IT was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrowlanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked,some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo andbullock carts. One little boy ran between his father’s legs,brimming over with life and laughter.
“Come, child, come,” called his parents, as he lagged behind,fascinated by the toys in the shops that lined the way.He hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call,his eyes still lingering on the receding toys. As he came to wherethey had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress the desireof his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusalin their eyes.“I want that toy,” he pleaded.His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant’s way
His mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and,giving him her finger to hold, said, “Look, child, what is before you!”It was a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as itswept across miles and miles of even land.A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudypurple wings, intercepting the flight of a lone black bee or butterflyin search of sweetness from the flowers. The child followed themin the air with his gaze, till one of them would still its wings andrest, and he would try to catch it. But it would go fluttering,flapping, up into the air, when he had almost caught it in hishands. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: “Come, child,come, come on to the footpath.”
He ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of themfor a while, being, however, soon left behind, attracted by thelittle insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming outfrom their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.“Come, child, come!” his parents called from the shade of agrove where they had seated themselves on the edge of a well. Heran towards them.
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