Shilu Found Love in Wheelchair (Super Short Story, No.130) “Golu!” 38 years old, Shilu Patil wakes up from her nightmare. People say that dreams seen at dawn often come true. Oh No! She saw in her dreams, her baby toddle toward traffic, near her telephone booth. The traffic on the road was heavy. The baby was excited to see the colourful cars on the road. She helplessly shouted at him. She struggled to walk. Failed. And BANG! It’s 4:30 A.M. A cigarette butt colour beam of light from the lamppost, shines into her room through the crack, in the tin roof. The hard rough floor, where she sleeps, suddenly feels cold. The road cleaning tanker has just crossed her roadside PCO shop-com-home, located behind 172 bus stop, Saat Rasta. Her husband Sharad sleeps beside her, undisturbed. After selling biscuits, chips, paan and bidi on his tricycle the whole day, the muscular exhaustion of his hand doesn’t allow him the luxury of feeling and contemplation. “Sharad,” she knocks him slightly with an audible stress in her voice, “when will you bring Golu back.” Sharad’s, hand slaps the mosquito on his thigh, below which he doesn’t have any sensation, because of polio, much like his wife. “Don’t worry, he is much safer with Aai, I spoke to her yesterday on phone,” he mutters in half sleep. “What do you mean, don’t worry. If I can’t move around, would you never get him back,” she starts sobbing and snorting quietly. “Sona, don’t cry. Go to sleep. God will surely find some solution for us. Trust him…” Sharad’s words faint as his eyes close for another round of morning sleep. Shilu tries to sleep, but the sound of barking dogs at the garbage collector outside, keeps her awake. She gives a pained stare at the coal colour spider web at the corner of the roof. Finally, her hand sneaks out a pouch of Goa Ghutka from the tricycle kept in the room. For the first time, she pops the guthka inside her mouth, hoping to give her strained mind some comfort and shuts her eyes. Next day. It’s 2 P.M. Shilu opens the window of her room and puts the telephone on the window sill. Her premature few gray hair and new wrinkles under her eyes, reflect her challenges in life. Hand written sign board hangs on the latch – ‘PCO Open 2 to 10’. Her usual cheer is missing on her droop face. Sharad observes her, as he pulls his body into the tricycle. He gets ready to leave. He drives the cycle back to the window from outside and banters, “Is this PCO working?” Shilu tries to fake a smile. His hand drops a coin in the telephone, “Hallo! Rajiv Bhai! Me Sharad bolto….” Shilu’s ears try to catch what he is up to, but before she could understand, his conversation has ended. “Get ready, we need to go,” he says, while holding down the receiver. The taxi gate opens. Shilu pulls her body till the taxi, before Alka, her neighbor, comes running to help her sit inside the cab. It is a special moment for her. Sharad has never invited her to go anywhere in taxi, after their marriage. She checks and rechecks her hair in the reflective window glass. As the driver lifts Sharad to the front seat, she showers him with questions- What is it? Who is it? Where? How long?... Sharad smiles, “I don’t want to break the surprise.” With a sudden bump over the pothole, the taxi starts. She looks out of the window at the foggy cloud. It lightens and gave way to clear azure sky, indicating her confined life will soon be over. The taxi passes the tall skyscrapers of Mahalaxmi, as she watches with twinkling eyes. It stops in front of a gate. Mobility Camp for Handicaps. The board welcomes her. Few people in white lab coat dart out, to help both of them get down. They both sit at the reception. Her gaze swivels over the waiting room. Sharad holds her hand and passes a smile, with a nod of re-assurance. A person in callipers and white lab coat, comes out of the front door, with a measurement tape. “We are going to give you calipers and we need your measurement, is it okay?” As he moves ahead to take the measurement, she shudders, “Calipers nahi! I fell down thrice, whenever I used calipers. It can’t lift my body weight.” “Okay,” the man responds and disappears inside the workshop. After a few minutes he re-appears. A shiny bright black wheelchair next to him. The air fills with metallic tang from it’s fresh stainless steel. “This is yours from today. Kindly fill your details and sign here,” he hands over a register. They return to PCO with the wheelchair, in the taxi’s dicky. As the taxi halts, she immediately gets down, opens PCO, drops a coin in the public phone and calls up Aai in the village. Tring. Tring. 52 years old Gauri, with frail hand, gradually picks up the phone. “Aai, kasa aahes?... You know, I have got a brand new wheelchair, now I would be able to move around with Golu… When are your bringing him back?” We don’t know the reply from the other side, but her face brightens up in a gentle way — not a sudden sunburst, but an oil lamp being turned slowly up. By : Lokesh Todi (#Lokiish) Copyright Storybaaz 2014
Posted on: Fri, 14 Nov 2014 08:11:32 +0000
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