Motha and the Shadow
In the bleak schoolyard, trapped between towering white buildings, I found solace in an unexpected friendship. The shadows stretched long across the cracked pavement, cast by the buildings that seemed to swallow the sunlight. We were like pigeons, forever circling the dusty square under a huge Banyan tree. There was a hierarchy in our world, invisible lines drawn in the sand, and misfortune had landed me on the wrong side.
One day, a new ray of hope emerged from the shadows. A school boarder, Motha moved with a quiet power that belied his small frame. His reputation was a paradox: a fighter with a peacemaker’s heart. He wasn’t interested in the pointless fights that erupted during recess, but a steely glint in his eye dared anyone to question his toughness. His courage and kindness were a beacon in our dark world.
An unlikely friendship blossomed between us, a flicker of warmth in the sterile environment. Motha was different. He had a unique personality and a determined look, but he also tried his best to blend in, acting like a protector in disguise.
A dark cloud hung over our school days: Mangala. This hulking brute, practically a man compared to scrawny me, held a twisted sense of power. He targeted any boy unfortunate enough to be deemed good-looking, making our lives a daily gauntlet. He had a reputation for taking boys to the school’s backyard and abusing them. The only surprising thing about him — the only reason we knew he wasn’t a complete monster — was his singing voice. We’d all heard him belt out “Ten Guitars” at the school concert, a jarring contrast to his menacing presence. Despite that sliver of hope, the fear of catching his eye remained constant in our chests.
Fear had a tight grip on me. It gnawed at me so much that I fell ill. My stomach wouldn’t settle for a while, and chills ran through me. But at night, the chills turned to feverish sweats. My father noticed something was wrong. He showered me with kindness, which only made things harder. I longed to confide in him, but the truth felt too heavy, a secret that choked my honesty.
One day, huddled beneath the shade of the Banyan tree, I finally cracked. “Motha,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, “I can’t take it anymore. Mangala… he keeps picking on me and Ajit” Shame burned in my throat, but Motha just listened patiently.
I poured out everything: the constant fear, the helplessness, the dread that clouded every school day. Motha didn’t interrupt, his gaze fixed on a distant point. But when I finished, a flicker of something fierce ignited in his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said softly, surprisingly steady, “It ends today.”
Then, one day, Mangala disappeared. I never knew exactly what happened, but rumours swirled that Motha had confronted him. It was hard to imagine this small boy facing off against the hulking Mangala, but what mattered was that when the inevitable showdown came, Motha was there. He stood between me and my tormentor. His actions protected my friend Ajit and me physically and gave me the courage to face my fears. The bully, exposed for the coward he was, backed down.
News of Motha’s bravery spread like wildfire. He became a symbol of hope in our concrete jungle. He wasn’t a knight in shining armour but a boy who carried the world's weight on his young shoulders. In the face of adversity, Stanley Motha showed us that even the smallest flicker of courage can illuminate the darkest corners.
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