"The Sunlight"
Munnu wasn’t his real name.
About twelve to fourteen years ago, when Baiji had become a widow and left her in-laws’ house in Chandgarh to return to this old mansion at her parental home, a six-year-old boy named Muntazar Hussain was brought along from the village to help look after her. After Muntazar's father passed away, his mother left him in Baiji’s care due to her new romantic entanglements. What man would agree to raise another man's child? And so, Muntazar ended up with Baiji.
When Baiji left Chandgarh, the poor child had no other place to go. He came here, becoming just another piece of Baiji's luggage.
At the doorstep, as Baiji embraced Amma, she said, “Here, Amma, Muntazar will stay to help you.” Then she called out to Muntazar, who stepped forward and stood like a timid little bird. Orphaned, in an unfamiliar place with strange new people, he couldn’t utter a single word.
It was Amma who spoke, her voice soft and curious, “What’s your name, son?”
When Muntazar replied, Amma tried to pronounce it, but her tongue stumbled. “Munnzar… Munnzar…” she repeated, struggling with the unfamiliar name. Raj, Amma’s beloved son, overheard her attempts and burst into laughter. Amma looked at him, bewildered.
Raj chuckled, “Amma, if you keep calling him ‘Munnzar,’ your teeth will fall out! Just call him ‘Munnu.’”
Muntazar stood quietly, head bowed, silently accepting his new name. From that day, Raj called him Munnu, and soon, the rest of the household followed. Bit by bit, Muntazar became used to the name. Eventually, when Raj’s friends asked him who he was, he, too, introduced himself as Munnu.
Over the next two or three years, young Munnu would occasionally have Baiji write letters to his mother. But when no reply ever came from the village, he stopped bothering. Slowly, the words “Ammi” and “Abba” faded from his life. This mansion became his entire world, where his childhood slipped quietly into adolescence.
When Amma passed away, Munnu wept just as bitterly as the rest of the family. After all, even if one never knows a mother’s lap, one can still feel the weight of her loss. He had never known the warmth of his own mother’s arms, but Amma's funeral taught him what it meant to lose a mother.
With Amma gone, Baiji was left heartbroken and bedridden for a while. But Munnu tended to her just as devotedly as he had cared for Amma. Soon, Baiji recovered, and life settled back into place. The mansion began to revolve around Baiji once again. In time, the whole household, including Munnu, felt as if the world had found its balance — perched delicately, like a serpent resting on Sheshnag’s hood.
Munnu never shied away from hard work, serving as the house’s all-purpose helper — gardener, cook, errand boy, and more. As he grew older, his tall, broad-shouldered frame caught the eyes of the young women in the neighborhood. The once-orphaned boy had grown into a man.
He spent his days tirelessly working around the house. When time allowed, he would exercise, run, or swim in Gangrauli's pond. All of this built his muscular frame.
Baiji would sometimes ask, “Don’t you ever miss your mother, Munnu?”
Munnu would fall silent at first, then quietly reply, “Even if I do, what can I do about it? Besides, whatever a mother does, you’ve done for me.”
Neither Baiji nor Munnu had more to say after that. Life moved on.
After Raj grew up, there were no other children in the house, and Munnu benefited from this. Not that he was given any special privileges, but the family never treated him unfairly either. He never faced the constant scolding or berating common for servants in big mansions. During festivals, he received fine clothes and money. Whenever there was a joyous occasion, Amma or Baiji would slip him a crisp banknote. Over the years, he even managed to save a little money.
He had no one to send it to — his mother had long ceased to be just his mother. She had remarried, probably had other children by now. Even God had turned out to be a thief, snatching his father away one fateful night. So whom could Munnu blame for his misfortune?
Here’s the continuation of the story:
In the house, Durga, the cook, had been around since the beginning. Occasionally, when Durga was absent or during festivals that required elaborate meals, the gardener’s wife would be called in to help. But Munnu was always there, tirelessly working. Raj’s every need — from small errands to meals — was handled by Munnu.
When Raj’s father was alive, there were still some limits to Raj’s whims, but after his passing, Raj’s list of demands grew longer. Munnu fulfilled them all.
At least during lunchtime, Baiji would always stay in the kitchen. She made sure to prepare one dish herself while keeping a watchful eye on everything else. No vessel would go on the stove unless it had been washed two or three times. Durga would sometimes get irritated, but deep down, she understood. When a woman loses her husband too soon, her heart hardens toward the world. These were just the defenses of a wounded soul.
Despite the quiet sadness that lingered in the house, the mansion remained lively. It was a massive place, but with only Baiji, Raj, Munnu, and Durga, it often felt empty. Some days felt suffocating, while others stretched into quiet, cold nights. Over time, Munnu became more than just a servant — he became part of the house.
