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In the deep of the night as the world sleeps the dark blinds of the night are drawn slightly to let in a white light that separates the Earth from the sky, heralding the awakening of the Earth, which lazily sleeps on, even as the birdsongs welcome the new dawn from the bushes and trees. Reluctantly the Earth opens first one eye then the next, slowly as the dark blinds are further raised to reveal pinks and yellows. Sipping dew from pettaled cups and leafy saucers it stretches its arms, throwing off the bed clothes as the sun climbs out and spreads its light and as the sky lightens and changes drapes the darkness of the night does not leave but begins to withdraw and shrink, for the darkness belongs to the Earth and lingers around, gathering itself it creeps on the ground as shadows, crawling in layers under the Earth. Climbing up trees and clinging under leaves, moving to avoid the light of the sun, full of mischief jumping, giggling, staying just out of reach, it plays hide and seek all day. It lies on the ground, hides behind houses, under the trees, among the leaves, sometimes stretching, sometimes shrinking, it is never completely conquered by the sunshine and finally exhausted, the sun begins to slip westward to its rest and the night crawls out from under the ground, from the bushes and trees and from under the houses and bridges, barns and buildings, it stretches and grows and steals over mountains, hills and vales, over land and sea, fields and houses, it stretches and spreads even as the last light of the sun lingers in the sky, changing from yellow to amber, pink, orange, red, purple to a dark velvety blue and then gives up and is gone leaving behind the Earth to be cloaked in the blacks of night.
A cloak so dark that in the absence of the moon, in deserts and forests, on mountains, seas and oceans, in marshes and the open countryside, wherever on the land and seas, that man’s light does not reach in the night, the darkness is all consuming, all pervading, swallowing up every line and contour of all that lies, stands or moves, even though a billion stars shine in the sky above. The Earth reclaims its mantle of darkness and silence prevails, a silence in which one can hear the nocturnal music of the Earth, like the plaintive call of peewits, or the flapping of an owl’s wings, or the wind in the trees or the sounds of waves or flowing or falling water, for to nature the darkness brings tranquility and peace.

