Aanya
The name of the old age home, 'There is Hope' (Aasha hai), was boldly painted in italics at the top of the gate, catching my attention as we arrived. Mr. Rude parked the car and retrieved his coat from the back seat.
His expression remained blank, devoid of any emotion, as he focused on his task at hand. He didn't even spare a glance in my direction.
Taking the lead, he began walking toward the entrance, and I followed behind him like a lost puppy.
Taking in my surroundings, I observed three buildings of varying sizes. The largest stood three stories tall in the center, flanked by two smaller two-story buildings on either side.
The area was lush with greenery, adorned with various types of flowers. Instead of traditional benches, stones and wooden logs were strategically placed for people to sit and enjoy the natural landscape.
As we walked along the stone path towards the smallest building, Mr. Rude periodically glanced back to ensure I was keeping up with him.
Closer we got, it became evident that this building served as the administrative office. The sign at the top left no room for doubt. A man in his fifties stood waiting outside, presumably for Mr. Rude.
Upon reaching him, the man greeted us with a warm smile, introducing himself as Rakesh Mishra, one of the managers of the old age home. He expressed his anticipation of Mr. Rude's visit and conveyed his joy at finally meeting the infamous Abhinav Vyas
Well, maybe infamous wasn't the right word choice. I reminded myself not to judge people prematurely—it was a bad habit.
Entering the building, the office environment became apparent. Wooden desks, chairs, computers, and papers filled the space. As we made our way through, many individuals paused their work to greet Mr. Rude.
He exchanged handshakes with some, nodding in acknowledgment, but refrained from offering any smiles. A few people gave me welcoming smiles, to which I awkwardly returned the gesture.
We took a seat on a nearby sofa, side by side. I made sure to maintain a safe distance between us. Mr. Mishra approached us, holding a stack of documents, accompanied by a woman around his age. They settled in front of us. The woman introduced herself as Geeta Devi, another manager of the facility.
They engaged in a discussion about the arrival of donated goods, a contribution from Mr. Rude. To my surprise, Mr. Rude announced that we would be staying for the entire day to engage in volunteer work.
.
.
The event was in full swing. Mr. Rude, with his stoic expression, was posing for pictures alongside the managers as they distributed clothes to selected elderly residents.
Many snapshots were taken, capturing the donated items and the noble cause they were serving, destined to grace the headlines of tomorrow's newspaper.
I stood at a distance, observing the scene unfold before me. Lost in my thoughts, I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder, pulling me out of my reverie.
I turned to find the person responsible for the touch—a woman who hadn't been part of the photo session. Ms. Geeta Devi.
She greeted me with a polite smile. "Mr. Vyas asked me to give you a tour of this place. It might take a while," she explained, gesturing towards the small crowd engaged in the event.
Surprised by Mr. Rude's request, I nodded in acknowledgment and followed her lead.
"Apologies, but I didn't ask for your name earlier," she said.
YOU ARE READING
Give Me All Your Pain
Romance"To all people out there, whose trauma made them feel like they are hard to love." This book is for you. Abhinav, an orphan turned self-made billionaire, has always led a life without expressing any emotions due to his condition called Alexithymia...
