The Blind School

I was crossing the road yesterday at the traffic signal. A young man crossed from the other side, feeling his way with his white stick. Another passer by was helping him, and the youn man was chatting with him and smiling.

Flashback.

Schooldays, class 11 and 12. The Blind School, Panchquin Road. We used to go there twice a week to read out to the boys, as part of our SPWD.

An old dilapidated building. A narrow dingy stairway. On the firsfloor a set of three small rooms. Each had some beds in them, and we would sit on the beds with the boys and read their textbooks to them.

I never had any personal conversations with thm. Maybe I was uncertain. Maybe I was reserved as they boys were all my age or oder. Maybe I was defensive, then as now, about my privilege vis a vis their innumerable handlicaps. I would sincerely read out all the notes to them without wasting time.

I vividly remember a boy bringing his socks to me and asking me to find a pair from them. I remember chatting once with a younger boy about some music he was listening to, and asking if he also sang. An older boy snapped at me, “We do all learnings well, and don’t just sing.”, and told the younger boy to focus on his studies. After that I stuck to my role, not wanting to accidentally hurt people, already hurt badly enough by fate.
…

I am past 50 now. Life has been kind to me. There have been ups and downs, as in any life. But overall life has treated me gently.

Those boys would also be past 50 now. Where would they be. What paths would they have traversed. Would they be earning a secure is simple livelihood. Would they be married with families.

I wonder.

And yet a part of me does not wish to know. The answers may only bring pain …

Our infinite answerabilities, given our fortunate landing by birth in a secure space. To work to our best to address those. That will do.