A fluky life lesson
Strangers in youth provide life lessons in humanity and kindness, perhaps even in strange ways.
Near the school boarding house was a chapel dedicated to Saint De La Salle. Under the chapel was a printing press run by the Christian brothers. Down below to the left was the Mutwal beach, two hundred meters away. I was a junior border in the boarding house run by the Christian brothers.
Most of the workers in the press were deaf teenage boys hired as a means to uplift that marginalised community. They worked as apprentices, learning the ropes of the printing trade. They did not interact with the boys from the boarding school, keeping to themselves in a period where differently abled communities were intentionally kept apart.
Working in the press was also a boy. Slightly younger than his co-workers, he was the errand boy in the press. I had seen him running around the large complex and surrounding streets.
I was walking down the hill on s towards the beach. The boy was coming toward me as I walked. He stared me straight into my face as he passed me when we both briefly paused to let each other pass: smile but a troubled look. I turned back after a few seconds, trying to figure out what that stare was all about. The boy, too, turned back, stopped his ascent of steps, and ran towards me, down the steps.
I did not know what to expect. I come from a family where my father could speak to any stranger.
I stopped; he came near me. He uttered a few trivial words.
Oh! he could speak; he was not deaf like the rest. That was a surprise. We were now making light conversation. He eased into the chat as if he had known me for ages. His words kept flowing in a dialect popular with the Colombo boys. He was coming up with questions over questions, what grade I was in school, what I liked to study, what I did during the school holidays, did I have brothers, did I enjoy my life in the boarding school, pointing in the direction to the boarding house. Questions, questions, and questions. Before I could answer one, the second question came gushing out of his mouth. How confident is this boy? I felt shy.
I felt utterly shy.
I could not get a break to say ‘‘yes’‘ or ‘‘no’‘, and the next question popped up. He now shook my hand so comfortably. It was as if he wanted to hold it tightly. He looked at my wrist, turning it upside down sideways as if my hand was an object. We were continuing to walk by the beach. Now, he put his arms around me, pressing me to him. He laughed and asked why I was nervous. He continued as if we were sharing a joke that drew us closer. I grinned at his bravery, choking shy inside me. But part of me was enjoying this encounter.
Did I want to go for a sea bath during the school holidays?
Did I like to watch movies in a movie house?
He was going on non-stop.
I was confused, and nervous but enjoyed his bravado. I shook my head and wriggled my hand out of him. He was still holding my shoulders close to him. Then he introduced himself. Finally at last.
‘I am Eric. What is your name?’
‘‘Denzil,’‘, I said shyly.
‘‘Oh! Are you shy?’‘ Asked Eric.
I nodded.
Eric held my hand again. I tried to let go of my hand from him, but he was squeezing my hand, squeezing my shoulder. We were now walking close to the beach, on the seashore, with nobody on site, except for a few boys in the sea, bathing and diving far away. Eric went a step further, rubbing my neck gently with a forgiving smile. I felt tenderness through his long and soft fingers on my neck.
Pointing to a rock not far from the shore, ‘‘I could swim to that rock on my own,’‘ he said.
‘‘I am not a good swimmer,’‘ I said. He did not respond. Instead, he squeezed my hand harder.
‘‘I get cramps when I try to swim far,’‘ I said, hoping he would respond.
‘‘Don’t worry! You should eat more salt; then you don’t get cramps,’‘ he responded.
‘‘I could teach you swimming’‘.
All this while, Eric was holding my hand, touching my shoulder. I slowly looked at him close quarters. He was slightly taller than me but athletic. His jaw bones were sharper, his hair jet black and straight. Lean body. His skin tone was darker than mine. He did not wear slippers, and his feet were full of sand, sand from the beach below. Eric was now looking at me, close quarters, still not letting me go of his grip.
‘‘You are so fair’‘ quipped Eric.
‘‘Am I?’‘
‘‘When are you going to teach me swimming?’‘ I asked. His was a proposition I could not refuse.
‘‘During the next school holidays, then you can come to my home. I don’t live in the press. I live on De La Salle street, not far. I have two brothers, one elder and one younger. You will like them. I see you walk to school past my house every day in the mornings.’‘
‘‘Oh’‘. Surprised, I did not know that I was being watched.
‘‘You don’t look at poor boys like me,’‘ Eric quipped. I was embarrassed.
‘‘I did not mean to. I have many poor relations in my family. Some of them live in cadjan thatched homes. You don’t look poor.’‘
‘‘I have been waiting to speak to you,’‘ Eric again.