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Incessant rain, flooded roads, squelching mud, grey skies, dreary days, sometimes that is all we can see during the monsoon. How soon we lose our patience after the first relief from sweltering heat. Yet there is another side to the monsoon: waking to a world washed clean and bright after a night’s rain and breathing in the cool crisp morning air, listening to birdsong that seems to have a chirpier lilt in its merry notes, enjoying the sight of luxuriant grass growing by the side of the roads, and raindrops resembling dew, nestling on green blades, shimmering golden as they catch the sun that often plays hide and seek after a sudden shower. Nowhere is the monsoon more beautiful than on the hills and mountains that are so close to us. Khandala, Lonavla, Panchgani, Mahableshwar, all wear a glorious verdant look, with mountainsides lushly cloaked in green. Beautiful wildflowers in vivid hues cover hillsides and meadows and silvery white waterfalls gush down the mountainsides. The monsoons enhance the natural beauty of the Western Ghats tenfold, helping to hide the deep ugly scars of deforestation that show through most of the year.
I remember what a joy it was, splashing through puddles, during my school days in Mumbai, or walking out for miles as the first rain fell. It is impossible to forget the power of the winds that almost pushed one at Nariman point or the intense pleasure of meeting the rising waves on Marine Drive, Worli Seaface or Haji Ali, as we were drenched by the falling rain; salt mixing on the lips with cool fresh rain drops. A few days back we were back in Mumbai and woke to find it submerged in water. For working people it was an unscheduled holiday, time to relax, watch TV or just eat hot pakodas and watch the falling rain, or pretend the sun had not risen and go back to sleep. We postponed our departure from there, following the advice given on TV to stay indoors till 5 pm. Fifteen floors below we could hear the children from a nearby slum screaming in delight, looking out of the window we watched them as they played a tug of war. A little distance away we could see a group of boys, in a maidan, playing some game, while almost waist deep in water.
As we drove to the highway there was still water in places and youngsters were out in the rain without the protection of raincoats or umbrellas and little children were swimming merrily in the knee deep water collected on the side of the roads. Much later leaving Vashi, we were rewarded by our first glimpse of snaking waterfalls. Then followed the paddy fields between Panvel and Khopoli; a truly entrancing sight during the monsoon. These are small patches bordered by tall trees with wide canopies, and rain washed leaves, gleaming emerald bright. Once in a while we were greeted with the sight of a single tall palm or a small group of towering palm trees. The rivers flowing through were full and surging with power but rather muddy. Clouds half shrouded the mountains of the Khandala ghats. A little further we were rewarded by a sight of monkeys sitting on the expressway wall. A number of monkey families sat on or clambered up the wall. Mama, papa, baby monkeys along with aunts, uncles and cousins were all over the place. It was quite a sight. A few minutes later a policeman stopped us, very considerately choosing a spot from where we could spy a glorious waterfall, though shrouded in misty clouds. As the driver spoke to him, we took the opportunity of taking some pictures. We left the expressway at the Khandala exit and headed to Lonavla and Lion’s point which is on the way to Ambi Valley. We headed up the steep, curving road, and stopped at a spot where we could park the car and walk in the grass. Wild plants, cacti and wildflowers grew in profusion. Water fell from a mountainside close by and it was an idyllic scene. Walking a little further we came upon a brook singing its way down the mountain. Wispy clouds floated around like chiffon curtains. Reluctantly we moved ahead to Lion’s point, but we had lingered too long and it was dark by the time we reached it. Lion’s point is impossible to miss, due to its popularity, as there are always a number of cars parked there. It is blessed with a breathtaking view but more often than not, this is cloaked in clouds during the monsoon, yet it continues to attract people. The mist was swirling when we reached it and it was quite dark, yet there was a beauty in the scene. We parked on the other side of the road, where a dark hill loomed high behind us in the gloaming. Clouds added to the darkness and visibility was lessened, creating a strange unreal atmosphere. Passing car lights appeared eerie, diffused by the mists. A little distance away a reddish glow perhaps of a parked car, lit the silhouette of a tree, producing an unearthly scene. Carts of roasted corn on the cob or tea stood on both sides of the road, their fires adding to the mysterious atmosphere. People blended with the night, their faces barely discernible. Occasional showers of red sparks flew in the deepening darkness as the shadowy hawkers fanned the flames. There was neither view, nor light, nor colour, nor moon, nor stars, yet the rolling hilly mists, the growing shadows, the secretive night, all held us entranced.

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The journey from Prague to Budapest began in the darkness. Once more I chose to travel in the restaurant car with it’s wide windows offering views on both sides. Orange tinted clouds appeared on the horizon after an hour of staring into the darkness. The world slowly emerged swathed in soft white. Trees stood like ghostly sentinels. The landscape alternated between tiny villages, farmland and meadows lined with trees and thickly forested hillsides. Thick cloud cover tucked in the sun and mists swirled around but even in the gloom, autumn’s splendour could be detected. Occasionally a row of trees, stripped bare appeared by the tracks and reflected in pools of collected water. Smoke twirled out of the chimneys of little houses and though warm in my little corner, I yearned a little for their cosy hearths. The very air seemed to hold its breath as even the leaves were still. How precious this hour of morning, how holy, a world waking up to a new dawn, a new promise, new hopes. A world which seemed to be renewed and washed clean. 

