Pay Attention #DigitalAMAwithRoshan

Without the signs, I was a lump of flesh. I wasn't brought into the universe under spotlights. They did not distribute sweets at the hospital. I have a faint memory of laying by the side of my mother. She stared blankly at the ceiling, a tear drop rolled on her temple and merged with the pillow. I shared that pillow and her pain. 

How I remember being an infant, you ask? Well, I don't. But it has been told to me in a language that I now fully understand. The first time my father slapped me, my memories were stirred. It also stirred something else in me.

In my heart, I felt a desire to go back to that tree and climb its topmost branch again. I wanted to see the panic in my father's eyes again. I wanted to be slapped again. It was a bad itch and before I could think of scratching it, I was scratching it. This time, my father did not have to slap me. I heard the crunch of the dry twig beneath my feet and the next few moments were blank.

Well, they were not actually blank. As I slipped from the guava tree and fell on my back, I forced my eyes open to see the number of people rushing toward me. I wanted to stand up and take a bow. My father, his jaw agape, his breathing all wayward, was a delight to watch. 

It was the first time the signs had come back to me. In that excruciating pain, I had found meaning. I knew I would be okay because life cannot do that. It cannot give you meaning and then take away your legs. 

But it took away my legs anyway.

                                                                                                  ***

It wasn't a bad fall. I hadn't fallen on my head. During the fall, I had felt a sharp pain in my foot. Was it a snake? Was it a twig? Was it the tree shoving me? I felt hated right before the thud. As I met the ground, I felt some comfort. And then my bones turned into powder and that wasn't so good.

I have a clearer memory of my birth than that of the surgery. A concerned man mumbled something about sepsis and gangrene. I am pretty sure my father liked me more with my legs taken away. This meant no more swimming classes, no more karate classes, no more cricket and no more climbing trees. 

My mother, on the other hand, felt sad for me. I could swear she wanted to euthanize me. 

'Do you want some soup?' she asked.

I shook my head. 

Her pity made my will to live stronger. I assured her that I would do just fine with prosthetic limbs. We watched videos of athletes performing stunts with robotic arms and prosthetic legs. She saw the spark in my eyes and smiled.

I close my eyes and see her sleeping in the adjacent room. A single tear drop rolling down her temple.