I Wish You Well

He held together the lips of the bag as he pulled at the zip. It stuck more than once, but he was calm and patient, working it back and forth until it closed. It was a tattered looking bag and its contents were only slightly better. But it was all he had, and he needed to take it with him. He was going far away from home.

He sat at the old rickety metal chair in the room and stared around him. There was not much to see. The walls had been painted a bright blue for some reason but had faded and chipped over the years. Two shelves in the corner had been lined with newspaper to protect his belongings where he placed them. Over the years the newspaper had stuck to the shelves and yellowed with age.  A rod had been hung above the shelves and now held two bent hangars.

An old wooden table stood next to it and served as a desk. The top of the desk was covered with scribbles and scratches – a witness to the numerous owners who had had it before him. His aunt had bought it for him, paying the precious money from a tattered purse she carried tucked into her sari blouse. The table always wobbled, and a wadded-up piece of cardboard was shoved under one of the legs to keep it steady.  

A mat and a sheet with a pillow were rolled up neatly in the corner. Other than the chair he sat on, the only other thing in the room was a lopsided poster of his cricket hero Sachin Tendulkar stuck on the wall.  The poster was old and dog-eared and was an echo from his school days which seemed like a long time ago. A scrap of cloth fluttered at the open window pretending to be a curtain and shut out the light.

He walked over to the window and looked outside. Although it was a little more than a slum, there was a tiny patch of garden which his aunt maintained fastidiously. A moringa tree gave it a bit of shade and a few plants bearing fresh vegetables grew lopsidedly. He smiled as he saw a pumpkin growing there. His aunt was a big believer in vegetables. She believed that they could cure almost all the world’s ills.

When she had taken him in, he had been just 3 years old. Both his parents had died of AIDS related infections. She had moved him to the little house with a garden, so she could give him good food with fresh vegetables. He had not known then how hard she worked to pay the rent. She had never married, at least not that he knew.  She worked as a helper in a small office nearby and had brought him up like her own son.

And when the doctors told her that he too was HIV+ve, she had not been fazed. While she knew it could not be cured with good food and fresh vegetables, she was sure they would make him healthy and strong and give him the ability to cope with the virus.

He of course had been blissfully unaware of all this. He had always visited his aunt in the holidays and though he wondered about his parents, his life seemed like an extended holiday. Some things just did not seem to matter at that age, and this was one of them. His aunt had loved him like her own son and scrimped and saved every penny to make him happy, healthy and comfortable.

He had been 14 when he first became aware of his HIV status. His aunt had told him all about it, taking pains to explain everything in the greatest detail. She had blamed no one but presented the facts. And along with it she had conveyed how important it was to take care of himself.

It was only later that he learned that she had spent days reading, understanding and rehearsing what she would say to him. It was only later he understood that unlike most children with HIV he never had a sense of fear about his future because she had been clear, practical and honest about everything. Also, unlike many children he never had a sense of anger at his parents for the legacy they left him because his aunt had never blamed anyone but presented life as it was with all its shades of grey.

Yet, it changed him. The knowledge and the gravity gave him a weight to carry around. He had looked at his friends in school with their light- hearted ways and knew he could never be like them. Although he laughed and played with his friends a certain maturity beyond his years settled like a mantle on his shoulders. He took his studies more seriously and to the intense delight of his aunt decided to get a degree. Funds were tight, but with a little help and goodwill she scrimped and scrounged and put him through college.

His eyes strayed to his neighbour’s house. He could see them loitering on the front veranda. He knew they were waiting for him to leave.  This was normally the time they took their siesta, but today was their last chance to sneer at him and his dreams. Their last chance to mock his HIV status and rub it in his face. They were the only people who knew his status.

He told no one, because there was always the stigma of being shunned, of being asked to leave the school, the college or even the locality. But their neighbours were their close friends. They had a son too. Both boys were the same age and had studied together. They were friends and ran around, playing, laughing, sharing everything. It had been wonderful to have friend he could talk to, to share his concerns about HIV and his dreams for a life, but unfortunately it did not last long. While he grew more mature, their son had got into a bad group, smoking, drinking and gambling. While he went on to college, their son dropped out of school.

And then things changed. Every time they saw him, they mocked his status and asked him how long he had left to live. At first it shook him, and he had been devastated by the reactions. But along with good food and vegetables his aunt had schooled him on a steady diet of empathy and strength. She helped him to understand that their bitterness grew from the disappointment with their own son.

Over time it strengthened his resolve, and he grew into a determined young man and went on to complete his post-graduate degree as well. And today he was embarking on an even greater adventure as he left to take up a job in a big city far far away from home. His eyes strayed to his bag and tears welled up in them as he took in the shabby room. As mean and meagre as it was to another, to him it had been his castle, his comfort zone and his sanctuary.

He shook his head, steeled his shoulders, and went out to his aunt standing proudly at the front door. As he stepped out, he caught the eye of his neighbours. Before they could make any remark, he dropped his bag and touched their feet in a traditional salutation. And then with folded hands and bowed head he said in a low voice, “I wish you well.”