(gap: 2s) Childhood in the early 1970s in South west London was a tapestry of laughter, scraped knees, and the ever-present hum of mothers’ voices drifting through open windows. The air was thick with the scent of summer grass and the distant promise of rain, and discipline was as much a part of our daily lives as hopscotch and hide-and-seek. In those days, the sound of a mother’s stern call could silence a courtyard in an instant.
(short pause) Among all the mothers, none commanded more respect—or fear—than Raji. She was a tall, straight-backed woman with sharp eyes that seemed to see through walls. Her lips rarely curled into a smile, and her presence alone was enough to make us stand a little straighter. Raji was a doctor, a single mother, and the undisputed authority in her home. Her son, my classmate, was the model of obedience—quiet, polite, and always at the top of his class. The other mothers would whisper, “Why can’t you be more like him?” and we would shrink a little, knowing what that meant.
(pause) Raji’s reputation for strictness was legendary. She didn’t just believe in discipline—she perfected it. Her arsenal was infamous: a wooden ruler, a cold steel ruler, the base rod of a plastic hanger she wielded like a cane, a rigid bamboo stick, and a traditional rattan cane. But the most feared was her homemade strap, crafted with a surgeon’s precision. She had cut a leather belt in two, removed the buckle, and layered the pieces, binding them with duct tape to create a thick, punishing strap. The mere sight of it sent chills down my spine.
(pause) I remember one afternoon, the sun slanting through the window, when I visited her apartment. The floral wallpaper seemed to close in around me as I entered her son’s room. There, on the shelf above his desk, lay the implements of discipline—lined up with clinical order. I could almost feel the weight of them in the air, and my heart pounded as I imagined what it must be like to be on the receiving end. Sometimes, I would catch a glimpse of red welts on her son’s legs at school, silent testimony to Raji’s unwavering standards.
(pause) Raji believed in instant obedience. Her son was expected to follow every instruction without hesitation or question. If he faltered, even for a moment, she would act swiftly. At family gatherings, she always carried one of her rulers or the plastic cane in her handbag, ready for any sign of disobedience. I remember the knot in my stomach as I watched her grip her son’s arm, her face set in stone, and lead him to the restroom. The muffled sounds that followed—sharp, quick, final—echoed in my mind long after.
(pause) The other mothers would gather in the courtyard, their voices low and urgent. “Raji is too harsh,” some would say, shaking their heads. But others nodded in approval, admiring her resolve. My own mother often discussed Raji’s methods, her tone a mix of awe and concern. “She wants her son to be the best,” she’d say, “and she’ll do whatever it takes.” I wondered what it felt like to live under such constant scrutiny, to have every mistake met with swift, stinging justice.
(pause) Raji’s discipline extended far beyond the home. She was relentless about her son’s studies, enforcing long hours at his desk and forbidding any play on schooldays. She visited the school regularly, quizzing teachers about his progress. If there was even a hint of complaint, her son would return the next day with fresh marks—silent proof of her disappointment. I remember the way he sat gingerly at his desk, shifting uncomfortably, his eyes downcast.
(pause) Despite the fear she inspired, I was fascinated by Raji. At family gatherings, I would sneak glances at her, studying the way she moved, the way her son hovered near her, always alert, always careful. I imagined what their evenings must be like—the quiet tension, the unspoken rules, the ever-present threat of punishment. Sometimes, I would fantasize about what it would be like to be her child, to live under her strict gaze, to feel both the sting of her discipline and the strange security it brought.
(pause) There were moments, too, when the impact of Raji’s methods rippled through our family. I remember one Sunday, the air heavy with the smell of fried chicken and sweet tea, when her son accidentally broke a neighbor’s window. The entire courtyard fell silent as Raji marched him to the neighbor’s door, her grip unyielding. He apologized, voice trembling, and later, I saw him rubbing his sore backside at the dinner table, unable to sit comfortably. The lesson was clear to all of us: mistakes had consequences, and Raji never let them pass unpunished.
(pause) Even now, the memories linger—the anxious glances, the whispered warnings, the way we all straightened up when Raji entered the room. Her discipline shaped not only her son, but all of us who watched from the sidelines. It was a lesson in obedience, in fear, and in the complicated love that sometimes hides behind a stern face and a heavy hand. Looking back, I realize how much those days shaped my understanding of authority, respect, and the bittersweet ache of childhood.