‘‘I like you,’‘ Eric said without a second thought.
It was getting late; the sun was setting. Part of me wasn’t willing to call it quits just yet. For a strange reason, I was enjoying the chat with Eric. Nobody had dared to speak like that with me ever.
Why not? He likes me and wants to teach me swimming, my thoughts.
He kept asking, ‘‘Will you come to my house during the school holidays?’‘
‘‘It is next to the milk bar across the street. Painted in yellow. You will see my brothers playing in the front every day. Will you come?’‘
I could have easily refused — I didn’t.
‘‘Yes’‘. He slowly eased his grip. Did he hold on to the grip until I said yes? I questioned myself.
“OK then, see you later.”
Two weeks into the school holidays, I packed my blue swimming trunk and a small towel in my shoulder bag. Off I went to Mutwal, in a connected journey, swapping two bus rides and walking in between. I got off the last bus and walked slowly towards Eric‘s home on the crowded De La Salle street, next to the busy milk bar. I had never done this before, venturing into a boy’s home whom I had just met, but there was always a first time.
A man in his forties, possibly Eric‘s father, was on the open veranda, reading a newspaper. Gently I asked him ‘‘Is Eric home?’‘.
Eric turned up at their front door, bare-chested, wearing only his short pants. Eric was thinner than I thought. Eric’s kid brother turned up, too, resting his hand on the door. He looked exact copy of Eric, slightly shorter.
The brother quipped, ‘‘Is he your friend? I have seen this boy go past our home to school.’‘
‘‘Yes,’‘ Eric replied. ‘‘We are going swimming. This boy, Denzil, is my friend’‘, He goes to St. Benedict’s College. What huge confidence does Eric have? I thought to myself.
Eric went into the house, while I sat on a wooden chair on the open veranda. Eric’s father kept on reading the newspaper, stopping only for a few minutes to ask me how my commute was. A few minutes later, Eric’s kid brother came out with a tray and a hot cup of milk tea. The tea was sweet, nothing like the tea I drank at home.
Eric came out and called me into the house. I followed him. Their house was tiny, compared to my own home. So small that it looked like the back of our home, where our large kitchen was. Rooms were very small, furniture bare, and there was hardly any space for anything. I had never been to such constricted spaces before, another life lesson.
He asked me to sit in a tiny bed that looked like it had been shared by many in that household. In a corner of his room, he changed, removed his pants, stark naked, walked to the corner of his room and picked an undie that was lying on a chair, and wore it in front of me. Then he put his pants on and wore a vest. I remained stunned but enjoyed this new experience of honesty and clarity.
We took off, walking up to the beach, where we first met a fortnight ago.
Where is your swimming trunk? I asked.
‘‘I don’t have one. They are too expensive. I swim in my undies’‘ was his response.
‘‘They belong to my elder brother,’‘ he continued, ‘‘but he would not mind. ‘‘We share our clothes.’‘
‘‘Why are you working instead of studying? I interjected.
‘‘Oh, I am not good at studies. I failed badly. I cannot study’‘.
“Why?”
‘‘I don’t like to read books’‘ was his reply, with a pouting face.
How come? That was going to be my reply. Then I hesitated.
‘‘I, too don’t study books for long, but I read quickly”. It did not dawn on me that my conversation with Eric was my first life lesson about differently-abled kids.
Again I asked ‘‘Why do you work? aren’t you my age?”
‘‘I am fifteen. How old are you?”
‘‘Fifteen,’‘ I replied.
‘‘Oh, we are the same age. We are a poor family; my father is a labourer in the port. At the press, they pay seventy-five rupees a month as my wages. My father needs that money. We are five in the family”. Eric’s response, his fragility, laid bare.
‘‘Do you enjoy your work?’‘
‘‘I do; I have no choice. Forget about me; you came to see me, keeping your promise. I will keep my promise and teach you swimming today.”
‘‘Hey,’‘, Eric looked at me.
‘‘I thought you were deaf before I spoke to you for the first time.”
‘‘Really? Did you?”
‘‘Yes’‘
‘‘Now you know, you can’t stop me talking.”
I smiled back.
It was a Saturday morning, but there was nobody in the water. Eric stripped to his brother’s undies and me to my blue swimming trunks. I felt weird wearing a pristine trunk while my friend wore a discoloured, much-used, oversized undie. It was too big for him; it sagged on the edges, exposing his bones. It had a hole at the back from repeated wear.
