A HELL FOR ALL SEASONS

I grew up in a low-income family on the Caribbean island of Trinidad. My father was a Hindu and my mother, Catholic. Having parents with different religious views and customs was confusing, but not surprising. In Trinidad, many families were mixed Muslim, Hindu, and Christian. My family celebrated Christmas and burned deyas during Diwali. On Thursdays we were not allowed to eat any meat other than fish. The beef was forbidden by our father, who saw a cow as a sacred animal. For Christmas, my mother cooked roasted pork and turkey, but during Diwali we had roti and curried vegetables.

I didn’t know which belief system to follow. I was forced to attend Hindu prayers and temple during celebrations, and go to Mass on Sundays. My mother made an effort to not miss Mass; my father refused to come with us. He preferred to conduct his Hindu prayers at home with the pundit. He would invite his relatives, who would cook Indian food and sweets. Afterwards, we would surround the pundit, listening to his prayers and offering flowers and sweets to the Hindu deities. If it were up to my father, he would convert all of us to Hinduism, and make us pray to different gods. Despite my dad’s firm stance on our family’s religion, a Higher Power wasn’t on his mind at all. His life revolved around abusing my mother and drinking rum in cheap rum shops with his friends.

I was a serious boy who worked hard to get good grades so that I could become a doctor. Instead of playing outdoors with other kids, I stayed at home, reading adventure stories and reviewing my schoolwork. I looked after my two little sisters while my mother was at work. It was my responsibility to ensure that my sisters were safe, and did not leave the house or let anyone inside. My mom told us many stories about how kids were molested by predators and warned us not to open our doors to anyone, even neighbours.

No matter how poor we were, our mother, Diana, always made sure that I had clothes and books for school. She hoped that, with a good education, I would one day take my family out of poverty. She was the only breadwinner as we grew up—her rough, callused hands told the world that she worked hard as a housekeeper to provide sufficiently for our family.

In contrast, my father was a philanderer who worked as an electrician, and a poor one at that. As soon as he got his weekly pay on Fridays, he would invite his friends to the neighbourhood bar to share a tumbler of rum. While Mother spent time with us, our father was usually getting drunk. By the time he staggered home, he had spent most of his money at bars, and he was as drunk as a dog. I did not like seeing him drunk because he would hit or curse my mother and sometimes shout at me.

He was a jealous man as well; for example, he would call her a whore if he saw her talking to the male neighbours. It bothered him that she worked, and he wanted her to stay at home instead of working. Whenever he brought up the subject, Mother would give him a wide-eyed glare.

“Man, you never bring money home. If I stay at home, who is going to support these poor kids?”

“Listen, woman, do not worry about them. They will survive,” scolded my father.

At that, the quarrelling would start. I hated seeing my parents fight because, more often than not, my mother would get hurt. Then she would have bruises on her body that she would have to hide from others. In Trinidad, gossip spread quickly, and people were not supportive of abused women. If instead of gossiping, they would report known cases of child molestation or domestic abuse to the local police, people like my mother would not remain with abusers. Therefore, my mother kept quiet about my father’s abusive behaviour and kept praising him instead, which really irked me.

I wanted to run away so that I would not hear them again, but I couldn’t leave my mother with my drunkard father. I made a promise to myself never to drink alcohol when I grew up. Hearing her cries at nights, I wondered why my mother didn’t just leave and take us away.

I remember the last fight my parents had. It was on Carnival Monday, right before my father died. I was ten years old and asleep in my bed, having a strange dream. In it, I watched myself ride a big blue bike in a green field, surrounded by not only yellow and white daffodils but also green and pink daisies. I waved my arms as if they were wings. The wind brushed my hair back, and the air beat my face.

“I’m an eagle!” I yelled, happier than I’d felt in a long time. In my soul was a profound sense of peace.

Suddenly, at a far distance, I could see black shadows forming. They started coming out of the ground and getting taller. I tried to slow my bike down, but it wouldn’t obey me and kept moving at great speed. My eyes were glued to the shadows, and they grew wide when I saw the dark shapes turn into human-like forms. These phantasms stood erect and stared at me, their eyes glowing red. They raised their hands, pointed at me, and howled, “Ramesh, we have been waiting for you. Come with us!”

