"Muniya Mary and Gamle Miyan"
Gamle Miyan sat quietly in a corner, gazing at the sky, hoping the sun would rise a little higher to bring some light. This corner of the wall always remained dark. Suddenly, they heard someone crying. Instantly alert, they looked around. The sound of sobbing came from near the drain along the wall. A deep restlessness filled them. Who could be crying like this?
Gamle Miyan began recalling their own past. Once, they too had been placed in this corner, crying. In their younger days, they proudly stood at the bungalow’s main entrance. They were painted beautifully in red and white, filled with fresh soil and manure. Every day, the gardener uncle poured cool water into them, refreshing their body. And on days when a beautiful flower bloomed in the plant they held, their pride knew no bounds. Everyone passing by, whether kids on bicycles or parents in their cars, paused for a moment to admire them. Ah, those were the days!
But one day, the watchman’s son mistook a candy wrapper buried in their soil for a one-rupee coin and dug into them so recklessly that a small piece broke off and fell to the ground. From that day onward, Gamle Miyan’s luck took a turn for the worse. They were picked up and dumped into the dark corner behind the house. There, they were neither cared for nor discarded entirely. Over time, they grew old, neglected. No one came to change their soil or water them. Weeds sprouted in their soil, and they spent their days chatting with them. Now, the only visitors were the mosquitoes buzzing near the drain.
Hearing the sobbing sound this morning, their curiosity piqued. They looked around and spotted a small, lovely ball lying nearby. The ball was the one crying softly. Gamle Miyan felt compassion. They gently coaxed, “Oh dear Muniya, what happened? Good children don’t cry.”
The wall chuckled and said, “Look who’s talking, Gamle Miyan! Have you forgotten how you cried when you ended up here?”
“Be quiet!” Gamle Miyan scolded the wall. Then, turning to the ball, they asked, “What happened, little one? Why are you crying?”
Between sobs, the ball replied, “The kids were playing. I got hit so hard by a bat that I rolled all the way here.”
“And why cry about that? That’s something to be happy about! The kid who hit the shot must’ve scored lots of runs. Did you get hurt?”
“I’m not scared of getting hurt. I actually enjoy it.”
“Then what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
“Because I rolled so far into this corner, and the kid who came looking for me couldn’t see me. He went back and told everyone that the ball was lost. Now their game has stopped, and I’ll be stuck here forever.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” Gamle Miyan reassured. “Kids never give up so easily. They’ll come searching again and find you.”
“But what if they find another ball? Then they’ll forget about me, and I’ll rot here alone.”
Gamle Miyan’s throat choked with emotion. “No, no, Muniya. Don’t worry. What’s your name?”
“Mary! But what if they don’t come?” Mary asked anxiously.
“In that case, some bird or pigeon will come by. I’ll ask them to push you into the drain with their claws. You’ll float outside, and the kids will spot you.”
“Waaahhh…” Mary cried even louder. “Then I’ll get dirty with all the mud and water! The kids won’t even touch me!”
Gamle Miyan panicked. “Alright, alright! Don’t cry, Muniya. I’ll think of some other way to get you home.”
Gamle Miyan began thinking hard. After all, they were old and wise — they’d figure something out.
Just then, a strong wind blew. The trees and leaves swayed wildly. On any other day, Gamle Miyan would have leaned against the wall to avoid falling, but today, their mind was on Muniya Mary. They collided with the wall and shattered, their soil spilling everywhere.
The gardener, hearing the noise, came to see what had happened. Spotting the ball, he excitedly called out, “Found your ball!” The kids came running.
But Mary slipped from the child’s hands, bounced on the ground, and rolled back to Gamle Miyan’s scattered soil.
In their final moments, Gamle Miyan whispered, “No, no, dear… stay away from the soil, or you’ll get dirty.”
But Mary didn’t care about the dirt or the tears in her eyes. All she wanted was to salute Gamle Miyan as she left.
— Prabodh Kumar Govil
