The Butter Bun

The boy’s stomach growled as he walked home from school. He tried to ignore it, keeping his eyes on the dusty road. But as he turned the corner, a sweet smell made him stop.

There, right after the corner, was the old bakery. Through the window, he could see trays of fresh bread and sweets. His eyes fixed on one tray in particular.

Butter buns. They sat in neat rows, golden and round. A thin layer of sugar sparkled on top. He knew that inside, there would be a dollop of creamy butter.

The boy stood still, imagining how they would taste. Soft and warm, sweet and rich. His mouth watered.

He had no money to buy one.

The baker came out, wiping flour from his hands. Startled, the boy blushed and hurried away. But the image of those butter buns stayed with him as he walked home.

That night, dinner was a simple affair. His mother divided what was left into small portions. Supplies were running low, and the next market trip wasn’t until the weekend. He ate slowly, taking small bites. His younger sister had finished her food quickly and was now eyeing his plate, her appetite unusually large that day. He quietly slid his plate over to her, and they shared a small smile.

The next morning, the kitchen was still bare. Breakfast was nothing more than a glass of water. His mother packed his tiffin with a brief, tired smile, knowing it wasn’t much. He set off for school, ignoring the dull ache in his stomach.

The afternoon sun made his empty stomach ache even more. His hands shook a little as he reached for his bag, eager to open his tiffin. His fingers searched every corner of the bag, touching books and papers, but not finding the familiar box. His heart began to race. He looked inside again, moving everything around. The box wasn’t there.

He looked around, panic rising in his chest. Then he saw them — the other boys in the corner, laughing and wiping their mouths. They had taken his food, emptied it without a second thought, treating it as a joke.

He drank glasses of water hoping it would fill the void. The hot afternoon classroom seemed to spin around him, the teacher’s words blurred. His head felt heavy, and he fought to keep his eyes open.

The bell rang. As he stood, the classroom tilted briefly before steadying. He made his way to the gate. Near the main road, he saw a car — a shiny, expensive one — pull up nearby. A window rolled down, and a hand emerged, adorned with gleaming rings and bangles that caught the shade.

The children, sensing food was coming, rushed towards the car in excitement.

A single finger rose from the window — imperious, manicured — stopping the children in their tracks. The hand ordered them to lower their hands, hovering always at a careful distance that prevented any possibility of touch.

A small girl at the front hesitantly lowered her palm, cupping it. The bejeweled fingers, satisfied with the distance, delicately dropped a bun into the child’s waiting hands. One by one, the children approached, repeating this careful dance of giving and receiving.

As more eager faces gathered, the hand grew impatient. The fingers began tossing the buns onto the dusty road, rings catching light with each throw as children scrambled to collect them from the ground.

The hand found a game in this — tossing the buns higher, farther, watching the children run and jump. Sometimes the fingers would pause, holding a bun in the air just to see small hands reach up, before throwing it in the opposite direction.

The bangles jingled with delight at each toss.

The boy stood at the edge, watching the others rush about. His stomach growled, but something held him back.

The hand paused in its motion, as if noticing the boy who hadn’t rushed forward. It picked up a bun and tossed it in his direction. He watched it soar up through the air, but his feet stayed rooted to the spot. His hands remained at his sides, refusing to move. The bun hit the ground in front of him, sending up a small cloud of dust.

The hand hung suspended in the air, its stillness somehow commanding: “Go on, take it.” The boy had never seen a gesture so absolute — fingers that expected obedience, that didn’t understand the word “no.” A chill ran through him.

He looked at the bun lying at his feet. It looked soft and sweet, with butter peeking out from the middle. The world around him seemed to go quiet as if waiting for his decision. His stomach cried out for the bun, but something deeper inside him spoke louder.

The boy refused to bend down. He took a step back.

With an irritated gesture, the hand thrust out the window. Bangles jingled as a finger jabbed at him, then at the bun on the ground ordering “Take it!”

The boy stood his ground.

The finger jabbed again, more urgent now, its rings flashing like angry eyes. But with each command of the hand, the boy’s spine grew a little straighter.

He stared at those commanding fingers, so cold and demanding, opposite to his mother’s warm, work-worn hands.

The hand froze, its earlier playful energy replaced by the strangeness of a puppet who would not dance to its strings. Maybe the puppet had cut its own strings. Maybe some puppets don’t have any strings at all. For a moment, both the hand and the boy learned something about power and equality.

The boy shook his head before turning to walk away. The hand withdrew into the window slowly, bangles chiming one final time — as it disappeared into its world.

The boy kept walking. His stomach ached, but his back remained straight.

Like any living creature, the boy was drawn to his mother by hunger. She would provide.