I injured myself in a badminton game. As the 77th-ranked player in my colony, badminton was always serious business. I wish I could say that the injury occurred while executing a stunning backhand smash. The truth is, I was running backwards while huffing and puffing, and landed clumsily on my heel. In hindsight, this was bound to happen.
For years, I was exploiting sports like a loophole. I lived the life of a hedonist – drinking and partying, and then washing away my sins by playing sports for a few hours every day. It seemed like the perfect formula. Even as an atheist, I began to believe I was accumulating bad karma and burning it with bad-minton. Science fiction movies have taught us that utopia soon turns into dystopia. School assemblies have taught us that boons always become banes. But since I didn’t study Science, and
slept through assemblies, I hadn’t learnt my lesson. It was only a matter of time before my body crumbled.
I have never given it credit, but my body has withstood a lot. It isn’t exactly a power machine – its USP is its durability. It is not a Suzuki Hayabusa that powers through life. Rather, it’s a humble Passion Plus that runs for years without complaints. If it’s true that souls live forever and bodies change, mine will be the first soul to be cursed by the body. Over the years, my body has kept up with my hedonistic aatma in all its adventures and endeavours. Party on a Tuesday afternoon? Let’s go! Skipping a few meals and nights of sleep? Sure, sir. My body silently withstood anything, consumed everything and still kept ticking. Until it finally broke down. I turned around to steal a point and landed on my heel. Experts would recommend that one immediately stop playing and seek medical attention. But my aatma, you see, is no expert. It is Sir Hedonist from the Alps of Hedon. It made my body play another match, sledge my opponent, and limp off the court. As I sat on the bench and looked at the heavens (well, technically, the indoor court’s ceiling) – I knew. I am no Achilles, but my heel would become a weakness.
The last week has been strange in many ways. I accepted my broken heel with the calm of Marcus Aurelius. Maybe this is what it’ll feel like to be old – in the final decade of life. I limped my way to places and took more than the Uber-stipulated three minutes to reach my cab. I began to fill my water bottle in advance because walking to the filter was painful. Maybe old age simply means you live with pain, walk slowly, and have people stare at you when you limp to the ice cream section in a theatre. Even strangers began to treat me a little better. They let me go ahead in line and even handed over food, water, and other supplies with slow precision and care. Honestly, old age was not as bad as I’d imagined it to be. A slower life, with some unending pain. A slower pace, a quieter life.
And you know what? I am okay with that.
“Yes”, the doctor said, “But Hriday, I was specifically asking if you underwent any physiotherapy sessions since the injury occurred?”
Jolted back to reality, I shook my head in denial. “But you know what, doctor? Maybe life is about...”
The doctor cut me off and began scribbling in his notepad.
Yet another day when the arts lost to the sciences.
(The writer’s views are personal)