(gap: 2s) My mother, like so many parents in our Kent estate, believed in raising her children with a firm hand and unwavering discipline. The air in our home always seemed to hum with a quiet tension, as if the walls themselves remembered every lesson learned. From the earliest days I can recall, a 3ft-long rattan cane hung on the wall beside my bed—a silent, ever-present guardian of my behaviour. Its shadow stretched across my pillow at night, a constant reminder of the boundaries I was never to cross.
(short pause) The words I dreaded most in my childhood were always the same, delivered in my mother’s crisp, commanding voice: “Shruti, go wait in your room!” The moment those words left her lips, a cold shiver would run down my spine. My eyes would sting with tears before I even moved. If I hesitated, if I dared to plead or protest, her tone would sharpen, slicing through my resistance. “I said, go to your room—now!” There was never any question of defiance. I would lower my head, shoulders hunched, and slip quietly away, the sound of my own footsteps echoing in the hallway as I made my way to the small, sunlit bedroom that was both sanctuary and cell.
(pause) The wait that followed was agony. Though it might have been only five or ten minutes, time seemed to stretch and warp, each second heavy with dread. I would sit on the edge of my bed, hands clenched in my lap, heart pounding so loudly I was sure she could hear it from the kitchen. The familiar sounds of the house—the ticking clock, the distant clatter of dishes, the faint music from the radio—became a backdrop to my growing fear. When at last I heard her footsteps approaching, slow and deliberate, my breath would catch in my throat. By the time she entered, I was trembling, standing up as I’d been taught, eyes fixed on the floor.
(short pause) Mother would close the door behind her with a soft click, then slide the bolt across. The sound was final, sealing us in together. She would sit on my bed, smoothing her housecoat, her presence filling the small room. I would shuffle forward, standing before her, feeling the weight of her gaze as she tied her long hair up in a bun or tossed it over her shoulder—a ritual that signalled she was ready, that this was serious.
(pause) She would point to the chest of drawers beside my bed, and I knew what was expected. My hands would shake as I opened the drawer and retrieved the 12-inch wooden ruler that lived there, its surface worn smooth by years of use. I would hand it to her, my fingers brushing hers for a fleeting moment. Then the scolding would begin—never rushed, always thorough. She would break down my misdeeds, dissecting each one with clinical precision. Every rule I had broken, every expectation I had failed to meet, was laid bare. Her words were sharp, but beneath them I could sense her disappointment, her hope that I would do better.
(pause) She would remind me, again and again, how much she sacrificed for me, how hard she worked to give me a good life. “I do all this for you, Shruti. And yet, you let me down.” The guilt would settle over me like a heavy blanket, pressing down until I could barely breathe. I wanted so desperately to make her proud, to be the daughter she hoped for, but in those moments I felt only shame and regret.
(short pause) “Shruti, you know my rules. Why did you watch television without my permission? Hmm?” Her questions were relentless, her eyes searching mine for the right answer. If I faltered, if I hesitated or tried to deflect, she would reach under my skirt and pinch my bare thigh—a sharp, stinging reminder to speak the truth. The pain was brief, but the lesson lingered.
(pause) “Why did you talk in class?” she would demand, drawing my hand out and holding it firmly. “You are supposed to focus on the teacher when in class!” The ruler would come down with a sharp smack on my palm. “And not talk!” Smack! Smack! Each blow was punctuated by her words, driving the lesson home. “You know what happens when you bring a complaint home from school. Don’t you? Look at me!” Her voice would rise, commanding my attention, forcing me to meet her gaze.
(pause) During these lectures, the ruler would find its mark again and again—on my hands, my arms, my thighs, my legs, and, inevitably, my bottom. I would stand there, helpless and exposed, tears streaming down my face as I sobbed and apologised, overwhelmed by the force of her discipline. The pain was sharp, but it was the sense of having disappointed her that hurt the most.
(dramatic pause) Then would come the words that signalled the next phase of my punishment. “You know what comes next.” Mother would rise, her movements deliberate, and take the cane down from its place on the wall. The sight of it in her hands made my stomach twist with dread.
(pause) She would swish the cane through the air, the sound slicing through the silence of the room. My knees would go weak. Then she would tap the cane on the bed—a signal I knew all too well. I would bend over, hands flat on the bedspread, my bottom sticking out, exposed and vulnerable. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself.
(short pause) Mother would position herself to my right, her face set in a mask of stern resolve. The first stroke would land across my bottom, a line of fire that made me gasp. The next few would find my sit spots and the backs of my thighs, each one building on the last. And then, perhaps most painful of all, she would cane my calves, the sting radiating up my legs. All the while, her voice would continue—scolding, instructing, reminding me of the rules I had broken and the lessons I must learn.
(pause) Sometimes, in the midst of the beating, she would pause to pinch or smack me with her open hand, reinforcing her words with fresh bursts of pain. I would sob, my apologies tumbling out in broken whispers, desperate for her forgiveness.
(short pause) Eventually, she would order me to stand up, my legs shaky beneath me, my face streaked with tears.
(pause) But the punishment was not yet over. Now I would be expected to stretch out my hands, palms up, and she would deliver a few final, stinging strokes of the cane. My hands would throb, the pain sharp and immediate, but I would not dare to pull away.
