The drain in the alley began to overflow after moderate rainfall. But there was nothing to worry about for the residents living in shanties on either side of the road in someone else’s plots marked at the boundaries with mere walls made of red bricks. Unlike the immediate neighbourhood, these were the only pieces of land left without having any concrete buildings constructed on them. When it rained a little, it did not bother these dwellers until the water from the bathrooms made its way out into the drain, a sign that the drain could still carry more and the rainwater would not make its way inside. And when it did, they would use any container at their disposal to drain the water out.
Flowing over the brim of the drain, the water formed a big puddle in the alley, which commuters had to pass with the aid of an army of bricks lined one after the other, each kept at a step’s distance from the other. Across the puddle, a woman not from the shanties but from one of the apartments adjacent to the two plots, holding her cell phone and sunglasses in one hand, argued with another woman older than her. Like her dress, she spoke every word neatly and used few English words in between, intentionally and with due intonation, knowing her audience was not only the woman complaining about her brother’s uncalled-for actions but the handful of other people who had gathered to witness the lop-sided battle of words, the undeclared winner of which was the one defending her brother’s actions.
The woman on the other side, who identified herself as the victim’s mother, kept it to the point and repeatedly asked why her son deserved this inhumane beating. To convince the felon’s sister, she walked into the puddle towards her, holding her shalwar up off the ankles, and said, “My son has finger marks on the right of his neck”. Each time she complained, she expected a few consoling words and an apology from the woman opposite her, who still hadn’t softened in her tone and the arguments she made in response. But no such thing came from her. Instead, she played fast and loose with the fact that her younger brother had injured someone’s son and used a euphemism to mean ‘do what you please to do. I am not afraid.
“You can go to the police station,” the woman with sunglasses suggested, sure that the other party would not dare take such a step.
The mother went to the police station, which was only a few blocks down the road, and brought three cops with her, two in a white Gypsy and the third came on a motorcycle.
The offender’s sister defended his actions and even said that the woman was lying about the finger marks on her son’s neck. The victim’s mother watched her in shock as she argued with the cops, not letting them ask questions. A friend of the boy who was beaten was among the people gathered at the mouth of the alley watching the spectacle. He called the boy and told him to rush to the spot, indicating the gravity of the situation with the fumble he encountered while speaking.
The victim came, accompanied by his younger sister, his neck blotted and slightly tilted.
“How shamelessly you have been defending your brother’s crime,” the senior cop told her with all fury. The boy’s mother heaved a long sigh and began to gather the courage to utter a few more words, seeking the reason as to why the lady’s brother was so ruthless to her son.
“She didn’t answer a single question but kept unnecessarily arguing,” the cop told the boy’s mother, and in the same breath, to the other woman, who had now lowered her head and crossed her arms, “Will you please call your brother and accompany him to the station?”
Younis Ahmad Kaloo is a short story writer from Kashmir. He is the author of Jiji: the trials and tribulations of Parveena Ahangar, Hawakal Publishers, 2020. He specialised in Narrative Journalism with a Masters in Convergent Journalism from the Central University of Kashmir. Feedback at [email protected]

Younis Ahmad Kaloo