Joseph Campbell once said, “Your sacred space is where you can find yourself over and over again.” I believed him.
Out of the many beautiful experiences that made me dig deep within myself to find hope, this one holds a special place. It is one of those places embedded so deep within happiness yet moistened to the last bit my melancholy.
We had organised an eye-camp in a small village near Kanpur. Though such camps are held time and again in villages, it was probably for the first time that there were vehicles arranged for the older people in the area who could not walk, to get an eye checkup. We also had a dental check-up for kids in the same school. Chai, samosa and our very own Parle G biscuits, the smaller ones were arranged knowing the wait could be long and some people might go hungry. So, here we were surrounded by about 300 people, half of them kids who just could not contain their energies and elders for whom it was an effort to go from the waiting area to the testing room. We were helping them by sometimes leading the way, sometimes supporting and when necessary picking them up and carrying them to the room.
Everytime I had a moment, I would stand back and watch. It was a satisfying sight, the kind of satisfaction that can only come with a sincere act of service, when you know that you are doing something that is easing pain. The kind of sight that makes life a pursuit.
It was then that I saw him. Old, painful, very painful eyes, white clothes that had turned yellow much like the color of his skin, wrinkles that seemed to to tell many stories at once, nails that time had bitten off, old battered slippers, ankles that had turned to stone and then developed cracks. He probably had lost vision in one of his eyes because of cataract and the other had been paining because of an infection for years now. His wife was with him, who also had cataract but could still see. Though we had arranged for some medicines, the one that 'dadaji' (as we called him) needed and the doctor did not have it.
Though old people in pain is not an uncommon sight in India if we choose to look outside our silos, something in me was deeply moved and there was an urge to go and speak with him. I went to him to offer Parle G since he already had tea in his hands. He took the packet, looked at it with one eye , smiled and asked -
'Yeh dawai hai kya beta?' ( Is it a medicine?) with the kind of hope that can pierce through even the most stoic of hearts.
and I only claim to have a very weak one.
It took every ounce of restraint in me to not break down right there. To say I am sorry repeatedly for some unknown reason and to leave everything and take him to the city and get him treated like he was my own grandfather.It was not his distress but his hope that was killing me. The hope that he would finally get some relief while, despite my urge, I had none to offer. Before my mind could start working again, his wife had already told him they were 'just' biscuits. The hope in his eyes vanished slowly. He did not say anything, no complaints, no regrets, but his eyes that could not see spoke a thousand words in a second. I am not sure how long I stood there watching him eating the chai biscuit with his four teeth. Then they got up to leave and I realised that I had to move on. I asked my partner to stop at every medical store and ask for their medicines, before dropping them and their neighbours off.
When he returned I was busy with other stories, and when I finally got the time to ask him, he told me that the medicine wasn't available in a 50 km radius. By then I knew there were just too many people who had a similar story and I decided to help the ones I could instead. It was a practical decision and the right one in the real world. But every time I get too carried away by the beauty of the world and the ambitions it offers, I see those eyes in my dreams. And every time I see them, I know that I cannot take up every fight.
I would have to carry incomplete stories in my heart every time I try but somehow they also strengthen a part of me, in an inexplicable way, they help me find myself over and over again.
Out of the many beautiful experiences that made me dig deep within myself to find hope, this one holds a special place. It is one of those places embedded so deep within happiness yet moistened to the last bit my melancholy.
We had organised an eye-camp in a small village near Kanpur. Though such camps are held time and again in villages, it was probably for the first time that there were vehicles arranged for the older people in the area who could not walk, to get an eye checkup. We also had a dental check-up for kids in the same school. Chai, samosa and our very own Parle G biscuits, the smaller ones were arranged knowing the wait could be long and some people might go hungry. So, here we were surrounded by about 300 people, half of them kids who just could not contain their energies and elders for whom it was an effort to go from the waiting area to the testing room. We were helping them by sometimes leading the way, sometimes supporting and when necessary picking them up and carrying them to the room.
Everytime I had a moment, I would stand back and watch. It was a satisfying sight, the kind of satisfaction that can only come with a sincere act of service, when you know that you are doing something that is easing pain. The kind of sight that makes life a pursuit.
It was then that I saw him. Old, painful, very painful eyes, white clothes that had turned yellow much like the color of his skin, wrinkles that seemed to to tell many stories at once, nails that time had bitten off, old battered slippers, ankles that had turned to stone and then developed cracks. He probably had lost vision in one of his eyes because of cataract and the other had been paining because of an infection for years now. His wife was with him, who also had cataract but could still see. Though we had arranged for some medicines, the one that 'dadaji' (as we called him) needed and the doctor did not have it.
Though old people in pain is not an uncommon sight in India if we choose to look outside our silos, something in me was deeply moved and there was an urge to go and speak with him. I went to him to offer Parle G since he already had tea in his hands. He took the packet, looked at it with one eye , smiled and asked -
'Yeh dawai hai kya beta?' ( Is it a medicine?) with the kind of hope that can pierce through even the most stoic of hearts.
and I only claim to have a very weak one.
It took every ounce of restraint in me to not break down right there. To say I am sorry repeatedly for some unknown reason and to leave everything and take him to the city and get him treated like he was my own grandfather.It was not his distress but his hope that was killing me. The hope that he would finally get some relief while, despite my urge, I had none to offer. Before my mind could start working again, his wife had already told him they were 'just' biscuits. The hope in his eyes vanished slowly. He did not say anything, no complaints, no regrets, but his eyes that could not see spoke a thousand words in a second. I am not sure how long I stood there watching him eating the chai biscuit with his four teeth. Then they got up to leave and I realised that I had to move on. I asked my partner to stop at every medical store and ask for their medicines, before dropping them and their neighbours off.
When he returned I was busy with other stories, and when I finally got the time to ask him, he told me that the medicine wasn't available in a 50 km radius. By then I knew there were just too many people who had a similar story and I decided to help the ones I could instead. It was a practical decision and the right one in the real world. But every time I get too carried away by the beauty of the world and the ambitions it offers, I see those eyes in my dreams. And every time I see them, I know that I cannot take up every fight.
I would have to carry incomplete stories in my heart every time I try but somehow they also strengthen a part of me, in an inexplicable way, they help me find myself over and over again.
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