Crippled

Chaos and calm, life and death, swirling round

Trapped possibilities scream silence.

The sun beat down forcefully as he hobbled across the courtyard to the director's office. The entire compound seemed silent in anticipation, broken by rustling of leaves of the many potted plants in the shade of the crooked corridor. He had chosen to go diagonally across the courtyard, instead of around the corridor beneath the asbestos shade due to a churlish impulse. And now, halfway across, he was cursing impulses and woozy decisions and foolish children.

He had been waiting for this like an apprehensive girl waits for her first period since he had hit the washerwoman's kid over the head with his crutches. He was not to blame, of course, propelled as he was by his condescending smirk. He had controlled his urge those long weeks back, owing to the common wisdom that kids can be cruel unintentionally, but mainly, because he was sure this one will learn. After all, his mother, the washerwoman, had got pregnant, dropped out of school, married, and gave birth, all the while employed here. It certainly seemed probable that she was apt to teach her kid how to behave. But then the kid continued to smirk at him day after day, innocuously, sometimes unashamedly. He would come running breathlessly and ask him to pluck a fruit or to climb up a ladder to get some toy. Then, suddenly he would grin hideously and tell him how sorry he was that he forgot that he was a paraplegic or has he put it, langda, and then run away giggling. Moreover, to sprinkle salt on the wound, the little bastard would often taunt him, and openly so. The temerity of his actions always astonished him; he had to be educated about politeness, and general kindness. But one day, the mother saw this and just laughed it away. His belief shattered, he started dreaming about that smirk. That grin was etched in his mind's eye, he could in turn etch it on any surface he looked upon. The hurt continued to fester, and he stewed, morning and throughout the entire day. The days on which the kid didn't turn up, would not be a relief as one would hope, but a moment of respite to refresh the hate and remember cruel memories, riled up by hurt and obsession. Slowly, it grew into an unbearable grudge, nursed with care, as with any destructive device, to let go of all it is, all that work, in a singular explosion that would obliterate all trace of the enemy.