One Night...

The fire was now burning brightly, its devilish claws tearing down our humble abode, and casting a mournful red glow on all our faces. The hut, which had covered our heads for as long as I can remember, the only place that we could call ours, was now being mercilessly consumed by the inferno, what mother called the form of the devil.
None of it made any sense to me. It was a perfectly calm evening, until mother had come crying frantically into the room, saying that the sahibs had come to burn down the house. Who are they to burn down the house, I had asked. She said something about slum demolition…and the government…none of it made any sense. But she said there was no time to explain, and we had to pack up and leave the house as soon as possible. So I put my two books, two pairs of clothes, and my bowl into a sack. Everyone was in a frantic hurry. In the confusion, Rashmi, my sister, had broken my spectacles.
I ran out of the house, my vision blurred, and looked around. I could make out the figure of my mother, in her favorite sari, which she had worn as it was the festival of dushera. She was now kneeling in front of the people whom she called sahibs, and she was crying and begging them for something. The woman I almost worshipped, the one who had stood through all the troubles and taken care of us selflessly, was now down on her knees and begging, tugging at their feet, banging her head on the ground, and crying. She was occasionally kicked on the head, or pushed away by the sahibs.
And all of a sudden it started. Our hut, made of straw and bamboo, was on fire. The sahibs were laughing, for some reason. The sight of mother banging her head at their feet was becoming intolerable. The sahibs laughed. The house burned. My mother cried. My sisters cried. None of it made sense to me.
My name is Prakash. I live in Mahim in Mumbai, in the slum area. My mother takes care of me and my three sisters. My father died when I was very young, I wish he were still alive. I am now 13 years of age. My mother works at the houses of the rich people. They are very nice; they often give her their saris. Mother leaves the house at 6 in the morning, and returns at 8 in the night. I go to a Marathi medium school during the day. I like school, the subjects are interesting. Then, at night, we all sit together and have some food. Later in the night, some men come into the house, who say they have work with my mother. Mother has told me to call them my uncles; she says they give her money. They go with her into the inside room, and I don’t know when they leave. I don’t know why they come. All the days are the same, except sometimes mother returns very late, and then there is no dinner. I love my sisters, I like playing with them. And thus, life was just usual, calm and cheerful at our humble abode, until…
The flames were now subsiding. The house was almost completely down. The sahibs, still abusing and laughing, were getting into their car. Mother had given up begging them, and now she was banging her head on the ground and calling out to God. My three sisters stood huddled next to me, all crying frantically. So now we didn’t have a house to live in anymore. The sahibs drove away. My mother stood up, her eyes watery. One night, was all it had taken to ruin a family’s life. One small, insignificant night, had made us vagabonds.
There was silence. A heavy silence, which was filled with immense grief. The stars in the sky looked down on us, as if grieving at the world’s selfishness. Nobody talked, nobody moved. In this one night, a family had been made homeless, while the rest of the world continued merrily with its life. Our hearts were heavy with grief; the piercing silence said it all. Then Mother came to us. Back to her composed self. Putting her hands around us lovingly, she led us off, away from our destroyed home, into the darkness, somewhere within which lay our bed for the night.

-Tejas Itraj