Mein Kempf (My Struggle) - Part 1

Prelude

This is a story I wrote exactly ten years back. It was the time when I had proposed to one of my friends. I was very confident of a wonderful romantic phase but it did not really turn out as I would have liked it and I was 'broken to pieces'. There, I have told you the reason for the somber mood of the story.


PART 1

How many more days for Sunday? Still two more days, I guess… or is it three days? Let me think. Wait… when was the last chicken serving? Was it yesterday or the day before? I am too tired and exhausted to think any further. I feel a sudden impulse to shake awake the boy sleeping next to me and ask him. But I am very well aware of the consequences that would follow. So I decide against it and try to sleep, turning this way and that.

Sleep never comes easy to me even in the state of utmost turmoil and tiresomeness. I sometimes wonder how all those with me can sleep so instantly, blissfully ignoring all their issues. God is so unkind to me. He has granted me this small little boon either. The good old priest, who comes every Tuesday, tells us that God takes care of all his creations. But I am of the slightest belief that God is taking care of me and I am under His protection.

Sunday turns out to be three days later and it is no different from the numerous Sundays that have come and gone in my life. With hope galore, I look forward for the oncoming Sundays of my life.

Please let me introduce myself. I am a nine year old boy, the oldest in my orphanage. Names really don’t matter as they are seldom used at my place. I am small for my age, thinly built, always hungry and severely malnourished. I wear specs because my eyes have lost much of their natural abilities.

I have not yet described the most dreadful part of my personality. My left leg is absolutely useless. It cannot help me in any way. Rather, it is the biggest burden for me. I walk on crutches. Without them, I am simply a mass of flesh and bones lying around, helpless, wretched and immobile. That is, unless I decide to drag myself on the floor. To summarize, I live the useless life of a handicapped boy, physically and mentally tortured to the whims and fancies of the people around.

Here, I pause to clear off a tear that has sprung up in spite of all my will power to prevent it. I always try to put on a brave face in spite of my infirmity. What should I be sad and sorry for? The priest told me a hundred times that being handicapped is nothing wrong in itself and is definitely not a crime. But, making fun of somebody’s shortcomings definitely is. Why, everybody has his / her demerits. Everybody including Shruti, stupid Shruti. Even though she is full seven years old, she is still unable to read even a single letter. Hot-headed Raju is so arrogant. Suman is so dull that he is treated as a mentally retarded duffer. Then, should I be sad and ashamed of myself for being a cripple when all these people are living happy and peaceful lives? Perhaps no. I have made a very valid point here, haven’t I?

Sundays are always bright and cheerful. It is always a day of celebration in our small place. On this day, prospective parents come looking for children they may adopt and take them home. All the children, there are around a thousand of us, get up early in the morning. There is really no reason for that but we are always very excited. We wash up and dress up in the best of our clothes and are ready for our “parents” when they come looking for us. There is always hope with excitement, tension and apprehension all mixed together. “Our parents” would ask our names, a few questions, perhaps to check our mental balance. In case somebody likes a child, he / she would be made to undergo a few diagnostics. The child is taken only if he / she is satisfying in all respects. The priest explained to me that no person would like to adopt a sick or mentally imbalanced child. He made sure that ‘physical handicaps’ is not a part of the specifications but in due course of time, I became mature enough to understand that.

Though I look forward for Sundays, I also dread them. There were times when I was quite small, I sincerely and seriously hoped that there would be a couple who would like me and take me home with them. I never minded the few doctor tests though I did not know whether I could clear them or not. But then, I began to realize that I had been foolish, very irrational in my thoughts. People would come and smile benevolently at me but I soon realized that once they realize that I am a cripple, there would never be a second look. How I wish I could walk and run like others. Then, I might have found a home by now.

I regularly try all possible tricks and tactics to attract parents towards me. Sometimes, I implore them with my eyes to take me. Sometimes, I pretend to be indifferent willing it to seem to them that it is their good fortune to own me and I am least bothered. Sometimes, I try to introduce myself and initiate the talking. Sometimes I smile, sometimes scorn, one time look at the man, and at others look at woman. But the result was always the same. My crutches always remained with me and betrayed my hopes.

In the evenings, I sit in a corner trying to fight my tears. Raju appears looking for me. He is the bully of the orphanage and I am his favourite past time. He taunts me with his remarks and makes me scream all the bad words I know. He then hits me hard across my face and leave. This has taken place for years and years and now, I kind of got used to it.

