Immediately as the lecturer left, I rushed towards my room. My mind was preoccupied with the new pair of goldfish that I had bought the other day. Winter was fast approaching and its survival was a challenge, both to the keeper as well as to the fish itself. I was beaming with joy as I found my new companions frantically chasing each other inside their tiny enclosure. Their energy just mesmerized me, realizing I should have got them a bigger pot. “Change the water occasionally. They’ll survive longer.” Recollecting the vendor’s words the other day that rang bells louder than anticipated, I rushed to the bathroom with the pot in my hand, Rose and Daisy still in their jovial mood inside. I named them so because I couldn’t imagine them as couples who would give me fingerlings some day. Also the anatomy of fish is something very tricky and I am no Ichthyologists. I tripped over my shoes on my way to the sink to fill the pot. I looked down at them accusingly, as if anyone but me could have put them there. A brisk kick dislodged the shoe to an undisclosed location somewhere under my bed. I would be hunting for it the next day.
The washroom was at the farthest end of the hostel. It was a very big, three storied, drab looking twin building, and the shape resembling the alphabet ”H” with a long corridor at each floor connecting the two. I stayed in one of the rooms on the ground floor of the front building. The idea of staying further from the washrooms dreaded me, an idea I chose myself, for my room had all other adjacent rooms empty and unlike the rooms on the triplet floors above my head, I didn’t need to share it with anyone. My occasional bribing the hostel warden with his quota of rum gave me the privilege of sneaking a desktop, a cooking heater and an iron to press. And I liked the smallness of the room.
It was just past noon and the entire building looked deserted with all the occupants headed towards their concerned department for classes. The silence of the hostel, though in the heart of the city, was something in sharp contrast to the looming presence of the dilapidated structure. The building in the back where the washrooms were for the ground floor occupants, was devoid of sun-rays, the dampness of the rooms were maddening and its creepiness made it highly insane for visits in the night.
Still holding the pot firmly in my hand I entered the washroom which no more had a door except for the rustic hinges indicating its presence some decade ago. Three basins ran parallel to each other with two taps missing its spigot. The mosaic on the floor was faintly visibly and the white painted walls were anything but white. One could even see faces on it on numerous occasions, courtesy- the big white patches of yin-yang like those we find on Rasta jackets. The floor was amazingly slippery and it had a smell which would throw your nostrils up for a toss. I visited it only twice in a day, one in the early morning and the other before retiring to my bed, in both occasions to pass a quick piss. Now I have to do it thrice, for the sake of Rose and Daisy. Right opposite to the basins were the bathrooms which surprisingly had taps, lucky if water ever flowed through, thus the purpose of having functional taps sarcastically justified. The only thing that worked smoothly in this end of the building were the bulbs, for the boys changed it themselves .The idea of visiting the washroom in the dark would simply scare the hell out of any sane individual.
I quickly changed the pot with fresh water from the tap and ran my wet hand across the pot in a gesture to brush off any dust particles. The pot shone with pride and so did Rose and Daisy. The tiny marbles at the bottom made rainbow colors and the artificial grass looked greener. A smile ran across my face and I almost chortled. I heard a faint sound coming from behind. I had felt a looming presence of someone behind for quite a time now after I entered the washroom, but didn’t give much heed to it. I had felt it more than once before and every time I turned back, found nothing but the strange stillness of the room, often giving a chill in my bones. This time it was different. The air was warm and the sound became stronger and firmer each passing second. Before I could turn back I heard a voice.
“Is there someone?” The voice came from one of the bathroom. Turning back I found the door partially opened and the bare back of the individual lying on the floor was partially visible. Before I could answer, he said rather incoherently “Hey, are you there? Oh thank God. Thank goodness someone came.” He was lying on the floor on his back and frantically trying to open the door ajar in an attempt to see me, or rather make himself visible. My curiosity propelled me and I drew closer towards the door which I gently pushed to open wider. I saw him and his eyes met mine. Tears rolled down from his eyes like it were just waiting for me to witness the downpour. I was numb with silence and had to pinch myself back from restraining myself from staring at him for so long. “Could you please help me stand?” his request came like a waft of cool breeze and I just sprang back into action. His voice was soft, cultivated. As I moved ahead to reach him, the grip of his hand made my veins choke for blood. “I slipped as I tried to get up after my bath and have been lying here for almost an hour now, he said. All my efforts to get some help went in vain, thanks to God that you came in to help me.” I could see in his voice that his spirituality had been exoticized. He was of robust built, slightly taller than me and I could smell the soap fresh from his bath. He was smiling now and I could still see the tear drops shining as it dried down his cheeks. There behind the bathroom door was a pair of crutches.
