Short Story
Cruel to be Kind
artwork by amina
Zubaida bent down to cut off the head of yet another withered rose. It broke her heart to do this: having no children of her own, each flower was like a child to her. But she knew only by cutting the shrivelled blooms would another bloom appear, twice as beautiful as the last. 'I have to be cruel to be kind!' she laughingly reminded herself. The desiccated petals of the dead flowers fell to the floor around her. Zubaida reached down to pick up one of the dead heads that had fallen but, as she did so, she was surprised to find herself staring at the bare feet of a young boy. Looking up at his face, Zubaida was immediately captivated by an emaciated child with sun-bleached hair, dark, brown eyes and hollow cheeks. He smiled at her -- a smile that instantly won her over. "How has this child got past the guards?' she wondered. Yet she felt no fear, for the child didn't seem threatening. "Child--what's your name?" she asked. He just looked back at her. "Your name, child, what is it?" she repeated. Still there was no reply; the child continued to gaze at her. Then, as if something had suddenly occurred to him, he held out a hand like a beggar and with his other hand gestured to his stomach. On the verge of calling Bua to get some food, Zubaida paused. She recalled how she was renowned for being a soft touch. So she said "I'll give you food...but you'll have to work for it." The child continued to look at her benignly. "Child--do you understand me?" No response, except for a series of rapid blinks. Exasperated with his lack of reply, she barked, "Are you deaf, child?" The child flinched. And all of a sudden it dawned on Zubaida that the child was indeed deaf. Zubaida was moved. No wonder this urchin looked so thin. Who would give him work? He couldn't receive orders, and looked too frail to do hard labour. All that was left for him was begging. And yet how could he beg? A young boy like him, with his alert, bright eyes, would just be shooed away. Re-assessing the situation, Zubaida softly repeated her desire that the child do some work, but this time she gestured towards the garden, miming the action of cutting off rose heads and mouthing her words carefully. He smiled a toothy smile and held out his hand for the pruning shears, and Zubaida hesitatingly passed them over to him. He immediately set to work, instinctively seeking the roses that needed dead-heading, but leaving those that were in bloom or about to emerge from their buds. Zubaida watched him for a little while, then went over to the guards to tell them to let him work in peace. Zubaida went back into the house. She could watch the boy from the veranda, and meanwhile arrange for some dhal-bhaat. Zubaida called Bua over and explained the situation. Bua looked aggrieved; elderly and old-fashioned, she didn't like strangers, and she particularly didn't like strangers who might want to take advantage of her mistress's kind heart. Hadn't Bua always protected her mistress from harm--ever since the mistress was a toddler back in the village home? Surely the mistress was being fooled by this strange-looking junglee boy. For all Bua knew, he could be a liar, a thief, a common thief. Mumbling to herself, Bua set off for the kitchen. Zubaida sighed and sat back into her cane chair. The warmth of the early evening sun made her drowsy, and she nodded off. She awoke to still hear the snip-snip of the child cutting dead heads, and saw Bua walk out into the garden from the side door with the plate piled high with rice and a little daal and salt. The child stopped working when he saw the food, and gently lay down the shears. Zubaida watched him as he ate hungrily. Maybe she could keep the waif? Damal, the gardener, had had to go back to his village and nurse his dying mother. Who knows when he would be able to come back? In the meantime, who else would tend to her precious garden? And so it was that the odd-looking child with the cheeky grin was kept on in the household. Every day he helped Zubaida in the garden. He also helped with other tasks. Zubaida was getting adept at using some sort of sign language to communicate with him, and was charmed that the boy would reciprocate. The only worry she had was that the boy would suddenly daydream as he went about his tasks--his body would stiffen and he would stare blankly into the distance. What was he recalling, Zubaida would wonder. What had happened to this mysterious child in his past? Zubaida's other concern was Bua. She knew that Bua eyed the boy with some suspicion; the child's disability isolated him--he couldn't tell her of his past, his family. Inevitably this fuelled Bua's distrust. One morning Zubaida was folding her husband's clothes when the sound of an almighty commotion in the kitchen came to her ears. Rushing over, she found the boy lying akimbo on the floor, writhing and making strange sounds as he tossed his head from side to side, arms outstretched. And then, suddenly, he stopped. He looked around--dazed, but with fear in his eyes. Zubaida leant over him and wiped his warm