Through the darkness, I see Light….
Those who dwell in darkness, know the value of light. For when we are choked in our neck, that’s when we gasp for air.
Vishu was an eight year old kid hailing from a small village in Rajasthan. His village was on the edge the mighty Thar desert. It was summer time and the mercury was roaring; villagers said that it was the hottest summer ever.
Vishu hated the days when sun was hissing fire, but he loved the evenings when temperatures dropped and the hot sand started to cool down. As the sun went down, Vishu would play hide-and-seek with his friends in their small village. He would often, in a bid to hide himself, would burry himself up in the cool sand. To savour the moment, he would imagine himself buried in the snow.
Vishu loved snow, he loved mountains, but had only seen those in pictures. People had told him that it was very cold up in the snowy mountains- Vishu wondered how cold would the air be, how would the snow feel? He often wished he would run away and go live in the mountains. He simply hated the heat of the desert and despised the scorching sun.
Vishu’s mother Savitri was a home maker. She would rise up early and would milk the camels. She would gather the dung and make dung cakes for cooking food. She would be busy with the house chores till late in the day and would then go to fetch water with other villages ladies from a far away canal.
His father- Bhanwar Singh- was a samosa seller, with his small makeshift shop near the highway. He would leave his house early in the day and would only return after it was dark. Bhanwar Singh had a heavy frame. He was tall and look intimidating. He was also an alcoholic. Whatever little he made, he spent the lions share on satisfying his cravings. He would often come home late, and quarrel with Vishu’s mother.
Bhanwar Singh wanted Vishu to work with him which would allow him to make more money, but Savitri would insist that Vishu goes to school. Bhanwar wasn’t convinced but Savitri would not budge. She could endure beatings and bruises but could never let her child be devoid of a chance to make his life by getting educated. Savitri was illiterate- and so was Bhanwar- and knew what the future had for people like them in this world. She dearly wanted her child to learn at school and make a life for himself. She also knew that his father’s company wasn’t good for the Vishu. Bhanwar had a bad temper and was abusive.
Vishu was also afraid of his father. Bhanwar Singh would beat him if he disobeyed. Vishu would thus try his best to avoid going with him. He was ashamed of his father’s behaviour. His friends made fun of his father who would often be found be lying on the village streets in a drunken condition.Vishu just didn’t wanted to be seen or even associated with his father.
But Vishu loved his mother. She was always kind to him and would even save him from Bhanwar when he was behaving like a raging bull. She would also teach Vishu many of the crafts she knew, like sewing, cooking, and making rangoli on the floor. Vishu loved to spend time with his mother. He loved to watch her cook. He would stand besides her as she cooked in the earthen chula(wood fired stove). Vishu’s favourite was to witness the making of a Aalu paratha(a pan fried flat bread stuffed with boiled potato). He loved how his mother would fill the dough with a hand mashed mixture of boiled potato, green chilli, and coriander seeds, and roll the dough into a stuffed ball. She would next press it between her palms, sprinkle some wheat flour on both sides, before rolling the flattened ball into a nice round paratha. The potato paste would burst from the sides, but would still hold on without falling. Savitri would toss it up on a hot iron tawa(round iron cooking pan), and let it cook from one side under the wood fire. In a minute, the side being cooked would become crisp and bit charred, with the colour of the dough changing from white to light brown. She would flip the paratha to cook the other side, using iron tongs, and will smear groundnut oil on the blistered side. A few seconds more, and she would flip it again and apply oil to the freshly cooked side. The oil, as it got heated up when in touch with the hot iron, would fry the flattened dough to a fascinating golden brown colour. The blisters on the surface of parantha would become crisp and brown. The potatoes on the sides, would cook, and change its colour to golden white, as it absorbed the oil and glistened under light. Vishu’s mouth would become full of saliva in anticipation of the crispy parantha. He would prefer having it with fresh and thick curd made at home by his mother, specially for him.
