There came a sudden Sunday, which gave me another turn in my life. No, it is not for the better, it is for worse. The books are sold to a vendor because Mr. Rao suddenly found that they are useless. A rich couple adopted Shruti. Suman is transferred to an asylum. In just a single day, I find myself even lonelier and life is drearier. There is nothing for me to do, the whole day. Except for the short learning time, when we are supposed to learn the basic science and maths, I spend countless hours sitting by the window, doing nothing, just watching people on the road.
Now, my favorite time is in the mornings and the evenings. There is a school just opposite to our orphanage and in the morning, the entire place is humming and buzzing around with the laughter and chatter of children. How much I long to go to such a regular school. But I never dare to ask Mr. Rao about it. I knew he will sneer about it and then the matter will lead to nowhere.
How sweet it looks when all the children are being escorted by their parents to the school. The fathers and mothers give a gentle kiss to the children before letting them go into the school. In the evenings, the children run into the open arms of their parents who then shower them with kisses. The child then starts recounting its day in the school.
Seeing all this again and again daily, longed me to get parents at any cost. I really have no idea what to do. It was the orphanage’s policy not to keep children once they become ten years old. They are to be shifted to another bigger orphanage which is reputed to be worse than the present one. Till date, nobody has ever been shifted to that place from our one as everybody has been adopted before the age of ten. I, however, posed a threat to this rule and tradition. Because of my crutches, obviously, I was unable to attract parents to take me home. Mr. Rao has already started mocking fun at me calling me record breaking scion as my tenth birthday is fast approaching, just a few weeks later.
There are only a few more precious Sundays left out for me and I try to make the most of them. I try with all my will and might to get someone to take me home. I appear to be quite friendly to them. I want people to say – “A little crippled, so what? Nobody is perfect in this world. Let us take him.” But never did I hear this from anybody. Hope remained hope, moving distant until I began to realize for the first time that perhaps I was hoping for the impossible.
It is the last Sunday before my tenth birthday. I will be shifted to the bigger orphanage in less than a week, in case I don’t find my home today. I become desperate, anxious and tense all at the same time. How can I do something, which I have failed to do all these long years? How do I make the parents realize that there is nothing seriously wrong with the physically handicapped children? How do I make them perceive that a little boldness and a small sacrifice on their part will help give a new life to a young soul?
Sunday evening and I am at absolute peace and bliss. Raju does not come to torment me. Why, you may ask? Like most other stories, does my story also have a happy ending? Perhaps I have got a kindhearted couple who have promised me to get rid of my woes. My dear readers, this is not just a story. It is a life, the life of a poor and wretched boy who is for real and is in flesh.
As I stand on my crutches in the queue waiting for the parents to some and inspect us, I realize it is a sort of ‘do or die’ situation. There are five or six couples today. None of them ventured to look at my tearful face once they saw crutches at my feet. I don’t know what came over me but when the last couple passes by, I just lunge forward and clasp their feet. I shout at the top of my voice.
Sir, please. Madam, please. Kindly take me home with you. It is not a son you are getting. You may look at me as your servant. You need not spend a single pie on my education or leg. I promise I won’t be a burden to you. I will do all the chores of your house.
There are tears in my eyes and this time, I make no effort to wipe them off. I want to show them for the first time in my life. I want to show them how desperately earnest I am. I keep on pleading until the rough hand of Mr. Rao is on me. He shoves me away to a corner and apologizes to the couple. The ‘kind hearted’ people forgive me and move on.
So this Sunday is also not much different from all the other Sundays of my life. But why did not Raju come in the evening to torment me? The answer is, he has been ‘selected’ by the same couple with whom I had pleaded and taken home with them. I frankly do not know how to react now. To be happy that at least he got into a home or to be sad that even the hot-headed Raju had succeeded where I have failed? I have mixed feelings and I frankly don’t know. Try how much I may, I find it difficult to be selflessly happy.
I have seen hundreds of Sundays and thousands of couples in my life. Is there not a single kind soul in the world? Is there nobody to help a wretched boy? Is there no love or humanity? Perhaps the civilization is transiting backward and not forward, as it ought to.
When you read this, perhaps, I am not to be found in the orphanage. There won’t be any frantic searches for me. I have decided long ago, come no matter what may, I will not go to the bigger orphanage. As far as I remember my struggle started here and should end here. May the world not see a similar story in ages to come. May my story be the last of its kind… last of its wretched kind.
THE END
Showing posts with label Orphan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Orphan. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
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...
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...
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