When I was young about 6 or 7 years old, I was smashed into smithereens by a galloping horse in the neighborhood.
I was just playing inside our backyard peacefully by myself but as soon as I heard the hurried tick-tocking of the approaching beast I dashed out into the streets. In my merry excitement and confusion I collided with the stallion. It’s long and heavy limbs rolled, pounded and careened me in a painfully considerable distance. I panicked, as my tiny body was bedraggled into the rocky pavement.
As soon as I managed to pluck myself from the terrible mishap, I ran without looking back and hid in the corner of my grandmother’s house – alone, terrified, humiliated, scared of the impending punishment, and about to die in a heart attack.
I was tormented with the thought that I will be the laughingstock in the neighborhood for the few weeks to come but most of all I was thinking about the harsh punishment that I will get from my family – because my fault or not, it is my family’s policy to punish me with impunity if I get hurt from playing. We call it discipline.
My family never knew and I never showed my face in the neighborhood for weeks until the accident was forgotten.