by Joshua Hoyt
thought.
Even though I was only 14 at that time, I decided that I will always be the pillar of strength for my husband. He should be able to ride piggy back on me if he was in trouble. I will never snatch something from one child for another. The main aim of my life was how not be like my mother.
“I hate her”, I said loudly. “I am only duty bound to be nice to her”. I was sobbing uncontrollably when I heard the psychiatrist’s soothing voice counting me out of my trance. I was back to my own world where I felt bitter and couldn’t trust anyone. “Now you are free of all that garbage you were carrying”. Discard all the garbage here and start life afresh”, he said. I nodded in agreement. Next day I called my mom and first time after many years, spoke to her for a long time. I had let the muck settle to the bottom and flow free of garbage from the past.
Back home after an eventful day, I watched my thirteen year old daughter’s face as she read the newspaper. Her anguish said the news was about something that tugged at her heart. She motioned her brother to read the news with her. His face too reflected the same distress. She exclaimed with pain in her voice, “Why can’t they just let the kids live? They will somehow grow up.”
I immediately understood what they were reading—the suicide pact—the bane of our society! That’s when parents take the lives of children before killing themselves. They do that for various reasons. One – they don’t want the children to survive them and face the very hardships they were trying to escape. Parents somehow consider children as an extension of their own person. Another – to spite the other parent. That’s pure revenge. The poor children pay the price for their parents’ revenge. Yet another reason – honour killing!
With great sorrow I read the news about a mother strangling her toddler and then killing herself. She had just seen her husband’s body dangling from the ceiling fan after a heated argument between the couple. The poor baby did not die. Instead she remained in vegetative state for days before finally giving up the fight and joining her parents.
There was another unfortunate incident when I was a teenager myself. But the incident is still fresh in my mind. It was about a railway engine driver’s unforgettable experience. On a regular day at work, he noticed a woman near the rails trying to drag three little wailing children onto the rails. They were too close for the driver to do anything but sound the horn. The mother was determined. The railway driver said that the frightened faces of the little children when the train was about to hit them would always haunt him. It haunts me too.
Would we also have become fodder for newspaper? I wondered. Being a child and being part of a discussion about a suicide pact is something only someone who has been there can understand. Even if the child survives, the incident will always remain a blot on the child’s psyche and may disrupt the feelings of trust and deep bonding with parents and others.
My story isn’t as bad, but was still bad. I did bloom to the fullest, but with some of the petals bearing scars from being eaten by worms of hate. I was fourteen when my world came crashing down – and my life was never the same again.
What does a mother feel when she is trying to poison her children? Would she remember feeding the child as a chubby toddler or as a baby? How can she feed them poison with the same hands? What goes inside a child’s face when her mother presses the pillow on her face? When a parent threatens or talks about killing you, something snaps inside you. My mother was perhaps not serious. But I was not old enough to know that. And I hated the power she had over me to kill my happiness. The hate worms ate the petals of happiness in the little bud making huge holes in the flower when it opened.
“Why can’t they just let the kids live? They will somehow grow up.” Just let them be…
About the author
Arya lives in Bangalore, India with her husband and two lovely kids. She grew up in a beach town in God’s own country Kerala.
She has enjoyed writing since she was in primary school and won many accolades for her short stories and lively paintings. Creative writer, editor and designer, Arya has worked with leaders in publishing industry before following her passion of fiction writing.
Despite working full time as a Content Manager in an IT firm (a role which she loves), Arya manages to find time for writing. You can catch her on her blogs ‘Reflections’ (https://reflectionsharsha.blogspot.in/) and ‘ADHD blog title” (https://adhd-a-mothers-reflections.blogspot.in ). “Lets the buds bloom” is her first fictional work inspired by her own life and touches upon the sensitive subject of suicide pact between parents and kids.
As she puts it—I am not a wonderful daughter, I may not be a perfect wife, but I want to be the best mom in the whole world. I would never ever want to think that there was something I could have done for my kids and I didn't..."