The lazy sun has finally thrown off its bedclothes and dressed the earth in filtered tones. The golden hour of the morning is softer and its ethereal light permeating the landscape seems to purify it. A strange scene appears before me. Fields reaped and shorn of their offerings now lie under a low yellow cover. Trees almost bare but with some leaves still clinging in strange round clumps to the branches. A sight I have never seen before.
Autumn is my favourite season. I love its glorious hues. An autumnal landscape unfolding its treasures in the morning light is a rate treat. My mind dulled by little sleep of the past few days, yet refuses to turn away from the glories on display and take some much needed rest. The past few days have been a blur. Landing in a dull and cloudy Prague, then rushing off to Rome for a week, greedily attempting the impossible task of drinking in the eternal city in the great gulps while squeezing in a day exploring the beautiful coast of Cinque Terre. The early morning flight back to Prague, stopping just long enough to wash and iron clothes and pack again, the early morning train to Budapest. The tired mind goes of on strange fancies. Perhaps the clinging round clumps on the bare trees are not its leaves but nests built by some bird. What kind bird is it that drapes bare trees with the green leaves that nature deprived it of, in such an artistic way. 

The light outside is the same that artists have painted landscapes in. I always notice it in autumn. If I could paint or even photograph it I would but at 139 km/hr it is only possible to look and enjoy. 

We are in Hungary but we left the sun in Slovakia. Despite the dullness of the cloud cover the landscape is richer here with forested hills hugging the Danube. The range of shades and colours is greater here an indication of more variety of flora. 

Across the Slovakian town of Šturovo we could see the breath takng site of the Esztergom Baszilika. The train stops at Nagymoros-Viségrad a small, neatly laid out place with little houses on tree lined avenues besides the Danube. Across the river stands Visegrad Castle, atop a hill overlooking the bend in The Danube. Though in ruins it is still an imposing sight. We stop at Vac and then it is straight to Budapest and the end of the journey. Seven hours just flew by. 

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The white line on the Eastern horizon is very distinct from the black and growing. It is time for fajr and sleep heavy eyes are now wide awake and refreshed after an early morning dinner of kofte and coffee. A fitful sleep took over almost on take off. The darkness hangs heavy in the sky and over the earth, though slowly the light is growing but stars are still distinct over the horizon. 

I stare at my screen, it is not the wide range of the latest movies which are available that fascinate me or even the music or the games. It is the route which is fascinating. I steal glances outside. My window is facing east and I am eagerly awaiting the sunrise but at the same time the screen attracts me with its magical names. I am fascinated by the thought that below me lies the world. A world of mystic and legend, of history and stories, so many cultures, traditions, languages. A beautiful, colourful world now reposing tucked in comfortably in the bedclothes of the dark that still enfolds the earth. The screen offers a geography lesson. I look at place names rarely heard and wonder about them. Ashgabat, Buxoro, Astrakhan. I want to say the names aloud. Feel the taste of them on my tongue. But perhaps the Romanian gentleman to my left might have doubts about my sanity. I keep silent but in my mind I am savouring them. They are far away yet near enough to be on this route map. Air travel has made the world so small. The places one thought one would never see in life are just a short flight away. 

We have been flying over Iran. Tabriz lies somewhere to our South East. It is a sobering thought because the routes for all flights have changed due to the conflicts on the ground. Earlier all flight to Turkey or Europe entered Turkey from Mosul in Iraq. The conflicts, the killing, the danger, the fear, the deprivation of those on the ground not very far away fills me sadness. I want to shout stop stop stop I want to shout it out so loud that it reaches every corner of the globe. STOP! When I allow myself to think of what man is capable of doing to man the thought fills me with agony. There on the route before me are names no longer the stuff of legends but names which seem to take on a new life and are writhing before me in agony. Basra, Baghdad, Mosul, Damascus, Aleppo. Once the cities of dreams, centres of ancient civilisations, cities which are carrying the ruins and histories of so much within them only to be destroyed and ruined once more. Barbarically destroyed in a world that stresses upon being civilised. A claim which it can never make good while there is a single drop of innocent blood being shed. 