His room was right across the bathroom and upon his request I walked him inside, the major burden of his body this time shifted to his crutches. There was nothing in his room that anyone would want. A dilapidated bed took the burden of whatever little belongings he had and all I could see was a small duffel bag over-pouring with his clothes. A small table, the size of a giant’s palm had a mirror hunched with its back against the wall, a soap-case which he dangled along his crutches as he came out of the bathroom a minute back, an incense stick holder with a small Ganesha idol behind it. A long bamboo stick lay beside his bed, the purpose of which I couldn’t figure out in my wildest imagination. I could sense his distress on not being able to provide me with ample space to sit, but I could think of anything else but sitting. “Do you stay here alone? I asked.” “Yes, all by myself”, he replied. The sudden silence of his room was now killing me. I left the room but not without a promise to give him a visit very soon. I forgot to ask his name and I also forgot Rose and Daisy, whom I later found at the basin, exactly in the same mood as I had left them.
Back in my room I placed the pot on the table. I wondered why everything looked the same and yet something was different. My mind was still pre-occupied by the incident in the bathroom and umpteen questions inter-weaved inside my mind, the answers of which were far beyond my illustrated dictionary. Who was he? What was his name? Why the crutches? What’s his story? My eyes were now transfixed at the fish-pot and maintained an obstinate silence. The next day I had a computer test, but my eyes kept gravitating toward the window, making it impossible to concentrate. I wasn't in a mood for java and html. I couldn't sleep a wink.
The next day in the evening I found myself in his room. I remember promising him a visit but never imagined it would be so soon. I had a wireless FM-player in my hand (which was lying dumb in my room for some time now) for him. I knew it would somehow kill the silence of his room. I did fairly well here. He was still sitting on his bed and frantically looking for something inside his dingy bag. I moved my hand forward in a gesture to shake his and then I smiled. And my smile was as wide and warm as the one he smiled in return. “Here, I have something for you” I handed the player to him. He cackled as he thanked me, smiling so that now I could see the row of white teeth that I never imagined existed. “Could you plug it there?” he said pointing at the switch right above his pillow as he handed me the player. I was too happy to comply, for his eloquence was always effective. He tuned’ the station carefully and the next few minutes he was lip-synching the song coming from the other end. The room would not be the same gloom and doom from now on as one would imagine. And I had found a new friend in Santosh.
His peculiarity dazzled me. He was spiritual, elegant, and pure. Neatly combed hair, fair skin and big round eyes, he had a strange authoritative voice but very subtle, precise and crisp. His sedentary lifestyle never seemed to have any ill effects except for the extra fats delicately curved around his pelvis. The room smelled heavily of incense sticks. Ironically, even he seemed to like his room. He called it the attic, but in any illustrated dictionary an attic couldn't be a ground floor cubbyhole looking out on a brick boundary wall. This end of the building was quiet and moist, with an old rectangle of rusted iron; some faded flowery mosaic floors, overlooking a garden. In fact, it was hardly a garden at all. It had no plants or cultivated flowers, just an assortment of weeds and vines, along with pill bugs, ants, snakes, toads, and mice. The best thing in the room, however, was a large window with sliders, dusty panes that could be opened one at a time. And that was the only world that he connected to once inside his hole. His crutches were at the rear end of his bed and the long bamboo stick still drew my attention. I had to ask him, “What’s this for?” A rope holding his wet clothes ran parallel to the walls some feet above the ground opposite to his bed. The bamboo stick was for the wet clothes to make its way up, and later down. Call it an innovation, adjustment or rather compulsion, but this thing kind of challenged my orbit, if you see what I mean.
I have whizzed past many people in crutches before, never rubbed shoulder with one but now. And this was different. There seemed to be no sign of cut or bruise marks in his body, he was fairly well built. His upper half of the body was contrary to his lower limbs that never responded to any stimuli. I had witnessed the tears in his eyes the other day, and now the new found happiness radiating from every little word he shared with me. My curiosity propelled me, I had to demystify the strange feelings and somehow I felt he would help me. “Tell me Santosh about your life and your family”. Only a moron would have missed the note of sarcasm in my voice, but it flew over him. All I wanted to know here was “what made him to take the help of the crutches?”
In a secluded corner in the bustling city of Mumbai lived a family of three-a father, mother and a son. The son went to a modest school and the father managed to add an extra room to the shanty with his meager saving. He didn’t fare well in studies, so opted to start a small business right as a teenager. His luck struck and the father happily retired to bask himself in the midday sun in the declining years of his age. Then an incident happened, something tragic that threw their life topsy-turvy. Within no days, they realized that life from now would never be the same for them. As Santosh narrated his story, not once did he fumble, he was skittish and never reluctant to move ahead. Only once my eyes met his, and it was a guilt trip.
On his way back home one late evening in his two-wheeler, Santosh was hit by a speeding vehicle from the rear. His body flung some meters away on the road, lucky not to have been run over by the passing vehicles. He found himself in the hospitals days after he regained his senses. There was a small “dot” in one of the nerve in his brain, enough to stabilize the movement of his limb; the doctors termed it Tetraplegia. Not a scratch apart from that. Henceforth, he had to take the support of the crutches all his life. His young eyes looked straight into mine and when he spoke, the words flowed from a wound. Not once did he make any recriminatory remark against the offender who hit him, the darkness that night had eroded every possibility of tracing the culprit and he silently accepted the truth. “But I had dreams which I won’t be able to fulfill, and I feel as though I have been flattened by a truck”. His voice stumbled and stopped. It hurt that much like hell; I couldn't find a scream anyway.
