Vision On

Work in Progress

The blind man was not at home with his stick. He used it nervously and
as if embarrassed by it held it at arms length. With a hesitant
tapping, almost a scratching of the road ahead, he moved in a slow
shuffling motion towards the pavement. He hit the kerb and forced to
halt shuffled on the spot.

He carried an old torn shopping bag with broken plastic handles mended
with string and wore a stained overcoat. A woollen scarf wrapped itself
around his head ending in a knot under his chin. Strikingly his clothes
co-ordinated, dark green overcoat, russett brown trousers, plaid red
and beige scarf. Autumnal colours in early Spring.

Finally, conquering the kerb he began his long distance shuffle down
the street. The road was lined with sycamores and oaks and led to a
large park, the Blind Man's destination.
He tapped his way past the usual landmarks. The newsagents. The fuscia.
The post box his half way marker. Counting the trees he thought how his
friends would be waiting to see him. They will have missed him. It was
his first outing in three weeks. His doctor had advised him to rest and
avoid the harsh winds of March.

The lightweight sun began to warm his back and he welcomed its arrival.
He looked forward to summer. Soon the heat would charged the air with
quickened tempos and pungent odours. Summer was his favourite season.
He smiled as he anticipated the slam of a car door, snappy and quick. A
bounce of a ball exciting and springy. The smell of cooking escaping
from open windows, smoked meats from outside gatherings, the scent of
flowers from front gardens and his favourite smell of all, the smell of
perfume mixed with sun cream.

When he smelt this scented oil he thought of his mother. He saw her
working outdoors beating dough. Squatting down kneading the soft pale
mixture with powdered hands. Her oil black hair neatly plaited, snaking
down her back. He would step on it sometimes as it trailed in the dusty
red earth. Ow Ashok she would yell. She could squat there for hours
building up tiers of flat round breads. Bring me my hot lemon she would
say. Then he would go and collect the sweetened drink from his
grandmother. She would pour it into a short smoked glass and put it in
a metal holder. Ashok would place it on a dark red tray and carry it
raised high with one hand. He loved that tray. It smelt sweet and
sticky from spilt drinks and was varnished with a cracked glaze. It
reminded him of his favourite treat. A toffee apple. Ashok's favourite
thing in the whole word was a toffee apple. He'd only ever had one in
his life when Uncle Dinesh brought all the family presents from his new
home. He said they were a speciality of Leeds. Leeds in Yorkshire, in
England. But he never forgot the wonderful crisp sticky coating and the
soft juicy tart of the fruit. He looked forward to eating them so much
when they moved to Leeds, Yorkshire, England.

It was a long time since he'd eaten a toffee apple and even longer
since he'd seen one. He reached the park gates, walked along the pot
holed path and began the climb up the hill. He was always so glad to
reach the other side. Here on this mound, there were no reference
points, no walls to give acoustic bearings, no sanctuary from rain or
wind. He felt too exposed. A sitting target for rogue kids. He was
knocked to the ground once. He heard the growling sound of the
skateboard coming towards him, and stood still, waiting for the noise
to pass. He felt the pain in his ankles first. A shooting searing pain
as the missile careered over his feet and smacked into him. The pilot
was still on board and Ashok was bowled to the ground by his travelling
body. They rolled down the hill, sliding over wet, muddy grass.They
laughed, the pilot and his friends. It was just a game. He probably
earned them maximum points.

His bag had been knocked from his hands and crawling on his knees he
searched for it. Someone else found it and helped him to his feet. He
gathered up his things and thanked the faceless saviour. They didn't
ask how he was, probably too afraid of hidden agendas. They might have
to escort him home, or to hospital. They might have to find out his
name, his circumstances. They might feel obliged. Well as long as he
got his bag back and as long as the contents were safe. He would've
something to tell them all anyway.

The aviary, a grey pebble dashed rectangle that looked like a giant
shoe box, lay at the bottom of the hill. As he neared, he could hear
them chattering and singing. They too looked forward to summer.