A Wounding Kindness

Last week, I visited Tirupati Tirumala for darshan.

It was a beautiful journey overall. As pilgrimages often do, it also brought me into the company of strangers. I met people who would ordinarily pass one another without a word. On Tirumala though, I suddenly find them sharing stories, exchanging smiles, and speaking with the familiarity of old friends. For a brief while, everyone seemed to belong to everyone else.

I have always enjoyed this.

And yet, somewhere along the way, I found myself, being advised for a problem I had not shared.

It happened as I was seated in the section reserved for wheelchair users and senior citizens. As I waited to enter the temple there, conversations began as they usually do. People asked where I had travelled from, whether I had visited before, and then, almost inevitably, about my disability.

I have never quite understood how they make this transition so effortlessly.

One moment, two strangers are speaking about a journey with me. The next, one has assumed the responsibility of correcting my existence.

A gentleman there assured me that my disability could be cured. Another suggested that I drink pineapple juice mixed with cinnamon powder and turmeric. Apparently, this would help me lose weight, after which I might begin to walk.

I listened politely, but helplessly. As phone are not allowed, I could not escape to another world. I was being offered a solution to a problem whose history the person offering it knows nothing about. Stranger still is the confidence with which he offered it.

I wondered whether the gentleman imagined that, after all these years, all the doctors, all the hospitals, all the attempts, all the explanations, the one thing that had escaped us was a glass of pineapple juice.. !

I do not say this to ridicule him.

Perhaps he genuinely believed it.

Perhaps he had heard of someone who had benefited from something similar. Perhaps he thought he was giving me hope. Perhaps the possibility of helping a stranger pleased him.

I would like to believe that he meant well. I tried to believe at least.

But I have noticed throughout my life, how a person’s intention and another person’s experience of that intention can exist very very far apart. Sometimes, a sentence spoken in kindness arrives as an accusation. And sometimes, the person speaking never knows that an accusation has been made.

Anyways, I have often wondered why disability seems to grant strangers a peculiar authority over another person’s life. There is no ceremony, no permission sought, no agreement reached.

And yet, upon seeing a wheelchair, something changes.

Questions that might otherwise seem intrusive become acceptable. Advice that might otherwise seem presumptuous becomes an act of generosity. A person’s body becomes public knowledge, and their future becomes a subject on which almost anyone may offer an opinion.

The wheelchair, it seems, serves as both evidence and invitation.

Evidence that something must be wrong.

And invitation enough for someone else to explain how it might be made right.

I wonder whether this is compassion.

May be people see another human being living differently and sincerely wish to spare them whatever suffering they imagine accompanies that difference.

Or may be it is something more complicated.

May be we find it difficult to encounter a condition we cannot immediately explain or change. We feel compelled to offer a remedy, not necessarily because the other person has asked for one, but because leaving the matter unresolved makes us uncomfortable.

The advice, then, may be as much for the comfort of the person giving it as for the person receiving it.

I do not know.

And I do not wish to be unfair.

Over the years, I have received hundreds of suggestions. I have listened to most of them with a hurt patience. Some suggestions have been useful. Some have been amusing. Others have been offered with such certainty that I have briefly wondered whether I was the only person unaware of how simple my circumstances apparently were.

Usually, I smile.

I thank the person.

The conversation ends.

But occasionally, something remains.

A remark that took someone fifteen seconds to make can occupy my thoughts for hours or even days.

I begin to question why I was hurt. Why I could not simply accept the advice as an expression of goodwill. Why something apparently harmless should disturb a peace I had spent years cultivating.

And then comes the more uncomfortable question.

Am I being unkind to someone who was only trying to be kind?

It is an exhausting little trial, conducted entirely within oneself.

The stranger has already left. The advice has been delivered. The case, as far as he is concerned, is closed.

Only the person who received it remains in the courtroom.

And yet, I also think about how my mother would have heard this and how the many mothers of children with disabilities out there hear this.

I think of another mother who has spent years accompanying her child through hospitals and consultations. Who has learned medical terms she never wished to know. Who has endured uncertainty, disappointment, hope, and the slow accumulation of responsibilities that cannot easily be explained to someone who has never carried them.

I imagine her sitting beside her child when a stranger arrives with an answer.

A particular food. A prayer. A treatment. A doctor. A remedy that apparently worked for someone, somewhere.

And I wonder what she must feel.

Does she smile and thank the stranger?

Does she explain what she has already tried?

Does she feel obliged to defend the years she has spent caring for her child?

Or does she simply remain silent, knowing that the stranger will soon leave, while she must continue living with the weight of everything that has just been so casually discussed?

What troubles me is the accusation hidden inside the suggestion, even when no accusation was intended.

Have you tried this?

Such a small question.

And yet, beneath it, a mother might hear another.

Have you really done everything you could?

I wonder how often we unknowingly ask people to account for their suffering before we have even learned their names. We rarely imagine that we are doing this. Instead, we imagine ourselves being helpful.

And perhaps that is what makes the whole thing so difficult. Cruelty is relatively easy to recognise. One can object to it, reject it, or walk away from it. But what does one do with kindness that wounds? How does one refuse a suggestion without appearing ungrateful? How does one explain that a person’s concern has crossed a boundary when the person crossing it is so certain that the boundary was crossed out of love? There is something almost ridiculous about having to protect oneself from another person’s goodness.

I remember then a saying often attributed to Rumi, who asks us to consider three questions before speaking sometimes.

Is it true?

Is it necessary?

Is it kind?

The first is difficult enough. Much of the advice offered to people with disabilities is presented as truth without anyone having taken the trouble to establish whether it is true.

The second is perhaps more important.

Even if something were true, why must it be said? Why must every observation become a recommendation? Why do we find silence so unbearable that we would rather fill it with advice nobody requested?

And then there is the third question.

Is it kind?

I think this is the hardest of all. Because kindness cannot be established by consulting the intention of the person who speaks.

A person may intend to offer hope and instead remind someone of a lifetime of disappointments. A person may intend to offer encouragement and instead suggest that the life being lived is somehow insufficient. A person may intend to offer a cure and, without realising it, turn another human being into a problem.