I excused myself to get some hot tea for us and rushed to my room. The few meters I traversed towards my room felt like as though I was drifting on a sea without horizons. A poem by L.Servillon was ringing my ears;
"How can one smile such sweet smiles,
when one is so saddened by sorrows for miles…"
when one is so saddened by sorrows for miles…"
I returned back to find Santosh exactly at the same place I had left him, only now he was wearing a very old coat that shined with age, it’s button missing at intervals. A very soft, cold breeze penetrated from the window pane which was still open. The cold air must have stung his lungs because he started coughing. I placed the tea in the small table for him and stretched ahead to shut the window. He took a sip from the cup, looked at me and smiled as if his face had forgotten which muscles it took to pull up the chapped corners of his mouth. “Nice tea”, he said and I was quick to remind him that I was from the Himalayas, the land of exotic tea. We shared some hearty laughs over the next few minutes over tea , his sad eyes lightening for a moment.
He was crippled at 22. But his spirit wasn’t. His aging father was compelled to wander looking for odd jobs, his mother switching doors in the neighborhood cleaning dishes, washing clothes and stuff. And Santosh was here in the institute which had a special section for the handicapped. The word handicapped sounded so adverse to his nature. He was confined to this shabby room, far and away from the once vibrant life that he lived, or atleast dreamt of living. It was a blow of nature hurdled upon the innocent. He hoped to do some training to repair electronic gadgets and if lucky, earn a livelihood, again. “Life came to a standstill for me, he continued. But I take it as a challenge. I lost my business, lost my friends, even lost my normal life. But I still hope to do something rather than just be a burden to my parents. I can’t let my physical immobility come into the way in fulfilling my dreams.” His voice was more firm and dauntless as he spoke. There was nothing I could say to take away the hurt so I said nothing.
The transition from a young and vibrant life to an institute for the physically handicapped was tragic. To wake up every morning with the first step in crutches is indeed painful. His normalcy now ebbing, life for him was spending most of his day with the deaf, the dumb, many blind or in some cases men on crutches. He was compelled to speak their language, understand their gestures, and try to find a smile amid the ruins. My eyes gently went towards the crutches deliberately lying at his arms length.
“Do your parents come to meet you?” I asked quietly, hoping not to start another round of hysterics; he had finally seemed to calm down. A broad smile ran across his face as he told me that a cousin comes every weekend to take him home and drop him back later. I somehow felt it had struck the right cord. I stayed there in his room for a long time before retiring into mine.
Back in my room, I stayed for a longer time with Rose and Daisy. The faint light from the street lights illuminated the creepers in the garden outside and the soft breeze waved the weeds into undefined direction. I clamored inside my bed and slowly went to sleep.
Time flew by, and the winter was soon gone. Rose and Daisy now were by the table near the window languishing in the warm midday sun. I used to spend considerable time with them, feeding them, talking to them as I saw them growing each day into two beautiful red giants. They were as jovial as ever, and their well being was of utter importance to me. Every day after my lectures I used to rush to them only as usual. I also started to have Santosh's company in my room. I used to walk him inside, make him the best tea and often run the latest Bollywood flick for him. The smile in his face was always evident, pre-dominating his sense of loneliness. I tried my best to fit him in the world he truly deserved. And his smile was a testimony of my victory. I had also realized by now that he had a great sense of humor, garrulous, had a penchant for romantic movies and quite a stuffer. His characteristics were now over pouring, his real self was something that fascinated me, sometimes blew me off. He adored women and still dreamt of sleeping with one someday. I never played Hollywood flicks for him henceforth.
Once, when his brother couldn’t make it to pick him home, I agreed to drop him. That day changed my perception towards life. His family’s broadness, strength and attitude totally whiffed me apart. His mother had the sweetness of honey drops, made some delicacies for me and kept my mouth stuffed the whole time I was there. She was an epitome of love, of affection and motherhood by far. They stood like pillar behind their son, never let anything discord him. I then knew that the womb that nurtures would nourish for lifetime.
I frequented Santosh over the next couple of months. We could easily hear the FM-player blaring on many occasions all the way from the corridor, an indication that he was still inside. He had found solace inside that tiny shabby room, and he carried it with a broad smile. The paints in his room was now giving way into patches and the thick weeds outside the window made the single functional panel unable to open. Faint daylight made its way to his room which was always illuminated with a bulb.
One day on my way back to the hostel, I found the security guard running towards me. “Sir, Santosh is leaving today, his course is over. He was asking for you. He’s at the car park.” I was numb and still. The wind stole the words and spread them out across the trees and the pavement and they kicked over silver trash cans. I could say nothing.
I didn’t go near him, stayed at visible distance and waved him goodbye. It was the best I could do. He turned his head away. And when he looked back at me, we were both crying...