forehead. She eased away the plate that he had been holding tightly in his hands, and stroked his arm kindly. So, on top of his deaf-muteness, this young lad also had violent fits? "Poor child," she murmured. But Bua reacted differently. She shook her head: "I feared as much!" she declared. "I pray you send him away Zubaida Bibi. The boy is possessed by demons, by evils jinns!" Zubaida sighed heavily with frustrated annoyance. No matter how long Bua had lived in the town, she still retained her village fears and superstitions! Zubaida explained the boy's condition to Bua, but she could tell that Bua didn't believe her. Well, like it or not, the child was part of the family and Bua would just have to put up with the child staying with them! So whereas his fit had made Zubaida feel a deeper affection for the boy, it had the opposite effect on Bua, who constantly watched him from the corner of her eye. Over the next few weeks Zubaida caught the end of conversations between Bua and the guards: "…he will harm the mistress and master," "...he will cut us into pieces…" Weeks and months passed and nothing more happened. Just as Zubaida's garden flourished under her tender care, so did the boy. He grew taller and more muscular (though his cheekbones somehow never seemed to fill in), and he was able to take on more physical tasks. Things finally seemed to be settling down. But, the idyll was not to last…. It was late afternoon one Thursday. The smouldering sun was moving lower in the sky. Zubaida has asked the boy--still known as 'the boy'--to cut the grass. He'd have to do this squatting on the ground, cutting the grass handful by handful with a scythe. Zubaida stayed a little while to check that he knew what to do. Then she went indoors to do some embroidery. She was lost in her thoughts when she heard a wild hullabaloo in the garden. Fearing that the boy was having another fit, Zubaida rushed out. "Oh dear God," she shrieked out as she saw the child on the grass, flailing as before--but this time he held the scythe in his hands and had somehow managed to cut himself. Blood covered his clothes and hands. The guards and Bua had all arrived at the scene, but no-one knew what to do. One guard tried, but was frightened by the scythe and shrieked each time it came near. He pulled out his lathi and repeatedly whipped the boy, spurred on by Bua and the other guard. The child was also making screaming sounds, which only added to everyone's distress. Then, totally out of the blue and before Zubaida could do anything, Damal appeared. Dropping his bags, he picked up a spade that had been lying nearby. Before anyone could stop him he raised the spade over his head and struck two hard blows on the unfortunate child, hitting the boy's arm and chest. "Yes, beat Satan out of him," a terrified Bua screeched out. Zubaida rushed forward to stop him, but he was so enraged to find that Satan had entered this house while he was away that he bought down yet another blow before she managed to hold him back. This time the blow hit the child's head, and blood started to ooze from his face. But the blow woke the child from his fit. Despite his clear terror, he was unable to lift himself from the ground. Everyone looked on horrified. Where had Satan gone?--for all that remained was a defenceless little boy. Over the next week the boy gradually recovered under Zubaida's tender care. But he was fearful of everyone except Zubaida and Ashraf, and likewise, they were fearful of him. If he saw them he would run away; if they saw him, they would hide. Things were worse than they had ever been. Love, trust, all seemed to have left the house. An atmosphere of dread and suspicion filled the air. Zubaida knew that this couldn't go on. So when, a few days later the boy came up to her and pointed to himself and then to the road, Zubaida knew what he meant. She took him to the kitchen to eat, and stood over him as he had his meal, bodily protecting him from the distrustful glare of Bua. After he had finished, she took the keys from the end of her sari and opened the big steel almira in the bedroom. She took out the clothes she had already bought the boy for Eid later in the year. She rolled up a brand new katha, made of warm cotton, and filled a fabric bag with some rice, milk powder, lentils, salt and onions. Finally she pulled out her drawer and took out some money. She pressed this into his hand. With a heavy heart she helped him load everything under his arms, and then took him to the gate to bid him goodbye. As she saw him walk away into the distance, she felt full of sorrow. The boy had entered her life, and like her roses brought her great joy. Now, bidding goodbye to him was like seeing her withered blooms drop to the floor. Yet she knew it wasn't good for him to stay. Moving on would be the safest thing for the boy. "Who knows," she thought to herself, "there may come a time, somewhere else, with someone else who would nurture him kindly, that he may bloom far more radiantly than he was able to bloom here."
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