The Loneliest Man in
Ward 11, Physiotherapy
Bikram Sharma
He glanced at the nurse for confirmation before
unwinding the bandage. There it was. The swelling had reduced but the bruises
remained; they were like a puff of sand underwater, swirling alongside his
ankle and settling thick by his heel. The colours were the pinks, purples and
greens of coral, reminding him of childhood evenings watching nature
documentaries with his mother.
‘Hmm … can you walk?’ the nurse asked.
‘Just about.’
‘Okay. It’s not far. Come.’
He limped after her to the rearmost section of the
ward where she helped him climb a ladder and sit atop a large steel cylinder
brimming with water. ‘You have to put your ankle there, next to that.’ She
pointed at a nozzle within the cylinder.
He hugged himself, feeling curiously naked with his
trouser leg rolled up.
‘Don’t worry, we won’t blast your ankle off!’
He was heartened by her smile, by her ink-stained
fingertips, and rubbing the bridge of his nose he acquiesced.
‘Ready?’
‘Yeah.’
She pushed a button and the cylinder thrummed while a
jet of water surged against his ankle. At first unpleasant, it quickly soothed.
‘See?’ she said, taking a seat and cracking open a hefty medical textbook.
‘You’re studying?’
‘Have to, no?’
He dispiritedly thought about how he was on the cusp
of completing his BCom and entering the family business. There would be no more
textbooks in his future, only insurance, only his father’s constant
supervision. As she underlined paragraphs his vision snagged on her greying
stockings, stretched at the calves, and the small squares of skin exposed
between criss-crossing threads. After a few seconds he averted his eyes. He had
learnt it was one thing to look, another thing entirely to be caught looking.
*
Months before the injury he had been studying at home
when he peered out the window and saw, in a balcony in the building across, a
girl clipping laundry to a clothesline. A perfectly unremarkable sight except
that her legs were bare. From behind curtains he watched her stand on tiptoes
to reach the line, inadvertently exposing the white triangle of her underwear.
His shoulders simmered with a heat which stoppered his breath. He had lost
himself several times in the labyrinth of online pornography and had even
experienced nights of darkness, fumbling and ragged breathing sharp from
alcohol, but this was the first time he had seen, actually seen, the
space between a girl’s inner thighs. Seen while he himself remained unseen.
*
After hot water immersion came wax therapy. He was led
to a small room where he was made to take a seat and watch as the nurse deftly
poured sizzling wax over his ankle. He gasped, recoiled. She held him in place
and murmured, ‘No, no, no.’ The wax gradually cooled, hardening into a temporary
cast, and she let go of him to flip through his records. ‘Torn ligament. Doctor
prescribed…’ Her eyes scanned the page, brows knotting in confusion at the
squiggly handwriting. ‘How did you hurt yourself?’
‘Oh, I was running in a park. I slipped and the ankle
made this “pop”. After that I couldn’t even stand.’
‘And your nose?’
‘This?’ He covered it with a hand. ‘No, this happened
years ago.’ He tried to forget the image of his mother’s face when he had
returned from school with a broken nose and a letter from the principal.
‘Hmm … hmm…’
The nurse traced the lines of a technician’s report.
Her lips were parted, aspirating unspoken words, and as she read he was struck
by the idea that everything she was doing, the minutiae of her movements, they were
all designed to help her better understand his body.
*
In the subsequent weeks he found himself drawn to the
window. Often he was disappointed by the sight of clothes dried stiff, clinging
to the line and crowding the balcony with their unwelcome presence. But
sometimes he spotted things of interest.
Like the open balcony
door revealing a carpet
Like movement behind
windows
Like the girl leaning
against the balcony railing and meowing, trying to grab the attention of a cat
on the street
Like the girl
stretching and revealing the darker pigment of her armpits
During such moments he felt submerged, the sounds of
the world drowned out, holding his breath as he observed tidings and waited for
something momentous to bubble into existence. It came to the point where he
slept with the curtains open. Until he noticed the drying clothes were mostly
green skirts, green ties, white long-sleeved shirts and matching stockings
which were all unmistakably part of a uniform. A uniform worn by girls who
attended a nearby school.
*
Once the wax cast was removed he was led to a
curtain-partitioned stall and instructed to lie down on a narrow cot. She
rummaged through some equipment and powered on a machine with a hammer-like
device attached to its end.
‘What’s that?’
‘Ultrasound,’ she said, squirting gel which was cool
against his skin. She placed the head of the hammer against his ankle and
slowly moved it in circles around the ball of his joint. ‘This is okay?’
It was a curious sensation he likened to a rumpled
bedsheet being smoothed of wrinkles, filling him with the contradictory
feelings of yearning and contentment. He thought of nights when his mother
massaged coconut oil into his hair, humming a tune while he sat still, eyes
closed, immersed in darkness and concentrating on his scalp, on the points of
contact which glimmered through him like shards of light in a pool.
His skin burst into goose pimples.
Apart from his mother, no woman had touched him in
such a tender way. What if his life were a different one? One in which such
acts of caring were ordinary and embodied by a wife or a girlfriend or a woman
and all the complexities that entailed.
