Buhkta
Sunday, May 18, 2008 at 01:04AM ;)
Our newest little boy is named Buhkta. I’d like to share his story with you.
A 16 year old girl came to my door a few weeks ago and asked to talk to me. She introduced herself and told me she was from a village called Pahdma.
“I’ve never heard of Pahdma before,” I said.
“Pahdma is a small village 5 or 6 hours away from here. You have to walk to get there. It’s pretty much all jungle with the Bheri river running through it.” I asked her how she came to Surkhet. “I’m here to study,” she said. I’m trying to pass 10th class in the local government school here. I want to be a teacher.”
“There’s no school in your village,” I asked?
“There’s a school, but it stops at 5th class. Most of the kids from our village work as farmers and fishermen and herd goats.”
Long silence.
“I hear you’re keeping orphan children here.”
“I am.”
“Well, I’m here because there’s a boy. His father died 2 years ago. He was cutting grass at the bottom of a mountain and some stones fell. His mother had some disease, cancer I think. She died sometime last year.”
“Whose keeping him now?” I asked.
“He had an older brother. It was just the two of them for a while. He just died too. He had an older half brother, same father, different mother. That mother also died some years back. The brother was keeping him for a while but he has 5 children of his own. Things got tough and he sold him to a neighboring farmer.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“Cutting grass, bringing wood, you know. They’re not keeping him nicely though. The guy he’s staying with drinks all the time. He gets beaten a lot. This boy has nothing. He’s small and he’s not going to school. Every time I go back to my village I pass by him and think there has to be something I can do for him. That’s why I came to talk to you.”
"When can you go again?” I asked.
“My exam is finishing up. I can go in a few days.”
“Come back then. Let’s go in a few days.” I said.
We left the house at 6 in the morning as the sun was coming up and walked a few kilometers to a small little trading market up the road, Bangeshimol. From there, there are jeeps going up on the road carrying cargo to Jumla. We hopped in a jeep that carried us for a few miles up a small winding bumpy road. The girl finally asked the driver to stop at a small little path that bared off to the left. “This is it,” she said. We got off and started walking along the side of a mountain. After a few more miles we came to the Bheri river. We walked along the bank of the river for a while until we found a boy, a paddle, and an old log canoe. “Here’s where we cross,” she said. The boy took us up the river for a while until we got out at a small village. We walked a ways through the jungle dotted with small huts along the river.
“Let’s go to his half brother’s house first,” I said. As we walked up the mountain and through the jungle we met villagers who gave us water and asked where we were going. “We’re looking for this boy... Buhkta.”
“Every house we came across said the same thing. “Poor, boy has nobody. Lost everything this past year. The poor boy.”
I heard his story again and again, each time with a few more details. Before I even reached his house I understood it all and everything matched up with what the girl had told me.
When we reached the house, the older brother’s wife was there, sitting in a hut made of sticks and mud nursing her youngest baby. “My husband left for India a while ago. I don’t know when he’s coming. We got short on rice. He went to look for work.”
She sent her oldest daughter to bring Buhkta. While we waited we talked a while and eventually asked the woman what she would think of us taking the boy to live in Surkhet.
“Bhagavani, Bhagavani,” was her answer. “God is looking at this boy’s life.”
“Can you manage to make these papers? We need a birth certificate and any death records you have on the parents and a letter giving us permission to take him from the CDO here.”
As we were talking the boy suddenly appeared. He was standing aways back behind an old pine tree, holding a walking stick. He was small and black, dressed in blue 3/4 pants and a torn blue t-shirt, his forehead dripping with sweat. He didn’t talk. He watched us silently and stayed at a distance. He didn’t talk at all that day.
The woman assured us that she would make the papers and talk the boy into coming. “I’ll bring him after a few days.”
Two weeks passed.
A few days ago I was sitting in my room at the computer. The kids had just left for school and things were quiet. Suddenly I heard this screaming, this crying and sobbing like nothing I had ever heard before. I ran from my room to the front porch. It was Buhkta. After a few minutes all the neighbors had come to watch and try to calm the boy down. Nothing worked. We held him, we talked to him, and tried to give him water. He wailed his arms and kicked his feet and flung his head against the pavement. Mark my words, if I had a syringe and a drug to calm the kid down, I would have given it to him in an instant that day. He just kept screaming and looking to the sky.
“AMA AMA AMA,” (Ama means mother.) He must have screamed it about a thousand times. You died. I’m also dying. You died. I’m also dying. I’m also dying Ama. I want to die.”
After about 3 hours the boys’ cries slowed down to a whimper. He finally took the water we offered him and slowly ate a banana and some cookies. “Let’s go for a walk.” I said. The boy came with me. We slowly walked to the market. We stopped by a shop and bought a juice box. We picked out a new t-shirt and a pair of pants. I didn’t think the boy would stay with me that day but I wanted to send him back with some clothes at least.
Buhkta is here now. It’s been almost 4 days. Something in him decided to stay that day.
He’s slowly coming along. I see him smile every now and again but I think it’s going to take him some time to heal. I came home last night and found him in bed crying by himself. I sat down and held him across my chest and as he cried, I started to cry too. I cried for the first time in months. I’m going to let him cry for a while.
Bhukta in his favorite t-shirt! *Updated October 2008
Reader Comments (2)
This is my favorite story Maggie. You have an amazing life. Thank you for sharing it.
wow..this is so heartbreakingly sad - you are one strong sister - it's so heartwarming what you've created for these souls... you are indeed helping so many lives.. god bless your work!