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.

By afternoon, he could barely wait to open his tiffin. His hands shook a little as he reached into his bag. But when he opened it, his heart sank. The box was gone. 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. Inside was a lady, dressed in fine clothes and jewelry that sparkled even in the shade.

She looked at the school children gathered by the roadside, her eyes moving over them as if they were just part of the background. Without a word, she rolled down the window. The children, sensing food was coming, rushed towards her car in excitement.

The lady’s face tightened. She raised her index finger, stopping the children in their tracks. With a practiced motion, she signaled for them to lower their hands, careful to avoid any possibility of physical contact.

A small girl at the front hesitantly lowered her palm, cupping it. The lady, 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 the crowd of eager faces grew, the lady’s patience waned. She began tossing the buns onto the dusty road, a small smile playing on her lips as she watched the children scramble to collect them from the ground.

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

The lady’s gaze fell on him, the boy who hadn’t rushed forward. She 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.

She raised her eyebrows, giving him a look that commanded, “Go on, take it.” The boy had never seen eyes like hers before — eyes 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.

A memory surfaced, crisp and clear. His mother, standing before her employer, hands cupped and lowered to receive her wages. The coins clinked as they fell into her palms. Her mouth was a tight line, her eyes down. Later, when he asked about it, she told him, “This ends with me.”

The boy refused to bend down.

He took a step back. With an irritated click of her tongue, she thrust her arm out the window. Bangles jingled as she jabbed a finger at him, then at the bun on the ground.

He met her gaze again, cold and demanding, opposite to his mother’s warm, understanding eyes. Swallowing hard, he shook his head before turning to walk away. The lady stared after him for a few seconds, then rolled up her window, retreating into her world.

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

Hunger pressed him down, but hope lifted him up. One day, he would escape hunger’s grip. One day, he would grow up strong to help others with care and equal respect.

Eyes fixed ahead with dreams, he walked with his head held high.