The Kindness of Strangers

This is a story about a boy called M and what happened to him once when he was six. M lived with his parents in a big city full of tall buildings and noisy roads and they were visiting a sleepy hill town where a snowy mountain sometimes peeped through passing clouds. It was early morning and M had managed to move away from his parents who were buying bread from a small stall by a slanting road which bent upwards heading for the town square where locals gathered to trade and share stories, sipping tea around small fires. M was never allowed to do or say anything without his father’s permission. His father was a fat, short man who liked to boast of how much money he made and how much he knew about so many things. He scolded M often, also beat him sometimes for not being smart or quick enough. When he shouted from very close, M could smell something sour and bitter from his thick mouth which made him nauseous. He heard his mother call that beer breath once while his parents were arguing. One day his father beat M so hard on his head that he passed out. Later, M found that was due to something very bad that had happened in his father’s office that day which made him very angry and he got angrier when M failed to pass him the tv remote immediately after being asked for it. His mother told M to tell his teachers in school that he fell while playing, so that people did not find out he was a slow and bad boy.

That morning on the hill town M’s father was shouting at a woman inside a bakery, telling her and all the other customers how the shop was overcharging and what ought to be done to make the bread better. His mother looked lost and exhausted, as if she was trying not to be there and was staring at a distant horizon seeming desperate to find something in the sky. M had first moved quietly from the noisy scene, then started walking aimlessly into the misty morning silence, feeling strangely energised at each step till his eyes led him to a dark cave-like place at the far-left end of the winding road. At the entrance, M stood for a moment, wondering whether he should step in. There was an almost curtain-thick veil of slanting shadows, like at the theatre M had been to once with his mother when his father was away on a business tour. They had seen a funny play where his mother laughed a lot, especially when a magic potion made a fairy queen fall in love with a donkey’s head. While returning home M’s mother looked sad, telling him that what happened to the fairy queen in that scene had happened to her too, except that nobody could fix it later. M did not understand but snuggled closer to his mother who hugged him back.

The cave was semi-dark even on a day as bright as that day and from where M stood, he could see horsehair and smell the smell of sweaty leather buckles and horse excreta. He realised there were horses inside, and thought it might be a stable. The world he knew and lived in with his parents suddenly seemed very distant and faded. In contrast, there was a pull towards this new world, dense like glue, slow and certain like gravity, something much stronger than what he could understand. It was mysterious, magical, and alluringly unsafe. M stepped in, unsure at first and then, with a curious gaze.

M walked with a mixture of fascination and fear in the cavernous stable, his feet taking him slowly towards the sights and smells even before his brain could fully process what was around and help him decide whether or not he should proceed any further. It was the first time he was smelling animals from so close, almost hearing them breathe. Some horses neighed, most of them stayed silent, occasionally brushing off insects with their thick tails. Every time they moved, even when gently, a small cloud of dust and hay gathered in the air above them, swirling for a few seconds, before breaking back into small particles and falling on the ground beneath. From across the far end of the stable, a half-open window let in a shaft of light, just enough to make the darkness quiver and turn into something moving, like a wave. The stable was like a slowly darkening well, pulling M further inside like a deep sponge, the moist floor covered with its leaves and slime turned into steps along which his tiny feet descended, moving slowly away from his parents, from his furious father, flyovers, and complaints about the quality of bread.

Midway into the stable, M heard a voice, then many, a muffled conversation in a language he did not understand. It seemed to come from a corner on the far left, where he could also see a small swirl of smoke and hear the rustle of leaves, like quick pigeon feet scampering across a rain-soaked rooftop. M looked at the horses again, they seemed unruffled, indifferent to the voices. Maybe these are men who look after the horses, M thought, the ones who walked with them asking tourists if they wanted a ride. M’s father did not allow him to ride their horses, brusquely brushing aside the idea declaring that these men were not to be trusted, that they cheated and could even cause harm if they had a chance, and that they were members of groups committing organised crime, acts of terror. But here was M, somehow away from his parents, from his father’s injunctions not to trust strangers, right inside a semi-dark, strangely smelly, translucent stable. Where the human voices were both familiar and unfamiliar, where the horses began to look like phantom forms, somewhat frightening with their stillness and shadows. The men continued to talk, a conversation periodically marked by what sounded to M like a chant, perhaps a prayer. The only word he recognised and remembered was one he had overheard earlier when one of his father’s friends from work came over, while they were drinking beer and discussing weapons used by bad men. The word was automatic. He listened more intently. It seemed the men were mentioning, very excitedly and with a lot of anticipation, the arrival of many automatic things.

