The Ritual
Father had spoken and left in a hurry. That was the final word on the matter. His callousness was more than a six year old could fathom. Why do they have to blindly follow this ancient practice of human mutilation? Why can't he be the first to stop this barbaric ritual? Most importantly, why are adults always right?
Tears almost welled up in his big eyes as it looked up for empathy in his mother's eyes. However, he found none as she had grown used to his protests. They say he had his mother's eyes. Her's seemed to tell him, 'Be calm. It will be over with quickly'. But he was far from calm. He could hear the drumbeats of his heart rising with a deafening tempo. He felt trapped.
She waited. He waited for her to leave. He knew the act of cutting off painlessly would not be easy. He was sure he would make cowardly expressions or even cry. He didn't want her to see that. He didn't want to say that, 'Chee... What's this? A Chekavar would never cry like that!'. Perhaps this is a rite of passage to become a Chekavar and join the long lineage of blood-lusty warrior menfolk. One of the hundred tests he might have to face in the future. Right now, this task seemed impossible to be true.
'Kichu, you heard what Acha said. We don't have all day'. He held the instrument tighter. The crude implement had two dull blades at the business end of it. Once he puts his tiny finger in between them, a flat lever needed to be pressed. It would hurt... definitely. He should have sharpened the blades to make it less so. But how would a six year old know how to do that?
Suddenly, a shrill whistle of the milk boiler needed her urgent attention. She turned to the kitchen. Kichu craned backward to confirm that she is gone. He fumbled with the instrument. Tried to grip its levers. It kept slipping from his sweaty palms. A sense of urgency possessed him now. He positioned his trembling finger towards the blades.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!"
The mother bolted out of the kitchen hearing his scream. Time froze to a glacial pace. Shocked to see Kichu lying unconcious on the floor, she knelt down and picked him up in her arms. His right hand was tightly closed. Terrified, she tried to open his hand. She was half-expected to see a nasty cut and some blood, hopefully not a lot. But there was none of that. Instead there was an angled nail-cutter and a thin crescent-shaped fingernail.