The rhythmic chants of the priest rose in a monotonous crescendo over the shrouded form. The cloying smell of flowers and tulsi garlands placed on the body coalesced with the fumes of camphor and ghee.
Samit’s smouldering young eyes were lost in thought but his grim face took in everything around him. He watched his grieving parents in disgust as his eyes moved toward the body of his paternal uncle, now ready to shed its corporeal form. “Quid pro quo,” thought Samit, with satisfaction.
“Is this how you repay him? “ his father raged.
“How could you do this to our family?” his mother lamented.
***
Caught between a father consumed by inertia and a a voiceless mother in survival mode,
uncle had a free hand with little Samit. Owning a flourishing cement business, and with no family of his own, Uncle Vinod made his home with Samit’s family and appointed himself their provider.
“Samit, my child! My, my, how you’ve grown! All of five years! I have a treat for you!”
Samit ran to his uncle, excited. Waving a chocolate bar tantalisingly in front of him, Uncle Vinod grabbed Samit and whispered, “Not a word to anyone, you rogue! I don’t feed you for free.”
Terror struck when his clothes were pulled off and he saw his uncle’s face transform into that of an ogre from his picture book. Samit sobbed in pain and fear until the ogre rushed out, leaving his small body sweaty and slimy. Water and tears failed to wash away his revulsion.
Samit recalled his mother’s words when he ran to her for comfort, “He is your uncle. Good children don’t tell lies.”
***
To Samit, the years ahead were a blurred cycle of shame and lonely agony that metamorphosed into a volcanic rage. “He must be repaid,” Samit vowed.
Samit found escape in his lessons and won a scholarship to a prestigious college.
“Who will look after me and your parents if you leave?” his uncle screamed.
Samit left home but the liberty did little to diminish his inner turmoil. He had to redeem his broken childhood.
***
A year later, on his sixteenth birthday, Samit walked into his uncle’s office.
“I knew you would be back,” gloated Uncle Vinod. Samit smiled.
Embracing Samit, his uncle’s roving hands strayed into his clothes. Samit stood quiet, his eyes fixed on the door until he was released.
“See you tomorrow,” Samit said waving as he sauntered out to the police station. He grabbed his mobile from the ledge near the door.
Uncle woke up to a flood of messages and a compromising video of himself with a young boy whose face was morphed.
“Oh, the shame!” he cried, swallowing a handful of pills.
Two police inspectors walked in. “We are arresting you under the POCSO Act,” they announced.
An hour later uncle succumbed to an overdose.
***
The body slid into the crematorium.
“Quid pro quo.” Samit whispered to the little boy of his past as he walked away.
***
End Notes – Quid pro quo is a Latin term for “something for something” that originated in the middle ages in Europe. In 1654, the expression quid pro quo was used to generally refer to something done for personal gain or with the expectation of reciprocity. The term also plays an important role in the context of Sexual Harassment.
Photo credit – Photo by Kasia on Unsplash
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