Inside a tiny two-floor house in a busy city like Delhi, the sound of horns disturbed the very peace of the residence.
The hall was painted in white and grey, but it looked dull due to the old paint. It seemed the house hadn't been Cared by the people living there.
The hall was quiet until a news channel played on the TV.
"Anchor: In Delhi, the crime rate is rising rapidly. A woman was found dead in her own home under mysterious circumstances."
On a soft couch, a lady was lying carelessly, eating groundnuts. Her eyes were stuck on the TV. She was in her mid-forties or something. Her curly hair was messy, yet she looked beautiful in another way a kind of natural beauty.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Ivan stood outside the door, furiously tapping the doorbell. His mother woke up, threw the groundnuts aside on the couch, and wrapped herself in a red maroon shawl. It was the eleventh month of the year-winter had already knocked on the door.
"Oh, you came too soon. Wash your hands. Come have lunch." She opened the door. Ivan's teacher had told her about his behavior how Ivan stayed silent, never came to the maze hall, and spent all his time in one corner of the class. She had been very concerned about Ivan since last year after that incident.
"No, I'm not starving." Ivan walked toward the stairs to his room.
"Again making excuses so you can play games?" She was tired of Ivan's behavior. He spent all his time at home gaming. Every day, his teachers complained about him. He didn't complete his homework. He had failed again in his science test. She was worried about him.
"Did you watch me playing?" Ivan stopped on the stairway, speaking without turning his head. He gritted his teeth; anger was rising.
"No, but I know." His mother hesitated. Tension filled the air between them.
She avoided long talks with Ivan. Their relationship wasn't normal like other mothers and sons. They lived in the same house but barely spoke to each other. They avoided eye contact and unnecessary conversations, though his mother tried to speak to him normally.
"Are you keeping an eye on me?" Ivan got angry easily. He hated his mother more than anything. He tried to control his patience. He didn't like interruptions from her side.
"Ivan... no, you misunderstood me. Listen, you're my child. I just wanted to know what's going on in your life." She came closer to him, trying to convince him that she wasn't doing anything wrong.
"You cared?" He looked straight into her eyes.
"Of course I care. Every mother cares about her children." She grew anxious. Ivan's behavior wasn't normal for a fifteen-year-old boy. His personality had completely changed. Ivan had changed.
"Keeping an eye on your own son? Isn't that a violation of my privacy?" Ivan gritted his teeth again.
"Ivan, what are you saying, my love?" Her voice grew louder this time-her way of pressuring him through tone.
"Did I ever keep an eye on you?" Ivan stepped forward.
"No... but you were little." She stepped back.
"That doesn't mean you can enter my room without permission and check my computer, Mother." Ivan tightened his fist.
"You're my child... I gave birth to you." She tried to sound confident, but her voice shook.
"Does that give you the right to control me or interfere in my personal matters?" Ivan raised his voice again. He knew his mother couldn't beat him in a war of words.
"IVAN..... ENOUGH!" she shouted and slapped him.
Ivan looked down for a few seconds, then lifted his head.
"I'M NOT A CHILD, MOTHER!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the small house. He turned away, his footsteps thudding loudly up the stairs, sending chills down his mother's spine. He stormed into his room, slammed the door, and locked it behind him. Then he threw his school bag on the floor in fury.
The anger of helplessness rose inside Ivan's body the kind that burned silently, without a way to escape. He couldn't do anything against his mother, no matter how much he wanted to. Just like his father once did, he could only obey her... swallow his words... and live with the weight of silence.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. His breath trembled, eyes filled with something between rage and sorrow. He hated this feeling being powerless in his own home. He hated that no matter what he said, his voice never mattered.
He was helpless. Completely helpless.