Perhaps kindness requires something more difficult than good intentions. Perhaps it requires the humility to recognise that we do not know another person’s life merely because we can see their circumstances.

At Tirumala, we were all waiting for darshan. Some of us were standing. Some were seated. Some were elderly. Some had disabilities. Each of us had arrived with our own private history, our own hopes, our own reasons for being there. And I found it strangely ironic that, in a place where we had come to surrender our certainties before God, we could still be so certain about what was wrong with another person.

I do not want people to stop speaking to strangers.

Quite the opposite.

Some of my loveliest memories have come from conversations with people whose names I never learned. I do not want curiosity to disappear, or concern to become something people are afraid to express.

I only wish that concern did not so often arrive disguised as a diagnosis.

That curiosity did not presume a right to explanation.

That kindness did not always feel compelled to offer a cure.

Perhaps we could speak to a person in a wheelchair about the weather, the journey, the temple, the length of the queue, or the extraordinary coincidence of finding ourselves in the same place at the same time.

Perhaps we could allow a conversation to remain a conversation.

I returned from Tirumala with gratitude.

For the journey. For the darshan. For the strangers who spoke to me. Even, in some measure, for the gentleman with the pineapple juice, who probably went home believing he had helped someone.

I bear him no resentment.

But I continue to wonder about the strange burden of unasked kindness.

Not every person who appears to be suffering is asking us for a solution. And not every person who lives differently from us is waiting to be rescued.

There are people who have spent their entire lives learning to live with what strangers believe they must overcome. There are mothers who have done everything within their power, and who deserve to be met with respect rather than another suggestion. There are lives that are complete, even when they do not resemble the lives we imagine for them.

And there are wounds that are not caused by disability at all, but by the repeated insistence that a person ought to be something other than what they are.

Perhaps the next time we meet a stranger, we could resist the temptation to become their physician, their counsellor, or their saviour. Perhaps we could simply be another stranger. Perhaps the gentlest kindness is the one that leaves another person’s dignity exactly where it found it. Because how is it ever a kindness when it requires another person to feel incomplete before we can feel helpful.

A Sitar in the Dark

Last night, I woke up around 2:00 am. A not-so-pleasant dream again. I was thirsty. I reached for the bottle beside my bed and drank.

It was while lowering the bottle then, I noticed that sitar. It had been close to four years since a friend gifted the same affectionately. It had been moved occasionally, cleaned diligently, examined curiously, and once-in-a-while it was also handled with the enthusiasm of an irritating boy who knew absolutely nothing about playing any musical instrument.

As my eyes fell on that Sitar, a strange thought hit me. The sitar’s wood had aged by now. One or even two of its strings had been replaced in the past. Scratches had gathered on its surface. 

Yet, I was sure, in the right hands, the sitar would still play out a beautiful music. That aged wood would not break. The replaced strings would not go out of tune. The scratches would contribute nothing to the creation of music.

The instrument would simply do what all beautiful musical instruments do. It would help sing.

Maybe, some of us humans are also like that. We age. New people enter our lives. Some leave. Some parts of us are replaced. Some are repaired. Certain experiences polish us. Many others leave scratches.

And if we are fortunate enough to encounter the right hands, maybe of a dear friend, a parent, a teacher, a companion, perhaps even a stranger, we will discover that none of the hurts has taken away our capacity to bring our inner music out.

But not all of us are so fortunate though. And certainly, I am not among those fortunate souls.

The rest of us, like me, still carry festering wounds instead of scars. We make new friends but secretly miss the old ones. Our bodies grow older, but certain thoughts do not age at all. And then we can take our extraordinary imaginations, our memories, our ability to construct impossible possibilities, our hopes, and employ all of them to make ourselves feel entirely miserable, the whole night. We will build an entire future around something that can never happen at all. And there we doom ourselves, feeling miserable each minute.

When that thought hit me, something became very clear. Given our imagination, memory, aspirations, and hope, we possess nearly all the ingredients required to assemble joy. And yet, from time to time, we arrange the very same ingredients differently and manufacture sadness within us. And we do that in such an expert way too.

As I lay thinking of this silently, my eyes fell on the sitar again. A faint ray of light was entering through the window and falling on the beautiful gift. And somewhere between two gulps of water and an unfinished night, I began to overthink myself into anxiousness. My mind had already decided that sleep was no longer part of the night's schedule. So, I surrendered.

‘Think of little Sahana on a swing’, I told myself to escape my misery.

The image appeared immediately.

For a moment, she was laughing.

The swing moved forward and back.

She laughed out loud.

For that moment, I smiled.

I pulled the pillow closer and shut my eyes with slightly more determination to sleep and to sleep with positivity.

But thoughts of those ingredients came back again.

The imagination I possess.

The memories I have accumulated.

The situations I have lived through.

The people I have loved.

The people I have lost.

The friendships I still carry.

The futures I continue to imagine.

The aspirations toward which I move.

They were all there.

And I knew they could all be combined into feeling gratitude and joy. And they also could be combined into feeling miserable.

And each time, like most, I assembled the misery. I simply resisted the combination that led to joy. Choosing joy felt like effort, when misery flowed more naturally.

Is there anything wrong with me?, I wondered.

By then, I had drifted. Think of little Sahana again, I tried telling myself again. Yet I had drifted far away by now.

May be, it is such miserable drifts that will allow me to find a natural joy someday?, I ask myself. No answer arrived. And I continued to feel a numbing sadness. Maybe allowing myself to drift was the shortest road back toward becoming joyful the next day?, I checked with myself again. No answer came this time too. And I lay there, wide awake, at three in the morning to survive just another sleepless night.

I lay there to experience again, the hurts of the past, the melancholy of the future, and all of it condensed into the present. Is there any way out of it all?, I wondered.

Who knows?

Who truly knows?

We Love The Scar, But Ignore The Blade.

 

Tonight, I kept thinking of a child and a stove.

It is a small, almost ordinary image: a child returns to its flame, touches it, screams in pain, and learns resilience to touch it again. With greater speed each time.