I did not care what he wore and what others thought of us. We sat on the sand, close. Like a fortnight ago, Eric rubbed my shoulders again, trying to touch my neck. With his right hand, he touched my wrist and my fingers. ‘‘What was so fascinating with my fingers?’‘ were my thoughts.
‘‘Let us swim’‘ Eric got up and motioned me to get up.
‘‘I am going to take you to the rock,’‘, he roared. ‘‘You will stand on it today.”
‘‘I can’t do it, I will get my cramps.’‘
‘‘No, you won’t get them when you are with me.”
We swam in the shallow waters. Little by little, he prompted me to go further. Not much, just enough for me to be able to swim back to the shore.
Eric held me under my belly with his bare hands and motioned for me to swim. I felt confident to do this for my friend. I swam, him holding me. The dark rock seemed so far away. I felt Eric’s tight grip. I knew I was safe. I swam, swam. and swam. What I thought was a lifetime of swimming was not to be. In no time, we were close to the rock. We were now at the feet of the rock that seemed so far away to me a few minutes ago; now, I was at its edge.
Eric shouted ‘‘You did it. Climb it”. I climbed, letting go of Eric‘s grip.
Eric followed, and interrupted his climb because his oversized undies were down to his knees.
‘‘What a good friend this Eric is! He did not think of himself while holding me?’‘ my immediate thoughts.
I felt ecstatic. My fellow borders, the seniors swam to the rock as the swimming champions, boasting of their prowess. I was chided for not swimming with them. My new friend, Eric, helped me get there without any fuss. I felt so good. I did not get cramps with his superpower.
We sat on the rock for a few minutes, me taking in the scenery around me. The shore seemed so far away. I did not mind being on the rock alone, just with Eric. My protector was with me.
We swam back, close to the shore, him holding my belly again. We stayed hovering around the shallow waters, playing around and having water fights. When we were tired, we sat on the sand and chatted. In that hour of chatting, I came to know a different world, a world with few things, with few expectations of life. A world of simplicity. A world that made do with little but gives back a lot with kindness.
We talked and talked. Talking is what we liked to do and it was natural. For me, it was a discovery of another world, a glimpse of what it is to be born with nothing. His vulnerability exposed, Eric talked non-stop, interjecting to find out more about me. It was yet again, questions over questions. It was as if I was from another world. But he did it with kindness and honesty, his eyes glowing and lighting his bony face.
We swam in the shallow waters again, until we felt exhausted.
It was time to pack up. Our bodies were full of sand. We had to get rid of the muck, the sand and the salt water from our bodies. We walked up to the facility next door, walking up the steps together, him, his hand on my shoulders.
Under the staircase of the chapel at the entrance to the printing press where Eric worked was a big shower room. We walked in. Eric shut the door, locking it and looked at me, smiling.
He stripped as naturally as he did in my presence in the tiny room in their home. I also removed my swimming trunk under the shower, washing off those sand particles in my body and inside the trunks. We were one under the single shower head, Eric rubbing my sand off my body, me, in turn, wiping his sand. I could see the pod of sand on the floor tiles, so much sand in our bodies. I could not believe we carried that much sand in our tiny frames. Eric gently rubbed my entire body, slowly and lovingly, holding my hand. I allowed him because he did something great for me, just like he promised a fortnight ago. Nanoseconds turned into milliseconds, seconds and minutes.
I don't know how long it was. We were locked in time, under the water, not knowing the difference between Eric and me. A knock on the door rudely awakened us. We kept quiet, hoping the intruder would disappear; I shut the shower, thinking nobody saw us. A minute later, another knock. Eric wiped quickly with my towel and put his pants on. I wiped myself, Eric helping me put my pants on quickly. When Eric opened the door, it was Mr Silva, the printing press supervisor.
Mr Silva, a man in his forties with a thin frame and a long moustache, asked ‘‘What are you boys doing there?’‘.
Eric was quick to reply ‘‘We went for a swim and just finished showering.’‘
Mr Silva looked at both of us suspiciously. ‘‘Are you sure? no hanky-panky’‘. He was not convinced. He looked at Eric sternly. Did Mr Silva think that Eric and I should not be friends? Is it because Eric was poor?
I stepped in ‘‘No, Sir, we are good; we swam at the beach, washed, and are now on our way home’‘.
I have never been shy to talk to strangers ever since.
Youth has no shame. Shame comes with age.
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