Weaving Tapestries, Painting Pictures, Dreaming Dreams

This is a very old write, I am posting here because I remembered it after reading my friend, Marilyn’s blog post today.

It rained today, well not that rain is unusual during the monsoon, but today’s rain was different. It was very unlike the usual benign drizzles we receive, when both water and breeze play with hair and face and leave a person feeling refreshed and then the sun comes out beaming with golden laughter. No this was rain from dark gloomy, gray clouds, like the sky was hiding its face in a dull blanket and sobbing its heart out. Its grief was contagious, entering the soul and infecting it with depression and gloom. Who could feel happy on a grey day like this one? Even the sun had given up trying to squeeze any light or brightness into it. One hoped it would get over whatever was troubling it because the day was only half done and errands were pending. These required getting out of the house and facing the tearful onslaught.

After a while there was no option but to brave the rain and the gusty wind and to go out to do the chores that could not be put off. Reluctant to get wetter than was necessary; I called Michael, a rickshaw driver I had recently come across. A rickshaw is open on two sides and only shelters a person from the top. A person riding in it is not only susceptible to the rain arriving in gusts, but also to the splashes of dirty water from roadside puddles as careless drivers rushed through them. In a short while parts of me were drenched through, though I took care to sit in the centre of the rickshaw.

The traffic and exhaust fumes added to the already dull feeling and I began a desultory conversation with Michael. Michael is different from the rude, callous men who usually ply this trade and have given it a bad name. He is soft spoken, gentle and educated. It was not a good time for him; his wife was suffering from malaria he said. Having been through that particular ordeal myself, I enquired after her health. He then told me about his son. Michael’s son is paralyzed from the waist downward, since birth. I listened intently asking questions now and then to encourage him to speak, as he began telling me about his son.

When his son was born the doctors had given him a few hours to live, at the most. They told Michael not to get his hopes high. Michael is a very religious man, with a deep faith in God and he was willing to accept whatever God willed for him and his family. The boy survived more than a few hours, then a few days. The doctors then told him that even if he lived he would be a vegetable. Michael and his wife should never expect him to even recognize them. Michael had by this time made a very firm commitment to his helpless little boy. He had decided to devote his life to him and do whatever was necessary for his welfare. For this, he and his wife had to make sure that they would not have other children, for it would be impossible for them to give their first born the care he needed and also take care of other children. This decision has been very difficult for Michael’s wife, for she would like more children and sometimes she sobs into the night but with almost no help and very little money they have no other option open.

Michael lived up to the promise he had made and showered his little one with all the love and care his overflowing heart could give. As the boy grew, he taught him to read and write and once again proved the doctors wrong. He took him out in his rickshaw and showed him the world.

When foreigners began coming to Pune, Michael was in great demand for he not only spoke English but was also well mannered. He became popular with them and folks learnt about his boy and his story. A few befriended him and asked him to bring his son along when he came to pick them up.

After their son was born, Michael’s wife had given up her job and had become a stay at home mom. When he grew older though, she found it hard to lift him and take care of him. Michael now began staying at home in the mornings to wash and dress his boy and only left in the after noon for work. He drove his auto rickshaw all day, returning home at night to put his son to bed.

A year or so ago, Michaels’s son hurt his foot while playing and had to take bed rest. The poor boy developed bed sores. The bed sores spread and grew till Michael’s heart would come into his mouth each time he dressed the wounds. He was unable to talk to people and withdrew into himself. Michael has had a lot of help and support from the priests and nuns of the convents around, where he lives, though almost none from his siblings. A sister and a father used to come from a nearly school and pray over the boy. They read out from the Bible to Michael and that strengthened his faith. He thought to himself “I am giving this boy up to God to do with what he will”. He began to feel better and was able to help his son fight the bed sores that were almost taking him over. Some of the sores have healed though the biggest ones are slow to heal. He has his hope and his faith though.