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Paths of Grace


I once strolled down paths of grace
where even time had slowed its pace
breezes flowed with reverent care
peace trod softly upon the air

Contented leaves let out a sigh
from gnarled giants that towered high
yet lay mirrored in silent pools
where fishes swam in languid schools

To sturdy trunks great creepers clung
on mossy boughs thick vines were strung
and ‘tween grassy blades bloomed
wildflowers spun on nature’s loom

The sun too had muted its might
and spread its rays as filtered light
through branches that joyfully swayed
showering trails with dappled shade

Ponds shimmered with bright golden gleams
ballrooms of happy, waltzing beams
while arias sung by wren and thrush
echoed from verdant hedge and brush

the evening choir’s honeyed tones
could melt the heart of hardest stone
while the setting sun’s mellow kiss
filled mind and soul with warmth and bliss

Now late into this still dark night
once more I yearn for that treasured sight.


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Yesterday Ahmed was playing in the street with his friends. I wanted to play too but mother said I had to help her. There was a very big noise. It was so big that everything shook. It was followed by many others. I was so afraid, I hid under the bed. Mother was afraid too but she ran outside. People were shouting. I went outside. Everything was broken and burning. There was no Ahmed. Mother was wailing and beating her head. Our neighbour was holding her. My heart was beating loudly! Where was Ahmed. I waited for him but he did not come back. He never came back.

Today they buried Ahmed. They put him inside the ground. They put his little friends too. But Rashid was taken to the hospital, maybe they will put him in the ground afterwards, like they did my brother Faisal. Faisal went to a place called hospital. Children who go to the hospital are then put into the ground. My father said that was because they did not have something called medicines. I did not understand. Last night I could not sleep. All night mother cried. Sometimes she kissed Ahmed’s pillow, sometimes the new dress she had made for his third birthday sometimes his tiny new shoes. He would never wear that dress. He would never wear those shoes. Ahmed would never be three I thought.

In the night mother came to me and held me tight. I could not breathe. She kissed my cheeks and my eyes many times. Her face was wet with tears.

Today mother gave me a biscuit. It was from the packet she had brought for Ahmed. He liked biscuits. I also liked biscuits very much. I would have liked a biscuit sometimes but they were only for Ahmad. That was because he was smaller. I took a bite from the biscuit. It was sweet and crunchy, but I could not eat it, it was Ahmed’s biscuit. He would never eat it. He would never come back. Why Ahmed? I thought, what did he do wrong, he was so small and sweet,always smiling. He played with me. I thought of his plump face, his chubby pink cheeks, his big shining black eyes, his curly hair. I could never hold him again. I began to cry.

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We returned in a daze, sometime in the afternoon, still caught up in the magic of the day’s experiences. What a day it had been, the sights that we had seen had far exceeded imagination or expectations. We were totally bewitched. Who could go through the halls of that lofty castle, look out over the countryside, taking in the little villages, the forests, the clear, still, blue green lakes, walk through what certainly were enchanted woods, inhabited by faerie folk and stay untouched.

It had been a day of epic proportions, the day when I was finally able to visit the place I had dreamed of seeing as a child, ever since I had seen a picture in a magazine, of a castle perched high on a mountain and wondered how it had been built. How lucky I was, to be able to share it and its wonder, with my daughters. I could see that this exquisite experience transcended generations and the enchantment captured us all.

The Village of Schwangau, Alpsee and the Mountains Beyond

Neuschwanstein Castle

Landscape seen from one side of the Castle, with Forggensee in the distance

The mountains around Alpsee, with a tiny glimpse of the Alpsee nestled below them

The Castle of HohenSchwangau, Schwangau Village, Alpsee and the mountains behind it, seen from Neuschwanstein Castle

Mariensbrucke The Bridge from where one can see the best view of the castle. Unfortunately we could not go there

After lunch we returned to our hotel but I and my elder daughter were full of restless energy and ready for more adventures. It had been cloudy for awhile, when we were at the castle and had rained a little too but it was clear in Fussen, the town we were staying in, which was ten kilometres away. We decided to discover the lake we had seen from the castle, Forggensee. It was just a short distance away from our hotel. We had barely crossed the street, when we came upon some tents. There, laid on a table was every kind of delight from France. Lavender oils and soaps, Savon the Marseilles, honey from Provence and olives from I forget where.

