He was beaten. Everyday.
He rebelled, he tried to stop it, he pushed his drunk father away. But he was slapped one more time, he was pushed across the table one more time, he was punched one more time.
And then came the time of just letting it all go. He faced the punches, he faced the slaps. He just sat there, doing nothing. He stopped fighting it, and he let the pain hurt him. The pain damaged him emotionally more than it did physically.
This was his story every night. The lantern was switched off and it was dark. At 2 in the night, he would be woken up by a slap. His father picked him up from the shoulders and beat him. His mother never came inside the room, too scared or a part of his father's plan.
But every morning, he got up. He got up and cleaned himself as best he could, and he went to work. He was a ten year old working boy with bruises all over his body. All day, he would look forward to those ten minutes. The ten minutes when the forty year old woman would come and buy icecreams for around fifteen children his age.
That day, she noticed. She saw all those bruises and scratches and she pulled him aside. She enquired as to what happened. He kept shut, he never told about his alchoholic father and his ignorant mother to anyone. She asked him a few more times, but he kept mum. There was a look on his face that pulled the woman towards him. That look portrayed his resentment, his dejection, his vulnerability, his bravery.
And so she got him pulled out of the measly construction site and brought him to the park with her. The next day, she got him a blackboard and a chalk - the best things he would ever come across. And she gave him alphabets, then words, then sentences. She gave him knowledge with not only words, but also with crafts, and with music and dance.
Till the age of seventeen, he would hurl through the torture at night, wake up every morning, and go to the park. And he would smile. The woman started getting a first aid kit since he was eleven. She wanted to report his father a lot of times, but he never allowed it. He wanted to do this on his own.
Now, at the age of forty three, he is a teacher, he is a provider of education. And he went to her funeral just yesterday and thanked her for the blackboard and the chalk.
He rebelled, he tried to stop it, he pushed his drunk father away. But he was slapped one more time, he was pushed across the table one more time, he was punched one more time.
And then came the time of just letting it all go. He faced the punches, he faced the slaps. He just sat there, doing nothing. He stopped fighting it, and he let the pain hurt him. The pain damaged him emotionally more than it did physically.
This was his story every night. The lantern was switched off and it was dark. At 2 in the night, he would be woken up by a slap. His father picked him up from the shoulders and beat him. His mother never came inside the room, too scared or a part of his father's plan.
But every morning, he got up. He got up and cleaned himself as best he could, and he went to work. He was a ten year old working boy with bruises all over his body. All day, he would look forward to those ten minutes. The ten minutes when the forty year old woman would come and buy icecreams for around fifteen children his age.
That day, she noticed. She saw all those bruises and scratches and she pulled him aside. She enquired as to what happened. He kept shut, he never told about his alchoholic father and his ignorant mother to anyone. She asked him a few more times, but he kept mum. There was a look on his face that pulled the woman towards him. That look portrayed his resentment, his dejection, his vulnerability, his bravery.
And so she got him pulled out of the measly construction site and brought him to the park with her. The next day, she got him a blackboard and a chalk - the best things he would ever come across. And she gave him alphabets, then words, then sentences. She gave him knowledge with not only words, but also with crafts, and with music and dance.
Till the age of seventeen, he would hurl through the torture at night, wake up every morning, and go to the park. And he would smile. The woman started getting a first aid kit since he was eleven. She wanted to report his father a lot of times, but he never allowed it. He wanted to do this on his own.
Now, at the age of forty three, he is a teacher, he is a provider of education. And he went to her funeral just yesterday and thanked her for the blackboard and the chalk.
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