08-01-2025, 01:36 AM
My name is Abhishek. I am going to narrate all the incidents that i have experienced in my childhood. My dad Jayanta was a government Engineer. The whole thing started when my family moved to a village where my dad was posted.
The bungalow we stayed in was huge, with a sprawling garden that seemed to stretch for an eternity. It was like a mini jungle, with trees and shrubs that whispered secrets to each other in the breeze. The air was always filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the distant sound of chirping birds. Our house was located at the end of a long, dusty road, surrounded by nothing but nature's beauty and simplicity.
My mother, Kakoli, was a beautiful Bengali woman with long, wavy hair that fell like a dark waterfall down her back. Her eyes were warm and inviting, always sparkling with life. She had a way about her that made everyone feel at ease. The villagers adored her, often bringing her gifts of fresh produce from their fields. She had a gentle grace that could tame even the wildest of hearts.
Kamala, our maid, was a short, sturdy woman with a heart as vast as the ocean. Her skin was sun-kissed from years of working under the unforgiving village sun, and her smile was as bright as the first rays of dawn. Every morning, she would arrive with a basket of freshly picked vegetables and a bouquet of flowers, chattering away in her native language while my mother listened with a smile. They had an unusual bond, one that transcended the lines of employer and servant. Kamala had been with us since we moved to the village, and she took care of our home like it was her own. She was always praising my mom’s beauty, often remarking how lucky my father was to have her.
But there was one person who didn’t share the same sentiment as everyone else about my mother’s charm—Raghu, my father’s driver. He was a tall, lanky man with a scruffy beard and a furtive gaze that always made me feel uncomfortable. His eyes often lingered on my mother, and it wasn’t the respectful gaze of admiration that others had. It was something else, something darker. My mother had noticed it too. She had become more withdrawn and less comfortable around him as time went by. I could see it in the way she held herself, the way she’d tighten her sari when he was near, and the way she’d avoid eye contact.
Kamala had taken it upon herself to keep an eye on Raghu, often whispering her concerns to my mother. She had seen the way he looked at her, and she knew it wasn’t right. She didn’t want to cause trouble for my father at work by accusing his driver of something so serious without solid evidence. Plus, she had a strength about her, a belief that she could handle herself. But as the days grew longer and the heat of the summer sun bore down upon us, the tension in our little household grew thicker.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in a fiery glow, Kamala sat with my mother in the cool shade of the veranda. Her eyes grew solemn as she spoke of Raghu and his friends Rafiq and Shambhu. She recounted stories of how they had ruined the lives of several village girls, leaving them with hearts shattered and reputations in tatters. My mother’s expression grew grave as she listened, her hand unconsciously playing with the hem of her sari. She knew she couldn’t ignore it anymore.
Mother gathered her courage and approached my father one day after dinner. He was in his study, engrossed in the blueprints sprawled across his desk. She spoke softly but firmly, telling him everything that Kamala had shared. My father looked up from his work, his brow furrowed with concern. He knew the importance of a good driver in a place as remote as this, but he also knew he couldn’t ignore the potential danger lurking in their midst. He sighed heavily, rubbing his temples, and said, "Kakoli, I understand your worry, but finding a replacement in this village isn’t easy. People are scarce and trustworthy ones even more so."
He promised to look into it, but his work was demanding and he was often gone for days at a time. The situation grew tense as the days passed, and my mother became increasingly vigilant. She never traveled alone with Raghu, even if it meant inconveniencing herself. Instead, she would send him on errands with Kamala, ensuring she was never left vulnerable. The two women grew closer, united by their silent pact to watch over each other.
The bungalow we stayed in was huge, with a sprawling garden that seemed to stretch for an eternity. It was like a mini jungle, with trees and shrubs that whispered secrets to each other in the breeze. The air was always filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the distant sound of chirping birds. Our house was located at the end of a long, dusty road, surrounded by nothing but nature's beauty and simplicity.
My mother, Kakoli, was a beautiful Bengali woman with long, wavy hair that fell like a dark waterfall down her back. Her eyes were warm and inviting, always sparkling with life. She had a way about her that made everyone feel at ease. The villagers adored her, often bringing her gifts of fresh produce from their fields. She had a gentle grace that could tame even the wildest of hearts.
Kamala, our maid, was a short, sturdy woman with a heart as vast as the ocean. Her skin was sun-kissed from years of working under the unforgiving village sun, and her smile was as bright as the first rays of dawn. Every morning, she would arrive with a basket of freshly picked vegetables and a bouquet of flowers, chattering away in her native language while my mother listened with a smile. They had an unusual bond, one that transcended the lines of employer and servant. Kamala had been with us since we moved to the village, and she took care of our home like it was her own. She was always praising my mom’s beauty, often remarking how lucky my father was to have her.
But there was one person who didn’t share the same sentiment as everyone else about my mother’s charm—Raghu, my father’s driver. He was a tall, lanky man with a scruffy beard and a furtive gaze that always made me feel uncomfortable. His eyes often lingered on my mother, and it wasn’t the respectful gaze of admiration that others had. It was something else, something darker. My mother had noticed it too. She had become more withdrawn and less comfortable around him as time went by. I could see it in the way she held herself, the way she’d tighten her sari when he was near, and the way she’d avoid eye contact.
Kamala had taken it upon herself to keep an eye on Raghu, often whispering her concerns to my mother. She had seen the way he looked at her, and she knew it wasn’t right. She didn’t want to cause trouble for my father at work by accusing his driver of something so serious without solid evidence. Plus, she had a strength about her, a belief that she could handle herself. But as the days grew longer and the heat of the summer sun bore down upon us, the tension in our little household grew thicker.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in a fiery glow, Kamala sat with my mother in the cool shade of the veranda. Her eyes grew solemn as she spoke of Raghu and his friends Rafiq and Shambhu. She recounted stories of how they had ruined the lives of several village girls, leaving them with hearts shattered and reputations in tatters. My mother’s expression grew grave as she listened, her hand unconsciously playing with the hem of her sari. She knew she couldn’t ignore it anymore.
Mother gathered her courage and approached my father one day after dinner. He was in his study, engrossed in the blueprints sprawled across his desk. She spoke softly but firmly, telling him everything that Kamala had shared. My father looked up from his work, his brow furrowed with concern. He knew the importance of a good driver in a place as remote as this, but he also knew he couldn’t ignore the potential danger lurking in their midst. He sighed heavily, rubbing his temples, and said, "Kakoli, I understand your worry, but finding a replacement in this village isn’t easy. People are scarce and trustworthy ones even more so."
He promised to look into it, but his work was demanding and he was often gone for days at a time. The situation grew tense as the days passed, and my mother became increasingly vigilant. She never traveled alone with Raghu, even if it meant inconveniencing herself. Instead, she would send him on errands with Kamala, ensuring she was never left vulnerable. The two women grew closer, united by their silent pact to watch over each other.
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