Sriyesh sat on the Sofa holding his drink with the left hand while sifting through the Magazine casually with the right. He was listless. The total silence in the house added a gloomy ambiance to the scary night. Priya and kids were off to Kerala on the yearly sojourn. Sriyesh could not make the trip because of his preoccupation with the work. He has got a top job with a MNC which ties him down at the place, even though a longed to take a break to get a feeling of his root.

As he leaned back and took a small sip from the glass, his mind was racing back down the memory lane.  Like a movie, rolling frame by frame, events from the past came running to fore. He saw a small village, three sides surrounded by hilly ranges and the western side laid open to the vast track of paddy fields. On the foot of the southern hill, he could see a small hut, bereft of brick walls and cemented floor. The mud floor was smoothened with a splash of cow-dung liquid so skillfully applied by Mother. In place of brick wall, two loosely hung bamboo mats were tied to the poles that supported the roof from the four corners. This bamboo mats acted as barriers from the two sides of the house. The back side was closed with a mud wall with a wide gap in the middle that acted as the door, rather entrance/exit; while the front remained wide open all the time.

Sriyesh remembered that he was not the only child in the house. He had three other siblings, elder to him with an age difference of maximum two years among themselves. He was three or four years old then when his mother used to work in the paddy field of the neighborhood landlord to earn a living. Sriyesh does not remember seeing his father for he was dead, all of a sudden, when Sriyesh was only one year old. It was very hard on his mother as she was left with four children who were all below ten years and without sufficient means to support them. Above all, it was a new place for the family migrated from another part of the region.

The childhood was hardly pleasant for the children. Neither there was enough food nor good cloth. There was no toys to play with, no picnics to enjoy, no stories to read but only sufferings to endure. The nights were always frightening. As he lay beside his mother, embracing her tightly as the howling of the jackals was heard from the nearby bushes, accompanied by strange sounds of the wild birds, he prayed to all the Gods that he had heard of to take him to the safety of day break. As the darkness of the night grew, he would hear a harsh voice from a distance slowing growing louder in the form of a folk lore. That is Poken and his friend returning from the market place after their quota of country liquor. After gulping a few drinks, Poken becomes an instant poet, and sang loudly whatever comes to his mouth. Often the verses were filthy and juicy, describing the anatomy of female body or on the current gossips of the village. As he near the house of Sriyesh, Poken’s voice would become more and more shrill and language more filthy. Sometimes, a stone or two would land at the courtyard of Sriyesh’s house accompanied by some four letter words. Sriyesh would hold his breath and cling more closely to his Mother and pray till the dreadful fellow passed by his house singing his filthy song. He never understood, why Poken always sang dirty songs in the night while passing by his house.

Raman Uncle was the only solace in otherwise gloomy state of affairs. He used to come to house with few words of kindness to the children and occasionally helped mother by lending few rupees to buy ration. What was wrong in it, Sriyesh never understood. After all, it was a usual practice among village folk to visit neighborhood houses and help each other at the time of necessity. Perhaps visit to a widow’s house by a man, even though neighbour, might have been considered a sin.  Perhaps, that was the reason for the great fury let loose by a mob of about six or seven persons on that fearsome afternoon. Sriyesh was squatting on the floor playing with the marbles. His mother sat beside him talking to Raman Uncle who had dropped in to have a word or two with her. As they were discussing something animatedly, Sriyesh could see a group of six or seven men partially hiding behind the corner pillar of the house. Sriyesh had gone numb on seeing the fearsome face of Poken glaring at from behind the pillar. Other fellows had also angriness writ large on their faces. Before Sriyesh could figure out what to do or how to take shelter behind something or someone, with a swift movement, the mob pounced upon Raman Uncle and Sriyesh’s mother. Blows were rained on Raman Uncle’s back along with shouts and counter shouts. Sriyesh stood still bewildered and shivering. What was wrong, he never got to know.

Even after so may years, the scenes occasionally return to haunt him. It made him feel wretched and helpless. He felt guilty that he was a mute spectator to his mother’s humiliation. He couldn’t do anything to protect her from the cruel hands of her tormentors. She was so humble and kind hearted. She never scolded anyone, never quarreled with anyone and never made any complaints; but still why she was tormented, made to suffer and denied basic human considerations by the neighbours? He never got an answer.

Now, inclining on the sofa, all alone in the dead of the night, Sriyesh felt totally depressed, helpless and suffocated.

“Ting…ting…ting…….”  The mobile started making noise. As Sriyesh reached for the phone he could hear the soothing voice of Priya on the other side. “Hey, Sri… what are you doing?”  “Why didn’t you call me”? “Have you eaten something”, the questions came rapid and non-stop. But, the only thing that Sriyesh felt and cherished at that moment was the soothing nearness of his beloved wife. He longed to hold her on to him tightly so that he could drive away the disturbing nightmare.