Their screams hurt my ears, and I fell backwards off my bike. Shaking with fear, I scrambled up quickly.

“Mother, where are you?” I shouted.

I got back on my bike and started pedalling as fast as I could, away from those fearsome creatures. The whole field was now covered with a thick black fog. Sobbing and unable to see anything, I kept pedalling. I do not know how, but I ended up on top of a cliff, right at the edge. I dismounted the bicycle and looked down into the total, complete, and utter darkness below. I tried to move away, but suddenly a black hand thrust itself from the chasm below my feet. Before I could scream, it grabbed my T-shirt and pulled me forward. Off balance, I fell headfirst into the darkness.

Oh, my God, I’m going to die!

I put my hands up, trying to grab onto anything that I could touch as I fell, but only the darkness and a void remained. Then I heard a voice, whispering in my ear, which chilled my blood:

I’m coming for you, Ramesh.

I’m not certain if it was the voice or the fall that frightened and startled me the most. My heart beat so rapidly that I could hear it, thump-thump, thump-thump, and I was so terrified that I did the only thing I could do to block it out—I closed my eyes and covered my ears. As I did so, I screamed, “Mummy, please help me!”

I kept falling down, into the darkness. Then, just when I felt that I was lost forever, I woke up. Even though the first sounds I heard were my father’s loud voice and objects falling on the ground, I was never so glad to be awake. My pyjamas were wet, and the cold chills passing through my body made me shiver. However, I was happy to get up.

I quickly ran out of my bedroom to see what was going on, but I soon slowed to a tiptoe, hoping to remain unnoticed. Slowly, I approached the kitchen door and hid behind it, peeking through the space between the door and the frame.

My poor mother was kneeling down on the ground, covered with glass. There were shards and splinters scattered all around her. She was picking up pieces of broken plates and jars from the floor. I noticed blood dripping from her fingers, and I heard her sobbing, probably having cut herself while picking up the glass. Drops of blood fell on the ground, but to my surprise, she didn’t notice them.

“Boy, please stop this madness. You’ll wake up the children,” she said to my father in a hushed tone.

“Just shut up, woman!” he retorted.

“I do not care about myself, but your behaviour is affecting them,” pleaded my mother.

I stared at my father with hatred in my eyes. He was standing by the kitchen cupboards wearing only his short khaki pants. His bare back was coated in mud. Even his face was streaked and covered in mud. I was confused by his appearance at first, but then I realized that he must be participating in the Carnival.

He kept looking for something. I could see him moving jars from one side of the cupboards to the other. He took out a glass jar of sugar and pelted it into the sink.

“Where is it?” he demanded angrily.

She raised her head and glanced at him. “I worked hard to buy these things. Why are you breaking them?”

My father ignored her. “Whore, where did you put the money? My friends are waiting for me.”

“Forget your friends and go to bed,” she snapped at him.

He stopped digging in the cupboard and glared at her. “Shut up girl, and give me the money.”

She shook her head. “You can’t drink every day. Don’t you see that alcohol is turning you into an animal? Your kids need you, but you’re never at home. You’re the man of this house, so act like one.”

He slowly removed the belt from his shorts, stomped over to her, and took a fistful of her blouse. “You want to see a man, you stupid girl?”

My mother tried to get up, but he pushed her back onto her knees and tore her blouse. He raised his hand up, and I could see the belt fly and land on my mother’s bare back. My body shrank and moved jerkily with every lash that my mother got.

“Here is your man of the house, dummy!” he yelled.

He hit her repeatedly. She turned and tried to protect herself by putting her arms in front of herself. With every lash, I flinched as if he was hitting me. Oh, how I wished I was strong enough to stop my father! However, I stood helplessly behind the door, silently crying and looking at my mother’s red back. I felt so weak that all I could do was stay where I was. As I watched the scenario play out before me, I suddenly saw a formless black shadow behind my father. It moved away from him and vanished into the wall.