Two adults are watching this. After a while, the adults begin to admire her. They say she is strong from within. They say she is brave to go back and touch it. They say there is something gritty in the way she has learned not to cry for long. Yet, all that while, the stove remains where it is, firing on with its authority, as if it had been placed there by no one. The two adults ignore the stove.

I have begun to suspect that this is how we speak about ‘Inspiration’.

For so long, we have loved stories in which a person is first wounded by the world and then becomes admirable. We are moved by the one who survives suffering and returns smiling, by the one who escapes hunger and reaches richness, by the one who crosses ruin and arrives to greatness. These stories do move me. I do not dislike their beauty.

But I have also started to feel uneasy about what sits beneath that beauty. At some point, we stopped merely honouring resilience and began arranging the room around it. We began speaking as though suffering is not an error, but a necessary corridor through which inspiration must pass.

And I cannot believe that approach anymore. It seems to me that real inspiration is elsewhere. 

I realize true inspiration is not just in teaching oneself to endure the unbearable, but in pausing before it and asking: why was this made unbearable at all? Who left it this way? Who benefits from calling endurance noble when repair would actually be possible? Why are those two observing adults not turning off the stove?

I also think of those who did not simply admire suffering but interrogated its core cause. There is something far more radical in a person who looks at illness, poverty, violence, deprivation, not as fate, not as character-building effort, but as a flaw in the everyday human choices. 

'To reduce suffering before it ripens into life-long tragedy': that feels to me like a truer form of inspiration, may be even love. It is less theatrical for the world, perhaps. Less easy to praise in speeches. But such inspiration is more moral.

The strange thing is that we often wait until damage has already entered the body, the mind, the family, the neighborhood. Then we rush in with remedies and call ourselves compassionate, may be inclusive too. We offer treatment after trauma, recognition after neglect, opportunity after long humiliation. These acts matter. They are not empty. But they also carry a faint sadness, as if we have grown accustomed to meeting people only after the flood has reached their throat.

Why do we remain downstream for so long? Why does prevention seem less stirring to us than survival?

Perhaps because prevention does not flatter us in the same way. There is no dramatic before-and-after, no heroic scar to point to, no visible proof that pain has refined the soul. Prevention is almost impolite. It removes the spectacle. It suggests that many of the burdens we praise people for carrying, should never have been loaded onto them at all. And maybe that is what disturbs us most: the possibility that human beings are not failing to be stronger, but are being asked to bear too much.

Now, I do not want to stop admiring resilience. That would be cruel. There is grace in the people who continue despite everything. But I no longer want to build a moral world that depends on their continued endurance for its most inspiring stories. I no longer want to look at a wound and praise the healing so intensely that I forget to ask what caused the wound.

The world needs to remember this. When a weight is lifted from someone, their strength does not disappear. On the contrary, it becomes visible in a new way, less as strain, more as possibility.

A child relieved of fear may become curious. A mother relieved of impossible choices may become generous in new ways. A community relieved of constant injury may finally reveal its intelligence, its humour, its hidden music.

So perhaps inspiration is not the art of loving the scar. Perhaps it is the quieter act of reaching toward the blade and ensuring it no longer cuts anyone. And so, the most honest question I live with tonight is not how resiliently the child touched the flame, but why the two adults never turned the stove off.

3 AM Fever Dream: When Joys Turns Dust

 

3 am that night. I was in a feverish, delirious world. Light was hitting my eyes in pulses. Not one light, but many. Each strobe of light felt hard, changing in colour, intensity, and speed. The dizzying lights also kept striking me repeatedly without choosing a place to land.

A whole strain kept moving through me initially and then went like a mild jolt all over the body. I felt light-headed for a few seconds, and then a great strain again. I tried to turn over then. From one side to the other. But that too felt like a task with too many steps.

I was in a dream, but I also knew I was awake. The two states stood so close together that they shared the same breath, though I could not. 3 am that night. It seemed nothing was blocking me: no hand at my throat, no weight on my chest, and then there was no air to take in too. I was suffocating, shivering.

In those horror-filled minutes, a snapshot arrived too. My entire life, was passing as a reel, in my mind. The good that no longer exists, the bad that has chosen to imprint itself. I felt a door to the inventory of my memories had opened. And I could see a hundred snakes chasing me deep into that room.

The delirium reduced in intensity. And I lay there with my mouth dry.  A glass of water was not far in distance, but felt impossibly far for my body to reach. Although awake, I could not reach. I would not lift. I should not bargain. It was as if someone passed a verdict I could not appeal.

‘Ofloxcin?’

‘Citralka?’

These words passed my mind.

‘No, I am overthinking this. It is just another bad nightmare’, I tell myself.

The respite began slowly. I could almost measure it. A fraction less pressure behind the eyes, a breath that did not feel heavy. I knew. In twenty more minutes probably, my fever would break. Sweat would come. And it would cover me like a new skin. Then like the first floodwater of a river running through land that has been dry for a year, a mild energy would rush in. I knew it would. I have lived this feverish delirium many times before. I only had to hold on a second longer. One more second.

“You cannot. Not anymore,” a voice said from within me.

Another thought rose, not louder, but more stubborn. ‘At least for what you love doing in life. Please hang in there for a few more minutes’ It sounded less like encouragement and more like a small legal argument.

I was now in the room of memories completely. The snakes were no longer behind me. But my phobia of them throbbed in my heart. The door had been open all along in the hallucination, I realized. I had simply never noticed it. Within that room now, I saw the things I am proud of. They felt like a dream. And then, I remembered the things I am ashamed of, too. They responded like real. Pride and, Shame. Both stood there. 

‘Can I look into the things I am proud of and find the strength to survive this night. Just another night?’, I thought. ‘Is there enough joy in the things I loved from my past to give me the strength to carry forward?’

No answer arrived.

The delirium was wearing off faster now. I am now fully awake. The ‘room of memories’, had clear outlines. I could see the memories manifesting before me. And I began to review them. One by one. In that review, I saw moments I had truly, madly loved. People I had believed in with reckless confidence. Joys I had felt so fully that I once thought they could not possibly fade. And yet, here they were all now: present, but somehow bland that night. Not false. Not erased. But simply unable to lift me through that fever. They sat there like photographs that prove something happened but can never ever reproduce its warmth.

