Rise Again

"I grew up living next door to a little boy who loved to chase polythene bags. When the wind swept them up, he would laugh and give chase, clapping his hands in glee. He would sing after them, dancing down the dusty street, totally lost in his own world.

We laughed at this silly little boy,  especially when he twirled around in whirlwinds and cackled in the middle of s andstorms.

My mother wouldn't have any of our mockery. She admonished us and pointed out that his head space was in a happy place.

She told us of Pista Bacsi, the old soldier that lived on her street. Growing up, she told us that they were a little bit frightened of this weird little man. He would watch them walking down the street then run after them, shrieking for them to take cover. He would roll into the gutter,  screaming at them to run home before the bombs got them. He would cry out in fear,  warning them that the Nazis were coming. He could hear the planes.

The war ended a long time ago.
Everywhere but in his mind.

So we learned not to tease, to quietly avoid the mad man walking down our path. My friend did the same thing for a while. She learned to cross the road at the bus stop, for fear that the disheveled, dirty man sitting there might attack her.

They are unpredictable, I agreed. Best not to jog that way at all, was my advice. Predictably, she did not do as she was told.

She gathered up enough courage to run past him on the first day. He ignored her.
She slowed down the second day. He ignored her.
By the third week she was taking a brisk walk past him. He ignored her.
Soon she began throwing a quick greeting his way. He never acknowledged her.

Rain or shine, night or day, he was there, in his dirty, garbage filled corner. Whatever she did, however she tried, he ignored her.

She did not let up. Every weekend, she deliberately went up to him and greeted him. He never looked up, never responded.

Until last Saturday, when he did.

He asked her for some food. Tentatively but very politely, he told her he was hungry.

Breakthrough!

She rushed home and got him some bread and water. Some yoghurt and groundnuts too. It was wet weather so she threw in a blanket.

She didn't run back, she drove. She gave him the food, which he took eagerly, thanking her profusely. He spoke good English and had impecable manners.

He declined the blanket, even as he stashed the food away, hiding them under a filthy pile of rags.

He asked her not to be offended. He didn't want the blanket and was embarrassed that he was reduced to asking for food. 

He told her his name. He told her where he used to work. He spoke of his travels and countries he had visited. His eyes were bright, shining with the memories of a life long past.

He didn't want the blanket. In his dirty, pathetic misery, he had lost everything but hope. Through everything he did not have, through nothing anyone could see, he had his aspirations.

To buy a blanket.

His story was drowned out by the noise of sirens. Within minutes, policemen were there, to stop this mad man from disturbing the peace. With cheap, malfunctioning guns and bad breath, they warned him to stop harrassing the lady.

She fought them off, my friend did. She told them they were just talking. They did not believe her and it did not matter, either way.

He was gone. In those few minutes, he retreated back into his head. He sat huddled, protecting his treasured stash of rags.

She cried when she told me of this man, living down our street. She wondered if he would meet her eyes again or answer her when she greeted.

She wondered if he would ever rise again.

Enough to buy himself a blanket."

Written by Miranda B