The first time it happened, the child did not understand what he was seeing.
It was late evening. The room was dim, lit only by the single bulb above. His mother had finished cooking and was sitting on the floor, folding clothes. His father was standing near the door, phone in his hand. His voice was louder than usual.
His mother asked something simple. It was not a question meant to start a fight. It was about where he had been, or why he was talking so late. The child didn't remember the exact words later but only the tone. It wasn't angry. It was tired.
His father reacted immediately.
His voice rose, sharp and fast. Words came out quickly, too quickly for the child to follow. He only understood that his father was angry, and that his mother had done something wrong, even though he didn't know what.
His mother stood up slowly. She tried to explain. She spoke softly, the same way she always did. That seemed to make things worse.
The next moments were confusing. The child remembered sound before meaning. A sudden movement. His mother stumbling backward. The sharp noise of something hitting skin. Her body falling against the wall.
He froze.
He had never seen his father move like that. The uniform was not there. The authority he imagined was gone. This was just a man, breathing heavily, standing in a small room that suddenly felt too tight.
His mother didn't scream. She held her face with one hand and leaned against the wall. Her eyes were open, but unfocused. For a moment, no one spoke.
Then she sat down slowly, like her legs could no longer hold her.
The child stood still. He didn't cry. He didn't move toward her. His body felt heavy, like it wasn't listening to his thoughts. He looked at his father, waiting for something , maybe an explanation, an apology, anything that would make sense of what he had seen.
Nothing came.
His father walked out of the room.
That night, his mother did not talk.
Not to him. Not to anyone.
She lay on the bed, facing the wall. When the child tried to speak to her, she did not respond. When he touched her arm, she did not move it away, but she didn't hold his hand either.
The next day, she was taken to the hospital.
He remembered the smell.. Smell of the medicine, alcohol, and something cold. He remembered sitting quietly on a chair that was too big for him, swinging his legs back and forth while adults talked above him. Words like "injury" and "treatment" floated around, but no one explained anything to him.
His mother did not speak for three days.
Not even to him.
That silence stayed with him longer than the violence itself.
When they returned home, the room felt different. The walls were the same, the bed was in the same place, but something had shifted. His mother moved slowly now. She avoided looking directly at his father. His father acted normal, as if nothing had happened.
The child watched closely.
He learned that bad things could happen suddenly and then be ignored. That no one explained them. That silence was expected.
School became his escape.
In the van, sitting next to Sumikxya, he felt lighter. She talked about small things like games, teachers, things she didn't like about homework. He listened more than he spoke. Sitting next to her felt safe in a way he could not explain.
One day at school, an older boy tried to take his tiffin box. The boy was bigger, louder, and confident that no one would stop him. The child didn't know what to do. He held onto the box tightly but didn't fight back.
Sumikxya stepped forward.
She didn't shout. She talked to the boy like she was negotiating something important. She told him to leave it, said it wasn't worth it, said she would tell a teacher. The boy hesitated, looked around, and finally walked away.
The child stared at her.
He felt something he didn't have a word for then. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude.
Later, there was another incident, the one ...one that embarrassed him deeply.
He had an accident at school. He pooped on his clothes and froze in fear, not knowing what to do. He thought he would be shouted at or laughed at.
Sumikxya noticed immediately.
Without making a big deal, she helped him clean up. She took his dirty clothes, wrapped them carefully in a plastic bag, and put them into her own bag. She didn't complain. She didn't tell anyone else.
When they reached home, she threw the bag away herself.
She was only one year older than him.
That kindness stayed with him in a quiet way. It didn't feel dramatic. It felt normal. like how things should be.
At home, things continued as before. His parents did not talk about the hospital. They did not talk about the fight. His father continued his work. His mother continued her silence, forgiving without saying the word.
The child, without realizing it, began to change.
He became more stubborn. He spoke back to his mother. He ignored her warnings. He did things that hurt her feelings, though he did not understand why he was doing them.
Later, he would realize that he was copying what he had seen. That children learn behavior long before they understand right and wrong.
At that time, he only knew that something inside him felt restless.
And that the room, no matter how small, no longer felt safe in the same way.