That Little Boy

The boy was pleading with his parents for something that he saw through the store window, maybe a toy, as little boys usually do. The street was busy with tourists, and the store window displayed a host of toys and knick-knacks that would pique the interest of any child. I could see that his father was irritated and was trying to move along. With him were his mother and little sister. I could sense that the mother could feel the father’s irritation. She gently persuaded the boy to listen to his father.

I watched the scene unfold from the car’s back seat along with my sister and cousin. It was the December of 2000, and we were vacationing in Thekkady. My parents had stepped out for something, and the car was parked in front of the store.

The father suddenly turned around and slapped the little boy’s face. It sounded like a sharp firecracker going off. That man’s rage was so disproportional to the boy’s innocent pleading.

The boy was stunned and then let out a wail. Before that man could raise his hand again, the mother instantly hugged him with all her protective instincts and wrapped him in the folds of her saree. Then, she shot a glance at us seated in the car. She knew we had seen it, while we pretended that we had not. But it never works.

It was one of those moments — a moment of shame, guilt and shredded dignity.

It’s been 21 years — a Christmas season like this. But, I cannot forget the rage on that man’s face, neither the innocence of the child nor the pain of the mother.

Whenever I think of that little boy, I hope he grew up alright. Maybe the memories of that horrible moment were erased by some beautiful forces of nature working in tandem with time.

I hope his father found peace with whatever it was that fuelled his rage.

And, more than anything else, I hope she, his mother, watched him and his sister grow up as happy children, at peace with the world.