work on whatever job we get. We바카라ll starve if necessary, but I won바카라t allow you to go to other states.바카라
I didn바카라t know what to say, and just nodded in submission.
But the decision not to migrate turned out to be suicidal. Since I returned from Delhi during the Covid lockdown in May last year, I have got only 20 days of work.
The initial days after my return were quite busy. Since my photo had gone viral, everyone바카라from political parties to social workers바카라started visiting me. Help was pouring in. Money, foodgrains and job assurances were given. The way I was being treated, I started believing I바카라d soon land a job. In the mean time, while addressing migrant workers at different quarantine centres, Chief Minister Nitish Kumar had promised he바카라d arrange jobs for them in the state.
But soon I realised I was living in a fool바카라s paradise. As soon as lockdowns were eased, people stopped looking for me. Let alone promises made by the government, even Opposition politicians who had spoken to me via video conferencing during the lockdowns, stopped recognising me.
The death of our only son left my wife broken. She suffers from low blood pressure, while I have hypertension. She believes if I had been home, our son could have been saved. She also feels if I leave for work, such tragedies would be repeated.
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Our family is paying a big price for not migrating to another state. I don바카라t have a permanent job. Almost every day, I wander here and there in search of work, but there is none. Sometimes, a whole month passes without any work.
I have a small handicap in my feet, so I can바카라t even go back to our family profession of pottery, for which I would need to spin the potter바카라s wheel with my feet. I have no agricultural land. If I had any, I probably would have survived by growing something.
I바카라m uneducated, but I don바카라t want to eat without doing any work. I am ready to do anything, no conditions바카라I can carry soil, bricks and sand, I can work the fields, do house cleaning. All I want is to be able to work near my home. This is what I tell people when I visit their homes in search of work.
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The last year-and-a-half was full of struggles for me and my wife. Yes, there is a ration card, against which I get 10 kg flour and 15 kg rice a month. This helps a lot in running the family. My mother-in-law gets old-age pension and some foodgrains and vegetables every month. She gives everything to us.
Normally, my wife would be looking after our children, but since I바카라m not migrating, she has volunteered to work with me. So we work together, but opportunities are few.
When we get work, we send our other children to the mother-in-law. Leaving three daughters alone at home is risky.
Two of them are studying in a government school. I have arranged tuition for them and pay Rs 300 every month. I realised education is a must, so despite such hardships, we바카라re sending our daughters to school.
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I can also see that all the poverty alleviation schemes are not working on the ground. If they were functioning, I바카라d have got some work under these. Instead, I바카라ve so far only got 10 days of MNREGA work. Even then, some of the money is yet to be paid.
It has been a year since I have not bought new clothes for my wife and daughters. My wife has just one new sari which I gave her during Chhath Puja. After Chhath, she packed it up for use during some other auspicious occasion.
Villagers are generous. They know of our financial constraints and sometimes give away their old clothes, which is what we바카라re wearing nowadays. Sometimes, they give away vegetables as well.
I don바카라t know how long life will last like this. My wife and I often think about our future and that of our children. There doesn바카라t seem to be any way out.
I don바카라t see a silver lining. But it바카라s certain I won바카라t leave Bihar at any cost. If I don바카라t get work, I will sit at home. If there is no food, we바카라ll stay hungry. If we don바카라t even have water, we바카라ll die of thirst.
But I바카라ll not leave my village again.
(This appeared in the print edition as "Remember His Face?")
(As told to Umesh Kumar Ray)
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