will u have time...to read this fascinating piece??
http://newshopper.sulekha.com/blogs/post/2009/02/the-village-girl.htm
THE VILLAGE GIRL.
Posted by: Rama Rao Garimella on
It was early 1972. I was down in the dumps in many ways. The Surgeon who operated on my spinal chord in 1970 messed it up and left me in a debilitating condition. My career in the Navy steaming full ahead till then seemed to be foundering on rocks of physical fitness and medical category which are sine qua non for every promotion. I was trying to chart alternative courses to reach my next port and found one in MCTE (Military College of Telecommunication Engineering) at Mhow. I passed the aptitude test and was selected for a course to qualify as a Systems Analyst. I used to spend my days making flow charts and learning programming in FORTRAN, COBOL and PLAN. I was also the odd body in whites in a sea of olive green fatigues, a Navy man in an out and out Army town far from
Not one to give up ship easily, I used to be up well before dawn and go jogging on the dusty road leading out from the MCTE campus for 5 miles dragging my recalcitrant feet. I used to wage a daily battle with my legs to get back into shape and regain my medical category, which incidentally was also called SHAPE (Psychiatry, Hearing, Appendages and Eye). My appendages, particularly the lower limbs, were nowhere near the standards prescribed and were blocking my headway in the service and upward mobility.
While jogging I used to be completely focused on the metalled road with many stones sticking out, for hitting any stone would have reduced my verticality to horizontality. In the bargain I invariably failed to notice even if someone passed close by.
One day while on a relatively smooth stretch, I noticed a young village girl carrying a head load of firewood on the opposite course. She looked dark, very dark and nondescript except for her bosom, which was barely covered by the small sari she wore. My heart went out for the poor girl but I was busy watching my every step.
As I progressed in solving the computer problems, its language and syntax but not the problem of my legs, I used to see the girl every morning. As I looked at her more often I realised that she was well stacked. Holding the head load with both hands put her young and perky bosom upright and almost exposed. This realisation proved to be my undoing. Whenever she passed close to me, my focus shifted from the road. A downfall was waiting to happen and happened within the next few days.
One day my right foot failed to clear a stone projecting slightly up on the road. Soon I found myself flat on the road. My knee hit another stone and started bleeding profusely. Three miles away from the Army Unit on the deserted road, I had no help of any kind.
Help came in another form, the village girl. She promptly stopped, dropped her head load, caught hold of my knee and before I could stop her, tore a piece off her small sari and put a tight bandage around my knee. She had no knowledge of nursing, but her magical touch stopped the bleeding.
She didn't know that in the process she lost the meagre cover for her torso. Looking at her exposed bosom, I quickly removed my T-shirt and passed it on to her. She ran behind a culvert, put on the T-shirt, picked up her head load and walked away ignoring my thanks.
After one week when my knee healed, I resumed my walking cum jogging and met her again, this time wearing my T-shirt. I presented her a couple of saris and readymade blouses, which she readily accepted with a smile.
Thereafter I used to see her in the saris that I gave her and exchange a smile with her. Her simple smile showing more pity than anything else and my healing knee prompted me to present more saris and blouses to her.
I made further progress with the computer and system design but not with my legs. Continuing my jogging painfully, I used to find great relief in the smile of the village girl.
One day she tripped. She fell flat and hurt her knee. I could see blood oozing out of her sari at the knee. By reflex action I approached the girl, tore off my T-shirt and tried to bandage her knee. But this involved pushing her sari up the knee, which went against her grain. She didn't let me touch her and continued to bleed profusely at the knee. I was worried about a possible haemorrhaging but had no way to tell her. By then I learnt the computer language but not the language to communicate with her. No matter what I tried, she refused to be touched.
I wondered whether she was the same girl, who, of her own volition and ignoring my protests, had torn her small sari and bandaged my knee unmindful of exposing her bosom. Left with no alternative, I ran as fast as I could to the base and sent her help.
I visited Mhow again later in life to give lectures in the
I had the good fortune of having the pleasure of the company of many young women in different parts of the world, but the memory of the village girl who valued her modesty so much remained permanently etched in my memory.
Ever since that day, she has been my Valentine and will continue to be so, all my life.
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