Page 107 - Musings 2021

her dog, says hi to me, I grunt, we stay and then we go back inside. The next week, the
doorbell rings and I find out that my tattooed neighbour has not quite deciphered the amount
of friendliness that lies underneath the grunt of a grouch. (Hint: there is none) She gives me a
plate filled with custard which is not all that awful and takes it upon herself to have a
conversation with me.

She talks about her dog, about her job, about her boyfriend (she really has no filter of any
kind). When I say conversation, I mean she talks, I give monosyllabic answers and try to hint
not so subtly, that I do not care much for company of any kind. On day 5 of this forced ritual,
she starts probing and irritating me more than usual. “So, what happened to your legs?” “I
was in a car accident.” “Are they better now?” “They’re paralysed” “Oh.” Sweet relief. Some
silence. “My mom said you used to be a runner.” So much for silence. “Yes, I was.” “So,
what did you do after your accident?” “Nothing.” “Why not?” “Kind of hard to do anything
without any functioning legs.” “Are you married?” “No” “Why not?” Why is she asking me
this? “The girl I loved left me.” “Why?” I asked her to leave me alone. “Why would you do
that?” I’ve had enough of this. “Because no-one understood.” I’m furious. I don’t want to talk
about this. I wish I didn’t remember half of it. But I do. I do. I remember that day probably
better than the day I lost my legs. I had just had my life taken away from me and everyone
was trying to tell me that I should be thankful that I’m alive and how things would get better
and how it wasn’t the end of the world. I was angry, because I had thought that at least she

would understand what it meant to me. Instead, she said the same things to me. She was just

glad that I was alive. No-one seemed to care about the future that I had just been stripped of.
The future that I had worked for, for the last 30 years of my life. I was miserable. And I
pushed her away. “Just leave”, I told her. “It’s better if you just leave.” The girl is looking at
me with an emotion that looks like pity. I hate pity. I don’t need it. I didn’t need it then. I
don’t need it now. It’s time for her to leave. “You should probably leave.” She doesn’t move.
Instead she says, “Did you apologise to her?” “I never saw her again.” “If you did, would
you?” “Probably, Goodnight.” “Goodnight.” And with that I lie down on my bed and sob,
trying to ease the burden that my heart can no longer bear. We do not speak of it again.
She still comes over, with the occasional custard that I have grown fond of and gives me a
daily update that I have never asked for, never being fazed by the utterly bored look on my
face. And then, one day, I open the door for her and am faced with a ghost of my past. She
looks not very different from how I imagined her. “What is this?” I ask the girl. Why does
this child seem hellbent on interfering with my life? Has she nothing better to do? “She said
she knew you.” “So?” “So, I brought her.” “Don’t you think you should have asked me
before inviting strange people to my place?” I yell at her. “You would have refused to see
her.” “Please”, says the woman beside her, “Please don’t shout at her. I just wanted to see
you.” She’s crying. Her forehead has that little v that forms when she’s upset. And I break.
“Don’t cry, Shikha, please don’t cry.” “I’ve missed you so much.” “I’ve missed you too.”
“Why didn’t you ever call me?” “I was angry, I was miserable and I didn’t know what to
say.” “I wish you had called”, she says, and for a moment I can see in her face that the last
few years have been just as miserable for her. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” “Me too.” And
with that she’s on my lap and we’re holding on to each other as if we never plan to let go.
We’re crying and crying and something amazing happens. I feel better. The world is still as
messed up as before, and my legs are still damaged but I feel better.

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