Savitri would serve the paratha to him with curd and stuffed red chilli achaar(pickle). Vishu would never rush to eat the parantha, rather he would wait and admire it for a moment. He would tear a small piece and smell the aroma oozing out of the hot parantha. It was a smell which was Vishu’s favourite. He would then take some of the red chilli pickle, smear it on the parantha piece, and dip it in curd to scoop a spoon-full. The first bite was always the best. Vishu would close his eyes, as he chew his bite, and experience every flavour; it was if his taste buds could sense taste like music. He would feel the different taste notes, be the earthiness of the potato, the mild sting of green chilli, the chewiness of the crispy brown dough. It was surreal. Every-time!
Vishu love his mother, she was his pillar of support. She was the person who loved him unconditionally. She was the reason for all good things in Vishu’s life. However, Vishu only despised her mother for one thing. It was Savitri’s desire to send Vishu to school. Vishu, on the other hand, wasn’t very interested. Vishu hated school for many reasons.
First reason, the school didn’t have any building, rather it was a thatched roof under which Masterji would take classes. Students had to sit on the rolls of jute mats, which were spread open on ground in form for four parallel rows. Vishu always sat in the last row.
Second reason was the heat of the desert. The school would start around 7am and would last till 11am. It used to become very hot as sun rose up in the sky, beaming its rays on the parched ground. Vishu didn’t like to go back home in the heat. He just hated heat.He would make a make shift umbrella with some old torn cloth and some sticks and try his best to avoid the exposure to the sun rays (dhoop). But it seldom helped; it was more of an expression of his feelings.
Third reason was simpler; Vishu didn’t like Mathematics. He could not understand the benefit of cramming math tables like a parrot.
He loved English though, for it always attracted him in a strange fashion. Vishu would remember English words and their meaning. He also wrote on sand, when done playing in the evening as there was nothing much to do. In the night, when moon was visible, he would wander around in the moonlight and would sit on a sand patch, where he would etch words on sand with a stick. He loved it. He loved writing his name- Vishu. His actual name was Vishnu, but it was Savitri who started called him Vishu, out of love and the name stuck. Bhanwar would still call him Vishnu.
On a Saturday night, Vishu was at the sand dunes, immersed in his world of dreams. He was also eagerly waiting for the next day, as his mother was going to make Aalu Parantha for him. Vishu hated to eat breakfast while in a rush for school. Sunday was a holiday and would allow him to wake up at leisure and enjoy his breakfast. He had just started imagining about the experience he was yet to have, when he heard a scream. It was his mother. He could recognised her voice even in thousand of voices. But this was no ordinary sound, something had happened. Vishu was alarmed; he ran towards his home as fast as he could. As he reached near the hut, he saw his neighbours standing in front of his hut. What Vishu saw next, shocked him!
Bhanwar was standing outside the hut with blood on his face. He was crying out loud. And next to him, just a few feet away, lay Savitri in a pool of blood, with her throat slit, and blood oozing out.
Vishu stood stunned; his body just couldn’t move. Reality had hit him very hard. A surge of emotions made their way to his eyes from his heart, and tears just trickled on their own. His mother was dead, lying right in front of him.
That day, as usual, Bhanwar has had too much of alcohol, yet he wanted to drink more. As he was out of money, he came home and searched for money in the house. He was hoping he gets something which Savitri hid from him. He saw Savitri’s trunk, where she kept her valuable belongings, was unlocked. The lock still had the key attached. In rush of household chores, Savitri must have forgotten to lock it. Savitri had kept a gold necklace, which her mother gave her on her marriage as a gift, inside the trunk. Bhanwar always had eyes on the necklace, but Savitri has made it clear that it was for Vishu’s education.
As Bhanwar looked for money in the trunk, he got hold of the very necklace. His eyes lit up with greed. He took the necklace and rushed outside the hut in haste. Savitri was at the neighbours, and had just came back. She saw Bhanwar with the necklace. Both saw each other in the eye and the very next moment Savitri sprung and latched on to Bhanwar’s hand in a bid to take the necklace away. A fight ensued. Savitri was no match for Bhanwar, but she was a ferocious lady in spirit. She would never let him take it, as long as she was alive.
