By Chembi, my mom. This Raja’s mom.

Until that day, I didn’t know within that five-foot one-inch forty kg woman, there lived a superhuman. I have seen her squeezing herself into a corner, in the two hundred square feet home whenever there is an argument between them. I have witnessed every brutality against her. In return, I have seen her shouting and yelling at him in his absence. As soon as he leaves the home, the vessel flies as though it has wings. But I witnessed a different mother. She didn’t tolerate it on that Sunday eve.

I have always thought why was it a Sunday, why was it a summer holiday? That day shouldn’t have existed but it did.

we returned from the field earlier. When time permitted, we occupy the streets, which was the place of happiness for me, Valli, and a few neighboring friends. We started playing hide and seek in the evening and continued even after sunset. My favourite place to hide was the branch of a neem tree. The seed which was sown by a bird once, in the side of the narrow stream of water passing aside my home, was a full-grown tree. My favourite memory of the neem tree was always the stories narrated by my grandfather under its shadows. The neem tree’s history too was part of his story. Easy to climb was the best thing about it. It was kid friendly tree. We climb on it and taste its fruits; it acts as a swing stand where we trust it completely and it has never disappointed us. But the rope has, as a result, we have practiced swimming in the narrow stream. It too has been a part of my grandfather’s story. His memories of the stream were always pure, he mentions it as a glittering paradise. A glittering paradise that took his last breath and pushed his body to his dream farmland. The form which he aspired to own was his deathbed.

That day as I was sitting on the tree branch hiding in it, I saw my mom running from the start of the street holding the multi-coloured wire bag that she knitted herself. As she neared the home, she threw the bag and entered the home by fetching the broomstick in her hand, and within a fraction of a second, my drunken dad was out in the streets. It was an entertainment show for the neighbors but for me and my sister Valli, it was a painful event that shook our life forever.

Original Copyright © Sukanya Pon