A Day for Double Celebration (1427 words)

“I am Deepa, studying in Class Six, and I wish to narrate an incident that happened almost every day.

It was around seven in the evening, and my father was due home at any moment. I was washing the vessels while my mother put the finishing touches to the dinner she had prepared. We wanted to complete the kitchen work before he came.

I had offered to wash the vessels, though she was reluctant to let me. She always became tense around that time, and not without reason. My father was an alcoholic and, when drunk—as he invariably was in the evenings—he became violent. He would beat my mother black and blue for no reason, venting on her all the frustrations he had suffered during the day. Then he would leave her bruised and sobbing on the floor, hurling profanities at her, gulp down the food she had prepared, spread himself on the sofa and fall asleep, snoring loudly.

It was a daily ritual that we dreaded but could do little to avoid.

Whenever I pleaded with my mother to leave him and move away, she would always say, “He is a good man when he is sober. He doesn’t know what he is doing when he is drunk.”

I heard the sound of his car. Soon, he was banging impatiently on the door. My mother hurried to open it. I hid behind the kitchen door, afraid of his drunken fury. I hated him intensely.

A resounding slap was followed by his angry shout.

“You slut! Why do you keep me waiting outside? Don’t you hear me banging on the door? Are you deaf?”

“Could you not wait for a few moments? I was in the kitchen making rasam and waiting for it to boil,” my mother pleaded, holding her burning cheek.

She knew he was completely drunk and dreaded the rage that was about to follow.

“How dare you talk back to me today? I will teach you a lesson you will never forget!” he roared.

He pulled off his belt and lashed at her mercilessly. She cringed in pain and begged him to stop. Finally, he stopped, kicked her and staggered towards the sofa.

I waited until he had fallen asleep before tiptoeing towards my mother. She was sobbing, more hurt by his inhuman behaviour than by the pain of his blows. I caressed her and asked her to come to her bedroom.

“He has fallen asleep without eating his dinner. You go to your room. I will join you soon. Don’t worry. This is nothing new,” my mother whispered.

“Don’t you have any self-respect? Why do you allow him to demean you like this? Who cares whether he eats his dinner or not?” I said angrily.

She patted my cheek with a faint smile and signalled me to go to my room.

I could not sleep for a long time. I kept thinking about how this cruel routine could ever be changed. The next day was my mother’s birthday. I wanted it to be a happy day for her, free from harsh words and violence.

Let me confess that, on the days when my father was particularly cruel to my mother, I sometimes wished, in my anger and hatred, that he were dead.

The next day at school, I sat alone on a bench, watching my classmates play. My thoughts were with my mother. I wanted to buy her a gift but had no money.

Suddenly, someone gently placed a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to see my teacher, Swarna Madam, smiling at me.

“Why aren’t you playing with the others? And why do you look so sad?” she asked.

Did I ever tell you how much I loved my teacher, Swarna Madam? I trusted her deeply and confided in her whenever things became unbearable at home. She knew my father’s name and where he worked. I also knew that her brother worked in the city police force, though I had never imagined that this fact would one day change our lives.

“Ma’am, today is my mother’s birthday. I have nothing to give her. But more than a gift, I want it to be a happy day for her, free from the daily scolding and beating. I shudder at the thought of that drunken monster coming home in the evening and hitting her,” I told her.

“No, Deepa,” she said gently. “You should not speak of your father like that. I do not like it at all. Did you say today is your mother’s birthday? Don’t worry. I hope your father comes home sober and is kind to your mother. Meet me before you go home. Now hurry to your class; the bell is ringing.”

When I met her after the evening bell, Swarna Madam hugged me.

“Don’t worry, Deepa. Your father will be nice to your mother today and, hopefully, hereafter. Here is a small bouquet, a token gift from both of us for your mother. Give her my regards and good wishes.”

It was only five when I reached home. The house was clean, and the air was fragrant with incense from the puja room. The sweet aroma of cardamom and saffron rose from the kheer my mother had prepared. She looked charming in her clean sari.

My father was not expected before seven, yet my mother kept pacing near the front door, waiting for him.

Then I heard a gentle tap on the door.

Who could it be at that hour, I wondered.

My mother hurried to open it, as was her wont. Her face suddenly lit up.

My father entered, singing the “Happy Birthday” tune, much to her delight and surprise. Behind him stood a man of his age in a police uniform.

“Meet my college mate, Asokan,” my father said. “I learnt only today that he is a senior police officer in our city. He happened to meet me at my office, much to my surprise, just as I was leaving. He insisted on coming home with me. I couldn’t shake him off and go to my usual haunt.”

He gave a sheepish smile.

Then he looked around and asked, “Where is little Deepa?”

I ran towards him from my corner, unable to believe what I was seeing.

“Deepa, I haven’t forgotten that today is your mother’s birthday. I got the hint from the banner you put up in the dining room—‘Happy Birthday!’” he said with a loud guffaw.

He handed two packets to my mother. One clearly contained a cake from a famous bakery. The contents of the other remained a mystery.

“Do you want to know how this buddy of mine found me after so many years?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“It seems his sister works at your school. She knows where I work and is also aware that today is your mother’s birthday. Apparently, you have been telling your teacher every little thing about us and all that happens at home!”

“No, Appa,” I protested. “I don’t gossip with anyone. I only talk to my class teacher and answer the questions she asks me.”

“Is Swarna your class teacher?” his police friend asked.

I nodded.

Suddenly, I remembered that Swarna Madam had once told me that her brother worked in the city police force. Everything became clear.

Swarna Madam had quietly taken action. She had arranged for her brother to meet my father and, by a remarkable coincidence, he had turned out to be my father’s old college mate. Perhaps that unexpected meeting, the presence of someone my father respected and probably his strong advice, had made him pause and reconsider the life he was leading.

I now understood that Swarna Madam had not merely comforted me or given me a bouquet. She had taken my distress seriously and had found a way to bring help into our home.

I ran inside and began setting the table with the cake and candles. Then I brought out the bouquet I had kept hidden and placed it in the empty vase.

The house was ready for celebration.

My mother stood in an expensive new dress at the centre of it all, smiling through tears of happiness.

That day, I felt that we were celebrating for two reasons: my mother’s birthday and a day of love and peace without bitterness. But really, it seemed more than a double celebration.

Thanks to my dear Swarna Madam, it was the day Hope entered our home—a hope for love and harmony that would remain forever.”