I read these lines on the wall post of my cousins FB profile:
“You have never really lived until you have
done something for some one who can never repay you”
It immediately set my mind on a
wild goose chase, that, if I have ever lived? But it wasn’t a question that any
mind could answer. It required a heart. A heart that has been tormented enough
to understand what pain really is, how traumatic some dreams can be and how
difficult sometimes, redemption is.
The mind had a calculated answer;
you did live quite a while, but you died more often.
Ahaan!! Wasn’t that known?
But then my mind wandered on to a
different question altogether.
Am I worth living?
Does this heart really have
something that should warrant me a life?
Is there good within?
My feeble memory took me back to
this incident at Kurla station where I had earned a moment to live with honour.
I had just alighted from the
first class of CST bound local and as always rushed my way to the staircase. A
man stood there almost 2 meters on the reclining pavement to the over-bridge,
stopping a wheelchair from falling back. An old lady occupied that wheel chair
sitting almost lifeless. I would have ignored it like all other days but then
that day something different happened. I don’t know why but I just walked up to
that wheel chair, took hold of 1 handle and we both started pushing the
wheelchair up. The non verbal consent and synchronization was baffling. As if
he knew I’ll be doing this. The finishing distance was marked by stairs. We had
to lift it. It looked difficult if we could do it. All of a sudden a man came
and helped lift the wheel chair from behind and we managed to lift the wheel
chair to the over-bridge. The man thanked both of us; I acknowledged it by
placing my right hand on my heart. As I moved towards the bus depot I wondered
why I did it. I just behaved like a fanatic with no reason as to why I did it.
I may never meet that man and old
lady again. They too mite have forgotten me. But it still baffles me.
It seems I was made to earn that
real reason of living. There is a message in it which I’m yet to decode. It’s a
signal; to decipher.
I’m yet to find reason for the
inquisitiveness that baffles me when I see that boy with just one side of the
face or that other boy whose eye hangs popping out of the eye socket.
