The Broom

It was a small house in the slums opposite to where I was staying , having a small square window that showed a lot more than the house had to present to people who passed by.

It all started when the broom moved across the window. The broom here used in a metaphorical sense. To me it seemed like she was hitting the child, with a broom. But in the hands of the woman, the child must have seen it as something much more intense. Something that she feared.

The girl sat in the corner, thrust over there taking blow after blow from the very thing that removed dirt and dust below her very feet. Her only refuge was a red piece of cloth that she could use to protect herself. The blows kept coming one after another, the woman making sure not to leave even one part of the child’s body unscathed.

She wore a yellow Pant and an olive green top. The blows kept coming and the pant now spotted a red makeover in the right leg.

I could hear the phrase coming to life “your blood starts boiling” and I could feel the goose bumps coming onto my hand.

But I did not do anything... No I dint. I did absolutely nothing.

Or wait.

I guess I did something. I watched and watched till she couldn’t possibly strain her vocal cords anymore.

The woman or the ‘tyrant’ as I recall her or whoever it was justified it to her neighbors when they came rushing in to ask as to what had transpired, with a reason I guess that even she wasn’t content with. The small girl who couldn’t possibly take it anymore in despair made an action of jumping out the window. The window that was the screen to my eyes.

But as she took her position at the window and looked outside. And as her eyes met mine we both knew at that time that her two little feet wouldn’t take of the ground, and now I wonder would they have? Was it Fear of Death that held her back or Lack of energy that held her back.

The lady now was frustrated and the stunt by the girl infuriated her even more. She gagged the girl’s mouth with a piece of some filthy cloth and resorted to choking her.

All the girl could now do is cry till her the tears stopped rolling down her cheeks or till vocal cords gave away from screaming louder than the music being played at a distance.

Was the violence justified? Was the reason justified?

To hit a 7-8 year old kid to that extent? As I type in this I am tempted to ask myself if this question is really justified?

I don’t have the answer to that question but in the evening when the whole fiasco is repeated with the drunken man taking the lady’s place and the lady shifting onto the girls place…

Little by little I see the cloth of destiny being woven and as I look closer it is done by none other than Karma.