Out of My Shoes

THE POSSESSION

I stepped in. I had to droop and shrink myself a little, but I did, finally step into his mind. I felt a pinch of nausea. As I felt him relax his muscles, I started feeling light headed. Gradually I was adjusting to his fragile build. Now, I was him. Maybe not forever, but at that moment, I owned his mind. I was his soul. The soul of a ten year old boy, whose face had then acquired a troubled look, by default. I had possessed him. It was an attempt that I had made, to read his mind.

THE BOY

He felt dizzy. His head seemed like someone was inside it, drumming on his skull and brain. His ears throbbed. His left hand hurt again. 'No, I can't feel weak now. I have to catch the train', he thought. 'Why did I have to ride my cycle so fast? Why didn't I see the stone? Why did I have to break my hand? I don't like myself. My parents are annoyed with me. The whole village thinks I'm an irresponsible son. Father has to work double the time to earn money for my treatment', thought one side of his mind.
'It has been a year since I broke my hand. When will I get to study again? I love school. I love science. Father needs me. Grandma needs my help at home. Father has to send Mother, money. Someday I will become a doctor and make sure nobody breaks their bones. I don't want anyone to suffer like me', thought his other side.

He got into the train, after waiting thirty minutes for it, in the hot sun. He hadn't eaten anything the day before. He was serving his grandma. It took him more time, because he could use only his right hand. His father was always busy at work. Sometimes he felt proud, for being able to help his father. It made him feel less guilty.

Taking short and fast steps, he made his way to the clinic. A doctor had suggested he get treatment from a Physiotherapist. He hated them. They moved his broken hand, pulled it and stretched it in different angles. It hurt a lot. So much, that he thought chopping his hand off would be less painful.
He walked into the clinic. The Physiotherapist greeted him. He didn't return the greeting. He was scared. He wondered how much pain he would have to feel today. Silently, he went and lied down on the treatment bed.

A lady entered his cabin. She was going to pull his hand today. It was her turn now. She smiled at him. He feared any sort of eye contact. She then held his left hand, and started the treatment. He winced. It hurt too much, but it was lesser than the day before. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He told himself, 'It's going to be okay. Some more time, and the pain will be gone. I can go back to school then. Father will be proud of me.' After tolerating thirty minutes of extreme pain, he was free to go. Surprisingly, he was able to move his hand better.
He will come again tomorrow, traveling for an hour in the train, and let the Physiotherapist hurt him. He will take the pain. 'Someday, I will be able to move my left hand properly', he told himself.

ME

I forced myself out of his mind. I couldn't stay there any longer. Not because I felt sad for him, but because I was ashamed of myself. I felt inferior. I wished I was as brave as that ten year old boy. I wished I had the sense of responsibility like he did. I wished I had his impregnable optimism. I wished I could have the strength to feel the pain that he experienced everyday, and the desire and hope, to live a life, that mattered.