A Day in the Life of Chirag Charles

Pretty much the life my friend leads everyday. Deserved expression.

The first light of the dawning sun falls upon his drowsy face, bringing with it hope and courage. He rises from his rumpled bed, starry-eyed, desiring to conquer the monstrosities of the present, for his job, his duty is to aid another in need of aid. And so, with his strength renewed, his body cleansed and clad in immaculate attire, he sets away to perform the duties of a humanitarian.

As he reaches the thresholds of the sanatorium, where he labours, his heart gives way to a tad of that hope and courage he commenced with, for the sight of the establishment reminds him of the greed and slothfulness of those pretending to be the servants of the Lord, his peers. Yet, starry-eyed, he reasons:

“Today is different. Today I shall not yield. Today I shall make change.”

He walks into his tiny office, aware of the plethora of documents and files upon his desk, and his mind alights upon his report on Manual Scavengers. A report that took two months of his time, effort, heart and soul to compile. Within it, his team and he detail the state of affairs of a soul compelled to make a living from others’ defecation, others’ stool and bodily discards. Within it, they detail the immediate need for action, to care for their well-being, to raise their wages, to provide them with tools of their trade: boots, gloves, mask, hazmat gear and so on. Within it, he urges for funds that have already been allotted, but not distributed and utilized. This report on Manual Scavengers that lies on his desk, also lies on the desks of several officials, his supervisors and bureaucrats. However, it hasn’t made any progress or stirred anybody to take action, to aid those compelled to live by our faeces.

His heart gives way to a tad more of that hope and courage he commenced with; but, he hasn’t another moment to ponder upon the report, for he’s now to counsel a man in his thirties, who’s impregnated a fourteen year old. Chirag walks into the counselling room now, entrusted to make a convincing argument as to why the paedophile must owe up to the consequences of his actions, and take care of the fourteen year old and the unborn child brewing in her womb. From his past, Chirag has learnt that a child is safer in care of the paedophile father than it is in care of child support, where the chances are that the child shall end up on the streets. The counselling bears no result nor any progress, for much of the argument is beyond the paedophile’s comprehension, and the rest of it insults his pride.

Chirag’s heart gives way to a tad more of that hope and courage he commenced with. Now, he’s to make a petition to his supervisors, to allot funds for the dialysis treatment of a sixteen year old suffering from kidney failure. The teenager makes a minimum wage and supports three siblings with what she’s able to scratch out. She also has a dependant father to care for. Chirag lands in his superior’s cabin to make the petition, and the reply he receives from the man whose ten pudgy fingers are decked with gold and precious stones, and his neck adorned with a heavy gold chain:

“We will try and do what we can Chirag. What we can help her with, we will. Rest is in God’s hand.”

Chirag’s heart gives way to all that hope and courage he commenced with, and now within him remains but defeat and despair that has creeped into his heart.

Before lunch, which he takes in haste, he meets a few more patients and family members in agony: a woman who abandoned her new born in the store room of a canteen, in fear of ruining her marriage, for the child isn’t her husbands; an old man suffering from cancer; a woman who’s lost a lung and so on. He tried his best to serve them, squeezes out minutes to nourish himself and returns to his office.

Late afternoon, he’s confronted with a raging family trying to secure a concession of two thousand rupees on an auto driver’s treatment. They wage a storm of havoc in the reception, demanding and threatening the nurses and doctors for their concession. They care not that the sum is paltry. They make their case on the fact that a volunteer had once promised them that all charges for the treatment will be handled by the hospital, which also includes the two thousand.

Defeat and despair floods his heart. He’s broken. He’s battered. Amid the havoc, he reasons:

“Today is no different. Today I’ve yielded again. Today I’ve changed nothing.”

After reaching on a settlement with the raging family, he locks himself in his cabin and broods deeply on the nature of the living, the human being, on greed, self-interest, selflessness, altruism. He wonders, if there truly lies a point for his desire to aid, his desire to fight, his desire to change. To be denied, day in and out, the opportunity to better another’s life, to be ridiculed and intimidated by others for his interests to aid are in conflict with theirs’ �" the self-interested.

Yet, he goes on with his work, for it’s his duty to aid another in need of aid. He goes about with the course of the day, but it’s all different now. There’s no hope nor courage by his side, there’s only defeat and despair. He aches within, he wishes to weep; but how’s a man who’s assigned to wipe others’ tears supposed to weep in their presence?

The sky draws a gloom, the day ends and with it all the verve and vivacity in Chirag. He returns homewards with all the defeat and despair locked within his heart. He eats his supper and falls on his bed again, awaiting the first light of the dawning sun to fall upon his drowsy face, and bring with it all the lost hope and courage.