The Wheelchair

It was an old house — steeped in history and dead ancestors. You entered through a large black gate on to a driveway flanked by tall palm trees that looked like tall pillars. The flowers were in full bloom on either side of the driveway — my memory fails me, but I think they were chrysanthemums. As you turned the corner on the driveway, you would get the first glimpse of the old building. It was three storeys high, the ground floor was unoccupied and so was the second floor. We lived on the top floor, a combination of a terrace and a home.

The walk up the stairs to the top floor was not well lit, but having grown up there, I did not need any lights. I knew exactly how many steps there were  — four stairwells, with 12 steps in each. Even as a young child, I knew that 12 is a multiple of 1, 2, 3 and 4, and that is how I walked up. 1x12, 2x6, 3x4 and 4x3. While the steps were not well lit, the sun hit you as soon as you climbed the last step out on to the terrace. As soon as you stepped out, there was a long roof-less open corridor, with a railing on one side and a wall on the other. You had a full panoramic view of the large garden in front where you could see children play in the evening once the sun had eased up.  That home was a child’s paradise, so many places to run to, so much to explore, secret hiding places where no one could ever find you, the ghost stories that abounded… yes, it was indeed a wonderful place to grow up.

He was six years older than me — my brother. That morning I had heard my mother crying in a corner where she thought no one could hear or see he; I hadn’t understood then why she was sad and didn’t really pay any attention to it. There were such exciting things happening around us. The house was abuzz, a special package was coming in. We were simply excited to see what it would look like, not really thinking about how it would become such a permanent fixture in our lives. And then it arrived — his first wheelchair. I vividly remember fighting with everyone to be able to take a ride on it, and my mother pushing everyone aside and seating him on it, to check if it fitted right. He sat on it with such pride and we looked on with such envy.

In a child’s mind, how beautiful it was. All shiny and new, with large shinny wheels on which the spokes glinted when they caught the sun, removable side hand-rest and the coolest of it all, the little footrest. Looking back, I realise how difficult it must have been for my mother. How hard she fought to keep her anxiety from showing. She was the only one at the time who truly understood the implication of that moment, who knew that her child would over time cease to run and walk, who knew that the disease was an unforgiving one which would steal her child’s ability to even lift a hand to grasp a drink of water, who knew that soon his body would deform as his muscles dystrophied and were no longer able to support his spine to hold him straight. And yet, she too became us so that we could not see. At that moment, the wheelchair was the owner’s pride. 

There was always a power struggle on who would sit on the wheelchair and who would push it around amongst the other kids and I, but when he came, it was without doubt, his. We would then quarrel to see who would push it around. He had a little broken wooden stick, a dead branch that had fallen off some large tree, that he carried with him. That was his steering wheel, if he pointed it to his right, you pushed the wheelchair to the right, if he pointed it to his left, you pushed the wheelchair to the left and if he pointed it straight, you went straight on. He did not have the ability to walk anymore without help and since there was no one to take him down the four stairwells, with 12 steps in each, the terrace was his runway. Over time as he became weaker, the other children disappeared as they found newer toys to divert their attention. 

Soon, there was just he and I. 

We did many a walk around that terrace; round and round we would go, him on the wheelchair and me behind it, creating new adventures at each turn. I remember the innocence of those times spent together.

What a turning point in our lives that moment was and we as children thought of it as just another adventure. Each time, on our adventures around the terrace, we would come upon the long corridor with the panoramic view of the garden, where we could see all the other children play. I never wondered at the time if he ever looked down and thought about the fact that he wasn’t running around with them, if he ever realised how different he was. I am sure he did; he was much older than his age, and probably understood the changes that were coming, or maybe he was an eternal optimist and thought that one day he would be down there too. I never thought of it then, and now I will never know.

I, as any of the other children, soon grew weary of the wheelchair. It looked well-worn and had lost its shiny newness. At the end of the day, I was a child and I was selfish and cruel as all children are. The children playing in the garden beckoned. It was a beautiful cool evening, and they were playing hide and seek. From upstairs, one could see where each one was hiding — behind that tree, under the little bench in the garden, by the stairs, behind the well that watered the garden every evening. How could I resist? And, so, I ran downstairs  — down the four stairwells, with 12 steps in each. I didn’t even look back to see if he was waiting for me in his wheelchair to take him around his terrace adventures, with his wooden steering wheel, that he turned this way and that.
  
(A lawyer by training and admitted to practice in India and United States, Pallavi took a sabbatical to co-found Humaramovie in 2011 - a new media platform. Pallavi is now pursuing her lifelong passion for mental wellbeing with The Banyan, and works primarily with homeless persons with mental illness. Views expressed in this article are personal and may not necessarily reflect the views of Outlook Magazine)