Wisdom

"Whatchya in here for?"

If you are somebody who likes to second guess what's happening or what's going to happen in a story, you'd probably guess that the setting is a prison cell. You didn't? Anyways, It isn't. Oh but think- how metaphoric is it, that i'd say that and then go on to say in the next sentence that it is a hospital room.

Half his body's functions down, unable to take a single comfortable breath, half the white hair on his freckled head taken away slowly and slowly at night- most would say they fell of as hair do as we grow older- he maintained it was the work of those bastard terrorists running a scam against our people from the other side of that oh so pragmatic line we call the border; single for most of his life and wheezing with every breath he takes- you'd say his miserable. In fact, he's been miserable most his life. But, there's one thing about him- whether you like that quality or not- he speaks the truth- not always to himself but always to those around- always- sometimes inducing pain by what he says, sometimes realization, at times repentance and most popularly hate. And although subtlety is not his forte, he does speak from wisdom that comes with facing the not-so-comfortable truth much more often than ordinary mortals do. Ordinary mortals who'd look the other way when faced with the not-so-comfortable truth, who'd hide behind their own customized defence mechanisms, who'd so violently advocate 'morality' and even sometimes those who have to rhapsodize about make-believe feelings to satisfy that oft-hitting hunger to feel good about themselves.

On the bed to his left- one of the 2 beds in the somewhat cramped room, lies a middle-aged mother of two. And you say- what stereotyping piyush or you might even say, that's so patronising (maybe you won't but still)- is that all there is of her- that she is a middle-aged mother of two- is that her only introduction, her only description? And I say- No, that is her not only introduction. I could have introduced her as the girl who graduated at the top of her English Honors class at college, but i'll stick with the 'middle-aged mother of two'. Because that's what she has reduced herself to- marrying a chauvinist bastard who didn't deserve the love of a girl. There's more to her than just all this, but we'll come to that later.

"They haven't diagnosed it yet and they say they'll keep me admitted here for a while- run some tests and all. I am
feeling an intermittent shooting pain in my chest.", she replies.

The old man smiles, "Don't we all? Don't we all?"

One of her sons is sitting on one of those uncomfortable chairs that they have in hospitals for attendants and visitors. He wouldn't lift his head if a cuckoo bird flew into the room and pooped onto his little-boy head. He has eyes solidly focused and hands constantly glued to his Gameboy- playing the video game 'Turtle'. He wants to be a bike racer when he grows up. He is thrusting his thumbs at the tiny buttons of his Gameboy, back and forth, almost violently, just like his mother lashes out at life, when it stares into her eyes with all its reality, in bad dreams at night and otherwise.

Her other son is sitting cross-legged on the floor, between the 2 beds, looking up at the old man's left shoulder (that is all he can see of him- he's little, see- all of 8 and his older brother is 10), asking him annoying questions as little kids sometimes do- questions that our old man has not paid the least attention to- at least uptil now. But, the kid is persistent as little kids sometimes are- "Mister,....?". "Mister,.....?"...questions that seem to him to be deflected by the old man's left shoulder to the not-expected-to-reply wall against which the patients' pillows rest.

"Mister, why you are here in this bed?" Pause. The kid opens his mouth again, but feels apprehensive, closes it and looks down at the floor. But, as I said, little kids are sometimes persistent. So, "Hey Mister, hey mister, why are you here at the hospital?"

Giving in to the kid's perseverance, the old man retorts- "Because i am going to die. And getting admitted to the
hospital is going to prolong my miserable life a few more days. You see, I want to prolong my miserable life a few more days so that my ungrateful kids have to go through a few more anxious days asking the ceilings of their rooms, when i'll die and leave all my money to 'em bastards."

The little kid looks blankly, mouth open, at the old man's left shoulder. The mother changes position in her bed to give the old man a reproachful look.

"You wanna know a little secret, kid?", he asks from where he lies in his bed. The mother looks at him with stronger reproach but he isn't looking at her. "Mister, i guess so...mister.", says the kid blankly. His mother is too weak to utter protest.

He's looking straight up at the distampered wall that goes so well with the nauseatingly aseptic look of the hospital. And he says, "They ain't getting nething. I am not leaving them any money." He pauses. Smiles a mischievous smile and speaks again, "The 'Save-the-Panda Fund'- that's what all my money is going to. I don't give a damn about any panda. But that's where all my money's going to." And he lets out a little laugh.

The mother looks at him with dislike. The kid, not understanding much, continues looking up at his left shoulder blankly.

The man looks over at the mother, and she looks back at him. And he says with an honest face, from the kind of
wisdom that i told you about, "You'd be surprised what we can live with. Or die with, as in my case, girl."

She looks back at him blankly for a minute. Then changes position so she lies facing away from him, towards the
window. It's raining and time's nearing the end of the evening. And she looks at each melancholy drop as it hits
the window, fails and trickles down along the glass in defeat. She knows what the old man meant with his last comment. She had had an affair with her husband's best friend- he was understanding- her husband's best friend, and caring. She knew how we can live with almost anything. Filled with sadness and guilt and even anger, she sobs into the welcoming hospital bedsheets.

There is a slight gap between her bed and the window- just enough for a little boy of 8 to squeeze in, from the edge of bed and stand next to the window. He has hands raised and resting on the window pane, looking out, wanting to play in the rain- in the hospital grounds below, where a few street urchins were dancing in the rain, almost naked.

His mother looks at him and he turns around with those innocent, pleading eyes that only little kids can have. And
she nods. He runs out of the room and down to the hospital grounds. She watches him dance there, in the rain. She looks at her other son then, still engrossed in his Gameboy.

All this time, the old man's been looking at her. She gets up slightly so that she occupies a recumbent position in the bed. Looks down at the sheet that's been pulled up to her waist, then up at the ceiling, or rather at the skies above and then looks back at her life. And sobs quitely. She knew she never had it but, at least her son could have a taste of it- freedom.

"None of us are free.", says the old man, smiling. "None of us are free."

_________________________________________________________________________________________________
This song's unrelated but, anyways-
http://youtube.com/watch?v=kfzVeTaSAsQ