Bhanwar was heavy drunk and intoxicated. He was not in a state to listen to his conscience. The greed he felt, had aroused a darkness within. He could not see any right or wrong. He could not be moved by the screams of Savitri who clung to his arm. Bhanwar was a mere puppet, for the darkness which had taken him in control. He landed a couple hard slaps on Savitri’s head, but she didn’t budge. Infact, she in a bid to loosen his grip bit on his arm, with all the might she had, piercing the skin and sinking her teeth into his flesh.
Bhanwar shouted because of the excruciating pain. It was his left hand on which Savitri had bitten; his right hand was still free. In an impulse, as a reaction to the pain, his right arm flew in the air and it grabbed what ever came in its grip. To the poor luck of Savitri, Bhanwar’s hand had grabbed a Hasiya (Sickle)- a crescent shaped, sharp bladed tool, used to cut small wooden shrubs- which hung near the door. It was an innocuous tool, but was also a deadly weapon. Bhanwar in his spite flashed the Hasiya on Savitri, slashing the side of her throat. Blood spurt with great force, as Savitri fell on the parched land full of dirt and sand. All this happened in a split of a second. This moment which though negligible in duration, was going to change Vishu’s life profoundly.
Neighbours stood as mere spectators. Perhaps enjoying the drama, as they too in their wildest imagination could think such an extreme thing to happen. They stood stunned. The shock was so intense and sudden that no one moved.
Savitri was no more. She had choked to death in a matter of seconds. Vishu had lost her mother.
Vishu came back to his senses. He saw Bhanwar, he saw the crowd which had now dispersed, some shouting for help, some crying in disbelief. A group of men had taken hold of Bhanwar. The sickle had fallen aside. A group of women had covered Savitri’s dead body, and were cyring and yelling as if they had lost someone dear. Savitri was loved by everyone in the neighbourhood.
Vishu just couldn’t take it. He wanted to get away; get away from everything. In that moment, Vishu turned back and ran towards the sand dunes. There was a highway which lied behind the dunes. Buses to the city would cross from there. They would pick-up villagers who wanted to travel to the city. Vishu wanted to get on one of those buses and get away from this horrid place, forever and ever.
He ran as fast as he could. The sand wasn’t making it easy for him. His feet would sink in and he had to put all he had to maintain his pace. His heart was pounding; it had never raced so hard in his life. But Vishu carried on. A few minutes later, he saw the road. There was a bus approaching from a distance. Vishu tried to move faster, he tried harder. As the sand gave way to parched land, Vishu’s speed increased. But the bus didn’t seem to stop. Vishu screamed, but no one heard him. He was going to miss it. It was already late. No bus would arrive so late; this seemed to be the last bus of the day. Vishu stopped for a moment, picked up a stone, and darted it toward the bus. The stone hit the bus window, and the glass shattered with a big sound. The passengers inside shouted, and the bus came to a grinding halt.
Vishu by then had crossed the road in the dark, and snuck in a bush where the bus halted, opposite of the broken window. Some passengers along with the bus conductor had disembarked the bus and were hurling abuses in the dark. One passenger was also injured by the shattered glass piece and was bleeding. The commotion died down in a few minutes. Everyone was now tending to the injured passenger. Vishu saw his chance and silently snuck out of the bush, latched on the rear loading ladder of the bus, and swiftly climbed to the bus roof, which was filled with luggage, without making a sound. Vishu saw a black cloth cover, along with some tent material. He slid under it and hid. The massive tent cover gave some cushion to Vishu, shielding him from the metal of the bus roof. The bus eventually started, the engine made a loud roar, the driver honked the horn as a signal to all passengers to get inside. Within seconds the bus was plying on the road.
Vishu was finally moving away from his village. The place he had loved so much. The place where he grew up. The place where he made friends. The place which was filled with his mother’s memories. The place Vishu called home.
The place where, Vishu knew in his heart, he would never come back!
