A Lost Man

By Keshee Patel

The dawn was breaking while a man in his fifties was stumbling down a silent lane under the chirping of birds, with a fresh wound on his forehead visible from a far-off distance and his deep blue eyes speaking calamitously. He wore ragged, outworn Khaki pants and a midnight blue-coloured spread-collar shirt, most buttons undone from wear and tear or from being too sluggish to button them. One could easily see the old scars of gunshot wounds peeping out of his hairy chest.

A stream of blood was flowing through his eyebrows, passing by the corner of his eyes to mix with the tears on his dusty cheeks, remembering the brawling in the street where he had grown up. He had tried to make things up with his wife and kids. Little did he know that destiny planned otherwise. 

Remembering the old days of the army, he ran his hands over the old scars. Three bullets had hit him in the torso. The actions of the neighbouring country were hostile. They had warned the forces to be prepared for anything, which he was and came out very brave. He was ruthless towards the foe and an intrepid companion for his people. His comrades awaited his guidance at the zero hour. Their crusade continued for several hours, after which the soldiers saw their messiah fall.

He retired early from the army to spend more time with his children before they moved away to different cities to pursue their future goals. The family was not ready for his interference in their day-to-day activities, and on the other hand, he was struggling to find a hobby to spend time on rather than missing his days of dicing the death. The family needed better financial support from him. When he could not provide for his family’s needs, they started ill-treating him. First off, he was never told where his wife or kids were going or had been. 

His trembling legs moved towards the railway station, not knowing where he would go. A shabby, drunk man would not be welcome at a militarinarian’s house. He wasn’t on talking terms with his parents since he went against their wish to marry a girl outside their caste. A parent would never reject their son in such a situation, but they will unhesitatingly talk indecently about his wife and kids, which he can't stand because he still loves them. 

He was an ideal child of his parents who never did anything they would disapprove of, and his parents were very proud of him. When the child who always outshined in studies decided to join the army to serve the country, his family members couldn't stop admiring him. Despite this, when he fell in love willingly once in his life, his parents rejected her. Lost in his war of thoughts, he didn’t even realise he made it to the station. He had so much brain fog that he boarded the first train he saw. 

He couldn’t tell if he was on that train for a day or two because every day seemed the same. He would not have gotten off the train if the cleaning crew had not forced him to run away. Everyone sounded different in the new city where the high-pitched accent served as its head and a boundary tone marking its R-edge. The task of interpreting the new language and the stomach growling distracted him from the flashbacks of his life. 

He reached into the back pocket of his pants to take out his tattered wallet, which turned brown as time-worn. Along with all kinds of IDs, his debit and credit cards went missing from his wallet. He left them on the dinner table before leaving the house. He wasn’t happy with his marriage but couldn’t leave his loved ones penniless. 

It was difficult for him to recall when he had a significant amount of cash, but with little money remaining, he planned to spend it on the one thing that helped him get through those rough days. Locating the nearest wine shop was not a tough row to hoe, considering more than 22% of adult men in India are alcohol addicts.

Another day went by with no will to survive. The first ray of sunlight neither had any joy nor hope. He used to live days without food during the war, but now he’s old and feeble. When he was having his last meal with his wife, they discussed why their son did not want his father to drop him off at school and buy a new bike. 

The discussion turned into a disagreement. Anger filled his son’s eyes, and when words fell short of displaying his anger, he started using objects to throw. The son wanted to assert himself, so he fiercely raised the table lamp, which first hit his father's head and then fell on the wall in front to shatter into pieces. It was fifteen years ago, but it felt like just yesterday when he received a message in the army barracks from his sister-in-law announcing the birth of their son. He was dancing on air. But now, his son feels no regret after hitting him. 

That incident took place days ago, and as of now, his rumbling stomach can’t digest any more alcohol unless he provides it something victual. That’s the thing with hunger: it can make the most helpless person work. Considering his appearance, he was not eligible for any job or welcomed at any respectful workplace. After wandering for hours, he spotted a construction site where most workers were in a predicament like him. The job was unbecoming for an ex-serviceman, but the situation left him no choice. 

Either he was fortunate enough to find an opportunity to start fresh, or he was unfortunate enough to have to spend more money on a psychoactive drug. He chose the latter. Doctors claim that alcohol above safety level poses lots of threats to damage the physical health of a person. In contrast, drinkers claim it to be the best solution for all the hazards life brings to one's mind. 

He had made enough money to survive for a few days after working hours, but he abandoned his military discipline and ideals once he left home, so he went straight to the wine shop. The dusty clothes now included a hint of grey mortar, making him look more impoverished. The wine seller earlier had sympathy in his eyes, which started turning into detestation. It didn’t bother him because he was not hoping for condolence.

With least hope, he looked at his mobile for the first time after he left his house without a word. He hadn’t received any calls or messages from anyone, not even his wife. What else could a mobile phone be in use for a person who was so poor to eat three meals a day? Neither was someone somewhere waiting to call him and ask how his day was. He placed his phone on the counter, took the cheapest beer from the shop, and left.

The sun was gloaming behind a busy street in shades of yellow, orange, and blue, with a siege of herons flying back to their nests, passing through the scattered clouds in the sky. The ancient buildings near him with thick pillars stood firm even after bearing the sun, dust, and rain for many years. People in this old locality were more religious and less technical. They preferred shopping from the local shops and carts under the open sky instead of highly maintained, air-conditioned huge malls. Even in that friendly and welcoming street, he felt lost and alone somehow.

He had become frail due to not eating for several days. Gathering whatever courage he had left, he took a few steps forward but collided with the crowd and stood stuck at the far end of the road. His eyes fell on an ATM, which was two shops ahead but felt like miles away. But he couldn’t bear any more clashes with the people passing by, so he went inside the ATM.

The dimly lit room provided him with some solace from the chaos outside. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and sighed heavily. He kept drinking until he lost the strength to raise his hand. His body had gone numb, but it didn’t stop the tears from his eyes. 

Hours later, someone spotted a man lying motionless inside the ATM. Soon, yellow tape bordered and sealed off the area, bearing the words "CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS" and preventing anyone from reaching his outline on the floor. Anon, adding another chapter to the police log files under “A Lost Man”.

By Keshee Patel