"Mora silate naahin.."

The first time i met Putli was about two years back.

Seven years old then and already a bread winner of the family..She had one of those faces which hold you mesmerised for heaven knows what reason. Like the pull of an unseen magnet, like a moment already familiar before it actually happens.

I was on my field tour. After the regular monitoring and feedback sessions from the field functionaries were done and after i had visited a few households of that interior village in the hearts of the jungles and hills of Keonjhar i still had some time with me.

Like anyone in that place you too would have been captivated by the rawness of the beauty of those hills, the chilly winters, the villages with thatched houses, every household barely hiding a tale behind the broken walled the meticulously put up torn saree and every face, a hypnotizing story.

Putli was the eldest of the five siblings, two boys and three girls. Barely seven and her day started much before the day did. She would wake up before the break of dawn and clean her home and clean the dirty utensils from the day before. And some days there is also vomit to clean, the outcome of too much or too bad country liquor consumed by both her parents. Her parents work in the local mines and whatever earning they have gets over before they get home.

Putli's work for the day is then to gather firewood from the forests and finish her daily ablutions (if it can be called that. A leisurely munch at a twig, a rushed answer to nature's call and a quick dip in the dirty ice cold pond). After she comes back, she cooks the first and sometimes the last meal of the day. In between she also manages to fetch water from an open well which is about two kilometers away from her house. (The tubewell is lying broken since five days after it was dug up , which was more than two years ago). She then cleans her siblings and by then her parents are also ready to go off to the quarry. She then dishes out portions for everyone. Most of the days it is only rice and salt and some days they have a feast of a few tomatoes and potatoes boiled or toasted in the fire.

Her daily schedule after her parents are off to work is pretty much the same. She picks Mahua flowers (Mahula or Mahua is a flower which is used as a main constituent for fermentation of alcohol), dries them and meticulously carries them home.On one of my following visits, each sibling had a container-Putli ,the eldest, carrying a broken bucket of lubricant picked from somewhere, the one younger was carrying a cut out engine oil container, and it kept growing smaller till the youngest one was carrying a broken plastic mug. They were all picking up Mahua flowers. Just for record, the youngest one wasn't walking yet. Putli put him down under a Mahua tree and he picked all flowers he could lay hands on and filled his mug with glee, his prize for the day and his contribution for his share of rice.

If it isn't Mahua season, they pick Sal leaves. Or sometimes it is "Jhuna" or frankincense. And all these products are sold in the local weekly haat which fetches their weekly ration of rice and salt. The products they collect from the jungle change according to season but the routine doesn't. Except for the rainy season. During rains the younger ones mostly keep indoors and the elder ones work as labourers in the local rice fields.

These children have probably not worn a dress newly bought since ages, the ones they have are hand-me-downs, tattered and torn. During the winters an empty sack of potatoes bought for four rupees from the local shopkeeper doubles up as a blanket and a shawl depending on the time of the day. 

These children don't go to school though there is one at a stone's throw..

Our Government makes numerous policies and laws on providing compulsory primary education for every child, basic health and sanitation facility to every human being and no labour by children that somehow remains in the books of those who make the laws, never read or understood by the people it is meant for. 

This isn't only her story..There are millions like her..On one hand i know she'll never probably be able to read this but i have a hope that maybe someday her children will..or maybe her grand children.

Incedentally, 'Putli' is oriya can mean two things - a doll or a statue...

The first time i met her, i asked her.."Why don't you go to school..

She answered.."mora silate naahin.." { I don't have a slate }