In that moment, a realization arrived, sudden and private. It was like a judgement on my entire life. It left me shocked not because the force of that feeling was new, but because I was finally hearing it without distraction.

‘So, this is how it is always going to be Sai', a voice said. 'Every success. Every joy. Every happiness. All of it will mean nothing in time. And they will lose the power to inspire you', it went on. 'You may overcome any pain and suffering and all. You may even find a provocation in arrogantly defeating them. But Sai, can you now see this room and bear the thought that all joys you have ever felt will come to mean nothing in time? In fact, all the joys that are felt truly are nothing over time. Not only for you. But for everyone’

The thought was complete. It merely placed itself inside me. It felt like a rule I had failed to notice all my life and now could not unsee.

The fever had broken. I moved to reach the bottle of water. As I gulped faster than I should, I could still be in the room of memories. ‘So, is this why we do not cling to happiness?’, I began to wonder. ‘Is this why a purpose an illusion too? Because no matter how big, its achievement will fade in time’, I asked of myself, now fully awake.

I looked at my watch. 43-148 bpm. Two high heart rate notifications. I adjusted the pillow, pulled my blanket harder, and shut my eyes tighter. The room of memories was still there. I let the voice in it take over me.

'A sense of purpose is also not enough Sai. You may see meaning today in your passion. But that is to give you a sense of self-importance and save you for today, this hour. You may survive a few months or years for purpose and passion. But with enough time, you see the meaninglessness of purpose too', the voice said. 

‘Is this why detachment is sought then from everything?’, my thoughts raced now. ‘Is that why we have to see ourselves as  just an instrument of good rather than goodness itself? Is that the reason why we focus on just the practice, not the trophy? Is that why we have to be a helper, not a hero? And is that why detachment from both the good and the bad allows us peace? So that we can even enter the room of memories with humility and nothing more than that?' 

Three friends were beside me that night. And there was this urge to wake them and debate this. I wanted someone to say, yes, that is how it is, or no, happiness from the good of the past do not ever fade.  But I wanted them to sleep too, innocent and unreachable. In their own room of memories.

So, I lay under the blanket there with the argument still hot in my head. And then my eyes fell on that one large, open book in the other room

 “

You have a right only to perform your actions,

but never to the fruits of those actions.

Let not the fruits of action be your motive,

nor let your attachment be to inaction.

”

It had said.

To my extreme distress and against every nerve in my body, I understood that the shloka was right. Not because we must never hope for results. But because even the sweetest fruits of our best actions ‘rot’ with time. In the ‘room of memories’, praise fades. Outcomes unravel. Inspiration dies. What once felt like proof of honest work can turn into a footnote, and then into nothing at all.

And if such a decay of good work over a long time is allowed to sadden us into stopping, if it teaches us that goodness is pointless unless it stays shiny, then we will end up doing less good than we otherwise would have.

So detach, even from good, I realized. Detach, not in the sense of becoming indifferent, but in the sense of becoming ‘unbribable’ by happiness for you to do what is necessary. Do the thing that you are capable of and let it pass through you. Let it belong to the world, and not to your identity. That is the only way you can keep yourself from being discouraged, when the world, inevitably, forgets. As it will. And as it should.

That Chair - Is it a Cage or a Chariot?

‘Oh, you have such a cool Ferrari,’ she said kindly to me. At the ISB’s atrium on that day though, her words floated towards me like a gentle, little taunt. I genuinely knew she meant to say something nice. Something inclusive. Something that should have been pleasant to me. Yet it did not feel so at all! I did not know how to react to her. Should I nod? Should I laugh? Should I acknowledge the absurdity of what she had said about my wheelchair? Yes, she had playfully called my wheelchair ‘A Ferrari’.

Listening to her words, I smiled then, if anyone could call it that. My smile was more like a reflex than an emotion. I propelled myself away quickly, far away from her gaze, and went towards the nearest coffee machine. The classes at ISB were relentless, yet it was the attention on my wheelchair that I needed a respite from.

To be honest, I have never been proud of sitting on my wheelchair. Being on it has always felt like a judgement or punishment. An announcement to the world that I was ‘handicapped’. People inevitably notice the chair before me. They feel its arrival even before I can be at the table. And sitting on the chair, I become dependent. I become dependent on people’s hands, their generosity, their silent concessions to push me through my limitations. A nudge here, a lift there, the entire duration of my life’s movements now owed to others’ kindness. Is it not weakness in its purest form? Is it not being a burden? Such thoughts circle within me. They consume me. And such thoughts do not stop there! 

1.  ‘In accepting and using a wheelchair, have I abandoned the struggle to be normal?’

2.  ‘Will I never again know the taste of absolute independence?’

3.  ‘Is this the moment where I cease to be a person and become merely a condition or a luggage?’

4.  ‘Are all life’s experiences – whether sports, movies, the simple joy of walking – now forever closed or largely attention drawing?’

5.  ‘Am I destined to always be an anomaly, the one who must be considered separately for each occasion?’

6.  ‘Am I an inconvenience to every event?’

7.  ‘Are my friends tolerating me rather than enjoying me?’

8.  ‘Do they help me out of kindness, or is their kindness a performance for others?’

9.  ‘How much humiliation is left for me to endure? How much gratitude must I constantly be feeling to people for helping me out on a condition I did not choose to be born with?’

These questions chase me for answers. They feed on my mind like parasites. And in that feeding, they also refuse to ever be satisfied or silenced.

Now, you must also know that there was a phase in my own life. A phase in which I had actually walked. Not far, but far enough. Slowly, I needed to rely on one crutch. Then two of them, and as my medical condition deteriorated further, I was placed in that scary wheelchair. I became like an object finally. Like a luggage to be moved around. Like a fragile FedEx courier. Even writing about it feels pathetic, as if I am begging for pity. Pity expected by a stray dog for that little scrap thrown to it by those noble. 

