Grey Shorts

By Gilby Joseph George

The most painful tears are those that die on the inside.

There he stood in his faded grey shorts outside his class, wishing he had had it better. He hoped he had never left home, so far away that his muffled cries dropped onto dead ears. His face was flushed red with embarrassment, with welled-up tears fighting their way to roll back into his eyes, as boys don't cry.

The cane spiralled around his palm, marking its path and forming new creases. He clutched his hand tight, fearing it would sting if he let go. The last bell had rung, and everyone had dragged their chairs back to straighten themselves for the national anthem.

A sudden jolt to relieve himself made him go back into the class to ask his teacher for permission, who just rolled her eyes and asked him to wait. He could see her smile at the rest of the kids as she distributed candies. Well, like a fool, he thought he too would get one, but he just received a sneer as she closed the box.

Shifting back to where he stood, he leaned against the monotonous beige wall just below the broken sign "education is the key". He closed his eyes, letting the tears roll. They couldn't fight back any longer.

The speakers boomed, playing the anthem.

... "Jana Gana Mangala dayaka Jaya he Bharata bhagya vidhata."

He believed him this time when he said he would come. Yet again, he was not there. He clutched his hand tighter, gritting his teeth in anger as he stood there with full attention.

"Pañjāba Sindh Gujarāṭa Marāṭhā Drābiṛa Utkala Baṅga"

Fumes arose as he thought about the swine who swindled his fees on booze and partied day after day, promising him drunk every night.

"Bindhya Himācala Yamunā Gaṅgā Ucchala jaladhi taraṅga"

Panting between his cries, he hoped he wasn't here. How he hated his parents who let him be with this swine to be taken care of by him. He clutched his hand tighter. The pain grew on him and he started relishing it. The urge hit him again, making him shift between his legs. He hoped he could hold it back till the end.

"taba śubha nāmē jāgē, taba śubhāśīṣa māgē, gāhē taba jaẏagāthā"

He couldn't hold back any longer. He lost his fight again. Soon there was a dark patch growing between his thighs. He pulled his shorts back, sticking his legs together, hoping to cover it up. But his efforts were futile, his shorts were drenched and the stench hit his nose.

"Jana gaṇa maṅgala dāẏaka jaẏa hē bhārata bhāgya bidhātā"

He clutched his hand tighter caving the flesh of his palm with his nails. There was a small puddle forming around his battered shoes. How he hoped it would rain to save him from embarrassing himself further.

"jaẏa hē, jaẏa hē, jaẏa hē, jaẏa jaẏa jaẏa jaẏa hē"

Soon there was a clatter of pencil boxes shoved into their bags and the rush of children to get back to their beloved homes. He looked up to the unforgiving sky, where the sun smiled back at him warmly, mocking his very existence. He closed his eyes tightly, wishing he could erase this day forever.

The giggles still echoed. I opened my eyes to the fading anthem, hearing the chaos from the nearby school, the joy in their screams, and the rush to get home.

Surprisingly, even after twenty years, the anthem has a paralysing effect,where I clap my feet to attention and raise my head, either in pride or habit, I still ponder. As I ripped off my shield and suit, the fresh wave that hit my drenched scrubs was a relief amid all this misery.

The sun was setting back on his dwelling, and I was still here with her file. How I wished to pass it on to someone else.

I threw my gloves off and felt the back of my hand where the brown scar bracketing my left hand was etched. Some memories never cease to exist. I clutched my hand again, to entice the pain I once felt. My tears have dried up with time. I couldn't cry my pain away from this misery. My feelings have numbed with time.

I proceeded downstairs, towards the waiting room, where the anxious parents, siblings, and relatives prayed for their dear one, hoping the dice would dawn on their luck. I stopped at the ICU window and forced a smile on my face when I saw her. Diya, still alive but fading slowly, was their ray of hope.

I called her father aside, a strong, hefty man in his forties whose cheerful eyes had sagged down with remorse. The last 24 hours have been unkind, lying to him with hope that was never there. It took a mighty effort when I looked him in the eye and told him the dark truth of his daughter losing her life in the next few hours. He clenched my hand and burst into tears, crying out his heart. He asked if there was anything that I could do, I was silent. There was nothing. No words could replace what he lost.

After a while, he straightened up, wiped his peppered moustache and eyes into his shabby sleeve, and told me to take her off support. Crestfallen, he dawdled back to his family with all the strength he could carry.

The icy wind from the ICU crept its way into my bones, trying to find a way to break me down. The nurses were instructed to take her off support. Life was drawn out of her with the tubes, the feeble pulse that danced without a rhythm stood still in her cold hands.

The time of her death was 8 p.m.

I held her hand for the last time and looked at her peaceful face. She was in peace, never to wake up again, never to witness what would have been. There lay a beautiful daughter of a proud father, in her grey shorts, who ate an oddly shaped candy, which turned out to be rat poison. A salty tear trickled down my cheek as I saw the 8-year-old being rolled away into the darkness.

Yet, tainted afar, stood a boy in his damped grey shorts beneath a broken sign, who never knew this day would come.

By Gilby Joseph George