I came home with an extra pencil and eraser today, he picked me up, my dad, and put a hand on the left cheek and rubbed gently.
It’s not good to take other’s thing, give it back tomorrow, he said with a loving smile. He pulled me closer, you shouldn’t do that again, he said and kissed. I was five years old. Who was I to listen to him?
I was eating chocolate, looking here and there, hoping no one was watching me. How was the chocolate, he asked when I came home. Colours of happiness on my face replaced with a blank expression.
He didn’t ask how I got the chocolate. He probably knew I must have stolen it from somewhere, from someone. He got angry, he wanted to slap but my mom couldn’t let him do so. I was just seven years old. He threw a few words in anger. I got more homework and no dinner. But who was I to listen to him?
I was playing cricket with friends on the street. My father came from the office, watched us play for some time. He smiled and taught me the right way to do bowling. I came home once the match was finished. I was happy. I didn’t realise, I came with the ball which was mine but it wasn’t supposed to be mine.
Is it yours? he asked, he was calm this time. I searched for a lie but couldn’t make a sentence. I nodded. From where did you get the money for this? He raised his voice. I couldn't answer. The expression on mom's face changed. “Tujhe Sab Hai Pata Hai Na Maa”
She was able to connect the dots. Hundred rupees were missing from her purse a week ago. It wasn't the first time I took money from her purse without permission. It wasn't the first time my dad was asking. It was my habit. It had happened a lot many times and it was happening more frequent now. But who was I to listen to them?
He slapped me. Mom couldn't save me this time. She didn't want to I guess. I could read her face. Slap..slap..slap. It didn't stop till I fell on the floor. It followed with a long lecture.
Mom used to stop him. She used to console me. She used to advise me against such act. But she didn't do anything. Father left home in a disappointment. I didn't care for him. But something was troubling me. Mom's silence. I cried her name. She just stood there, leaned against the wall, silent. She didn't help me stand up. She didn't say a word. I was there, looking at her, reading every expression on her face. Her silence on that night was speaking louder than words. I was there to listen to her silence.
And it never happened again…
Indeed silence speaks louder than words…
I have begun to realize that you can listen to silence and learn from it. It has a quality and a dimension all its own.
- Chaim Potok