There were other tents too but we barely noticed them. Lavender soaps and I have a history and a loving relationship. Its fragrance is not just in my present but wafts in my cherished, childhood memories. My father, who grew up in colonial India used Yardley Lavender soap. Later it was not available in India, but when he went to work abroad, he always returned with cakes of lavender soap. The fragrance of lavender crossed the generation gap and tied our childhoods together.

After my marriage too there were always cakes of lavender soap in my ´home, though I had never seen or smelt the real thing till we went to Africa. There I found a lavender plant in the garden of the resort we stayed in and fell in love all over again. I put some flowers in my jacket pocket and was delighted that they held the fragrance even after drying out. The lavender stayed with me for a long time.

When I saw pictures of lavender fields, I dreamt of walking among them and simply gulping down the heady aroma. It has not happened yet though, hopefully it will someday. The lavender soap at this small stall smelt of the real thing, I just had to buy some and the honey and a little bag of olives, which were quite expensive. The lady only spoke French though and all we had was a rusty, schoolgirl version of the language. Nevertheless, we were surprised at being able to communicate with her. Of course a lot of gesticulating and smiles also helped and we made a connection and were able to actually strike a rapport.

We moved on and after walking a little came upon an unexpected sight. We could actually see the castle in the distance and sighing in pleasure we sat down on a bench that was probably placed on the pavements for tourists like us. Once more the enchantment began its work on us and we sat there, mother and daughter, talking about it in mellow tones.
A close-up of the side of the Castle visible from the Town of Fussen, 10 km away.

I opened my little bag of olives and started eating them. they were delicious. One slippery fella landed on the pavement and I thought I would pick it up later.

Just then a group of what seemed to be local residents out on a walk, arrived with a beautiful dog. The dog ran towards us and then it just had to discover that fallen olive. Its curiosity seemed aroused and it began sniffing it and before I could say a word, the olive was in its mouth. I was aghast, images of the poor thing choking on the olive flashed across my mind. Perhaps even a newspaper headline “Murderous tourist kills innocent dog, with an olive!!!” I would be on the news, dog lovers everywhere would hate me. It is funny how many weird things can flash across a mind in a few seconds.

Fortunately I somehow managed to communicate the situation to its owners who spoke only German, and showed them my now almost empty, bag of olives and said their dog seemed to have swallowed one. One of them put his hand in the dog’s mouth and got the offending olive out. Another connection was made and we were all full of smiles as they walked away.

It looked strangely dark. I looked behind and was shocked to see that a huge dark cloud had appeared most unexpectedly and was blotting out the sky behind us. Neither of us liked its threatening looks. Luckily we had not walked much and the hotel was just a few minutes away. Hoping to out walk the storm we started walking back hurriedly. we were too late though, in a few minutes we were drenched. It’s funny about getting wet, one tries their best to get out of it but once caught up in it and soaked to the skin one can, if not chilled, just accept it and try to enjoy it, so that is what we did.

It grew very windy too and when we reached the lavender stall we saw that the tent was almost blowing off and was held down by its valiant owner, whose husband had gone for help. We stayed with her and helped her hold the tent. The rain by then was pounding down on all of us and the wind whipping around. After a while we were able to leave her and the tent in safe hands and return to our hotel.

It seemed a fitting end to an exceptional day, anything else would have been too tame.

