When I lived with my uncle, my early morning job before the customers started coming in for coffee and breakfast at our cafe, was to bring milk from the village. The village of Belathur was really about a mile away from our cafe. The main bus route didn't pass through the village instead a mile north of the village. At the bus stop, there were only a few businesses and a couple of resident families including my uncle. Our cafe and home was the same small hut. It had only two parts. One was about 10 ft by 15 ft eating area and another was a tiny kitchen. Outside, separated from the hut was a tiny toilet. This hut was our living space too. At night, we slept in the area where customers ate.
While bringing milk from the main village one day, hungry and sleepy and tired, I sat down midway under a tree and dozed off. I am not sure how long I slept. But, the next thing I know, my uncle was over me beating me with a stick to pulp. He was upset I was not back on time and customers' were waiting. I was bleeding and crying. I cannot put this image away. My heart aches even today as I recall this event which I do often.
While bringing milk from the main village one day, hungry and sleepy and tired, I sat down midway under a tree and dozed off. I am not sure how long I slept. But, the next thing I know, my uncle was over me beating me with a stick to pulp. He was upset I was not back on time and customers' were waiting. I was bleeding and crying. I cannot put this image away. My heart aches even today as I recall this event which I do often.
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