Chapter 4: Bruises and Realisations

Mom and I went back to our flat in Kaveripur. This was our little home with Dad. She ran a bath for me. The sharp smell of Dettol and Lifebuoy soap filled the air, mixing with the faint salt of old tears. In the steamy bathroom, I saw the marks under Amma’s slightly open collar. Dad had hit her.

The steam fogged the cracked mirror. Amma’s hands moved mechanically, checking the water, pouring in Dettol. My heart dropped at the angry red marks on her skin. I turned away, suddenly feeling grown up, my stomach knotted with fear.

I suddenly understood something. Maybe Dad’s love was just an act. In my class, Gaurav’s dad looked gentle but abused his mom. At PTA meetings, she wore sunglasses, but the bruises showed. Amma found her a lawyer friend to help her fight the case. I guess they understood each other.

I remembered Amma comforting Gaurav’s mother, fingers flying over her phone to message her sewing group friend who knew a lawyer. Maybe love, the kind in old movies and fairy tales, was all fiction.

I pressed my lips together, refusing to cry. There were bite marks on Amma’s collarbone. Red spots and bruises on her chest. It must have hurt. No wonder she cried at night when she thought I was asleep. But I heard Dad say he wanted to bite her, then Amma cried harder. But during the day, there was no conflict. Dad was good at acting. Scumbag.

Amma’s tears were always silent, soaking her pillow while she hugged my old stuffed elephant. The sounds at night haunted me, but in the morning, she’d tuck my hair behind my ear and pack my tiffin with a brave smile. I never let her see my tears. We both learned to hide our pain in daylight.

After the bath, Amma wiped my tears with the edge of her dupatta, her own face unreadable but proud. In that moment, I knew I had to be strong for her, too.