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The Evening

It was close to sunset when we left for the promised walk. Not wishing to waste anymore light we took a taxi to the seaside and started our walk from there rather than from home. February days, cloudy or clear are always beautifully pleasant and it is the perfect time to walk. The wind chill has abated and usually a pleasant breeze blows. The promenade was full of people, mothers out for a stroll, pushing prams with babies, while they brought each other up on the latest gossip, solitary joggers and walkers, families with children. The atmosphere was lively. As usual we caught glimpses of fishing rods and patient or perhaps simply lazy fishermen.

An Asian woman was pouring water from a bottle and it looked like she was pouring it into the sea. At this strange behaviour my daughter could not resist commenting “Yeah just in case the sea runs out.” In a moment we were chiding ourselves for laughing because she was actually pouring out fresh water for the cats that lived among the rocks. 

A little further we saw a couple walking briskly, both with their earphones on, were wrapped inside their own little worlds. It seems a shame that more and more people like to lock themselves up with sounds and voices only they can hear and lock out the voices of those around them. A walker went by smiling to herself. A little further on we passed another walker with a secret smile. 

A couple of boys appeared kicking a ball lazily on the grass. An Arab woman dressed in abaya and hijab, was smilingly attempting to fly a kite, with her little son looking excitedly on. it was a perfect photo op but I refrained out of respect for her privacy. Mother and child laughed as the kite fell to the ground. Sometimes words have to suffice to capture some moments. 

It was past sunset now, though it was still light and the sea was a lovely dark blue. A brightly lit pleasure boat that sails up and down the coast, sailed past in all its colourful glory.




On our right a few men lined up on the grass, and stood facing west, to offer the evening prayers, as one more day drew to a close. 

In the distance the brightly lit sails of Scientific Centre beckoned and it grew dark as it we reached there. it was a short walk but it left us with a pleasant feeling of contentment. 


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It is one of those moments of pure peace and even bliss, the best of family life. It is Friday evening here in Kuwait, the week-end. Husband and daughter are home and relaxed. We are all relaxed, the weather is a bit dull so there is no pressure on making the most of good weather and going out. We sit around the television without pressure. We are all watching the documentary ‘Oceans’ on TV. We are all lovers of nature and fans of documentaries on Nature.
I am sitting on the sofa next to my husband’s armchair, with my laptop on my lap reading blogs and commenting. My husband has a plate of black seedless grapes in front of him. Every so often I take my left hand off the keyboard and reach out with palm upwards, towards my husband, still looking at my screen. Husband wordlessly puts a grape in it. I keep holding out my hand, one more grape follows, then another. This goes on, I stuff my mouth with the grapes and bite, letting their sweetness bursts inside and flood my mouth. There are no seeds to disturb the pleasure. I replenish constantly. This goes on till hubby in an attention seeking moment, puts a bit of empty stem on my hand and I raise my eyes questioningly. It is a moment of connection on a simple yet deep level. After that I reach out my hand not for the grapes but to touch his or squeeze it now and then. We are in our worlds, yet connected.
Every so often I also take my eyes off the laptop screen and look at the TV and pass a comment or two. There is a creature moving in a funny way, I say OMG it looks like it is waddling. My Daughter bursts out laughing. A walrus swims in sometime later, his moustaches make him look human, we can think of men who have moustaches like that.
The documentary is now over so are most of the grapes. Husband has left to run an errand, daughter is back in her room. I sit here alone, with the TV switched off, still trying to document a moment, which is now in the past. The rumpled cushions and the remnants of the grapes, mutely give witness to the moment of happy family life. The pleasure lingers in the tranquility in the air.
In the flurries of daily activity, in the days of pressures, frustrations, demands of work and every kind of distraction of daily living, these are moments to be treasured and remembered.

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Michael’s Story

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.

Listening to Michael’s story I felt a great desire to go and visit his boy. I wanted to spend more time and learn more of his story and to befriend the little boy. There was so much pain in this world and once in a while one met a person who with true courage and forbearance, patience and love, combated the pain and misfortune. To me such a person was one who inspired and commanded respect; he was a true hero. To me this man though poor in fortune, was a true hero. 

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