The Bumblebee's Lost Sting

chillibreeze writer — Sujata Patnaik

It is always a rush to the bus stop, because the school is extra responsible and whisks the kids back to the campus if the right people aren’t there to pick them up. This day I made it well ahead of time. Nothing was very different, the chai bundiwala had had his stall seized and was operating from a little table. The coconut sellers sat defiantly and the autos just lined up in the corner alley to escape the authorities. Life on this strip of pavement was business as usual. Nothing was different and all I had to do was kill time till my daughter’s bus arrived.

Then I saw one of the drivers of a car parked right in front, wrestling to get the car window down. I could make out that the owners of the car were inside the children’s hospital and he was in a desperate hurry to get to the car key which was locked inside. A little girl stood nearby with a bumblebee like dress of yellow and black. She wore no shoes and clutched a bag full of medicines. I smiled and thought of my little girl’s song, “ I’m bringing home a baby Bumble bee. Won’t my Mommy be so proud of me…”

The driver was still struggling to get at least one window down when a lady came. She was obviously the owner and flew into a rage when she heard about the keys locked inside. Words were exchanged in Telugu, the language said to be as sweet as honey. It was at its acidic worst at that moment when the women swooped down on the bumblebee girl and slapped her hard. She was obviously being blamed for the lock out. Realizing she held the precious medicines, the lady ordered her to put them down. The moment she did so, another resounding slap shook her little body.

The lady left to get her husband and the bumblebee stood with eyes brimming over but had probably been trained never to cry in public. Her hair was just growing back from a tonsure probably to get rid of the lice. Her lips were dry and cracked probably by thirst and fear. The pavement watched her along with me till an autowala came up with a piece of advice. He helped the driver rip off the window’s rubber lining and slip in a scale unlocking the door of the car.

The lady came back with her irate husband and it was time for the bumblebee’s third slap. There were still no tears from her but I was swallowing mine. The school bus came and as I walked up to my 7-year-old daughter, I put an arm around the bumblebee and gave her an apology of a hug. A pathetic gesture, reeking of helplessness. Somehow I suppose I just wanted to console myself for my own inability to change her situation. At least she is getting two mouthfuls to eat—so what if she has to work. It’s better than starving—that’s the logic that keeps young children in the domestic labor loop.

I felt the bumblebee’s eyes follow me as I hugged my child tight, and I looked back to see her eyes, still full of unshed tears but her lips curled in the slightest of smiles. She will go back home to hold the baby, wash the dirty clothes, clean the floors, eat the leftovers, and get blamed for what she does and what others do. She will be slapped many more times and no one will care. She will serve and be damned because she has lost her sting. Meanwhile people like her employers, academicians, and policy makers and even I will continue to attend seminars about eradicating child labour. I thought of a wise editor’s words, “You really think you can change things with the power of the pen? You must be from Mars!”

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Sujata Patnaik writes for chillibreeze.

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