Babloo was sad. Sad and angry. It had happened again today. Like everyday. And he knew it would keep happening. What had happened? Well, as usual, his elder brother Dinu, (short for Dina Nath), had beaten his wife, Babloo’s bhabhi. Just like he did everyday. Almost since the day Munni bhabhi had come to their home, dressed in red and gold, her face completely hidden, sobs escaping from under her ghungat.

At that time, Babloo couldn’t understand why she had cried. He had thought that girls were always thrilled to get married. But now, a year later, Babloo knew why Munni bhabhi had wept then. Why she wept everyday of her wretched life here.

Mostly Dinu beat her over trifles. Often because he was drunk, or suffering the after-effects of too much drink. Like this morning. She was carrying a pitcher of water. Dinu dropped his towel as he went to the tap for a bath. He ordered her to pick it up. As she bent down, a little water splashed onto her husband’s bare leg.

All hell broke loose. Suddenly the pitcher lay smashed on the ground with bhabhi lying among the pieces, begging her husband for forgiveness. She clutched his feet as he rained blows on her and kicked her arms that stretched out pleadingly.

Babloo turned away, sickened to his stomach. His mind whirled, his fists clenched, wanting to hit out. A thousand forms of revenge raced through his mind. But he turned away. Like a coward, he turned way. The stupid thing was that, at twelve years, Babloo was already the stronger of the two brothers.

Drink and easy living had eaten away into bhaiya’s body and left him a reeling, swaying, skinny reed of a man. But he was the boss of their little household, ruling it like some despot king. Babloo often begged his mother to stop bhaiya, but she felt that her bahu would have to suffer at the hands of her husband, just as she herself had suffered the drunken beatings of her own spouse. “That’s just a woman’s kismet, beta,” she often said sadly.

“And is it a man’s kismet to beat his wife?” Babloo shuddered, hoping he would never abuse his bride. “No,” he “thought, I’ll love her, cherish her, bring her bangles and laddoos. Others may laugh and say that I’m not a mard. Ha! How could a man be considered manly for beating someone who couldn’t hit back?”

Now bhabhi sobbed quietly as she washed clothes. Babloo could see the angry blue-black bruises on her bent back. She looked so much older than Babloo, although she was just seventeen. She had taught him games and riddles. And often saved tasty tidbits for him. He taught her how to write her own name and wrote letters for her and read her the few that came from her home.

It amazed him that she never mentioned the beatings or her obvious unhappiness. Her letters were bland, each one no different from the one before. Saying that all was well.

Babloo studied in standard four now. But she had never gone to school. What would she have learnt anyway? School didn’t teach you how to wash clothes or make rotis, or how to accept being beaten. School never prepared you for such drudgery. No, school would have been useless for her. But then, if she had studied, maybe she wouldn’t have been married at sixteen. She could have been a teacher, or could have sat in a fine shop like the baniya’s wife in town.

Babloo shook off his thoughts when he saw bhabhi carrying the heavy bucket of their clothes. “Bhabhi, wait, let me carry these. . .” Silently, without looking up, she held the bucket out.

He took it and they were joined by the bucket of washed clothes that hung between them. With his free hand, Babloo gently touched her bruised arm.

Suddenly, as if he’d opened the floodgates of a dam with that touch, bhabhi began to weep. Her whole body shook with the force of her pain and grief, not a sound daring to escape her lips. Then she whispered, in a hoarse, anguished whimper, “Oh Babloo, kill me! Please kill me. I can’t take any more...”

They stood like that for a long time, each holding the handle of the bucket, engulfed in sorrow and helplessness. After a while, when her tears ran dry, Munni bhabhi said in a very quiet, very old voice, “I’m sorry, what can you do? You can’t do anything.” And she walked away, leaving Babloo rooted to the spot.

But something had changed. He felt calm now. And sure. He didn’t even think about it. He just felt different. The next day started out like any other. Dinu bathing, bhabhi cooking. Later, as he sat down to eat his breakfast, Dinu spat out the tea. He flung the hot liquid into his wife’s face and leapt up in a towering rage, cursing her and her parents and forefathers with the filthiest abuses, screaming “Damn you, woman, didn’t your parents teach you anything?” He grabbed her hair and raised his arm to strike.

Babloo was there in a flash. He held his brother’s raised arm in a vice-like grip. In a firm, strong voice he said, “Dinu, let her go!” In shock, Dinu released his wife, turning his wrath on the boy. “You filthy pup, you dare to stop me? You dare to come between my woman and me? I’ll kill you for this!” “Stop it!” commanded Babloo, “stop it. Or I’ll call the police.”

Howling and cursing, Dinu fell upon Babloo, hitting out at him blindly. But Babloo was stronger than his drink soaked brother was. He scrambled on top of him as he fell. Babloo hit his elder brother twice. Then, pinning his arms down, he said in a voice of controlled command, “You hit my bhabhi one more time, and I swear, I’ll have you in jail. You hear me? Just one more time!” Then he left him groaning and moaning on the floor.

Ma and bhabhi huddled in a corner, stunned. Whether they were glad or not, Babloo didn’t know, but it didn’t worry him. He had done what he had to. What he knew was right. Now he washed his hands and face, breathing the cool morning air, letting it quieten the trembling of his body and nerves. And then he said, “Bhabhi, may I have my tea and roti? I’m late for school.”
Babloo had become a man.

Where this story came from

There are some things that one can never get used to, no matter how many times they happen. One of those things is violence against someone who can’t hit back. It happened to a friend. And then, once she had left her violent husband, her son — somehow thinking that he must play the role of the man of the house — became violent with his own mother and sister. I think he thought that that was what he had to do to prove his manliness.

So, violence was leading to violence, even though he saw that it had broken up his home. When writing a story, one may be inspired or provoked by an incident, but that is only a building block for the author who must then work at constructing the story.

The other thing that I strongly believe is that children are not helpless little people, but powerful instruments of change. Through my stories, I would like to empower my young readers and make them take control of their own destinies.

(Paro Anand is an award-winning writer for young readers. This is an extract from the story, ‘Babloo’s Bhabi’ from I’m Not Butter Chicken, You Can’t Order Me, and Other Stories for Teenagers; published by India Ink)