I am an avid reader. Though it is not my intention to boast, I will definitely say that I am interested to read anything and everything. I have read all the books that are here in the small attic. There are not many books, though. The Aesop’s fables, the Panchatantra and the Jataka tales are among my favourites. I have gone through the same books again and again many times. The children sleep by 9’o clock and I keep reading for at least two hours after that by the side of a candle. This, perhaps, is the reason for my poor eyesight and consequently, heavy spectacles.

Food time is always welcome in our small place. There is always very little to eat and whatever served is always poor in vitamins. I know the amount of proteins, carbohydrates that a healthy child should take and therefore, I know that the food we eat, never meets the requirements. No wonder, I am so thin, pale and weak. Once a week, chicken is served; but it is only a thin watery soup with no taste whatsoever. I have heard that there are grants from the government for all the orphanages, ours included. But a fat amount always finds a place in the pockets of our orphanage’s in-charge, a fat old man named Mr. Rao.

Many a time, I wonder who my real parents are. What my father did, how did my mother look like? Did they love me? Perhaps they did. No creature in this world hates its offspring. Why did they abandon me? Perhaps they had died of some terrible disease and some kind neighbour must have put me up in this place not wanting me to starve on the roads and die.

I had come to this orphanage when I was quite small. So small that I don’t remember anything of it. Many a time, I try to ask Mr. Rao about my parents. I know he possesses the details but he never obliges me. He scorns off rudely or sometimes angrily rebukes me saying that I am an illegitimate child of a worthless couple. My ears would go red with shame and anger but I am quite helpless. In the worst of the cases, he is impudent to say that my parents had thrown me down the road as soon as they realized that I would not be able to walk without crutches again in my life. I clench my fist and remain silent because I know what follows if I open my mouth.

Mr. Rao is very strict with all of us but I think he is particularly rough with me. One day, Raju taunted me so much that I lost my sense of reasoning. I became stupid enough to pester Mr. Rao to take me to a good doctor who could restore my leg to a proper condition. He sneered at me asking who would pay for the doctor… my father or my grandfather. I replied that the same fellow’s grandfather would pay who pockets all our grants. With that, he sprang on me, snatched my crutch and thrashed me soundly. Then he kept me locked in a room for the whole night without food or water. I thought I would die that night from hunger and exhaustion. God alone knows how I passed that night.

The good old priest who comes to preach us every week, talks about a lot of things. He teaches us that patience is the best gift one possesses and also teaches us how to pray. I try to be good and try to implement all that he teaches us in my daily life. I love the priest and his teachings. I attend to his classes with love and devotion unlike many others who say that his teachings are absolutely useless and impractical. The priest is a kind old man and he sometimes brings me small presents like goodies and candies. I think he has a soft corner for me, my crutches doing the magic again.

I am not alone in this world though. Books are my ‘bestest’ friends. I spend hours and hours with them. I am also good friends with Shruti and Suman. I recite all the interesting stories to Shruti. Suman is my best friend. I know he is incapable of reproducing things, so I confide my innermost feelings in him about Raju or Mr. Rao and others. Barring theses, I have no other friends and my life is mostly eventless.

There are plenty of times when I have serious tummy aches. Perhaps these originate from the deep pangs of hunger that I feel almost every time. Mr. Rao never takes care of us. This following incident happened only two days before. I was severely rebuked by Mr. Rao for disturbing his siesta with my stupid stomach aches. He said he was tired of me and hoped that my ache would kill me. Tears welled up in my eyes when he further told me to go and lie down in a place where the dogs can easily find me to tear me up once I am dead. This was too much for me to bear and I came back to my room taking care not to show my tears to anybody.

Raju taunted me saying whether Mr. Rao had called the city’s best doctor to cure me. I put on a brave face and said that Mr. Rao had given me a medicine and I was already feeling better. Hearing this, Raju retreated hastily. Obviously, he did not expect such a reply from me. I lied down when stupid Shruti came from nowhere. She helped me to lay half way till my waist on the bed and told me to hang down the rest of my body. This would help me to stretch my stomach and would ease the pain. She said she herself practiced this whenever her tummy would ache. Apparently she knew that Mr. Rao did not give me any medicine. God knows how long I lied down like that. I even fell asleep in the same posture.

I desperately want to find a home. I can no longer live in such a hellish place. It is getting more and more unbearable day by day and Mr. Rao more and more rude. The food is absolutely uneatable. The priest talks about the infinite love lying all around, the beautiful life we all possess and all the other lovely things in the world. But I began to feel that all of it is absurd and baseless. There is absolutely no love around me. Sure, I have a life and am living, if life just means staying alive and breathing. I guess life is much more than that. If all lives are same and life is all about living and breathing, then we do we use the term ‘dog’s life’?


To be continued...