And yet, why do I feel that miserable? How did it even come to such emotions? How can a mere chair and two wheels reduce me to this? Is it not absurd that an act as natural as sitting, while others stand and walk, should make me or any person with disability feel so unnatural? That the slightest assistance from another person should send insecurities through my fragile sense of self-worth? What am I for feeling such emotions? Am I too proud to take help, or merely weak to let others impose it on me? Am I sensitive enough to be grateful, or simply vain to show gratitude on a help I did not choose to want? Such thoughts never stop. They pile upon each other. They choke me. And sometimes, when I move to sit on a wheelchair, I almost feel pukish and look down in shame. I look away, at the floor, at nothing, at anything that is not the reflection of my own thoughts. I sink into myself, into my shame. The only escape is music sometimes, but even music cannot make me forget what I am.

And then, recently, I had to speak to a Mother on this. I listened to her hesitation. Her unwillingness to place her child in a wheelchair. I could not offer her words of comfort at all. How could I tell her that this chair would not define him, when it had totally devoured my sense of self-worth? How could I speak of freedom when I had only known captivity while sitting in it? How could I encourage her when I myself feel discouraged and wronged? So, I said nothing. I remained silent. I remained still. Until silence and stillness became unbearable.

Listening to that mother, the dam around my helpless emotions gave way once more. I broke again. On that night, I drowned, soaked in shame, and felt suffocated. I searched desperately. I searched for something, in fact anything at all, to hold onto and find encouraging. I closed my eyes and reflected for anything positive at all about my life because of the wheelchair. And, I let the past wash over me and images emerge within me.

That ugly chair. The two large, worn-out wheels. The handles that confined me to an 22-inch wide seat. The backrest felt as a restriction to my freedom rather than a support. These visions tortured me. And I forced myself to see more. Think more. Look beyond them. To reach further into the horrible corners of memory.

A faint picture emerged then again. Of a man, who cleared the snowed paths to my university at Wisconsin just so that my wheelchair could move to & fro. Of two people lifting me on a wheelchair on a ship bound for Antarctica. Of another person, named Shiv at ISB, who built an entire ramp for my wheelchair to let me experience a normal graduation moment. Of a girl named Mugdha, standing defiantly in a temple. She challenged me with her words: "Sai, Do you think a girl is too weak to lift you and your wheelchair?" Of four companions sweating, grunting, yet laughing as they carried me on my wheelies towards the Goan beach waves. Of six friends who took turns dragging my chair toward the ‘Grand Canyon’ of Telangana. Their breath was heavy but their desire to give me a happy view overpowering. Of two strangers, who screamed ‘Har Har Mahadev’ as they dragged me on my wheelchair through a torrid sea of people at the Kumbh Mela. Of a gentle soul, who placed her feet between my wheelchair and the unforgiving metal ridge behind the elevator, just to ensure my feet never bore the brunt of a sudden jolt. Of friends who, without a word, always parked the car in reverse, closest to the door, so I could move out on my chair with ease. Of a bestie, who twirled with me, to ‘Khwaja Mere Khwaja’. Of another, who made me dance and silently transition from ‘Ayyo Pavam’ karma to a cool ‘Hayyoda’ reel. Of my father, who constantly wiped away the dust on my wheelchair, as if shielding me from the world’s rough edges. And eventually of my mother, who, finally felt a tinge of peace that I might just manage life. Just manage. Even if not on my own, perhaps by allowing others to reach me through that wretched chair.

I searched for more shame because of me on a wheelchair but only found hands of help. Hands that lifted me, hands that carried me, hands that refused to let me be alone, and hands that let my heart feel lighter even as it sank in its own, needless, and destined heaviness.

I wanted to hold that mother’s hand too. I wanted to let her know, ‘Your son’s shame will be born the moment he is placed in that wheelchair. It will feel like a defeat. A humiliation. The wounds of being constrained will ache him every day. They will pain him, and they will pain you too. And with every inch of freedom, a sacrifice of self-respect will be demanded. A momentary hate, minutes of embarrassment will rise within him too. For the help taken, for the help needed, for the help snatched from the world. As a matter of fact, if people were music, he would forever feel like a broken song, endlessly incomplete. And if people were cars, he would almost feel like a dysfunctional machine, towed back, never meant to move on its own. But tell me, dear, is a Ferrari that is towed any less a Ferrari? And does the beauty of the world change when seen from inside a car that is towed? Will it be any lesser? Is it possible at all that a broken heart in a broken machine can still find solace in the helping hands of those around? And if that is not possible, can a mother’s love, not be of any comfort to him to even try? Just to nudge those low emotions he may feel even as his friends nudge him to experience the world? Must our hope be so strong that even true kindness from others not redeem us with a chance to come alive in whatever little ways possible? Must the simple act of sitting on a chair become so complicated to our emotions that even an all-giving, all-caring mother sees it as a defeat to her son’s future. See it as proof that her son’s life will never be normal? Tell me, given a circumstance, are hands that help, even if from others, not greater than feet that move? Are hands that lift not better than hopes that restrict?’

I wanted to raise these questions. Yet, I would never ask her. Because I failed on that day. The day when the ISB girl said, ‘Oh, you have such a cool Ferrari.’ I should not have run to the coffee machine then. I should have said something. Anything. Instead, I fled.

I should have rather smiled that day. I should have laughed truly, and I should have embraced her words, thrown my head back and said, ‘Yes, it is a Ferrari. Would you like a test drive? :D’. But I did not say those words. I only left foolishly and absurdly, as if escape were possible. As if, in rolling away from her, my self-worth and a sense of security will comfortably be placed on that chair forever. 

I was wrong then. I feel wrong each day. I can only hope at least one other person learns this from me: 'Remember dear, living with a disability means mastering the delicate art of reliance upon others while protecting your own sense of dignity and self-worth. No one comes with a manual on how to do it right. Yet, no life, let alone a person with disability’s, is meant to be lived, survived, and experienced alone. So what, if someone has to constantly push you to get you around? Who even truly cares about you being a forever travel burden? No one thinks of you as much as you do. Just take the help. Pay it back through talents you are gifted with. And if no talents exist at all, still take the help. Experience the shades humanity showers you with. That alone is worth a whole life.. ! And to all those mothers of a young child with disability, I will not dare to advise. Ever. You are your superhero's sidekick. You know best whether to let him stay still or challenge him to walk. My story reveals that when you let him roll, he will also fly from 14000 feet, sail into distant continents, and twirl around in a dance with friends. And if my life makes you think too, all my negative thoughts are worth the pain I felt'

Yours with love, Sai

Letter 39: On Forgiveness, Loss, and the Unspoken Bonds of Life

My Dearest Sahana,

Novembers are tough. They have always been so for me. Something about almost the end of year brings out the worst. Think an unwatered, dying plant – that is how I feel about this month. However, this letter is going to be more than that dear! I pen this writing to explain about the one quality I hope you differ from me. And differ from me vastly too!  This letter dear is about a lesson I never really learned or lived well. It is about forgiveness.

