Sometimes, 24 hours feels very long—especially when one is in a depressed mood, with all the time in the world, retired, and without vision. How does one draw out activities to stretch across the seemingly endless 24 hours? That’s why I named this “The Art of Drawing Out Time.”

After losing my sight, I shut myself away in one of the bedrooms for nearly six months. My wife installed a TV and a stereo—must-haves in every household back then—and made the room self-contained. I would just lie on the bed, listening to IPL matches or some music. Even the music, which I used to love, started to irritate me. I was uncomfortably snug in my self-made cocoon. During this time, one of my relatives tried to encourage me to come out of my self-imposed rut. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said. “Go out confidently, go shopping, buy what you want. Trust that people around you will rush to help.” My son also arranged a distant healing session. At some point, my slumbering inner spirit realized it was docile and needed energy—and it woke up.

Thus began my adventure into the “outer” space.

The first shop I went to was a music shop. I decided to buy some old A.M. Raja songs. All the attending girls were very helpful and patiently read out the tracks to me, assisting me in picking the right cassette or CD. This pumped some relief and belief into my deflated self.

I started moving out. My wife would take me to temples. Even restaurants were no longer terrifying. My passion for music returned to embrace me, and cricket was always a close companion. We even watched some movies.

And suddenly, time began to shrink.

But it still wasn’t enough; the remaining time seemed unending.

The December music season had begun. When I was working, I always dreamed of attending the kutcheris, at least those of the musicians I most admired. We chose a small, compact hall with limited seating and attended a few performances. The advantage of this hall was that we could get tickets in the front rows. This was thoroughly enjoyable and gave me an immense sense of elusive satisfaction.

Around this time, the hospital I visited suggested a cheaper version of a camera that could project text onto a TV screen. I had a few books, and with the help of the camera, I managed to read. Progress was slow, but the pleasure it gave far outweighed the discomfort. Feeling emboldened, I took out enlarged prints of Sudoku puzzles from a website and somehow solved them—a wonderful way to train the logical side of the brain. A sizable gap in my day was filled.

To be continued... 39. Part 2.