Phantom Limb

I lost count of the miles I have traveled in the suburban trains of Chennai and the smiles I have encountered. I have been traveling in the suburban train of Chennai from, when it was Madras and meter gauge. In spite of so many years of travel, commuting in the train never bored me. I have watched many of my co passengers growing old, pale and wither but the suburban train continuing to run as usual, young and energetic. My favorite pass time during the train journey is watching people, which never bored me.

The metro train accommodates all kinds of people, young and old, male and female, pale and dark, and yet each one of them unique in a way. The serious kind would open a book or newspaper, immediately on getting a seat, more to avoid a conversation than to expand their horizon. The confused kind, confused about the freedom of speech, would keep talking, more to savor the lost freedom – perhaps a “nuptial negation”, or a consequence of “occupational depravation”. Some would remind us of our simian connection, hopping into the train skillfully, after getting down in every station, and clinging on to the running train precariously. But the ones who interested me were the harmless people, who followed “Dynamic” sleep. Staying alert even in sleep, for they would come out of their slumber, upon the train reaching their destinations. Perhaps the tagline of a hotel conglomerate fit me perfectly “We Enjoy People”.

Among the sea of faces, one face in the past five years was remarkable. I have been watching him curiously for some time. He used to come in impeccable white dhoti and a white khadi shirt. He was a man in his late thirties, lean, about 5’6” height, with a receding hairline, a sharp nose and equally sharp eyes. I have not seen stubble on his face any day, for he shaves his face regularly. In spite of occasional smiles and nods acknowledging each other’s presence, we never opened a conversation with each other. I presumed, he was also like me, a normal unassuming person not qualified to be an extrovert, at the same time not condemnable as an introvert either. Other than his name, Lourdu Nathan, I knew nothing more about him.

However, he was not normal in our morphological firmament, for he had a stub, yet it never showed on his face. His right leg was amputated just above the knee, and he used to board the train, at Chromepet three stations from the origin Tambaram, from where I board every day. He used to skillfully board the train, throwing his crutches first and jump into the train holding the handle, with athletic adeptness. He used to carry a small “Rexin” sling bag on his right shoulder, an unavoidable appendage with most of the middle aged Metropolitan men, which would accommodate lunch box, keys of their office draws, a small cloth napkin and a Pond’s powder tin. Many a day, I had offered my seat to him in the crowded train, which he would accept politely with a smile. On sitting he would start his rosary, keeping his counts with the help of beads, which he always carried in his bag. His presence in the compartment had a positive tilt, for no beggar in crutches would venture where he sits.

For nearly three months, I did not see him boarding the train, and I did not attach much importance to it either. In the past years, I have seen so many people, getting transferred to other places, retiring from work, retiring from life; but the train continues to run without any retirement. I used to think that the suburban trains are the modern day rivers; on its banks so many new civilizations are born and so many have perished.

On a Sunday evening, when I was traveling back home after making a social visit, I saw him boarding my compartment. The train was sparsely crowded. He was looking pale and appeared to have lost weight. He came and sat opposite to me. With concern, I asked him ‘What had happened to you Lourdu? Are you OK?’

He lifted his shirt and showed the lateral side. There was a telltale evidence of a surgery, on the right side of his spine, in the lumbar region, the wound, sutured and healed. He said without a tinge of sadness on his face, ‘Some one must have thought I am a useless beggar on crutches, and tricked me. I have lost one of my kidneys to a trickster.’

I was shocked, because my safety is threatened, with the tricksters menacing, so close to me. I was seething in anger, more out of helplessness, and selfish reasons of my safety. I asked him, ‘who was it? Why didn’t you do anything about it? Can you recognize them?’

He said flatly, ‘How can I recognize them? To avoid identification, they were all wearing masks during the surgery’ and gave a wry smile on his own joke.

I offered to help him in identifying the culprits. ‘At least you must have known the hospital, where the surgery was performed. ‘Why don’t you prefer a complaint?’

He said, ‘just relax. No records would exist there, as to my admission and the surgery. Moreover, I don’t see any purpose in doing so. At best, my face may appear in media for some time. I am not the first person to lose a kidney. It had happened in the past, it has happened now, and it may happen in future too, in spite of the laws to protect us from the organ burglars.’

‘Had some one approached me for my kidney, I would have volunteered to donate it. Living with one organ is not new to me.’ He sounded philosophical, ‘It’s the greed in every profession, which breeds the weeds.’

He continued, ‘the irony is, when you add an “A” to “greed” it becomes agreed. I would have most willingly agreed to part with one of my kidneys. I would have been happy to have a ‘kidney’ relation, as I don’t have blood relations’ he said and smiled.

He continued without a break, ‘I was forced to disown my right leg, in the interest of my rest of the body, and with it I was disowned by everyone in my family’. He told me as a matter of factl, ‘did you notice one thing? The right organs have left me’, he pointed towards his amputated right leg and right kidney, which he had lost.

Looking at my curious face admiring his language and philosophy, he said, ‘I have a small shop, assisting people in drafting letters and affidavits, in the vicinity of High court. After losing a leg, I borrowed some money from a bank, citing my disability and invested the same in a modest computer system and a photocopier. Now that I have lost one more organ, I think, I can expand my business’, and brightly smiled.’

Looking at my grim face, he suddenly changed the subject. ‘Do you know what a phantom limb is?’

I mumbled, ‘I heard about it.’

He said, ‘yes, you must have only heard about it. I have experienced it. At times, my brain feels an itch on my right toe, which isn’t there, reminding me where the leg was. I am happy there is no “phantom kidney” phenomenon, and my brain would not remind me of the absent kidney by an itch.’ He gathered his crutches to alight with a genuine broad grin.

His grin continues to haunt me, like a “Phantom Limb” till date.