(gap: 2s) The south London of my childhood was a world of contrasts—grey tower blocks rising above narrow streets, the air tinged with coal smoke and the metallic tang of rain on concrete. The estate was alive with the sounds of children’s laughter, the clatter of footballs against brick walls, and the distant, comforting jingle of the ice cream van weaving through the maze of parked cars.
(short pause) Our council flat was small but warm, the living room always aglow with the orange flicker of the gas fire. Bold-patterned wallpaper—swirls of mustard and brown—clashed with the floral cushions on our threadbare settee. The wireless radio was a constant companion, filling the air with the latest BBC hits and the gentle static of distant voices.
(pause) Discipline was woven into the fabric of daily life. Mothers called from balconies, their voices echoing across the estate, summoning children home before the streetlights flickered on. There was a sense of order, a rhythm to the days—school, chores, homework, and, if you were lucky, a few precious minutes of play before tea.
(pause) Among all the mothers I knew, Raji stood out. She arrived in England in the 1960s, part of the first wave of Indian immigrants seeking a new life in a city that was both foreign and unwelcoming. Her husband’s sudden death left her alone with a young son, and she faced the world with a stern, unyielding gaze. Raji was a doctor, respected in our community, but it was her reputation as a disciplinarian that truly set her apart.
(pause) I remember the first time I visited their flat. The air inside was heavy with the scent of turmeric and Dettol, a blend of home and hospital. Raji’s living room was immaculate—no toys scattered, no crumbs on the carpet. Her son, my classmate, sat at the table, back straight, eyes lowered, hands folded neatly in his lap. He was the model child, the one teachers praised and mothers envied.
(pause) Raji’s collection of disciplinary tools was legendary. On a high shelf, out of reach but never out of sight, sat a wooden ruler, a steel ruler, the base rod of a plastic hanger, a rigid bamboo cane, and a traditional rattan cane. Each had its own story, its own purpose. The wooden ruler for minor infractions, the steel one for more serious offenses. The plastic rod was her favorite—light, flexible, and always close at hand.
(pause) But it was the homemade strap that fascinated and terrified me most. Raji had taken an old leather belt, sliced it in two, removed the buckle, and cut one half into three strips. She stacked the strips and taped them to the end of the other half, creating a fearsome instrument that seemed both ingenious and cruel. I remember the first time I saw it, lying on her son’s desk like a warning.
(pause) Raji believed in instant obedience. Her son was expected to follow every rule, every instruction, without question or delay. Any hesitation—no matter how small—was met with swift punishment. I once watched her correct him for forgetting to say “please” at the dinner table. She didn’t raise her voice or make a scene. Instead, she quietly took him by the hand, led him to the bathroom, and closed the door. The sound of the strap was muffled, but the red marks on his legs the next day spoke volumes.
(pause) Mother and other ladies in the family often discussed how Raji disciplined her son and agreed that her punishments were quite severe. To attest to this, it was not unusual for her son to show up at school with red marks on his legs and hands.
My Mother told me that Raji had this concept of instant obedience, whereby her son had to obey the rules and follow her instructions instantly and without question. Every time he failed to so, she would punish him.
Raji always carried one of her rulers or the handy plastic cane in her handbag when coming to family gatherings. If her son stepped out of line, she would simply take him to the restroom and punish him. My stomach would be in a knot as I watched her sternly drag her son to the restroom.
Raji was also deeply involved with her son’s academic studies. She was demanding and pushed her son hard. She enforced long study hours and forbid any playtime on regular schooldays. Her son had no option but to be the top student. Raji would come to school regularly and check with teachers on how her son was doing. If she heard any complaint, her son would return to school the next day with red marks.
I would long to see Raji. At family gatherings, I would sneak and gaze at her for as long as I could. I would observe how obedient and well behaved her son was around her and fantasise on how strict she must be with him at home.
When we visited her, on the occasions she allowed her son to play with me, I would go to his room where I could see the instruments of discipline. They always caught my attention and I would feel a cold chill run through me just seeing them resting on the shelf or study table.