Sahana, the world lies when it says ‘I love you’, or ‘I miss you’ are the three most important words. Trust me, they are not. In my experience, the honour of those three words belong to the phrase – 'how are you?'

Yes dear. That simple, boring, yet vastly underrated question are the three most important words. Their importance is truly felt not when people ask, but when those, whom you considered most important in life, STOP asking you that very question.

You may wonder then, why would people stop asking such a question. And even if some do, why would it matter at all? To help you understand that dear, let me share with you, five incontrovertible yet lesser spoken truths of life.

1.  My dearest among dears Sahana,  in life, you will put your heart, soul, mind, time, energy, and everything for a few people. You will devote yourself to their goals, ambitions, and dreams. Yet, there will come a day when nothing of all that matters. The person you lived for once will simply leave or just has to move on. Sometimes, without even a proper goodbye. 

2.   That person or those friends for that matter, will have the 'urge' or ‘intent’ to check-in on you occasionally. In temples, mosques, or churches – they will silently pray for you and be grateful for your presence and what you brought to their life. Yet, a whole canyon of silence is what will exist in reality. A deadly silence will occupy what once was full of life and madness. People will hide behind intentions of goodness about you. Yet, not all intentions take the form of words or actions. Some of the best intentions will be left to die in silence.

3.  My beloved Sahana, Hurtful People are not like villains in movies. Most do not betray or hurt or hit you. But the ones who do end up hurting you, just do not like to be judged for it. No matter what how deeply you were hurt. They want you to understand intentions, circumstances, and force behind their choices. Most do not want to hear harsh truths, even when asked. Contrary to philosophy or ideas, People would rather prefer you be with them without giving any blame than leave them to reflect on difficult truths. Remember Sahana, the world will admire the pain of Sacrifice more than Courage of truth. It will demand presence in pain rather than healing through words. It asks for non-judgementalism and unconditional acceptance, regardless of how cruel the situation can get or feel for you. And this dear, for me, felt like a trap. I wholeheartedly believe this twisted sense of morality in people is actually a trap.

4.   A trap where you will feel horrible for giving up on some people. Each second, minute or hour you will be disgusting about yourself. Even genuine appreciation from truly loving and remaining ones will never reach your heart and let it feel good thereafter.  

5.    Have you failed to endure? Could you have done more? How do you strike the balance between self-care and selflessness? These are the questions that will haunt you forever about people as you grow and age.

But I digress with these truths. As I said, as time marches forward, and even the most loving ones silence out in your life. Some will be blame it on circumstances. Some others on intent being there, but peace being more important. Many more on not wanting to re-live some difficult experiences again. The remaining just get busy. Whatever be the reason, that simple act of reaching out with a ‘How are you?’ ends, making it precious yet unspoken words.

Weirdly though, you will also find yourself craving for that. After the immediate relief of finding space and time for yourself, your mind will inevitably wander back to good times with that person or friends. You will want to reach out, but you will not. I did not. And if you wonder why, you will find it difficult to form words too. I found it difficult too. So, let me share, what I found in my search for answers and wisdom to why people silence us out after all the good and what felt like would be never-ending times. 

1.    There was & is lots of happiness, but all I needed was some peace and time for myself – one said.

2.    I did not deserve such kindness and support all the time – another said.

3.    I will always be grateful to your presence and what you brought to my life. Goodbye – a third one remarked.

4.    Not a day went by in nostalgia of all the good times we shared. I do not know why I became silent. I just did. - another told.

5.    Closeness between friends mostly fails the distance between continents – a wise teacher helped me understand.

6.    If you really wanted to speak, why could you not have reached out instead? Why is it always me who should reach out? – another remarked angrily and blamed me back.

7.    I expected more. Even more. But I realized I was only asking, not giving. I did not want to trouble anymore – eventually said the one who went silent for years.

8.  I just wanted to be with myself for sometime. It was nothing about you - a few more added.

Read those sentences Sahana. I spent a good part of my life sharing friendships and expecting a ‘How are you?’ from all those people. A mild bitterness also blended into life because of my own expectations. 

Looking back, it is true though! I myself could have reached out and made it easy for everyone. Yet I did not. And if I re-live life again, I would not too. I do not know why. Somethings and people are best left to silence, no matter how much your heart screams to break through. There is a true love in being needed unasked and cared for, when not expected to - I told myself.

So, why could not you not show that true love then - you may ask dear. In response to that Sahana, I want you to know something. I want you to be aware that I have not been good at forgiving people dear. It just was not in my DNA. I felt horrible at this inability many times. But I was also too proud to change. Overall, I just turned miserable and lonely.

Should you learn from my mistake then? You may ask. In responding to you on that, Let me tell you what I lost because of not forgiving. 

Firstly, I lost people. Ofcourse, I lost them! I also lost a feel-good factor about myself. I was filled with self-doubt and a mild misery. A form of cynicism also built in, wherein I expected every person to hurt or leave for good at one or the other time. Above all, I constantly craved if time can be taken back, and some mistakes avoided forever.

And what did I gain because of NOT forgiving? I understood what I can never tolerate. I realized some values for which I will even let go of people. I found time and space to reflect. I made way for new people, who would take me down the old paths, although filling me with hope initially each time. Most importantly, I became more and more alone, no matter how many people I was surrounded by. And with such loneliness, a sort of weird detachment also presented itself. In that detachment, the highs aren’t very highs, and the lows aren’t very lows too!

