“ WIND BENEATH HIS WINGS by Ms. Satya Saran, editor of Femina

Hi everyone,

Thought you may like the storey,

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“ WIND BENEATH HIS WINGS
Making the best of an unfortunate situation can swathe a family in greater love

Femina: July 15th 1998

I ‘ve seen the father and son walking up and down sometimes in the evening. The father, graying, elderly, walks with his hands behind his back, stopping to chat with a neighbour or friend. The young man, all of ten perhaps, bespectacled, very properly dressed in shorts and tucked-in shirt, shoes and socks, keeps pace. When they encounter me, the father exchanges greetings, and more often than not, the young man walks up to me to shake my hand or at least say good evening.

I’ve known his family much before he was born, and often, as I saw him in his infancy, I wondered how they were going to cope. Even then, you could see that there was something not quite right with him. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he was born late in his parent’s life. I was too polite to ask, and could only breathe a prayer wishing him well.

The years passed. Often, in mornings, as I readied to come to work, I’d see the boy walking with his mother to the gate where the school bus would come. He walked with purpose in his step, and his spectacles shone bright, as much with enthusiasm as from the light of the sun reflecting off them. I realized that, whatever the problem was, his parents had got a grip on it, and were on their way to solving it.

The years might have passed thus. Maybe, at some point, we would have struck up a proper conversation, and I’d have got to know him. Maybe not.

Last week, life offered me a strange insight. Quite by chance. It was a Monday just after the vacation. My car would not start; I needed lift. I rang up the young boy’s parents. They drove into town every day, I knew – could I hitch a lift?

They left at eight sharp, I was told. I could definitely go along, if I’d be there on time!

I was. I sat in their house, a bit on edge at being witness to the intimacies of a family preparing to leave home for the day. The little boy sat impervious to both my discomfiture and the hurry and flurry around him, playing a video game.

His mother, swinging his water bottle, and a thermos full of milk, as well as her own handbag, came down the stairs. Her husband went with the driver to get the car loaded for action. She sat by my side, and looked through the newspapers. My day begins at 4.30am, she said; otherwise I’d never get everything ready in time for us to leave by eight. This five minutes is the only time I get to catch a bit of breath. Then we heard the car starting. She told her son to pick up his school bag and his bottle, and picked up her own luggage and we went out to the car.

We three adults sat at the back. The little boy sat in front – strapped into his seat. The driver switched the music system on. Carnatic religious numbers began to play. And I listened entranced, awed, as the passenger in front – oblivious to us and the traffic milling around – sang each song in his high childish voice. He matched note for note; pause for pause. If his words, because of his incapacity for perfect articulation and fast speech, were a bit blurred, he did not seem to mind. The songs held him in thrall – he swung his head to the violin’s strains, tapped his feet to the beat of the ‘mrindangam’and let his voice flow.

You’ll have to put up with his singing, his parents said, trying to sound apologetic, but the pride in their voices warmed my heart. “ We discovered, in school, he had an aptitude for music,” the mother explained, “so we’re letting him learn the ‘tabala’, and he takes singing lessons at home.”

Then we were at his school. He stopped singing, let himself be unstrapped, climbed out of the car. His mother took his thermos; he strapped his bag onto his back. Then he solemnly shook his hands with me, bid his father goodbye, and walked away.

He goes to school for slow learners – his father revealed. He added that the growth hormones the boy was taking would ensure he grew normally.

I marveled at the quite courage of the little family. And at how the parents had decided to devote their resources- both material and emotional – to the development of their child; to giving him a chance to normal life. They knew they were luckier than others less well off, less educated – they were determined to look ahead.

Undoubtedly, the years ahead will pose a million challenges for the hero of this story – and he may at some point have to counter them alone. But the supportive foundation of a family bent on making the most of a distressing situation will stand him in better stead than anything else.”

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With love

Sur