The blind see...

It was five o’clock and I was standing on a platform at the train station. Actually, I was pacing back and forth between the route map and the timetable. I’d forgotten, or rather never known, that buses and trains don’t run as frequently before the sun comes up.

My bus had run late, causing me to just miss the 5:14 AM train to Feltham, which has a rail-air link with Heathrow Airport. It sounds fancy; all it means is that you can catch a bus to the airport and the price is included in the cost of your train ticket.

To my dismay, I discovered that the next train was not until 5:58 a.m. I was doing repeating the calculation mentally for the tenth time.

“The flight leaves at 7:15. I should be at the airport by 6:30. The bus takes at least 20 minutes. The train will arrive at Feltham at 6:16. If I take a cab from Feltham it might be a couple minutes faster. If I take a cab from here, I’ll have to get more money at the ATM first and I have no idea how long it would take. Especially if there’s traffic.

I decided to remain on platform 5 at Clapham Junction – but that didn’t stop me from doing a pacing routine and scrutinizing the map for any alternative routes.

As it grew closer to 5:30, a much more reasonable time to be on a train platform, another person arrived and sat in a chair in the other end of the platform.

Then, a member of the train staff and a person, who nearly bumped me away from my prime position in front of the map and interrupting my fretting.

The man was apparently blind, and was talking loud enough that in rashness I might have wished to be deaf. “I need to catch the 5:49 to Richmond,” he said decisively, turning to the staff member to release him. “This chap can get me on there.”

The staff member could sense my surprise and hesitated, but, obviously having other things to do, turned and walked away.

I tried to mutter something about not being sure about what time my train left.

“Where to? Feltham? That’s the train after mine.”

So it was solved. Even if it wasn’t, the man had latched onto my arm, so I didn’t have much a choice. Sensing that he’d suckered me in, he released me.

I rubbed my arm and didn’t say much. I repeated the mental calculation.

Normally, I’m the first to talk with a stranger – but I’m not very chatty before breakfast.

He didn’t like the silence. “Are you still there?” accusing me of betrayal. Sadly I realized, it had probably happened before.

I tried to imagine being in his situation – wondered if he’d memorized the train schedule just from people telling him the times or it was available printed in Braille; wondered if I could handle having to rely on total strangers just to get on the train everyday.

Unprompted, but now certain that I was a captive audience, he began a rather unusual discourse of his life.

“1997 was the best year of my life,” he said proudly.

Curiosity got me and I gave in: what happened in 1997?

“That was the year I met and married my wife,” he gloated. I noticed a very well-polished wedding band on his finger and would have commented on it, but I didn’t get the chance.

“1986 was the second best year of my life.”

You wouldn’t have asked why too, wouldn’t you? I mean it’s not everyday that people go around ranking the years of their life. Not to mention doing so randomly on a train platform. But he had clearly thought this out. This was not a random ranking with a possible reordering to come if he thought about it a little longer. At 22 years old, I already with have trouble with the assignment – I can’t imagine sorting through what were certainly 45 or 50 years for him.

“That was the year Dad made the dresser that sits in my bedroom,” he said matter-of-factly. As if this was an irrefutable truth in today’s murky society of relativism and shades of grey.

To be honest, I can’t remember for sure if he said dresser – I was just trying not to laugh. I’m not sure what I’d expected, but it was such a surprise to go from a defining life event in first place, to a gift that was certainly meaningful but was nearly two decades past.

I didn’t know whether to applaud him for valuing the small sacrifices that others make on our behalf, or to question if that was truly meaningful enough to warrant a number two ranking for the entire year of 1986.

A blaring intercom disturbed the birds perched in out-of-sight crannies somewhere in the station, and the screeching of metal on metal soon overpowered them, further antagonising the ears.

He shuffled his feet forward, closer to the yellow line. He was reaching for the unseen door in front of him, even before the train had stopped. Probably some trains stopped and left so quickly that he never had the chance to board.

He pulled himself up onto the train on my platform, using my arm again with such force that I wondered whether he really needed me more for the strength than for my eyesight.

“Have a good day mate,” I called out, and the unusual morning meeting was complete.

I opened a book and tried to read for a few minutes until my own train arrived.

Thanks to self check-in, I was able to obtain my boarding pass and then sprint down the corridors and ended up not even being the last person to walk onto the aircraft. It was 7:00 – they allegedly close the doors 20 minutes before departing.

The rain delayed our take-off by 20 minutes.

All I could think about was how to go about ranking the years of my life. Meaningful gifts versus significant events. Life-changing decisions versus serene moments. One-offs or reoccurring pleasantries.

No matter the system, I consider myself overwhelmingly blessed, especially if the best is yet to come.

Why is it that it sometimes takes a blind person to remind us to open our eyes to the loved ones in our lives that we tend to overlook, a deaf individual to remind us of the joyful melodies of encouraging words, or someone with a handicap to help us appreciate the mobility that we take for granted?

Let the blind see, the deaf hear, and the lame walk. After all, some of them already do a better job of that than those of us with perfectly functional eyes, ears, and legs.