I ran all the way home from the playground without stopping. The older boys had beaten me up a little worse than they usually did but I still managed to muster enough strength to run as far as I could from them.

I knew my mother would be the next one to thrash me for getting into a fight which was ironical, if you know what I mean. But I had no choice. I couldn't tell her the real reason the boys picked on me.

We were the poorest on the block, my mother was a sex worker and I had no idea who my biological father is. This is a massive taboo in my society. The kids would call me "Stinky the Pooh", "Smellind" (my name is Milind), "the bathless wonder", "the Ren and Stinky show", these are the slightly better names.

I kept looking over my shoulder to see if I was being followed. The coast was clear. I saw the boys huddled up together as if they were plotting my next round of torture. I shuddered partly out of the fear of facing my mother's wrath and partly over what had happened.

Today was different. Today they got iron rods instead of their regular punching, hitting and kicking me to the ground.

I opened the rickety gate cautiously and looked around for my mother. She was drawing water from the well. She must have been engrossed because she didn't hear me. Judging by the number of buckets she had to fill, I knew I'd have enough time to wash up and hide the bloodied and torn clothes.

I slid in through the door and went straight to the bathroom. The sounds of the rods raining blows on my body echoed in my head. The pain was so intense that I couldn't tell which part of me was hurting.

I washed up well making sure there was no evidence of blood. I looked in the small cracked mirror that was placed above a broken sink. There was no blood, no bruises, I looked completely fine.

I stood on the bath stool and peeped out of the small window close to the ceiling. Mother was still drawing water from the well.

I went to my bedroom, rummaged through a small rusted trunk that was kept under the bed and pulled out a fresh pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I then proceeded towards the front door. I stepped out apprehensively and began the walk towards my mother.

Someone came to our gate. It looked like Jairam. Jairam was also like me but less smarter so the other boys didn't look at him as a threat.

"What's he doing here?" I frowned.

He ran to my mother. He seemed almost hysterical about something. I walked towards them.

"Aunty-ji, you need to come with me," I heard him say.

"Jai, what's the matter?" I asked but they had already run out of the gate.

I ran after them. I saw my mother wiping her hands on her pink sari as she ran, the bun she had tied her hair in had become lose and her *cascaded to her waist. My mother was beautiful.

They were heading towards the playground. The boys were still there huddled up in a circle. They looked like they were discussing something.

My mother charged towards them and pushed them aside and dropped to her knees. She cradled a mangled heap of blood and bones in her arms. I moved closer.

"Amma," I tapped her lightly on her shoulder. "Amma, I'm okay, don't worry. I'm right here by your side."

My mother looked up at the skies and let out a bloodcurdling scream.

"Murderers! You killed my son," she hollered. "Why? Why did you do that? Why did you kill him?"

"What? No!" I was stunned. "Amma, I'm here. I'm okay."

My mother wept hysterically as she rocked back and forth. I looked down at her arms. The face was bloodied it was hard to recognise who she was holding. That was the shirt I had on when I left the house, it was torn now and soaked with blood. That was me she was holding. I was the mangled heap of blood and bones.

(Experimented with a few Hindi words here and there. Decided to Indianise this story.)

(Say "No" to bullying!)

© Charmaine deSouza