Stillness in the Street

Over the months in Tiru, I’d noticed a man in a wheelchair around town. I’d often see him near the streets or in the Ramana Ashram at 10am, having food.

One evening I was walking with a friend C, when I saw him again. He motioned for me to come over. His English wasn’t great, and my Tamil was nonexistent, but he told me his foot was sore. He looked like he was in a lot of pain. I definitely felt compassion.

He told me all his family were dead. That he was alone in the world. “Please help me,” he said.

It’s impossible for me to ignore that kind of suffering.

I looked at his foot. It wasn’t good. He had a deep wound, and it was infected. He couldn’t walk or move on his own, his wheelchair was hand-cranked. I gently removed the old bandage and said I’d be back. I went to the pharmacy across the road, bought some bandages and painkillers, and returned to dress the wound the best I could. I gave him the medication and tucked the rest into his bag.

Then he asked for money to see a doctor.

I told him the Ramana Ashram had a free dispensary where he could see someone.

But he insisted he needed to go to a different doctor, and that it would cost 2,200 rupees.

I paused. Considered. Then gave him the money.

It felt like the right thing to do.

In the weeks that followed, I saw him often. Sometimes he’d ask me to wheel him to a shop, or to pump air into his tyres. One morning, I came out of the grocery store, and he was there must’ve seen me and made his way over. He asked again for money, painkillers, he said.

For his foot.

But something didn’t feel right.

I asked if he’d gone to the doctor like he said he would.

Everything still looked the same.

I wanted to understand the situation more deeply, so I went to the Ramana Ashram dispensary. It was crowded. I found a man at the front desk who seemed like a receptionist and explained, as best I could, that I was hoping to get some clarity on the man in the wheelchair. Was he being looked after?

After some back and forth, he understood who I meant.

“Yes,” he said. “He comes here regularly. Every Monday. We give him medication. He is attended to. Don’t worry.”

I told him the man had said his family was dead and that he needed money to see a doctor.

The receptionist’s face changed, full of shock.

“No, no, no sir,” he said. “His family is alive. We look after him. Please don’t give him any more money.”

I stood there, quietly. I had been taken for a fool.

My generosity had been misused.

I didn’t feel angry I felt… sad.

Back on the street, I found him and asked why he’d lied.

He acted like he didn’t understand me.

He needed help moving out of traffic, so I helped him.

His situation was still dire. I could see that.

But I wasn’t sure how I felt about being deceived.

I accepted it. Left it alone. He must’ve needed the money that badly.

In the weeks that followed, I’d still see him around. I waved. Said hi. But I didn’t give more money.

Eventually, I saw someone had put up a sign on his wheelchair: "My family is dead. Please help.”

Not entirely true.

A friend who lives here told me more.

She said he has a house but chooses not to stay in it.

A foreigner had bought him a brand-new wheelchair once, but he sold it preferred to have the cash and kept the old one instead.

It seemed like a conscious choice to live how he does.

That was fine. I accepted it.

Today, I was eating lunch and saw him again.

I thought about all of it. The lies. The pain. The help. The confusion.

But I didn’t feel anger. I didn’t feel sadness.

I didn’t feel anything at all.

My mind has been still for over a month now.

It’s an odd thing to say but I hardly feel desire at all.

I finished my meal and went to leave. He was parked behind my scooter.

I said hello. He said hi. Then he asked for money, said his foot was sore.

I told him I didn’t have money to give, not anymore.

“But how can I help you?” I asked. “I’m not going to give you a lot of money again.”

He looked at me.

“How about food?” he said.

I said yes.

I went back into the takeaway shop and bought him lunch.

He asked for water, so I got that too.

Then he asked if I could open the bottle for him so I did.

We stood there. Quiet. Looking at each other.

It felt like the right thing to do.

And we were both happy.

May God continue to show me the right path and may I walk it gracefully.

Om Namah Shivaya!