The Punishment

 

The Punishment

We, who were born in the 1950s and 1960s, have watched many things change before our eyes. Two memories stand out: the sudden reduction of poverty during the eighties and nineties, and the quiet disappearance of the house sparrow—the guraia of Hindi-speaking homes. Economists have their explanations for the first, but for us ordinary folks the two are inseparable: poverty retreating, sparrows vanishing.

Later, people added a third factor. They said the shift from mud houses with thatched roofs to brick-and-mortar dwellings destroyed the sparrows’ habitat. Some even claimed that mobile towers delivered the final blow. Whatever the cause, we lived through the odd coincidence—prosperity rising as sparrows counted their last days.

Those who have read the famous 1962 title Silent Spring may find broader arguments here. I, however, have only a small story to tell.

My friend Bhola was well-known for his waywardness. His father’s punishments never reformed him, for he always believed in—nay, delighted in—what he did. Once, his father gave him a simple duty: guard the paddy spread out to dry in the sun.

It was monsoon season. On the few rainless days, families spread their stored paddy on straw mats to dry. This grain, kept for months and then boiled and dried, was later pounded in a homemade contraption called a dhinki.

The dhinki was a rustic machine, a simple first-class lever. A six-foot log was joined at one end to a shorter upright log, two and a half or three feet long, its tip shod with iron. Together the two formed the shape of a “7.” Near the other end, at the pivot point, a cross-bar stick was inserted through the log and rested on a pair of fulcrums, keeping the lever a foot above the ground. When someone trampled the flattened rear end, the vertical log rose and then fell, pounding the pit of paddy with its iron tip. Repeated hundreds of times, this exercise yielded eight to ten kilos of rice, which women then winnowed and sieved into clean grain.

Bhola’s job was only to keep away the birds—crows, sparrows, and the noisy and so-called unruly seven sisters that arrived in gangs.

Here, though I digress, I must pause to speak of the bird called the “seven sisters.” English has done them a lexical injustice. First, they were branded “babblers,” as if their ceaseless chatter were nothing but noise. Later, they were renamed “seven sisters,” but even that was no restitution. The name only underlined their noisy togetherness—as though seven garrulous human sisters had gathered to make a clamorous uproar. In truth, they are not vulgar but charming birds who seem to have sworn to sink or swim together. One must learn from them how to be happy!

Back to the story. Bhola, a firm believer in creative disobedience, had other plans. Instead of keeping watch in obedience to his father’s command, he wandered off to the pond to pluck the ripened fruits of water lilies lying submerged. They looked like apples—nay, like dragon fruits in size but maturing underwater. Inside those fruits were mustard-like seeds, a delicacy when sun-dried and fried on hot sand. Bhola was sure that such an adventurous exploit would earn him his father’s praise—even if it meant disobeying orders.

Around 11:30, his father arrived to turn the grain, letting the lower layers dry. What did he see?

        Crows, cawing and feasting.

        Sparrows, twenty or more, chirping softly.

        Seven sisters, their chatter as loud as the crows.

It was unchecked merrymaking, a minor pandemonium.

Bhola’s father chased the birds away, but his mind had already settled on punishment. For him, paddy was Lakshmi herself—grain was wealth, never to be wasted.

Even if Bhola returned with a bundle of lily seeds, that gain could not outweigh the loss of sacred grain scattered on the ground.

So he punished him—not with a stick, but with a harsher order. Bhola was made to sit under the blazing sun and pick, grain by grain, every kernel of paddy the birds had flung onto the sand. Two hours of backbreaking labour lay ahead, with no shade, no respite. If that was not punishment, then what was?

He began his task, but something unexpected happened. The sparrows returned like divine helpmates. Unlike the wary crows, they showed no fear of Bhola. They hopped around him, pecking the grains with cheerful ease. The seven sisters had gone elsewhere for their party.

Bhola struck a bargain with the sparrows:

“You are my friends, little birdies. Respect my right—don’t touch the paddy on the mat. That is mine. Take all you want from outside. Help me clean it up, and then we both win.”

And they did. The sparrows kept their side of the deal, clearing the scattered paddy from the sand while leaving the mat untouched.

When his father returned, he was astonished. The sparrows, usually timid, were working alongside his son as if bound by trust.

He was filled with compassion for them. Were they angels from the sky, come to help a soul in trouble?

There was no wastage. The ground was clean, the grains eaten, not wasted. In that, there was no insult to Goddess Lakshmi.

So he forgave Bhola, the wayward boy. Not because the task was completed, but because punishment had transformed into a partnership—between human stubbornness and the loyalty of tiny sparrows, the divine birds.

Epilogue

That was the seventies. Today, sparrows in our area are no longer present, and poverty has also receded. We can debate causes, spin theories, and connect dots. But for me, the memory of that day remains vivid: a boy punished, sparrows bargaining, and a father discovering that sometimes punishment itself becomes a lesson in friendship, faith, and frugality.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

23-09-2025

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