Suddenly, there was a creak, followed by a dip. And then a slow sinking of the ground. M could not figure it out at first and then realised he had stepped on a box made of old wood, half-broken already. His feet were stuck inside something hard like metal, arrested, not having noticed it amidst all that was breathing and swirling around. The box seemed to have magically appeared. At that moment, M began to smell something else too, like burnt wood, something deep and dizzying which came with the thick air from the far end. It was probably what the men had with them, what they were smoking together as they discussed the delivery of automatic objects. That, and the abrupt incident with the box, paralysed M, first in surprise, then in slow fear which began to rise through his legs and then shot right into his small six-year-old head. He spotted some dead rats right by him on the floor and realised that the box he had stepped on accidentally was designed to kill creatures not welcome into the stable, to quickly and clinically fix problems, like rats, outsiders. The mangled bits of rats pasted on the floor and the sound of slow heavy shoes approaching him made M freeze. Then he saw something pour out of his right foot, a thick, black, slow stream. His blood. Mixing with the rat-flesh on the floor. And then there was this pain, this enormous, almost infinite weight of all the mighty mountains, pressing his tiny foot down. The sight of his blood and the knowledge of his pain finally made M scream, a muffled scream at first and then loud, from the depths of his lungs. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed till he could not feel anymore, till his body ran out of air, till he fell. The last sight he had was of many old brown boots, slightly worn at the edges but still strong, full of leather, laces, and bits of wood.

When he opened his eyes, there were three men around him, strangers with strange woolen caps, wearing something like shawls. M had seen these shawls in some shops around the town square; his mother loved them but his father did not allow her to buy them due to what he considered overpriced rates. The three men were looking at him very closely, till one of them smiled. M realised he was still inside the stable but at the end where the men had gathered to smoke and chat earlier. Where they seemed be have been discussing the arrival of automatic things amidst the thick smell of burnt wood. He was on a tiny creaking cot now, his right foot wrapped with a piece of cloth that felt cool and comforting to his skin. Maybe there was some nice ointment or balm inside that was healing him slowly, he thought. Two of the men seemed older than the other one who held something like a bowl which one of the older men seemed to instruct him to give to M. It was milk. M’s father had advised him not to trust strangers, especially in this hill town where something dangerous could be lurking at every corner, he said, before shouting what he would do to M if he disobeyed. One of the older men, the one who’d smiled, was saying something. M realised he was asking him to drink the milk, though he spoke in a language M did not understand. His voice was gentle, soft, and kind. M wanted to trust him, wanted to have the milk. He was hurt, hungry, but not without hope.

The milk was sweet and thick, with something syrup-like on top which made it even more delicious. There was butter on the top too, a kind M had never had before. It was deliciously rich and creamy. M drank the entire bowl down at one go, licking off the butter while holding the heavy bowl which seemed to be made of some strange old stone. He only realised how beautiful the bowl was after finishing the milk and butter. He also noticed a massive machine by the wall, one with lots of hay and grains around it. It was new, metallic, and shiny. He took a better look and thought it might be for chopping the grain and hay to make food for horses. Maybe this was the automatic thing the men were discussing earlier. Not the weapon that his father and his office friend talked about while drinking beer and discussing a doomed future. Everything seemed happier, stronger, and safe, in a place where nobody screamed or threatened to beat M. Instead, he was surrounded by three men, strangers, ones who were kind, who healed his hurt foot, who gave him medicine and milk. The dead rats had disappeared. And the horses were happily neighing again.

