It’s 11 am on a Monday morning and Residency road is bustling with traffic. As I stand along the footpath, I find a “ lost world “, heading to their respective destinations. It is a world where none have the time or disposition to care for another soul. Around me I find a whole world of characters that I probably would not remember the next moment.
“Move On”, – that’s the call of the day!
Amidst all this chaos, the traffic comes to a screeching halt. Ahead of me is a packed BMTC bus that is stalled right in the center of the street. A honking car bumps into the rear of the bus, only to have the car driver hurl abuses at the maddening crowd. The driver of the bus calmly points his arm downwards. On the street is a crippled middle-aged man, crawling on all fours – two legs and two arms.
Disheveled locks, an unshaven face that adorns an otherwise skeletal body and piece of waistcloth to cover the essentials, precisely describe’s our ‘traffic stopper’. His vehicle of survival is a little piece of wood that has two wheels attached to the base. He deftly places his abdomen on the log as he crawls his way across the street.
I watch him making his way to the footpath, in disbelief. The arms and legs are all mangled and twisted like the helix model of the DNA that I remember having studied during my early college days. God, it seems had given “ another twist “to his DNA!
Unmindful of the busy world, he crawls across the street in less than 10 seconds. In awe I stood admiring his skills. He for certain had mastered the art of living a lay mans life. Deep within the garb of a rustic face was a soul that had weathered the storm of having to live with god’s “ special gift “.
I felt a sense of admiration, more than a feeling of sympathy as I found him on the footpath. The “ lost world “ on its part had little time to care for him. As I reached out for my wallet to pay him some money, he crawled past me without a sense of concern.
In surprise, I stood still watching our ‘traffic stopper ‘ crawl his way up the footpath to the corner of the street. Along the side, was a little spread of cell phone pouches of different colours and sizes. Out went a loud and clear voice “ Rs. 10…. Rs. 10 “.
Disability to him was not an excuse, but a motivation to survive. The long arms would only stretch forward to accept hard earned money and not sympathy. Having bought a pouch from the traffic stopper, I walked away into the maddening crowd.
It was a courageous fight for survival dear friends, a fight for the next meal.
Disability is often in the mind, not in the body! .
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