Memoirs of home.

The memoirs of home that sheltered a family.

Sharing fragments of memory the television in frame encapsulates.

Once upon an age of getting hooked watching television, the age of freedom to think and speak our curiosity.
We were there, four siblings and our neighbouring sisters gleefully yet scarily watching “The Ring” movie, the white dressed actress, her long hair covering the whole of her upper axial body, came out the well, the darkest aura of ghost movies that hooked at the same while trembled our hearts.

It was after a while watching the movie, the eldest went out and saw our mom coming home, from that long dara (a place near our house) that has the best view of our village. She came by foot finishing her work at the village beyond.

And there’s one thing about village life- morning and evening routine of lighting the fire-place, milking the cows, feeding fodder to the domesticated animals, preparing dinner and so on.

Whilst our mind was gripped in front the telly we were so unaware of the evening incoming. Only when the eldest went outside she saw our mother nearing home, she alarmed us all about mother’s visage.
As scared we were of watching the movie, everything doubled, our fear, panic hearing that.

Everyone rushed to do their respective chores, and as I stared her from the balcony she looked furious as even the lights were not turned on and no smoke from the fire-place (chulla) above our kitchen roof, the ideal sign that someone is at home.

When she arrived, hell broke loose- none escaping mom’s wrath, that thin bamboo stick she swished marked red in different shades that made our skin looked like an art canvas.

p.s. the only one that escaped the flow of bamboo stick was the eldest and of course we weren’t too happy, i still complain about it:).

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