The earliest memory I have of my mum still lingers vividly in my mind. She used to scurry out of her room. Eyes bloodshot. Face tired. Hair messy. She would beckon softly, and I would rush right into her arms, exhausted from the all the calling and weeping. Laying on her lap as she sat in the corner. I would urge her to sing the song that I liked. She used to cover me with her pallu and sing, caressing me to sleep. She would frequently stare into the distance, as though she followed a trail of never-ending thoughts. Even then, she was a silent person. I used to do most of the talking, she would just listen. I used to ask her what would she think about for the long intervals she wouldn’t speak, she would laugh and ask me something in-turn. That question never found an answer.
She had pretty brown eyes. Big round ones just like mine. Long black hair. And always wore a saree. She was pretty like the women in the fairytales she read to me—graceful, ethereal, with that kind of quiet beauty that seemed to belong to another world. Despite the calm that she graced around herself, she would flinch when the doors rattled too loud and would hug me close on nights when the clouds thundered and it rained heavily. Maybe I was her only solace.
Their arguments would spill into the quiet of the house, like ripples in stagnant water. The loud noises of things clattering around followed. I would curl up in the corner, waiting for mom to come to me. And when she did, her demeanor carried the shadow of something unspoken, something that haunted her. I often wondered why Dad never came to console me. He would always be asleep when mom tended to me. Sometimes, I’d sneak a glance into their room—it was eerily spotless, untouched by the chaos that had rattled through the house.
I still recall the first time I witnessed his fury. I saw how her skin bruised up under his wrath. How she shivered as he came up to her, how she held back her tears when she realized I was still at the dinner table, watching the whole scene unfold with fearful eyes. She lowered her head, avoiding my gaze as if burdened by shame. Quietly asking me to leave the room. I did. I ran to my room and hid under the covers, waiting for her once again.
Over time, the quarrels only got frequent and brutal. Initially, it took me time to realize what really happened. But when I did, I was scared. My dreams, once accompanied by innocent lullabies, had transformed into nightmares. I would wake up, rush to the sink, and scrub my hands roughly, scared that they were drenched in blood. The grotesque reality was that every time my hands dripped with my mother's blood, it was my father who plunged the knife, his fury carving through her flesh as I stood powerless amidst the carnage.
As I grew older, I learned to dread my father coming home. I learned to tell it was him by the sound of his footsteps. I learned to fear him. At some point, it was me who sat in the corner and sang mum to sleep. The makeup on her face got thicker and too frequent, I couldn't recall the last time I saw her without it. Her blouses became full-sleeved, maybe to cover the bruises on her arms. Her voice got quieter day by day. On most days she looked lost, like it was trying to seek solace somewhere else. She would never talk to me about it. She would brush it away when I brought it up. Her once pretty brown eyes were now sunken hollows of silent grief, and her once beautiful face had aged so much more than she had.I wondered, after all the pain she had endured, how she could still love him. How could she forgive him? And even if she did, how could I bring myself to forgive him? How could I ever forgive the father who never repented?
Turbulent Echoes