The man on the cot

Writhing, cursing, a pathetic mass of twisted flesh; I would see him everyday, on my way to and back from school.

He was afflicted with a virulent form of polio. His entire body wore an agonised look. Right from his face downwards.He would be dressed in a lungi, with no vest. 

His long suffering wife would appear and disappear, carrying towels, trays, food etc.Occasionally, we would also see her massaging his pained ,grotesquely mal-formed limbs.

I would avert my eyes, when I crossed him. More out of disgust.

A combined odour of urine, sweat, pus,talcum and hair oil would emanate from him.

I would avoid being in the absorbent range of that odour, like by-passing radioactivity.

Holding my breath, giving him wide berth, and heaving a sigh of relief when I had passed the house.

Under a thatch roof, he would lie, come rain, sun or wind. He had been put out into this shelter, probably to help him see the world ,and let fresh air dissipate the odours that emerged. It worsened everyday. The pained look on the face, and the filthy odour from his festering sores.

Occasionally, his throat produced strange . high pitched, hoarse sounding words,that faintly resembled choicest abuses in hindi. That exactly it was. Abuses flung at his dishevelled wife , fluttering to and fro, like a miserable bird, her pain inextricably linked to his.Unable to comprehend or soothe this flaring up of  impotent rage.

In the mornings, he would be stinking of fecal matter, as he would have soiled his meagre clothings, and would be calling for help, again in a string of abuses.

In the evenings, he would be cleaner and  quieter, and smelt better; of talcum , and daal , from the lunch, which would have dribbled down his chest, and lying there, caked, impossible to reach/clean as he lay on his stomach, his distorted limbs gripping the strings of the cot, every which way.

The wife would cheerfully greet me , if her eyes fell on me, or nod and smile. That would make the husband look up from his ruminating position, and grunt / groan, with a grimace, we took for  a smile. We would hear how handsome this couple was when they got married, of how good they looked together, of how they had a daughter together;who was growing up somewhere in the unseen dark recesses of this house of pain; before fate played this cruel joke on them , and he was condemned to live this miserable life,for goodness knows how long .I would find it difficult to believe or even visualize. I had always seen him like this, horrifyingly disfigured.

To believe , that such a person was worth or capable of anything else was impossible for me. But, destiny has different things in store for all of us.

One day,I missed the school bus. 

The second stop was a good 100metres ahead, and I ran, as gracefully , as one could with a huge school bag and a largish water-bottle banging against my sides.

The school bus merrily trundled on ahead, oblivious of my shouts .

Suddenly, the air was rent with a high pitch growling and howling,emanating from the "cot". 

The man was straining every fibre in his body, his neck veins distended, as he produced primeval sounds.Alarmed, the bus driver braked, and I boarded the bus.

Seated at my usual window seat, I turned back to smile in gratitude, and the man on the cot grimaced in return, lifting his head off just a wee bit to catch a glimpse of the moving bus.