Being one of the breadwinners of the family—or, to be precise, in the Indian environment, the “rice and chapathi” winners—the time in my day always seemed to shrink. Except for the perspiration-filled, one-side leaning bus travels, my entire time was spent under artificial lights, either in the office or at home at night. My routine was beyond mundane. My non-creative, idea-less brain never dared to dream of alternative channels—not for earning, but for expression. The bent back and the anesthetized shoulders never gave an inch of opening for any relaxation of the mind other than sleep.

I think I mentioned this very moment in an earlier post. One of the elderly ladies in our family group reminded me of the poetic leanings I had displayed in my childhood. My mind raced back to the dashed dreams and aborted abilities I might have possessed.

At least the limited, flawed poetic hunger I had was partly satiated. But thinking of other things—the mouth organ was a great attraction for me. Self-taught, with the help of a friend who knew a bit about it, I showed promising progress. At least my friends, and even the residents of our small group of flats, were entertained. But then the eye doctor struck a big blow with an even bigger hammer on my musical aspirations. It was simple: mouth-organ playing required breath control, which could affect the nerves and retina. “Stop there, boy—enough of your experiments.”

Sketching and reproducing drawings from magazines was a pastime, and my attempts were not bad. There was a period when I was sketching and drawing a lot. But a move from Delhi to Madras and a jolt in personal affairs put an emphatic end to this hobby. Only very late in life did I remember that I once had this gift. By then, my eyes were gone, and my hands were not steady.

Being a decent cricketer and mad about the game, I tried to get into the bank’s team. But, looking at my height—or the lack of it—and my glasses, the so-called selectors discarded me. With that, even my gully cricket days ended.

College education kept eluding me in the deftest ways, and I had to satisfy myself with learning without ever truly educating or qualifying.

Fond of writing—though I don’t know if anyone would ever be fond of reading what I write—I established contact with a representative from a leading publisher. They assured me that it would be their pleasure to assist a blind author. But then health issues developed, and that hope was dashed too.

At least I am realizing this grand goal by writing these blogs. My gratification lies in just being able to write.

To be continued... Part 34: Multiple Voices.