So, I present these two sides as a gift to you now Sahana. I do not and will never instruct you to choose one side over another. You know that is not me at all! Never. I just want you to know that I have lived my life on the opposite side of the world’s famous and loving value – forgiveness. I did not and could not enjoy it as the poets and philosophers say. When I read that forgiveness is the fragrance that the flower sends to the foot that crushes it, I felt disgusted. I could not make space, time, and love with moments that come after forgiveness. And I am weirdly ashamed yet remorseless, mildly bitter but confident about my side. I also live with that conflict within me each day. And in the off-chance that you end up on my side, I want you to know – it is completely alright dear! Not all of world's principles need to be followed by you. We can infact partners in crime :D ! I am not going to and will never lecture you on values that you by yourself must choose. I accept whatever choice you make or path you take about forgiveness. I will wonder in a childlike way as to what your DNA will make you choose. For one choice you make, I will be proud of you. For other side, I will sit beside you and be there understanding why your inner weight is too hard to bear and overcome.

Either ways, I have got you Sahana. For now and always.

Yours, Fors & Froms.

P.S. Oh by the way, just in case you needed it today of all days, How are you doing dear? :D :)

Surviving through that Humiliation - A day of Disgust!

I write this to that child with disability. She, who needs to hear one of my many nightmares. My scars. And how they shape me till date.

I was 16 years old then. SSC Class X public exam, it was that day. American president Bill Clinton was visiting Hyderabad. And I needed to get to the exam centre early; At least 3 hours early to avoid any delays from traffic.

Amma and I started in an auto that day. The March month of the year 2000. Even as we began to reach, I knew my medical condition – lack of bladder control – was going to make its presence felt that day. Thankfully, Autos in this country have leather seats, I had thought and always do! By the time I reached the centre, my pants had soiled partially. I was embarrassed to the core.

Is all okay, Amma asked. Hmm ya, I said without any thought but I was soaking in shame and disgust about myself. How can a young teenager ever console himself that he is not to blame for his own condition? He cannot. I could not.

When we reached the exam centre, I sat on a cement bench, uneasy and distressed. A small crowd was gathering. Amma hadn’t eaten in the morning and was worried about my Sister being along at home. I stared at other students coming to the exam centre. I was also scared that my friends would arrive soon and I may have to get up or make small talk. I put on a stiff face, bringing my legs closer, even as the stomach churned again.

Ennachu, Is all okay? Amma asked again.

Yes Maa, I said in a frustrating tone.

Why do you get irritated all the time? Speak politely!, said Amma.

Seri Ma, I replied.

An hour later, I was climbing the stairs to the second floor. To go to the exam room. As I got onto the steps, my pants completely were soiled now, even as some students moved away from me, embarrassed by the very sight of my hygiene. Tears formed in my eyes as I slipped and fell on steps once. The writing pad fell too. And the cement steps imprinted with the wetness of my pants.

I wanted to run away then. But given my other medical condition, I couldn’t run! Also, I knew Amma would be waiting for me at the school gate. I shook with humiliation about myself, yet kept climbing the stairs. I reached the exam room, drenched in sweat, my own pee, and poop. The exam was to begin in 15 minutes.

After the hall-ticket was checked once again, I went to sit in one of the benches. A wooden one. I thanked a million Gods that it was wood. But was repulsed at the colour of my ‘Khaki’ uniform. I have never liked that colour since that day. 5 minutes to go for the exam to begin.

 A girl from another school arrived and sat to the other end of my bench. She held a handkerchief to her nose immediately. It brought back another horrible memory. So, I sided myself to the wall, wanting to hide into it out of sheer nausea about myself. Another boy turned back to look at me then. Was he sneering because of my stench? I wondered. I did not know. I hated myself and hated my every feeling within.

And then, my stomach began to churn again. More shit into my pants. I was also freakishly thirsty as I did not drink any water deliberately since morning. God wasn’t going kind to me that day or any day thereafter, I knew. But what could I do?

I saw the girl on my bench moved to her right a little more. Almost onto the edge of the bench. Her kerchief was still on her nose. I looked to the floor, and the floor blurred with mere seconds to go for the exam.

Sing a song for yourself Sai, a voice said within.

Sing a song da, you need to finish this exam!

More stomach churning. I could feel the wet pant cling onto my thighs and the burn of the skin rise in the saltiness. I tried humming a ‘Lucky Ali’ song to myself; I couldn’t. I tried a Palash Sen song – Maeri. I was trying to concentrate on the tune rather than everything around me. I just couldn’t.

Here, stand up and take the paper – said the invigilator, appearing out of nowhere and shaking me up from the shame I was drowning into. I did not want to stand. I did not even have the courage to stretch my hand. The girl next was holding her own question paper in one hand and kerchief on the other. The invigilator sensed something was off. I dreaded that moment and have woken up in nightmares for 20 years since then.

No, the invigilator did not say or do anything though. But the fear he might left me trembling. He asked the girl to pass the paper to me and she did it with as much unease as possible. I don’t blame her. I would have done the same.

Sing a song for yourself Sai, a voice said within.

‘Nahin rakhtha dil mein kuch, rakhtha hoon Zubaan par’, I sang that Lucky Ali song to myself.

I do not know why I began to cry even as I began to read the question paper. I understood nothing of what was asked. I read and re-read the questions, but nothing came to my mind. All other students began to look down and write. My heart was starting to race, and I was panicking. My pen did not move and would not move. Not that day. All I wanted was to disappear from the world. And just keep listening to Music, especially Lucky Ali’s songs from Sifar album.

‘Keha nahin saktha kya sehtha hoon chipakar’, the song’s lyrics went on in my head. And not a single word was written. I stared at the blackboard, letting the emotions overwhelm and scar me each minute.

‘Can I have an additional?’, some student had stood up and said meanwhile. That voice shook me out from the trance of misery and shame again. He took the additional and hurried to write. I noticed he was too excited as everyone saw him with awe for a second. I pray he tops the State, I told myself.

I was turning numb now. If only I was not that ashamed, I would have walked out. But I knew I had to sit through until everyone left. I did not want to any more sneers, stigma, or disgusts at my hygiene because of my medical condition. I will sit through the exam even if my thighs burn out from the pee, I told myself. And then, for the first time, I began to read the questions in the paper with a little bit of clarity.

