Wednesday, 05 June 2019
She’d cried for days when he left, wondering how she’d survive – just her, the boy, that tiny plot of land and the nanny-goat. No-one would help her. None of the other villagers could afford to help charity cases.
She couldn’t find work but she started to sell tea made with goat milk. People talked of the odd delicious beverage, and her samosas, the tastiest for miles. Most days now she could fill their stomachs. Her smile returned.
Over the months and years, she made enough money to repair the roof. Rain didn’t come in any more. She bought paint. She bought chairs. She planted flowers in old paint pots. Her place looked smart finally. They started to forget the hungry times.
Somehow he heard of her success. He smelled money and returned. Drunk as usual.
Memories of all those beatings came flooding back. She stood tall trying to hide her fear. Wondering how to appease him. She turned back to the cooking fire and blew into the embers.
The room darkened. Her son filled the doorway, sickle in hand. ‘Show some respect, stranger.’
‘This is your father,’ she said, her hand going to her crooked nose.
‘Show some respect, stranger,’ our son repeated fingering the blade of the sickle. ‘Our special milk-tea is 25 rupees only. Can you pay?’
She squatted back down to watch her husband’s reaction.
Nothing more needed to be said.
She didn’t need to be scared of him any more.
Finally her son understood.
Posted: 05/06/2019 11:03:24
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Filed under: domestic violence
, leave no-one behind