BECOMING SUPRA

Chapter 3

    RAË

I slid my finger down the roster, beside my name was written: School for Polio affected Children.

Friday afternoons were for Social Experience Programs. It was compulsory community service, without which we couldn't graduate.

The Polio Home was managed by a charity and funding was hard to come by. The inadequate infrastructure and low-grade facilities were the stark opposite to our international school. Polio had been eradicated over a decade ago, but in remote villages, a couple of cases still propped up. Last year, I was assigned to the school for the Blind. Each year the physical challenge was different, each year the experience distinctive.

My family discovered this jungle town by chance. My heart surgeon father had come to volunteer one summer. And the idea of a cloistered school away from big city life grew on my parents. It was a school located in a rainforest, which translated as clean air for developing lungs, a scarcity in today's times.

My mother thought third-world exposure would do me good, it would toughen me, fortify me, season me against the ills of patriarchy. She often said women who grew up in third-world cultures were extraordinary in some sense because they were able to survive the constant barrage of psychological warfare. Heinous crimes against their own kind were broadcast each day. Yet to persist, some even flourishing – they must be made of some kind of special. Mother said women in these parts were hyper aware of their surroundings, it was as though they had evolved into growing eyes at the back of their heads. And she was right, seven years in, I'd grown a pair.

I won't lie, the first few years were tough. It was a huge culture shock coming from New York but then I acclimatized to my surroundings.

I crossed Bazaar road and made a right towards the valley. At a road side vendor, I caught sight of Æsh buying some knick-knacks. I caught up as his purchase was wrapped and handed to him. He acknowledged me with a short nod, I nodded back in response.

As we entered the premises of the Polio Home, beaming smiles with mangled limbs, that bent and twisted like branches limped towards us. Their happiness was an affront to logic. I saw Æsh choke, emotion rising up. He was not expecting the sentiment of joy from polio ridden children – a notion probably foreign to him.

He recovered by remembering the parcel he was holding. Amidst peals of excitement, he handed chocolates to each of the thirteen children.

"Say, thank-you," said their headmistress. "Thank-you," they echoed in unison. The children clung to Æsh in a comfortable embrace, a teacher had to step in and break up the congregation. A few raised their hands, their damaged spines preventing them from standing upright. Æsh bent down as Reema, an eleven year old, planted a kiss on his cheek, making him break into a smile.

Æsh and Reema sat on the steps overlooking the valley, coloring with blue and greens in a picture book.

It was a few hours a week, where the lucky ones came to interact with the happy ones. No one was fooled who benefited more – luck didn't always guarantee happiness.