It was a dreary dark night. Bishal, a ten year old boy, after having soggy rice with plain gundruk, went to his decrepit bed. He didn’t deny anything; neither did he demand more, for he knew that it was his way of life. Suddenly, after eerie lightning, unnerving thunderstorm occurred, followed by torrential rain. A moment later, the incandescent light bulbs, one in his room & another in the kitchen, began to flicker, and went out. Then, his mother began to grope for a candle & a lighter. Bishal, with his eyes opened, was about to be lost in his reverie, when an awfully tremendous thunderstorm occurred, and he cowered in fear. His mother lit the candle, and it began to flicker softly, permeating the pool of yellow effect. With a sense of foreboding, he curled up with a ragged blanket.
“Bishal! Ahoy Bishal! Are you asleep?,” the mother, coming to his room, shouted to be heard above the deafening downpour.
He didn’t respond. The mother closed the rustic hard-hewn wooden door of his room, thinking that he might be sleeping.
Bishal softly closed his eyes. Shreds of thoughts were swarming in his brains, and swiftly, a couple of questions occupied his mind; where may my father be? Is he again in a tavern, imbibing too much alcohol? Arcane shivers kept running down his spine. He couldn’t do anything but to avoid the swarms, and set out for a deep and dreamless sleep.
An hour might have passed. Suddenly, the sound of someone blootering the kitchen’s door made his mother scream, and Bishal’s eyes were, involuntarily, wide-opened, abruptly awakened. Bishal, at once, recognized his father’s drunken bellows of rage. But he couldn’t pay heed to the sitch, for his eyes were full of sleep amidst the drowsy downpour.
No sooner had he closed his eyes for a few minutes than he heard his mother sniveling. This time, not only his eyes opened but also his mind awakened. He got up, and walked silently to the door, that was ajar. He dared not let a door creak. He stood as though awestruck, staring at the dreadful scene yonder through the small opening.
With a faint light of inconsistently flickering candle-flame, Bishal saw the execrable fist of his father landed furiously on his mother. Suddenly, lightning struck, followed by a thunderstorm. What else would that poor boy need for his heart to be pounded like a jackhammer? Tears began to well from his eyes. He stood stupefied.
The father, at that time, was giddy, apoplectic with rage. His eyes were suffused with anger. He was abusing her, vituperating her. Anger, demoness and horror were all depicted on his face. Fist after fist; Blow after blow; each strike seemed to be more gut-wrenching than the last. Blabbering out whatever words came to his mouth, he incessantly banged his fist down upon her fragile body. She could do nothing other than weeping, holding her head between her hands; begging for no more fists. She was more dead than alive. He looked at her with an expression of infinite aversion and his lips were quivering with anger. Another WRATHFUL fist and she sobbed violently which slit his soul up like a razor. In paroxysm of convulsive despair she threw herself across her bed and hid her face in her hands. Blows became more and more harsh; the cries became louder and louder.
“Why, why do you torture me so terribly?,” she wailed. He goes on striking, yelling, “You, cunt, deserve nasty beatings.” She kept on wailing, “Why do you delight to see me suffering?" The wails and moans flowed on, more agonizing, more plaintive, more prolonged. He, then, picked whatever he could get in his hand and threw them at her, yelling, “You, the source of all trouble! You, the unluckiest bitch!” She sank into oblivion, prostrating her lifeless-like body. Relentless father pinioned her in both her arms and flung her away. She suffered so much that her scream died away in her breast. With a callous threatening gesture he commanded her to be silent. Her body was shuddering all over. She tried hard to suppress her sobs. She clutched her pillow in both hands and thrusted her face into it. A whole century in tears could she spend with the memory of such painful nights.
With a grimace, Bishal stood still, not knowing what he should do, watching the dreadful scene cowardly. Bishal felt terribly ashamed, so ashamed that his father, to him, worth no more than a ditch. Fortunately, his father stopped, well-nigh exhausted, perspiring heavily. It seemed, to Bishal, as if his father’s inebriated wildness dissipated. He, hardly able to control himself, fell down unconsciously. She was smeared with tears with convulsive weeping. At last the candle that was burning in the corner began to waver, and then it flickered and went out. Silence reigned. That was, for Bishal, unbearable, and going to his bed, he threw himself on his bed and hid his face in his hands. With the dreadful scene in his mind, he could not sleep a wink that day. He, weeping, murmured with utter repugnance, “I knew not until now to what point of insanity a so-called gentleman can stoop down!”
