MomoのKokoro

The room was minimally furnished.

He was in the wheelchair, and he could not rise to greet us when we arrived, because he was strapped to his wheelchair. Not that he would have been capable of violence, since his left hand was heavily bandaged, and we had learnt that he would need months of rehabilitation to walk properly again. His right hand could not stop trembling, a side-effect of the medication he was taking. He was pale, emaciated and distracted.

They had said on the phone that he had 'injured' himself. But perhaps there was some kind of miscommunication. He had actually attempted suicide.

He had used the tiny table in his cell to smash his window. Then he had picked up the pieces of glass and cut himself. His arms, his legs, his abdomen. Then he had repeatedly slammed his head against the wall, until he blacked out. His injuries were so serious that he was brought to an offsite hospital. After going through all of this,still he could not die.

It seemed as if he did not really register our presence. We could have been ghosts to him. Why, we asked, did you do something like that? Why did you hurt yourself so violently? And then he looked at us, and perhaps he was surprised that the ghosts were speaking to him. He said that he did not know where to start.

How do you begin a story such as this?

He said that he did not remember much, not anymore. Perhaps it was due to the extent of his injuries. Perhaps he did not want to remember, and so he let himself forget. He told us stories. He spoke of his insomnia, and of how the voices that came in the night that would not let him sleep. He spoke of the voices that he heard in the day, that drifted in through the infirmary's window, that told him of things which he feared were true.

He then told us that he wanted to change, and that he had changed for the better. His voice was very low, and he could not stop the tears. I did not look at him then, looking down at the floor, giving him some privacy. When a man cries, it pains me even more than when a woman does. There are so many barriers to that kind of emotional release in a society like this. He was vulnerable, and it made me sad. But there was nothing I could do.

He wanted his parents to know that he was well. He didn't want them to worry about their only son, didn't want them to know how he came so close to a self-oblivion condemned in many religions and cultures in this world. I did not want to lie. That was what I thought, looking at that frail human shell and the spark of soul that blazed in those eyes, the only thing about him which spoke of life. He requested for a rosary. He requested for books. He said that boredom, that state of having nothing to do, was driving him crazy. We said that we would do what we could.

Then it was time for us to leave. He looked at us, and for the first time he seemed to focus. Thank you, he said, for visiting. Not being allowed to talk to anyone -even to one's self- for months at a stretch, can do odd things to the average person. He said that he would be grateful if we could visit him again. He would be happy with a visit once every six months.

So, this is what is called punishment. I definitely do not deny that it is effective. But I do not know if it is correct. Which brings the following to mind.

Not Waving But Drowning by Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Posted in: Tokyo on Wednesday, July 26, 2006 at