Circle of Life
The fading orange of the sky reminded him of the cheeks which went red yesterday due to the thrashing he received from his father. The colour and the pain had receded but there was a constant ache in his heart. Why my parents are always so unreasonable? yeah, he understood, smoking, as is written, must be injurious to health but is the constant beating useful in some way? He knew of peoples’ parents who never raised their voices on their children but his parents somewhat act like they get pleasure from the atrocities they commit on him. He had thought of running away from the house but there was nowhere to go. "May be, I should kill them?” he laughed at the thought; it seemed too childish and so the life went on with its mirth, joy, triumph and losses and every other emotion constantly interfered by his father's beatings. I would never act so unreasonable when I will have children of my own, he decided. He grew along with the fees paid for his education and the height of the cycle he rode but the pain remained with him and the thrashing continued.
His parents seemed to be normal. Dad started his day with newspaper and chai in hand. Mom did the household chores. They talked like any other person of same age on the streets but sometimes they turned into monsters trying to gobble up the things he loved and he was fed up with their constant preaching about a good boy with good friends who loved good books and followed a good time table and ate good nutritious food and they termed his constant bickering about all these ‘good’ stuffs as a passing thing which every person in his teenage years faces. But he was sure that these things will remain with him for life because may be they are not that ‘good’ but they are right for him.
One day while getting bored sitting on a sofa watching television while his mom snored sprawled on the same sofa. He thought of changing to Ftv to get some real entertainment. He lowered the volume and checked for any irregularities in mom’s snoring. There was none. He looked at her and then the realization dawned. He looked at her feet. There were creases and cracks and skin made hard showing years she has spent in this world. He imagined of the time when the skin was soft and new, when his mom wore salvar kameezes and not saris, when she made some hearts skip a beat, when she played some stupid games in the evenings, when she had parents who were always worried because of her ‘passing thing which every person in his teenage year faces’; when she was HIM. He thought of the days when mom must have been scolded for returning so late in evening or when her father picked her ears for getting poor marks in the exams or when deathly silence must have taken over the house because her brother had seen her with some lafanga. He realized the bonding he shared with her leading her life in some way or the other. From that day nothing changed in his parents beating and preaching, but now he loved to get beaten up. He loved to think that may be his beating in someway reminded his parents of their childhood, of the mistakes they had made and in someway made all this shouting and chaos relevant.
His parents seemed to be normal. Dad started his day with newspaper and chai in hand. Mom did the household chores. They talked like any other person of same age on the streets but sometimes they turned into monsters trying to gobble up the things he loved and he was fed up with their constant preaching about a good boy with good friends who loved good books and followed a good time table and ate good nutritious food and they termed his constant bickering about all these ‘good’ stuffs as a passing thing which every person in his teenage years faces. But he was sure that these things will remain with him for life because may be they are not that ‘good’ but they are right for him.
One day while getting bored sitting on a sofa watching television while his mom snored sprawled on the same sofa. He thought of changing to Ftv to get some real entertainment. He lowered the volume and checked for any irregularities in mom’s snoring. There was none. He looked at her and then the realization dawned. He looked at her feet. There were creases and cracks and skin made hard showing years she has spent in this world. He imagined of the time when the skin was soft and new, when his mom wore salvar kameezes and not saris, when she made some hearts skip a beat, when she played some stupid games in the evenings, when she had parents who were always worried because of her ‘passing thing which every person in his teenage year faces’; when she was HIM. He thought of the days when mom must have been scolded for returning so late in evening or when her father picked her ears for getting poor marks in the exams or when deathly silence must have taken over the house because her brother had seen her with some lafanga. He realized the bonding he shared with her leading her life in some way or the other. From that day nothing changed in his parents beating and preaching, but now he loved to get beaten up. He loved to think that may be his beating in someway reminded his parents of their childhood, of the mistakes they had made and in someway made all this shouting and chaos relevant.
like ur writing :) skill.
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