The Witch on the Broomstick





 

The Witch on the Broomstick

By Nilabha Sharma 

 
Mahua’s jangling bangles wakes me up. An alarm clock like no other. As usual, the fan is also switched off. After five minutes of tossing, I give up on sleep and sit groggily on the bed. Sniffling and sweeping, Mahua avoids eye contact.

 Fresh new marks mar her face. “Last night, he had too much to drink.” Pointing at her marks, she says “This is the only release he gets after toiling as a laborer the whole day.” Gloomily, she finishes all the chores and sits with me, “Didi! Please talk to him.” She innocently believes that a stern word might end the violence. 

As I go about my day, her haunted face lingers in my mind—the stoop of her shoulders, her quiet resignation. My selfish side warns me to stay out of it, but my heart aches at her pain. 

It’s 1 am and the doorbell of my flat rings persistently. Drowsily, I open the door. Mahua stands on the doorstep—her tooth broken, face bloodied, one eye swollen shut. She collapses into my arms, sobbing. Her pain, her helplessness, her anger—they reverberate through me. My body moves on autopilot. I grab my keys and drive her back to her house. 

Her husband is slumped on the stoop, completely drunk. Illuminated by the headlights, my breath comes in short bursts, the vein on my head pulses. A gust of wind blows through my hair. I pick up the broomstick and do not stop until his face mirrors that of his wife. Mahua just stands there, silently watching the macabre scene unfold. 

Few days pass without any news of Mahua. My phones go unanswered. I am too much of a coward to go back and see her. 

After 5 days, Mahua comes back to work. She seems in high spirits, without any new evidence of a beating. She seems in high spirits, humming as she goes on with her work. Once she’s done, she sits with her cup of tea and tells me what happened: When her husband woke the next morning, his alcohol-addled brain retained only fragments of the night. He remembered a “witch” with wild, streaming hair flying in on a broomstick and beating him senseless. He then recited this tale to everyone and now all the men in her colony fear the witch on the broomstick.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Just a Number

Image
Yamraj stepped out of the Boardroom drenched in sweat. The Board of Gods was not pleased. His job was on the line if the exponential population growth was not restricted. He made his way down to Yamlok. It was eerily quiet. All the doots were out in the field. Only Chitragupta sat hunched in his cubicle, eyes glued to his screen, fingers clattering away. Yamraj sank into the chair beside him, staring blankly at the data. The numbers… were not good. “Arre Sir!” Chitragupta said cheerily. “I’ve just sent you the updated sheet. We’re inching closer to the target!” Yamraj didn’t respond. He needed to debrief Chitragupta — the Board had revised the death quotas. Upward.     “Gupta ji,” Yamraj began heavily, “when are the doots back? I need to address the team. The targets have been revised.”     Chitragupta blanched. “Revised numbers Sir? No, no, no, that cannot be. With all these new innovations in medicine and healthcare, we are struggling to meet the targets and on top...
Read more

It Isn’t Easy to Understand Men

Image
People often say women are difficult to understand — moody, unpredictable, emotional. But the truth is, men aren’t much simpler. They may not blame their hormones, but their shifting behavior can be just as confusing. One moment, they are protective and kind; the next, they can turn aggressive, intimidating, even dangerous. My own experience a decade ago taught me this lesson in the harshest way possible. And yet, it also revealed how courage and presence of mind can make all the difference when facing danger. It was a blazing summer morning in 2014. The ceiling fans in the gym spun tirelessly, but the air still felt thick and heavy. Shalini was pounding away on the treadmill, sweat dripping down her temples, her breath coming in steady bursts. Around her, women grunted and pushed themselves — some bending into pilates poses, some clanking dumbbells, others stretching on mats darkened by perspiration. The rhythmic whir of machines, the faint beats of workout music, and the acrid smell ...
Read more

The Silent Witness

Image
  The Puri Railway Station, in the district of Odisha in India, was hustling and bustling with a crowd. The train was arriving at the platform and had slowed. As the train stopped, Aryan, a 14-year-old boy with an athletic build and slightly longer hair that often fell into his eyes, got down from the train and sat on the bench. Aryan swung his legs lazily from the wooden bench at the railway station, the straps of his schoolbag slipping from his shoulder. His classmates were deboarding the train when his eyes fell on two men standing in the shadow of a pillar. One had scars slashed across his cheek and forehead; the other wore a heavy brown coat despite the hot weather. Their hands moved quickly, and Aryan saw a book slip from one palm to another. “Looks like… some kind of secret game?” Aryan whispered to himself, tilting his head. Just then, the scar-faced man looked up. His sharp gaze locked onto Aryan. The boy froze. The man muttered to his partner, and both hurriedly v...
Read more