Bloody Night

Amit Raj Chingakham *

As she opened the door and entered, she was affectionately welcomed by her 5-year-old son who playfully ran towards her, feeling joyful on his mother’s return. A smile sparks across her face.

After a long day of work, what more can a mother ask for, than the presence of her child conveying a sense of deep love and ecstasy ?

“Where is your sister ?” she asked as she settled down.

She went towards the cradle—the beautiful wooden frame kept at a corner of the room which revealed her beautiful daughter lying there wrapped with a white cloth looking just like a nymph, so tiny and so precious, sleeping soundly as any baby would.

And she was just 5 months old – the epitome of a baby for which a mother’s love is at the pinnacle.

At night, after dinner, as they were about to sleep, she laid next to her son keeping the baby in the middle and she was sharing bedtime stories with her son who was enchanted by his mother’s stories, especially that of his father who was in the army and was out of station.

The boy, as happy as he could get, had something to say to his mother.
“Ma, when I grow up, I want to be like Pa.
I want to protect the country.
I want to protect you, my sister, and everyone from bad people.
I love you, Ma, I love you so much.”

Those words resonated in her ears like giant bells and they were enough to make her the happiest person alive. The sheer thought of the love her son had for his mother convinced her that there is nothing more valuable than her children to her, at least to a mother with love sweeter than perfume and heart happier than harmony.

“Ma loves you too,” she said, “Now go to sleep, it’s late.”

Soon, the boy went to sleep. From the bed, she looked through the window. The calm and serene atmosphere of night around the house almost lulled her to sleep.

She took one last look at her son and caressed him and her baby daughter lovingly before she finally shut her eyes and went to sleep. Little did she know that would be the last time she saw them alive.

A couple of hours later, at midnight, she was awoken by cries of distress of a large mob of people around the house. She felt a cold, streamy liquid run down her hand. It was blood.

The scent of the thick red blood nauseated her and made her feel uneasy. She looked up and saw a shattered window pane. Just then, she heard her baby's cries.

She turned around and saw what no mother wished to see.

The sight of her son covered in blood, injured, lying dead and her baby screaming at the top of her lungs with blood on her face in what is evidently a bloodbath sent a chilling shiver down her spine and completely traumatized her to the extent of questioning whether she was in a dream or a nightmare.

Dazed, sweat popped out of her face and tears in her eyes and with shaky hands, she tried to reach her baby before collapsing mid-way.

The next thing she knew, she woke up in a hospital bed. She looked around and saw a nurse with her sister beside the bed. Her hand was also severely injured and underwent multiple operations.

Her sister tearfully explained to her that it was a bomb attack perpetrated at her house by unknown people and that both her son and daughter had unfortunately passed away due to the incident.

Those words almost made her go mad. She completely broke down.

She had only a few things to say,
“Why? Why me?
What wrong have I done?
What crime have I committed?
Why does it have to take away my son and my daughter?
Why is there love for hate but no hate for love in this world?”
(Sobs)

“God does not feel gratitude.
For the love of my children, I have been separated away from them.
My dearest son and my beloved daughter, I will never get to see them, ever again.”
(Sobs)

“I do not know who is the happiest person in the world,
but I know who is the unhappiest — for I am, I am.”