Sleepless nights and painful days

Alalla! Amaaa! huunuuuu… I am up. It is one in the morning. I hold my breath to decode the waves carrying communication of pain. It is human reaction to whipping, and a child, not over five, screaming out of fear. The horrific cry is coming from the house next to mine. One is obviously a mother and other one is a boy.

Ama! Ala! Amamaahuuuuunu…

There is sound of glasses and porcelain wares breaking as the abuse continues. I contemplate between going back to sleep and preventing violence against woman and child. I hold back within the serenity of my house.

Last time I tried to play the role of a responsible citizen, in my previous neighbourhood, I was accused of having an affair with woman being abused. Husband got back at me, questioning my intention.

Anyways, the fight that was going on is not between gladiators, nor any of the fight I had witnessed in the past. It is always a drunk or a possessive bastard thrashing guts out of his wife.

Mother and child continue to cry with inflicted pain to last their life. I believe more so with the child.

I have, as a child, grown up witnessing unpleasant affairs. I worry when it will stop. So many children are exposed to domestic violence in many forms.

A five-year-old girl, who lives in my neighbourhood told me a recent story.

“Uncle, you know that Didi who works upstairs, she has marks all over her body- she has bruises on her waist,” she added, “she was whipped for a minor reason.”

I had heard of the incident- babysitter who worked and lived with  the family for last seventeen years was punished for curry that didn’t turn well- but I let her continue.

“We all make mistake, and she had made small mistake and she was punished very badly.” She concluded,” this uncle is bad than I thought, so bad of him to beat someone who cooks food for him, looks after his baby, cleans his house and clothes.”

I thought so too. Not fair. It wasn’t fair for that woman who was crying for help, when I was dwelling in my old house, either. She was going up and down the stairs, crying and asking for help. She was beaten, robed off her mobile phone to prevent from informing the police, by her husband. Concerned, when I came out of the house, she asked me to help her inform the police. I went inside to get my phone and called 113.

“Hello,Police la?”

“Yes this is police.”

“There is a woman in my building who is seeking your help.”

“Could you give me your name and address,” police from the other end added, “and your phone number please?”

I diligently gave all the information I was asked. Fifteen minutes passed and no one turned up. The woman begged me to call again. She was worried her husband might come back and beat her again. I pushed the call button again.

This time conversation with the police did not start well. Never the less, police from the other end explained why they did not react to the call I had made earlier. They receive too many of it, all pranks. They took my number again and he informed that the patrol will arrive in five minutes. 

While I was waiting outside for the police, a man was coming towards us. I asked if he saw police who were suppose to come here. He pointed to the group of them who were in the nearby junction.

“They are there,” and he asked, “who called them?” He was sincerely interested and polite in his tone.

“I called them because woman upstairs requested me.” I informed him, “she was crying and calling for help.”

He did not say a thing, but he looked at me for a while, and left.

By then the policemen were nearing the building, I went ahead to introduce myself. One of them started talking with me and rest left for the house after I told them where it was. By the time, police was satisfied with what I had to say, we went inside the house of the woman. Husband was building his own case.

“Who is this guy who called the police, now you have to tell me and the police here,” he was interrogating his wife, “what is it that you have with this guy?”

Husband was the man whom I had inquired about the arriving police earlier.

I was infuriated by what I heard. Police did not heed to what he said and took him away. He was locked for few days.

Well the story of abuse continue.A primary school kid in his essay on happiness writes, " I am happy." He adds,"I am not happy when my father and mother fights." 

Number of incidents and related offenses are growing too.

In 2009, the reported cases of assault, battery and related offences were 565 incidents, highest among the nature of crimes. It was 440 in 2008.