*
He took to going for afternoon strolls which led past
the gates of the girl’s school. On one such excursion, after the final bell had
rung and students thronged the pavement, he caught a glimpse of the girl
embracing a boy. The two clasped hands and hurried towards a park. Once within
the park they visibly relaxed; the boy untucked his shirt and the girl slung her
blazer over her shoulder. The path they were on wound its way through clusters
of bamboo to large flat rocks upon which couples of different ages were seated.
There were no public displays of affection. Just women and men talking,
laughing, sharing food or blinking in the fading sunlight.
Standing behind a tree, pretending to be on his phone,
he realised there were other men like him, standing behind their own trees and
gazing at these couples. For a moment he was indignant. His mother liked to
walk in this park. Who were these men? Some were staring with such ferocious
intensity. Were they driven by lust or by something more like an innate desire
to see, and in the process imagine, what it felt like to be the object of
someone else’s affection? When he left the park he was unable to control
himself and mentally undressed every woman he passed.
*
The nurse wiped his ankle, tossed the tissue in a bin,
then palpated his heel. ‘Painful?’
‘No,’ he grunted.
It was and it wasn’t. At times she prompted a jarringly
violent throb which made him shudder, but mostly the sensation of her fingers
on his foot, a body part neglected for the majority of his life, made him feel
something hard to describe. Not sensual, not sexual, no, but something which
carried weight – a temporary yet implicit trust.
‘This type of injury takes time to heal. And the
ligament will be weaker and therefore more likely to tear again. You’ll have to
be careful. Take it easy. None of your running about, okay?’
He smiled at her parental concern and was surprised to
find his eyes burning, tears threatening to spill over. ‘It’s my mother’s
birthday,’ he wanted to say, just so he could confide in her. It had been so
long since he had last surrendered his body to someone else’s hands.
*
Standing behind a cluster of bamboo, like the other
men standing behind clusters of bamboo, he had been pretending to look at his
phone when he realised the girl had noticed him. Her head was cocked in an
angle of recognition.
His heart skipped a beat.
A part of him asked, ‘What was he doing that was so
wrong?’
Then the boy looked at him.
In his mind a multitude of scenarios played out:
parents, police, prison. Would his mother’s face once again drain white as it
had when she read the principal’s letter? He remembered the life he had led and
envisioned the lives he might lead and made to nonchalantly stroll away but in
fact jogged, then ran, as hard as he could. Wind in his ears, heart beating
behind his eyes, he tripped over tree roots and fell into a gutter. He clutched
at his ankle, already ballooned to twice its size, and whimpered not from the
pain but from a depthless panic. Had she seen? Had she decided to follow? Too
terrified to check, he swayed to his feet and held a phone to his ear. Keeping
his eyes on the ground, he pretended to be in the middle of a conversation and
forced himself to limp towards the nearest auto.
*
It was during this moment when he felt most exposed – the
nurse’s touch stirring memories of his mother giving him a bucket bath and
tucking him into bed – that he was
enveloped by an acute sense of loss. When was the last time he and his mother
had done something together?
He ran his fingers along his nose, knowing the answer
lay in its ruins. How bold he had been, how stupid. In school he had squeezed a
classmate’s ass in an attempt to impress his friends. It was only a dare,
that’s all, but later the classmate’s brother had beaten the shit out of him.
At home his mother had held an icepack to his nose and rubbed his back, her face
pale from reading the principal’s letter. ‘Not my boy,’ she said, ‘he would
never do such a thing.’ His father hadn’t been concerned about the truth but
had raced to meet the principal and explain it was ‘Just boys being boys, some
harmless fun.’ Money exchanged hands, promises were uttered, and the matter was
quickly smoothed over if not forgotten, though his cartilage remained
irreparably damaged.
‘There,’ the nurse said, interrupting his thoughts and
signing a sheet. ‘All done. See you on Wednesday, okay?’
‘You’ll be here?’
‘Me only. I’ll fix your ankle, don’t worry.’
He smiled at her ink-stained fingertips. ‘Thank you,
Sister.’
Body humming from the attention it had received, he
hobbled out the ward and paused at a temple to offer a prayer to the goddess
Durga. He contemplated what to do next. Since the injury he had avoided
temptation, steering clear of the school and keeping his curtains drawn. He had
not seen the girl. But it was difficult; already he was slipping into the habit
of standing in the darkness of his room and peering through the curtains at her
balcony, waiting for signs of movement.
Inspecting the goddess’s features, he decided he would
buy a cake for his mother. It would make her happy. Perhaps she would cup his
chin like she used to, her affection manifesting in the smallest of gestures.
He hailed a bus. Climbing aboard, he winced at a stab of pain and remembered
how his father used to say pain was just weakness leaving the body. After what
he had experienced, he didn’t want that. No, as the bus swayed and passengers
tilted right, then left, their faces illuminated by oncoming traffic, he pushed
himself deeper into the crush of bodies, his mind awash with the idea that a
lifetime of injury could guarantee a lifetime of intimate contact.
***
Bikram Sharma is
from Bangalore. He was the 2016 Charles Wallace India Trust Writing Fellow and
completed his MA in Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia. His
writing has appeared in various literary magazines including The Suburban Review, Writer's Digest, and Out of Print.
A very moving story in which the loneliness of the man seems etched into every sentence... and so quietly spoken and delicately paced.
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