So, here is the story which was featured in the FWBA magazine 'Unbound'. Hope you like it, and please like www.facebook.com/authorvishal
Sorry in advance for length :)
IF THERE WAS A GOD
©Vishal Sah-all rights reserved
IF THERE WAS A GOD…
When I was a child, I used to have a favorite hiding spot in my home. My mother would ask me to hide under the bed of our living room.
“Close your eyes and count till hundred, Then come out and find mommy Okay?” that’s what she used to tell me. I sometimes used to count only till fifty or seventy and start finding my mother. Sometimes I found her sitting in the corner of the kitchen, crying silently; and sometimes I saw her on her bedroom, trying to hide the bruises on her skin. My mother always used to tell me that God had punished her because I didn’t count to hundred completely.
“Please God, don’t punish my mommy. I promise I will count to hundred.” I would pray to the Almighty and would count till hundred. But still, I would find my mother crying in pain, trying to hide her blemishes on her skin from me. I was confused—why was God punishing mother even after I counted completely everytime? Was I counting it wrong? For years, I blamed myself for the miserable condition of my mother. But one day, I saw something—I saw him, shouting at my mother and slapping her again and again, She begged him to leave her alone, but he never listened. He was my father.
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“It’s been more than 25 years, mom. Why don’t you leave him?” I asked my mother one day when she was busy preparing gajar ka halwa for me. A perk of being home after a long time—is that you get to eat whatever you want, and that too home made.
“Why do you ask me the same question everytime?” she asked in return, without showing any signs of aggravation on her face. She was now used to it—the beating and the curses that she got to hear every single day since she had refused to ask her father for more money as an ‘investment’. Nanaji had already given my mom everything they had including the house that he had kept on mortgage just to help his son-in-law for the new business he wanted to invest in. But neither had his business succeeded, nor had he fulfilled the promise he gave to Nanaji that he would get the house released in a year. Eventually Nanaji couldn’t pay the debt and he had to move out and shift in a rented house.
“Because everytime I come home, I find you in a worse condition. He is a monster, mom. I can’t leave you with him anymore. You have suffered enough. Come to Mumbai.” I held her hand and told her. I could still see the cuts and marks on her wrists.
“It is nothing, they are just temporary.” She said when she saw me looking at her hands.
“But the pain is permanent. I don’t want you to live in this pain when you could live a better life in Mumbai mom.” I pleaded. My mother sent me to an engineering college as soon as I passed out from my school. She clearly didn’t want me to rot in that hell along with her, so she had sent me to Mumbai—far, far away from the shadow of my father, far away from her and far away from Delhi. We were a lower-middle class family so most of my college fees I paid were from scholarship money. Since I had no choice other than to study hard for years, I ended up bagging a pretty good job in a reputed MNC in Mumbai. I had my own flat, my own car and a servant. Being nerdy has its own benefits.
“We live in a society dear and I think you are old enough to realize that what the people will say if I do something like that.” My mother looked at me and gave me a smile, a mirthless smile to be precise. She was an ‘ideal woman’ for our mediocre society. She was supposed to leave her studies, kill her dreams, marry some stranger her parents thought could become her soul mate, and live a married life, no matter what. She was fulfilling these criteria pretty well by now.
“People are supposed to say bad things about you when you do something which they think are ‘out of the norm’. But you don’t have to worry about people. They will shift to some another topic as soon as they find one.” I said and tried to convince my mother once again.
“You know that isn’t going to happen. God is watching all of us. Sinners will be answerable to God one day.” She replied. I saw her eyes, they were moist now. She talks about God, sins and other things but she too knew that if there was a God, then probably she wouldn’t have to suffer like this.
“Do you really think that there is a God, mother?” I asked. “I don’t think there is, because if there was one, then you don’t have to get beaten everyday by your husband, You don’t have to live your life like a living corpse, You don’t have to live with my father, that monster…I wish he would be dead by now.” My voice was now raised. She knew I was right, but the ‘society’ didn’t let her accept that.
“Your father might come home anytime. I think you should go to your room.” She changed the topic immediately and got busy once again with her kitchen chores.
“He’s not my father. He is just a man whom I unfortunately share my DNA with.” I replied. She looked at me but said nothing. I left.
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I was still in my room when I heard the sound of the door bolt open. He was home. I was told by my mother not to interact with him unless it was very important as we both always ended up fighting. Our ideologies never meet. He always believed that women should be the ones sacrificing for the man of the family—let it be her ambitions, her dreams, her life, even her surname. But I always thought differently. I always supported the freedom of women to which he always used to say that “If women were meant to do other things, God wouldn’t have created men.” This was the level of ridiculousness my father had in his mind towards opposite sex. That was the reason my mother sent me to Mumbai just as soon as I passed out from school.
“Radhika…RADHIKA, where the hell are you?” I heard my father shouting for my mother.
“I am here.” mother replied to him.
“Did you ask your father for the money?”
“No, and I won’t because he already helped us as much as he could.” My mother’s voice was heavy now.
“What do you mean you won’t ask? You have to…I am ordering you.” My father told my mother. With his tone being louder with every word, I sensed that he came home drunk—just like most of the times when I lived here.
