"I Live..."

“I live in an affluent locality in of one of the largest metropolitan cities in India. I live in Bangalore. There was a point of time I would have been proud of that fact; proud that I had passed out as a Matriculation topper from a prestigious school; proud that this city had a lot to offer; proud that I was on my way to a socially secure, financially stable life. However, Lady Luck went on a vacation, a long vacation and the sun set on my successes. The bitterness of time seeped in and the gray hair I had long attempted to conceal got the better of me. It is then I realized the complexities of old age. This is a time by which our children are physically stronger than us; a time by which they are wittier, ‘cooler’, and dare I say, subtler than us. This is a time when they remember more than I do, which gets me thinking, “Did I really hand over all my assets to them?”

I live in an affluent locality in one of the largest metropolitan cities in India. I live in Bangalore. I am not proud of that fact. I have no place to rest my head. I have no food to eat. I have no change of clothes. I have been lying in this gutter next to a magnificent housing colony for the past six weeks. I was dumped here along with the garbage by my very own son. I haven’t moved since. I have lost feeling in my feet. I can barely move my hands. I moved them this morning to scratch my head, only to find a gaping hole in a place I would generally feel my hair. I could vaguely feel itchy movement inside my skull. I am rotting away. My friends are the rats who peer at me in the dark of the night; the maggots eating away the rotting flesh in my brains. I don’t understand how I could still be alive. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to die. I’ve been asking myself how long I could fight the angel of death. It is a tough fight. A fight I don’t expect to win however much I want to. It’s getting dark. My eyes feel heavy. Weird, as the sun is still high up in the sky. Vehicles are passing by. There is a strong stench of waste, a heavy sound of gushing water in the gutter. It’s getting darker. My eyes feel heavier. I attempt to concentrate on the black crows pecking at my feet. I blink. It gets even darker. “Is this death?” I ask myself. I look up to a final glimpse of the bright blue sky and white clouds. Then darkness sets in and lingers.”

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“His name was Anup. He went to some famous church in Bangalore. He looked rich. He often carried a camera in his hand. He spoke to me but I did not respond. I hadn’t spoken for a very long time. People thought I couldn’t, but only I knew better. I liked listening. That is how I knew his name and what he was doing. Beyond that I knew nothing about this young boy, except for what I noticed. In a few days of being at the Home of Hope, he spoke less and worked more. He brought me food to eat, clothes to wear and spoke in such bad Kannada that it got me to smile. Yet, there was something about this young boy that seemed sad, depressing. It was almost as if his happiness was sucked out of him as he stepped into the Home of Hope. It was obvious that he could not digest the stench of disease, the sound of pain, the sight of death and forlorn destitute at the Home of Hope.

He made an effort and that effort was appreciated. I couldn’t care less about him, but then he kept coming back. He made friends quickly. He visited this place of refuge everyday, and even old Imam-babu seemed to like him. I listened to the young boy conversing with the old man. He brought news and stories from the outside world. He shared his life and his love. Yet, I couldn’t help wondering whether the young boy knew that the old man was going to die; that he had been picked off the streets with a swelling in his head. The doctors had diagnosed him with a brain tumor. They had given him two weeks to live.

The doctors were wrong. When the young boy came next morning, he found the old man wrapped in white, ready for cremation. The boy requested to see the old man’s face one last time. I moved forward curiously. When the face was uncovered a serene smile was revealed on the old man’s visage. This seemed a stark contrast to the character of this old man; a disparity separating the old man from the anguish and pain that had become ubiquitous at the Home of Hope. I looked at the young boy to evaluate his response. He smiled back at the old man as if they had finished the most profound and satisfying discussion. I envied the old man, his peace and his smile. Then before I knew it, I walked up to the young boy and said my first words in two years, “I lived in an affluent locality in one of the… … …””