Lying alone in his small room at night, Munnu would sometimes try to imagine a life beyond these walls. But no matter how far his thoughts wandered, they always circled back to this mansion. Even Durga had come to see him as a brother. In a house where everyone’s lives were tangled up in daily chores, who had the time to dwell on what was yours and what wasn’t?
But then, one morning, darkness crept into the house — a dark dawn, trembling like the curse of an angry sage.
It was barely five o’clock. Stars still lingered in the sky, and the darkness was slowly giving way to a golden hue. The sun had not yet risen, but its light had already begun to paint the horizon.
Munnu was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast for Raj, who had to leave early that day. As he peeled an onion from a pile of leftovers, its layers glistened like a conch shell placed in a Shiva temple. Suddenly, a loud bang shattered the morning calm. The kitchen door burst open, and Durga stormed in, gasping for breath.
She ran straight to Baiji’s room and collapsed at her feet, wailing uncontrollably. Baiji, startled, sat up.
“What happened? Speak, girl!” Baiji demanded.
But how does one utter words that demand a heart of stone? Grief seeps into the bones and renders the tongue useless. Durga sobbed, clutching Baiji’s feet, her body heaving with every cry. Her hair was disheveled, her bindi smeared across her forehead like a curse. The heavy silver anklets on her feet clanged softly as she writhed in pain.
Her young son — barely nine or ten years old — had been killed.
“Who killed him?” Baiji asked.
Who else? It wasn’t some wild beast that had entered the village. Humans did it. Who else but humans?
A Navami procession had passed through the alley behind their house, and suddenly, chaos erupted. Two massive iron rods had fallen in the middle of the crowd, and panic ensued. Even the priest of the Gattewale Balaji Temple had been injured. Within moments, the procession turned into a stampede.
A couple of boys were seen running toward an old ruin nearby. One of them was caught, and the crowd descended on him like a pack of wolves. Kicks and blows rained down on the boy until blood mixed with the dirt beneath him. His clothes were torn to shreds. Had the neighborhood women not been watching from their terraces, even that last scrap of cloth would have been torn from his body.
Yet, somehow, the boy escaped — bleeding, trembling, but alive. Perhaps the adrenaline had given his body the strength to flee, or maybe he just needed to survive long enough to spread the news of his supposed “victory” to his elders.
But blood once spilled does not go unavenged. If not by God, then by men.
The crowd turned into a frenzied mob, thirsty for blood. And when it couldn’t find the guilty, it settled for the innocent. Durga’s little boy, playing quietly in their courtyard, became the target of their blind rage. A group of four or five men stormed into her home and left his lifeless body behind.
Before the horror could even sink in, an old man out for his morning walk was cornered. They doused him in kerosene and set him ablaze. His morning stroll became his final journey.
By the time the police arrived and imposed a curfew, the damage had been done. Durga fled to Baiji’s house, clutching at whatever fragile thread of hope remained. The house was eerily quiet for two days, mourning in its own silent way.
The following evening, Munnu sat alone on the mansion’s terrace, watching kites drift through the sky. His heart was heavy. The night before, he had seen a shooting star streak across the sky, blazing bright and terrifying. Now, even the simplest things — a kite’s tail fluttering in the wind — filled him with unease.
Suddenly, from a room upstairs, he heard Baiji’s voice. She was speaking to the gardener’s wife.
“Go find that Muntazar,” Baiji said.
“Muntazar? Who is Muntazar?” the woman asked, confused.
Munnu flinched. Baiji had called him Muntazar. Who was she talking about? Munnu glanced around in panic, searching for the boy Baiji had summoned — but there was no one else there.
A gust of wind carried a lone kite onto the terrace, landing near Munnu’s feet. He leaped down to retrieve it, just as the gardener’s wife arrived, searching for him. Not finding him there, she returned downstairs.
That night, at the dinner table, Raj pushed his bowl of curry aside. Baiji glanced toward the kitchen door, expecting Munnu, but when he didn’t appear, she went to look for him herself.
She found him pressed against the wall, quietly sobbing.
“You’re crying?” Baiji asked, startled. She couldn’t understand what had gotten into the boy. Perhaps some unseen star had streaked across Baiji’s subconscious as well, but she never saw it. Only Munnu had.
The riot that swept through the city left behind a trail of darkness. It had imposed curfews, burned old men alive, and claimed the life of Durga’s innocent son. But above all, it had unearthed a buried identity, reviving a name long forgotten.
Fourteen years of sunlight were swallowed by dark clouds. In one moment of madness, the riot didn’t just set the city aflame — it reached into Baiji’s unconscious mind and turned Munnu back into Muntazar.
In a single breath, the riots had snuffed out the light. The sun, which once shone so bright, had been shoved back down its own throat.
(The End)