“My father has helped you in every way possible.” My mother said in disbelief. “He now lives in a rented house and you still want money from him? Don’t you have any humanity left inside, Sushant?” she said in disbelief.
“Now you will teach me, han?” I heard my father saying these words which were followed by two sounds of slaps. I could hear my mother beginning to sob. I couldn’t take it anymore so I rushed out of my room and stood in front of my father.
“How dare you to talk to my mother like that?” I shouted at him in full rage. I saw my mother who was still signaling me not to engage with my father and leave the room.
“This is none of your business.” he said and approached once again towards my mother.
“She is my mother and I won’t let anyone abuse her like this.” I replied and grabbed his hand firmly.
“Leave me you scoundrel, I am your father.” He tried freeing himself from my grip but you can’t expect a 50 year old drunkard to get rid himself from a healthy 20 year old boy’s grip.
“You lost that privilege a long time ago.” I replied, still not letting go of his hand.
“Leave him son, please.” My mom said who was standing at some distance, trying to absorb all the things which were happening at that time.
“But mom…”
“LEAVE HIM.” she yelled and started crying. I couldn’t see her crying so I left his hand but as soon as I did that, he grabbed my hair and landed several slaps right on my face.
“DO NOT ever try to come between me and my wife, you rascal.” he said and walked towards mother. She was still crying, but he dragged her to his room and closed the door. I could hear the sounds of beating and my mother pleading with him to leave her, and with every passing moment the sounds became more prominent. I was blank and didn’t know what to do. I stood there numb, trying to absorb all the things happening at that time. I stood there, dumbfounded. I felt weak, I felt defeated. But most of all I felt disappointed—disappointed by the fact that I happen to be the son of such a man who treats her own family like slaves, disappointed by the fact that my mother still wanted to save her marriage irrespective of how much cruelty she has to bear. After some moments, the abusing stopped, and what left was the sound of my mother crying. There was no God, for sure.
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“Can’t you stay back for a few more days?” mother asked me even as she helped me pack my bags. I looked at her. Her face was still swollen, her eyes moist, and her hands had become purple due to the swelling and bruising. I could see regret in her eyes—for choosing such a life, and helplessness that she could do nothing about it but she was wrong. All she had to do was to stand up against the injustice and step out from the cubicle of ‘what will people?’
“I can, but I won’t. I don’t want to rot in this hell for one more second.” I told her coldly. Probably she sensed the disappointment in my voice and that’s why she didn’t say anything after that.
“It’s not completely your fault either. It’s the society, the culture, that I want to blame. It has always restricted women from taking a stand, from fighting for their self-respect, and always encouraged us men to rule over the women and become dominant. So it’s okay for you to be with him and be a victim of this domestic violence for the rest of your life.” I told her, hoping to ignite something in her, something which could encourage her to stand against the wrong, but all I got was silence— disappointing, unhappy silence.
There were still 4 hours left for my flight, so I decided to take a quick nap in my room. When I woke up, I heard some voices from the other room. They were fighting once again. My father was calling her names and was abusing him that she was a useless creature and other things, to which my mother only responded with her sobbing and crying. I got up and walked towards their room.
“Atleast have some fear of God, he is watching all of us. For God’s sake, leave me alone, please.” my mother said to him when I entered in their room. I saw my father with a belt in his hand and my mother was lying on the floor, trying to defend herself from the leather.
“What the hell are you doing here? I told you not to interfere in our personal matter.” He asked me. I said nothing.
“YOU, you asked him to come right? tu ruk jaa.” He said to my mother and once again started to beat her with the belt.
“Please leave me.” My mother begged in front of him but he didn’t stop. I stood there for some more time, with rage and disappointment growing inside of me with every passing second. I wanted to grab his neck, push him towards the wall and bang his head against the wall, again and again, I wanted to beat him to death by the same belt which he held, I wanted him to pay for his cruelty and brutality that he was showering from years, I wanted him to feel the same pain that my mother felt for the last 2 decades…but I didn’t want to do all this myself, I wanted my mother to do it for herself. She kept looking at me, hoping that I would help her but I didn’t.
“You don’t have to bear this.” I said and left the room. As I was walking away, the crying of my mother kept increasing more and more and the cursing from my father kept going on till something happened. I heard a loud ‘thud’ sound from the room, and a long silence followed that sound. I knew something terrible hd happened so I quickly rushed towards their room and found my mother standing with a metal vase in her hands and my father was lying on the floor, almost unconscious. She had hit him—that’s right, she hit him with a vase.
“I don’t have to bear this.” My mother said and looked at me. Father was still lying on the floor, crying in pain and holding his bleeding forehead. I looked at mother who was still standing there, repeating ‘I don’t have to bear this’ everytime she looked at him.
“He is unconscious, We should call an ambulance.” I said to her and was dialing the number but she stopped me and said.
“Let him suffer a little, he won’t die. People like him don’t die that early.” She said and kept the vase on its own place. It was the first time in my life that I saw my mother fighting against him. That was the day I realized that everything happens for a purpose. I looked at her and smiled, she was still looking at my father and kept saying those six words—‘I don’t have to bear this.’
“You don’t have to bear this.” I said and hugged her. I felt relief.
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