[Previously in this series - When World Disappears]

It all started when I was 7. Mr Omar, he was the first. He owned a grocery store near my house, a big one at that. I wasn’t allowed to go to the store on my own because of the traffic. People do drive crazy.

So, I used to go there with my brother. We used to decide which chocolates to buy. Sometimes, he even told me hide some in my pockets. “But that is stealing!” the voice inside me screamed. I told my brother I will never steal. He just smiled and disappeared.

Omar’s house was above his grocery store, a common practice in India. Omar, our common family man Indian, was perfectly normal in every aspect of his life. He was around 45 years of age at that time. A strip of his hair was turning grey. Those big hairy arms always made me imagine the ease by which he arranged those huge tin canisters around his shop. His eyes showed… experience. He talked to his customers charmingly, and everyone liked him. I liked him too.
But this Omar is just one side of the coin. One summer evening, I went to his shop with my brother, to find it unattended. He told me to go and check at his house upstairs to see if anyone is there. I thought that was a reasonable thing to do because an unmanned shop would encourage stealing. I was… naïve.
I went upstairs, carefully stepping on those big cement stairs, hoping I’d not fall. The waiting room wasn’t lit. My brother, who was behind me, knocked his legs on one of the old wooden chairs kept at a corner. Thankfully, it didn’t make much noise.
But someone else did. We heard a painful scream from inside the house. We both got scared. But my brother had this malevolent smile, which scared me more. The screams continued. It was a woman. My brother egged me to go inside and look for ourselves. I wanted to see it too so that we can help whoever is hurt.
Holding our breath, we walked. I still remember those careful steps around the house. Stealth. It was I who peeked inside the door first. My brother seemed to already know what was happening. I placed my eyes on the keyhole.

What I saw bewildered me. I couldn’t comprehend it. It was Omar, beating his wife up. Smashing her head against the mirror repeatedly, he told her to shut her mouth or else neighbours will come. “You woman!” he shouted as he slapped her on her right cheek. The blow cut her lip and it spurted blood on the floor. The mirror had thin streams of blood flowing downwards from the point of impact.
Her screaming continued as my brother pulled me back. He took my arm and pulled me towards the stairs “We have to leave, now!”
“But, shouldn’t we help her?” I retorted.
“We aren’t ready yet.”
With that I was dragged down the big cement stairs and towards our home.
“Why didn’t we call the police?” I asked my brother.
“They won’t do anything”, he said.
Even at that age, I knew he was right.
“Why was he beating her though?” I asked.
“We’ll find that out together. But don’t say a word to anyone.” He replied.

I was always good at keeping secrets. It is easy when there is no one around to ask them.
That night in bed, I tried to think of the possible reasons and justifications for Omar to do that. After all, we each have our own form of justice. He may be right in beating her, or dead wrong. Without proof, we shouldn’t come to a judgement.

But gathering proof was easy. A little innocent remark to children near the street, and they would spill all stories they know. They told us this has been going for many years and it has something to do with Omar’s wife’s father not leaving anything to Omar’s family in his will.
People would to go extreme lengths to express their disagreement. We had proof.

“What do we do now?” I asked my brother eagerly “Do we tell our parents?”
“They will not be able to do anything. We should forget this incident.” He calmly replied.
“Forget it? Why?” I asked flabbergasted.
“It would be easy that way. We have to wait a long time.” He replied and disappeared again.

I had vowed to listen to my brother. So, I wasn’t going to do anything against his wishes. But I never forgot.
I still went to Omar’s shop for chocolates with my brother. But now his hairy hands reminded me of the beating his wife got.
Well, at least the chocolate was tasty.

Seven years passed since that incident. I was going to turn 14 soon and my brother said he had a surprise gift for me.
He took me outside Omar’s shop and asked “Remember what he did?”
How could I have forgotten it? “Yes. I do.” I replied.
“It is time to give him what he deserves”, he said with a smile.
I had seen that smile before. “Agreed”, I replied.

We both knew what had to be done. We came back to the shop at night. No one was in the shop. I shouted “Uncle Omar! Are you there?”
He hurriedly came down the stairs with his hand holding his big paunch. Ah… the troubles of old age. I asked him how he was doing and got the perfect charming answer. His skills were the same. But mine had changed. I asked him for some gloves.
“Gloves in the middle of summer?” he asked. But smiled and searched a canister for one. “Sorry, I don’t have any.”
“Oh well… that’s okay.” I replied. I slowly pushed his candy jar off the counter. It fell and the candy got scattered all over the floor.
“I am so sorry Uncle. I’ll help you with that.” I apologized.
He looked at me with annoyance but didn’t shout “No, it’s okay. I’ll do it.”
But, I didn’t listen; I came to the other side of the counter, picked up two little plastic carry bags and picked candy.
“So Uncle… tomorrow is my birthday. Guess what my brother is gifting me?” I asked while wrapping the plastic bags around my hand.
“You have a brother?” he asked.
I went behind him and with sudden dexterity I placed my hands around his neck and started strangling him.
“Of course I have a brother. We know why you beat your wife Omar.” I said, enjoying every minute of his struggle. His big hands trying to catch hold of my face. His eyes, wide in disbelief, perplexed as to what is happening to him.
Of course, I knew what was happening to him. I was squeezing his carotid arteries, restricting blood flow to the brain. In a few seconds he would be unconscious and after that… calmness. I savoured every moment of it. He was trying to say “No” in his last moments. But the answer was “Yes”.
Soon his strength gave away and he went lump.
“Good work brother”, congratulated my brother.
“Thanks for the gift”, I said. Still looking at his neck, the red marks… not many could have noticed the beautiful calmness behind the face that showed terror right now.
I left him there. We didn’t know what to do with him. While returning home, we threw the plastic bags in a drain nearby.
Next morning, his wife discovered the body, called the police. Of course they didn’t find out anything. But the neighbourhood was surprised. “Who would kill such a good man” was the whispered talk.

Even his wife was crying. Ah… love. It is such a complex emotion. It is a bittersweet symphony of memories.
If I told this to my love right now, she’d probably tell me to stay away from her and her family for I am the worst person ever. She’d probably tell me that being with me was hell come true. It probably was.

Well, I was 15 at that time. I have improved a lot since then. But there is this something which I haven’t told you from that night, something important. I ate a chocolate cake that day, and it was delicious.

[The post contains a lot of grammatical errors but I have chosen to keep it as it is. It would serve as a reminder of the benefits of proofreading and not publishing immediately.

Thanks so much to Koustabh Sarkar for always being there as a professional proofreader. ^_^ ]