As the younger man lifted him and started to walk out of the stable, M felt free, light, and happy in the slender yet strong arms of a stranger. He could see the entire stable from a height now and through the half-open window he spotted the snowy peak that his father had complained was very rarely visible,. The young man asked him something M did not understand, maybe he wanted to know where to take him, where his parents were, so M mentioned the name of their hotel. The man was very strong and M felt small yet perfectly safe in his arms which smelt of butter, a comfort he had never felt when his father tried to carry him when he was smaller. His father’s touch was always rough, raw, and accompanied by a bad smell – beer breath. The young man seemed to have no problem carrying him as M’s tiny feet dangled in the cool air like a funny doll’s ears, effortlessly, it felt like a happy game. The man was talking as he walked, they were walking out of the stable together as the other two older men looked at M, with kind smiles, waving goodbyes. The horses shook their tails.

When M saw his parents from a distance, they were in the middle of a crowd. His father was screaming, blaming someone for kidnapping his son. His mother was weeping. A policeman was trying to calm everyone down. The young man carrying him figured out what was going on, kept smiling and walked towards the group, still carrying M effortlessly, with a happy hum. When his father saw him, he came running, his short frame and fat belly jiggling at each step, and stopped right before the young man, who was taller, stronger, and broader. He put M down calmly, waiting patiently. M’s father started screaming at the young man, accusing him of taking his son away, even before touching M or asking how he was. The young man just stood there, still smiling, till M began to speak, loudly, for the first time drowning out his fat father’s voice, telling everyone how he had lost his way inside a dark stable, how this young man and two others helped him, healed his wound and gave him milk. His mother had rushed over by then, hugging him tight, spotting his wound and the perfectly wrapped cloth around it. M felt loved and happy in his mother’s soft arms, remembering that funny play again where the queen kissed a donkey, and suddenly understood what his mother had meant when she said something similar happened to her – that she too accidentally fell in love with a donkey once, except that it sadly stayed that way. And then he began to laugh, a riotous, wriggling laughter rising from his belly, flowing above the murmur of the men around. His father stopped speaking, dwindling into something even smaller and shorter, awkwardly moving away, then coming back, not knowing what to say, till he tried to take out his wallet to pay the young man who still smiled, politely refusing to accept any money. Then the young man began to walk away, whistling, hugging some of the others in the small crowd, beginning to move, before coming back to M again, bending before him so that their eyes could meet, and said Bye-bye friend. They were very close to each other, connecting, with kindness, love, trust, and faith. There was no beer breath.

Many years later, M went back to that hill town, this time with his wife and little son who grew up with stories about the kindness of strangers. M had become an architect, one who designed and built bridges that connected places safely and beautifully, planting panels that absorbed light from the sun all day and made the columns glow with many colours at night. Bridges that made many strangers travel together across many cities, lights, and rivers. M’s wife was a neurosurgeon who treated people’s brains and conducted research on how kindness, care, and empathy mysteriously made minds stronger, more durable, and beautiful. Their son was never beaten and had learnt how to love and trust from a very early age. Together they visited the hill again and tried to find that strange stable which was gone by then, replaced by a hotel with many marvellous automatic things, which claimed to offer the best bread and cheese in the entire town. They checked into the hotel and together saw some sublime sunrises and sunsets from their balcony. Their son rode a horse in the town square, a horse named Doremon who neighed happily and seemed to be saying many things. Many horses trotted around, many men with different boots walked, traded, and shared stories while sipping tea till the lamps lit up after sunset. Nobody was screaming at shopkeepers, accusing them of stealing and overcharging for bread. M’s father had stopped scolding or beating him from that day at the stable, becoming smaller and weaker with time. His mother loved him more visibly and he started making more friends. M now knew that the three mysterious men in the stable, who gave him milk and medicine, had healed him in many ways. They had taught him to trust, love, and grow goodness with ordinary things. With simple acts of kindness that stretched beyond that time and place, reaching and touching something pure and permanent. The stable was long since gone but the snowy peak of the ancient mountain peeped out playfully and periodically between the clouds, seeing many boys and girls grow in time. While birds of various colours travelled together and twittered in the skies.