Sitting by the window of my room, I can see that it's raining outside. The clouds are grey, and the roaring thunder is at its peak. Seems like some made the Gods angry. A small droplet trickles down the windowpane. I move my finger with it, hoping to match its course downwards. The room is dark, and the only source of light is my old table lamp. I am just sitting there trying to read a poetry book or maybe pretending to read that book. My thoughts wander everywhere and take me down my memory lane. Some memories are powerful, so powerful that they can determine your future. Memories take control of my mind as I slowly dive deeper into the
I am a 5-year-old kid now. I can see my mother doing her daily chores trying to manage her life. We are living in a small rented house, while my father struggles to find a permanent job and my mother is raising two of us. Me and my elder brother. He is eight-year-old now. My mother is ill. I don’t know what that means, but I know that her hands are burning. I felt them when I pulled them demanding a bigger slice of mango. It is the first time I felt the sensation. She is already looking tired, and I could see the concern on my brother’s face. I ask her whats happening to her when he smiled and put her hand on my cheek and told me that everything is ok and there nothing to worry. But I could feel that it's not. My brother is much more silent today. He is usually quiet, immersing himself in his books and helping Mom wherever possible.
My father returned, as always in an angry mood, maybe at his failure to get a job. But I am too young to understand it. My father is a good person. He tries his best to raise us in the best way possible, getting us enrolled in a school that is above what we can afford and always taking care of our needs. But sometimes he got angry and frustrated at the situation that he is. I as usual rush towards him at his sight, start demanding my chocolate that I was promised a week ago. He said he forgot, which is an obvious answer if we judge the amount of pressure he is handling but how is a five-year-old child supposed to know that. I start crying, and not the crying that indicates someone is hurt, but the one that irritates your parents. Now, my father is annoyed, he stands up from his chair, comes directly towards me with a quick stride and there comes a slap right on my cheek, and then there is another. I am watching my father in horror because this was the first time he hit any of us, in fact, this is the first time I have seen violence in my family. I am silent and have stopped crying because I don’t know how to react.
Before he could hit me once more, mother came and tried to control him from behind, when he turned back and hit her. Next second she is on the ground, with evident marks of fingers across her face and my brother rushes towards her. She is merely silent, a small drop of tear trickle down from the corner of her eyes, making its way across her moist face. He puts his one hand on her shoulder and tries to raise her up while wiping her tears with the other one. I am still standing there, unable to process everything that occurred in some split seconds. I try to speak, but the words are too distant now. I see my mom, I feel the blood rushing to my face, and I start sweating, but I still couldn’t move.
I see my brothers face. Today, something changed in him. There was no anger in those eyes, but a something else, a feeling that I have not yet encountered in his life. He was generally silent and absorbed in himself, but today, I could feel that intensity in those eyes has changed to something else looking remotely like pain. Years later I am supposed to realize that the look came from the feeling of helplessness, of knowing there is nothing you could do to change the situation. The sad reality that there nothing you can do that will change the situation you are in struck him hard. Helplessness is worse than failure because there is nothing you can do to improve it.
I come back to my room, the book is still on my lap, and it’s still raining outside. Over the course of 67 years of my life, this is one of the earliest memories I preserve, that shaped my life. Today I realize, all that I did was guided by my sheer feeling to control the things around me, to avoid that feeling that I felt in my brother’s eyes that night. I still don't blame my father for what happened; I know how hard it can be. He never raised his hand after that day. But, what scares me to this day, was losing hope, feeling that you can do nothing. Sitting down in despair, hoping that things could be the way you want them to. This sheer helplessness sends a shiver down my spine.
I am a 5-year-old kid now. I can see my mother doing her daily chores trying to manage her life. We are living in a small rented house, while my father struggles to find a permanent job and my mother is raising two of us. Me and my elder brother. He is eight-year-old now. My mother is ill. I don’t know what that means, but I know that her hands are burning. I felt them when I pulled them demanding a bigger slice of mango. It is the first time I felt the sensation. She is already looking tired, and I could see the concern on my brother’s face. I ask her whats happening to her when he smiled and put her hand on my cheek and told me that everything is ok and there nothing to worry. But I could feel that it's not. My brother is much more silent today. He is usually quiet, immersing himself in his books and helping Mom wherever possible.
My father returned, as always in an angry mood, maybe at his failure to get a job. But I am too young to understand it. My father is a good person. He tries his best to raise us in the best way possible, getting us enrolled in a school that is above what we can afford and always taking care of our needs. But sometimes he got angry and frustrated at the situation that he is. I as usual rush towards him at his sight, start demanding my chocolate that I was promised a week ago. He said he forgot, which is an obvious answer if we judge the amount of pressure he is handling but how is a five-year-old child supposed to know that. I start crying, and not the crying that indicates someone is hurt, but the one that irritates your parents. Now, my father is annoyed, he stands up from his chair, comes directly towards me with a quick stride and there comes a slap right on my cheek, and then there is another. I am watching my father in horror because this was the first time he hit any of us, in fact, this is the first time I have seen violence in my family. I am silent and have stopped crying because I don’t know how to react.
Before he could hit me once more, mother came and tried to control him from behind, when he turned back and hit her. Next second she is on the ground, with evident marks of fingers across her face and my brother rushes towards her. She is merely silent, a small drop of tear trickle down from the corner of her eyes, making its way across her moist face. He puts his one hand on her shoulder and tries to raise her up while wiping her tears with the other one. I am still standing there, unable to process everything that occurred in some split seconds. I try to speak, but the words are too distant now. I see my mom, I feel the blood rushing to my face, and I start sweating, but I still couldn’t move.
I see my brothers face. Today, something changed in him. There was no anger in those eyes, but a something else, a feeling that I have not yet encountered in his life. He was generally silent and absorbed in himself, but today, I could feel that intensity in those eyes has changed to something else looking remotely like pain. Years later I am supposed to realize that the look came from the feeling of helplessness, of knowing there is nothing you could do to change the situation. The sad reality that there nothing you can do that will change the situation you are in struck him hard. Helplessness is worse than failure because there is nothing you can do to improve it.
I come back to my room, the book is still on my lap, and it’s still raining outside. Over the course of 67 years of my life, this is one of the earliest memories I preserve, that shaped my life. Today I realize, all that I did was guided by my sheer feeling to control the things around me, to avoid that feeling that I felt in my brother’s eyes that night. I still don't blame my father for what happened; I know how hard it can be. He never raised his hand after that day. But, what scares me to this day, was losing hope, feeling that you can do nothing. Sitting down in despair, hoping that things could be the way you want them to. This sheer helplessness sends a shiver down my spine.
Hooked from the first line.
ReplyDeleteInspired by Arundhati Roy's :God of small things, quite a stuff to be inspired from. That itself raises a bar for you, isn't it.Well done. Waiting for further chapters.
ReplyDeleteNailed it.
ReplyDeleteGripping from the beginning
ReplyDelete