Bhetigathi By Shankar Patil

तो असा बसताच चाबूक कडाडे... वादी पिंजून जाई, तुटून जाई. निबार कातडीवर वळ उठत. दवबिंदूगत रक्ताचे थेंब अंगावर थरथरत उभे राहत. कोयंड्याची काठी चिंबून, एकेक कुंडं मनगटाएवढा उठे; पण सर्जा जागचा हलत नसे. हे बघून लोक त्याला `बशा`; म्हणायचे. बशा बौल म्हणून सर्जाचं नाव बद्दू झालं. म्हातारपणी त्याच्या नशिबी बोल आला. त्याच्या गुणाला बट्टा लागला.... मृगाचा पाऊस सुरूझाला आणि सर्जाचं हाल कुत्र खाईनासं झालं. म्हशीपुढची काढलेली चिपाडं, शेणामुतात भिजलेला गदाळा त्याच्या वाट्याला येऊ लागला. पोट जाळायला तो तेसुद्धा खायचा-हपापून अपरूबाईनं खायचा. पण त्याच्या पोटाची खळगी भरली नाहीत. आतडी रिकामी राहिली. त्यात कामानं त्याची झडती घेतली आणि आता बसलं तर उठता येईना आणि उठलं तर बसता येईना अशी त्याची दशा झाली.  No sooner did Sarja sat down; the whip started its work over its back seasoned with the continuous thrashing over the years. Blood droplets started oozing out from the marks made by the whip. As if this was not enough, the wide stick played its part in hurting it. Throughout this harassment, Sarja remained motionless; as always. It neither turned, nor moved. This had become a routine. People had started calling the immovable ox. Its old age was blemished by this. When the monsoon brought rains with it, Sarja was left in a hopeless condition. No one had time to feed it. The option of either the hay half eaten by the buffaloes or the oil cakes soaked in the excretions of the cows were open for it. Though the hunger compelled it to eat and even enjoy it sometimes, the hunger was never satisfied. The endless work was also taking its toll. Now Sarja could either stand or sit down.