One hour had passed. That Bill Clinton fellow! Why did he have to come today of all days?, I cursed in my thoughts. With little more than 90 minutes to go, I wrote my name and hall ticket number on the answer sheet. I looked at the questions and calculated what minimum can I write to pass the exam? I was breathing my own stink, unable to concentrate. And just as I was piecing myself together, the inspection team had come!

Everyone stand-up, we will check your pockets – he said.

If ever as a child I wanted to end my life, that moment was it. I knew it would be the worst humiliation ever. I wanted to run away and jump off a cliff. On most winter nights, I would wake up in a dream of that day and moment. Again and again. I have relived that day a hundred times because of my nightmares. I wouldn't even know what triggers it till date. Oh, how the childhood scars us!

As I struggled to stand, the inspector looked at me with pity.

Ok sit sit, he said in a hurry as if I am an untouchable insect; I wanted to run to Amma and hide in her hug then. An yellow ball of crap had rolled down my pants. I put my feet on it so as to not draw any more attention.

Not one word on paper yet, except my name.

My stomach churned in pain again. Amma please, I screamed to myself, trying to remember some song.

Amma, I remembered then. She must be waiting at the gates in the Sun. She has hopes of me. She believes in me. I remembered. A surge of her memories calmed me. I should write this exam, a voice called out.

I opened the map-pointing section. I knew I could score some easy marks there. The maps would be given later, but I knew I could gain a score from there. Two strong answers and objective questions – it will lead me to pass the exam, I convinced myself.

So, with shit beneath my feet and in my pants, I began to write. With my thighs burning, body stinking, back paining, and above all, my eyes tearing up – I wrote two long answers in 45 minutes. I wanted an additional. But I did not want to ask as that means I have to stand. I narrowed down the last lines of the answer to fit the page I have.

All my hope was now on the objective and map pointing section. When the papers arrived, I saw the world map and the questions asked. I remembered Lucky Ali’s video songs, how he had shot in different countries – Cuba, America – and remembering where those countries were in the map. I remember the Titanic Movie and had tracked its journey, beginning from England. Regardless of the questions, I pointed out these places on map. I also named all the seven continents for myself, closing with ‘Antarctica’, a land I did not know I would eventually visit.

In 10 minutes, I finished the map questions. 15 minutes thereafter, I wrote the objective paper. I counted what score am I likely to get. 35 was the passing mark. I had attempted questions worth 36 marks. That is all I could do when the final bell rang. And the invigilator came to give the thread to tie the paper and collect it all. I handed the paper over to him, completely exhausted. The girl put the kerchief back onto her nose and was ready to run away and probably puke. I wouldn’t blame her. I myself wanted to.

When all papers were submitted, and the students began to move, I sat there. Tears were punching through my eyes again. They would never stop for years. My core would be overwhelmed by them forever. And as I attempted to move after everyone had left, an Ayamma had come into the room. She saw me and the floor. What I had done to the floor, the bench.

‘Chi’, she said, embarrassing me further.

‘Sorry’, I replied.

‘Jarugu po’, she retorted in anger and mouthed a few foul words, whose corrosiveness killed me further within. I stepped out with poop on my feet, my pants semi-dried, tears in eyes, and limping my way down to two floors.

As I emerged out of the gates, Amma was waiting. She saw me and in a moment understood everything. ‘Come here’, she said and hugged me. She wiped my face with the edge of her saree and gave me a towel to wrap around. Calling an auto, she offered me water to drink. I did not have the strength to lift the bottle. So, how was the paper?, Amma asked. ‘Super ma’, I lied not wanting to disappoint her. ‘I know you must have done your best’, she said. ‘I am very proud of you for trying’, she added.

I tried, and that try mattered to her. And it mattered to me that she feels good. Together, we left the place. She in hope. I in shame and scars.

Two months later, the results came. I had scored 36 marks exactly in Social studies. I passed the exam by one mark. But every mark I attempted, I had gotten it right. The intermediate colleges though, would not take me or give me a scholarship to study. With less than 62%, I was a loser by any standard. My neighbours and friends all celebrated their 90% and more.

‘Seri paravalla, you tried’, my father said that day, seeing my score. His kind approach to my mere trying brought me more tears. I felt I failed him. My mother. And my sister.

I tried. Yes, I did. And on most days, that is what counts. But I wanted more. Seeing my parents sad, I really wanted to be go back and write that exam with all the true knowledge I had of social studies. I did not care for any more shame. I wanted them to be happy. I wanted to top my state. I knew I could. I knew I would.

Looking back though, I am glad my shame prevented me from moving away from that bench and giving up that day. On many days even now, I wake up in nightmares about failing that exam. I wake up in tears, sweat, and it would take a few seconds for me to realize it was just a nightmare. Cornered to the extreme on a wall, I let my shame drive me to persist in that exam and just survive to excel on another day. And each time thereafter, I knew I just need to survive sometimes. Most times. And my day to shine will come.

Nothing thereafter – not even topping the state in Engineering EAMCET, topping CBIT with great percentages, Acing GRE or GMAT, Winning Torchbearer award and Merit Scholarship at ISB – nothing could ever normalize me or make me happy. The shame of that day, the fall on the steps, the girl’s handkerchief on her nose, the inspection, my feet on the poop, the mental image of my mother waiting, and the sheer disgust of myself is what I carry at my core. And oh, those songs of Lucky Ali continued to play in my mind and life forever after. Forever after.

Yet, those songs, the desire to survive, the humiliation of it all is what I internalized. And when I look back at it all today, I remember only powerful moment. The very image of my Amma waiting at the gates helplessly and full of hope for me. I know that for most people, on most occasions – helplessness, humiliation, and disgust is what it all feels like. Just surviving in itself is a challenge. And it is ok, if that is all you do then. Hold onto one image in your head. Any image. Some song. Because when you survive, you live to fight another day. You live to win another day. You live to be proud of your scars. And you live to experience joy. However, impossible it may seem at that moment. Eventually you will be who you are destined to be. You just have to survive until then.