Man in the wheelchair

A F Dawood

It was a dilapidated house standing in a vast garden, unkempt and untidy, with miscellaneous shrubs, creepers and trees growing in great profusion. There was no gate for the garden, in one corner there was a tap. The walls were cobwebbed and cracked, and in many places the plaster had peeled off exposing the brick work. The only soul living in that gloomy, forlorn house was a middle aged man.

He was a cripple and confined to a wheelchair. He moved about the house in a wheelchair; he carried a cellular phone and, now and then, talked to someone. No one knew when he had come there, no one bothered about him and he was left alone.

He befriended two or three youths in the vicinity and got his meals through them. He got his cigarettes, newspapers and other common narratives through them. He paid for their services. Javis, one of the youths, visited him more than others, and sometimes he used to chat with him, although the old man did not like this very much.

“Uncle, you have no children?”

“All are married and gone abroad.”

“Then your wife?”

“She died a long time ago.”

“Why don't you repair this house, uncle?”

“Only myself, no, Javis?

In a few years I'll die.”

One day when Javis brought his breakfast, the man in the wheelchair asked him about the day's news. The boy replied that there was an attempt on the life of the gem merchant, who lived two doors away from wheelchair man's house.

“Who is the gem merchant, Javis?” “Sundal Yapa. People call him Sundal manik mudalali.” “Then he must be a rich man?” “Yes, uncle; two or three times robbers have come to kill him but he escaped.” “A lucky man.” Remarked the man in the wheelchair. “For the last three years police have not caught them.” “That means, Javis, our police is not good.”

“No, uncle, it's not that”, Javis explained, “the police have come to know that the leader of the robber gang is a bank robber.” “Oh! A bank robber? So the police are still not able to catch him.” “Yes, it's ten years, now, still the police have failed to catch him.” “That's what I told you the police are not good.”

“He is hiding; the police are looking for him.” Javis said. “What's his name?” “Jayalath Podisingho.” The man's cellular phone rang and he wheeled himself to the inner quarter of the house.

“Hello!” “..............”

“Is that Marcelene...”

“..............”

“Oh! I see in two weeks’ time?”

Then he switched off the phone. It was observed by the neighbourhood that on a few nights a van used to enter the garden; then the van moved off slowly. When Javis asked the man about this, he had told him that they might be late night travellers and that they would have come to collect water.

“Put up a gate, uncle and then no one will enter your garden, otherwise you're not safe.” “No use, Javis, let them take a little water. We must help them, no?”

“Who helps you to wash your clothes?”

“I wash them myself” The man forced a smile anticipating Javis’ sympathy.

“Can you wash it yourself, because you can't walk?” questioned Javis. “I sit in the wheelchair and wash.”

“Then how about your bath?”

“I hole my head to the tap and only wash my head.”

One early morning, there was a commotion in Sundal Yapa's house. A few people had gathered there. The wheelchair man heard the weeping of some. A little later he heard the voice of Javis calling for him. He came running.

“Uncle, uncle, you know what happened?”

“Why Javis, what's the problem?”

“They have killed the manik mudalali.”

“Sundal Yapa? When?”

“Early in the morning, one o'clock.”

“Then his family?”

“They have tied his wife and child in a room; they have gone with cash and gems.”

“Does the paper carry the news?”

“I don't know, let me buy a paper.” So saying Javis left.

The day's newspapers carried in banner headline with news of the gem merchant's murder. The news said that Jayalath Podisingho, the main suspect in the bank robbery that took place ten years ago, is the mastermind of the killing of the gem merchant. Special sleuths are deployed to track down Jayalath Podisingho who has been absconding for the last ten years. After breakfast the wheelchair man fell asleep and got up, when Javis came with his lunch.

“Uncle, big crowd there, even police there.”

“You went there?” queried the man.

“Even the police came to our house.”

“Why? What did you do?” “No uncle, they're asking whether we saw someone coming in the night? Sometimes, they might come here.”

“Aney! Javis, what do I know, a cripple like me.”

On the following day, a police party visited the wheelchair man. The man's heart missed a beat when he saw them. “We want to talk to you” said the detective inspector. The man managed to smile and beckoned them to sit.

“What's your name?”

“Wilson Suraj.”

“Wilson Suraj”, the inspector repeated.

“Do you know anything about this murder?” Wilson smiled.

“I came to know about it only yesterday morning.”

“Wilson, do you stay alone?”

“Yes, all my children are abroad.”

“It's a pity you're all alone. Then how do you manage your expense?”

“My children send money.” “Wilson, can you tell me how you became a cripple?”

“I fell from a tree and became paralysed from waist downwards.”

“Since then you can't walk.”

“Yes, that's correct, Sir.”

“Now how many years?”

“About ten years.”

“Then how do you get your draft cashed?” This question baffled the wheelchair man.

“Someone will help me to do that.”

“Who?” The sleuth queried. He was impatient for the answer.

“Ja-Javis”. Javis was summoned and questioned about the cashing of the draft. He denied cashing any draft. “Does anyone come to visit you, Wilson?” The sleuth was trying to have eye contact with him.

“No one comes.” “Then tell us how you cash your draft? We see some tyre marks in your garden.” This statement was like the last straw that broke the camel's back. Wilson had no answer. He began to sweat and stammer.

“We want to check your room.” His eyes shot up in surprise. The sleuths walked in, closed the door and examined everything there, while Wilson waited outside with unabated breath.

They came across a small opening in one corner of the mattress. They were able to retrieve a diary and some pieces of paper from the mattress. The police left saying that they would come again, if necessary. Two days later the sleuths were at Wilson's house. They first checked the room.

“Wilson, did anyone come to see you?”

“No one, sir.”

Nobody walked in to your room?” The sleuth questioned again.

“Nobody came.” Wilson emphasized.

“There're footprints on the floor. You can walk. You're not a cripple.” Wilson was dumbfound.

“Who is Marcelene?”

“My friend.”

Wilson stammered.

“And Marcelene is the one who brings money to you.” Wilson was caught in a tight spot. He had no way out.

“Yes.”

“And Marcelene comes to meet you in the night.”

“Yes” Wilson mumbled.

“That means no one sends money from abroad. It's a lie.” The sleuth remarked.

“Yes, it's a lie.”

“And you're not a cripple; you have acted.”

“Yes”.

“Your name is not Wilson. What's your name?”

“Jayalath Podisingho.”

“Yes, Jayalath Podisingho, we were looking for you. We arrest you.”

..................................

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