Mother stared at him with wild eyes. “Farzani, please stop hurting me!” she begged as she finally got to her feet. He growled, and then lifted his hand up in the air to hit her again.

“No!” she shouted and dashed away from him.

She didn’t get far; she slipped on some of the mess on the floor and fell on her knees. That was all the energy she had; she simply sat where she fell, rubbing her sore knees. She whimpered and trembled like a leaf on winter’s last dead tree. He came up to her and grabbed her hair.

“Listen, woman, give me the money.”

She clawed at his hand. “No! You’re not getting any money. It is for our children,” she said, her voice firm even through her tears. Her lower lip was busted and bleeding, and her shoulders had red marks from the belt. My heart filled with anger as I bit my lip. I wished that I could pick up the same belt and hit my father with it repeatedly, but fear paralyzed me.

My dad looked behind my mother and noticed a piggy bank on top of the kitchen cupboard. He let go of her hair and climbed on a stool to get it. Once down from the stool, he grinned evilly at my mother and emptied the bank’s contents onto the kitchen counter.

My mother quickly got up and ran to him. She clutched at his hand and tried to pull him away from the money.

“Farzani, leave it alone. I need to buy new shoes for Ramesh!” she said desperately.

Even in pain, my poor mother was always thinking about us. What I saw proved it; I now realized that she loved us more than anything else in this world and was even ready to die for us. I felt so sorry for her and wished that I could help her. I almost found the courage to cry out but knew that I was only going to delay further abuse, not stop it if I did.

She pulled him back and he fell onto the floor, but he got right back up. With a curse, he slapped her face.

“Listen, stupid girl, go back to your bedroom!” he snapped.

She put her hand on her face, wincing from the pain, and limped over to sit in the corner by the cupboards. She sobbed bitterly, slumped over so far that her head was practically on her knees.

That was enough for me. All fear disappeared as I ran toward my father, filled with rage, ignoring the shards of glass on the ground. I hated him for hurting the only precious human being in my life. How could he hurt the only person who cared for me? I kicked his legs and hit his belly with my tiny hands.

“Leave my mother alone, drunkard! Do you hear me?” I shouted.

He was dumbfounded at first and stood for a moment without moving. I could smell the stench of alcohol on him.

Then he grabbed my hands. “Ramesh, stop!” he said, trying to push me away.

My eyes narrowed and my lips tightened.

“I hate you, Father, and I wish that you would die.”

He pushed me away again, more roughly this time. I fell on my back, hitting my head. When I did, I felt what seemed like an electric shock pass down my spine, and I saw tiny golden lights flying before me.

“Ramesh!” my mother shouted. She ran to me and picked my head up from the floor. Once she was sure I hadn’t cut or broken anything, she took me by the shoulders to help me sit up. She then looked at my father with narrowed eyes.

“You’re not a man, you’re an animal!” she shouted. “Abusing me wasn’t enough, so now you raise your hand to your blood. Are you not afraid that God will punish you?”

“What God are you talking about?” he laughed.

She shook her head in disbelief. “The one who created you, man.”

He drew closer to us. The smell of alcohol almost choked me. I closed my eyes, fearing that he would hit me.

Instead, he spat in my mother’s face. “Listen, woman, do not threaten me with your God. I’m not afraid of your God.”

She stared into his eyes and wiped the spit from her face with her sleeve. “I know why you aren’t afraid of God. Your God is your rum. It burns you from the inside and runs through your veins. It will burn you so much that you’ll end up in Hell.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him. His eyes were red and sunken, and his black hair looked unkempt and uncombed. He moved slightly from side to side, restless, or so it seemed.

“Lord, have mercy on us sinners,” Mother pleaded, looking through the window towards the heavens.

To my relief, my father looked at us silently, picked up the money from the counter, and left.

“Oh, my back is hurting me,” I moaned. My mom hugged me, and both of us started crying bitterly.

She gently rubbed my back and said, “Ramesh, do not be angry at your father. He is drunk and doesn’t know what he is doing. He just can’t find his way to God.”

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