Fearless and Free: How One Man Changed my Life ǀ Self-help story on life, love and making a fresh start

By Udayakumar DS

When a young engineer moves into a new home with his wife and children, he is intrigued by the respect and admiration the neighbours show for the retired doctor living next door. But despite the overwhelming love, the old man seems to be neglected and all alone.
Why does he live alone? Why does he take the dramatic evening walk to the park? Why does he sit only at one particular bench?
After a chance meeting with the Old Man, he gleefully accepts an invitation to join him in his famous study. There, he decodes the man’s puzzling past. Amazed by the mindboggling experiences from the old man’s memories and heart-wrenching tales, his metamorphosis is complete – from a neighbour to a companion, a student, and then a son.
FEARLESS AND FREE is the tale of how a lonely old man’s life opens up a box of motivation for his young admirer, encouraging him and the readers to live every moment to the fullest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Srishti Publishers
• Release date: Feb 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9789390441679

Book preview

How one man changed my life

UDAYAKUMAR DS

Srishti Publishers & Distributors

A unit of AJR Publishing LLP

212A, Peacock Lane

Shahpur Jat, New Delhi – 110 049

[e-mail]

First published by

Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 2023

Copyright © Udayakumar DS, 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. The characters, places, organisations and events described in this book are either a work of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to people, living or dead, places, events, communities or organisations is purely coincidental.

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers.

Printed and bound in India

From the Half-Wise me,

To the wise elders

To my family and friends

To everyone who admires,

respects and cherishes their elders.

PROLOGUE

Greetings, everyone!

I am the narrator of this old man’s tale. I am a computer scientist and work predominantly from home. I happen to be the neighbour and friend of the protagonist of our story, the old man. I consider myself fortunate to know him. Writing was never my profession or even a hobby. The idea to scribble something came spontaneously one day amidst a beautiful conversation with this man. I have been sincere to that idea and dedicated my energy to bring it to fruition.

I will narrate the story of the man from the various inputs I got. First, from my keen observations and the things experienced by me for the past six years while I was with him. Second, through the conversations with the man himself. Third, through the conversations with the neighbours and the house help. Fourth, through the charred remains of his diary. Yes, charred! The last and the most important information, however, came from an interesting phone call. This is how I came to know the man. I had a burning curiosity from the very day I met this man, and it took years for me to know about his life. I am grateful for my patience, without which our friendship would never have thrived.

The day I moved into the beautiful, quiet, and friendly neighbourhood with my wife and sons, I found one thing very intriguing in my conversations with my house owner - the prodigious mention of our next-door neighbour, The Old Man.

I soon realised that anyone who ventured into this quiet residential area would surely remember the old man for his or her lifetime. After one whole day of unpacking, cleaning, moving, and arguing about where to put what, we managed to arrange the things in place.

Our house occupied the entire first floor, with a spacious balcony extending uninterrupted along the entire length of the floor, providing the additional space. The balcony opened to the broad view of our next-door neighbour’s garden, with greenery that was refreshing for the eyes at any time of the day. A small compound four feet high, stood separating the two houses. Our gentle and kind owners lived on the ground floor. The couple had no children and welcomed our kids as their own.

In the evening, I sat on the balcony with my coffee mug, admiring our neighbour’s lovely garden. At 5 p.m., the front door in the garden opened, and a tall, lanky old man emerged from the house, ambling like a snail. He stood there for a few seconds as if he thought about what to do next. He wore a white shirt neatly tucked into the dark trousers and a pair of grey white jogging shoe. Out of the blue, he began walking weirdly towards the main door in a sudden burst of urgency, seeing which I almost spilt the coffee on myself in a bout of laughter. An unprecedented dramatic gait never seen before in my life! He walked like a puppet moving in accordance with the strings pulled. I feel ashamed for laughing at him even now, but it was involuntary and spontaneous on that day. He stumped all my assumptions about him, having heard quite a lot from my owners. Intrigued by what happened, I walked down to follow him on the road. I felt relieved seeing the kids laugh the same way as I did. He did not seem to bother about the kids, though. He walked completely oblivious to what was happening around him, and the old man made his way to the park about five hundred metres from my house. That was my first look of the man. My curiosity was kindled sky-high, making me walk further in the quest.

Whomsoever I met in the neighbourhood, I made sure to ask a thing or two about the old man. The more I learned about him, the more intrigued I became. I came to know he was a famous physician in the locality and a retired

professor from the prestigious medical college. I listened to the praise everyone had for him about his service to the society as a physician for many decades and his philanthropy. I learnt about his singular life through the house help who worked in both our houses.

I first met him in person to get a second opinion on my father’s health condition. That was when we synchronised instantaneously, and I made my way into his sanctum sanctorum. I confessed to him about how intrigued I was from his unique life. When I mentioned that I work from home, he invited me to join him in his study whenever I was free.

After a few months, I nurtured the idea of portraying our old man’s life in a book. I began carrying a journal. I jotted down the very important conversations, my observations, and the actions of the old man every day. I started documenting the stories about our old man from whomsoever I could in the neighbourhood. A clear story worth telling began to build in the scribbles of my journal. What I did not know was his past, since very few lived now to describe how he was in his younger days. Anecdotes from the house help’s mother as she told her daughter, from her experiences while she worked for the old man during his younger days, helped.

It was challenging to get any information from the old man himself, as he was an extreme introvert. It was only with my patience and perseverance for years that I later got some real rewards. After years of companionship, the old man began to trust me with his hidden secrets. I once dared to ask him permission to write about him, and he laughed a little, a quarter smile and said, What a waste of time! I am sure you would have better things to do. He was not welcoming of the idea, but later yielded to my perseverance.

I certainly felt this was a much better thing to do, and I continued grasping every bit of information the old man gave. Most of it came unexpectedly whenever he woke up from his catatonic stupor filled with emotions. Yeah, catatonic stupor! Remember the word. I am sure very few in the world would have witnessed an individual do such weird things. Whatever stories I heard from him were more of a spillover from the excess that bubbled in his mind.

Hence grew the picture of our protagonist, the gentle, lovely human, my dear friend: The Old Man.

We meet many people in our day. Every one of them unique, different from each other in many ways. Once in a while, we come across a totally unique person, a weirdo. Our old man was a boiling pot of weird things. I have seen many people approaching the end of their lives. All of them have an interesting story to tell – the story of their lives, the stories of the interesting people in their lives, and their singular fantastic experiences. But this guy pulled me towards him instantaneously. I present this unique person to you. I am sure everyone will have at least a message to take home from this story.

1

My first encounter

Two weeks after I moved next door to his house, I met him in person. When my father had difficulty moving around due to a degenerative joint disease, many neighbours advised me to seek the advice of the old man, whom they referred to as a good old physician. However, despite living these many years in close proximity in the community, no one seemed to communicate with him while he was in the park or visiting him at his home, a uniquely weird thing. Other than being a physician, he did not exist in the neighbourhood. I came to know that he was an octogenarian.

At 8 a.m., I stood outside his door with all the reports and my father in a wheelchair. I knocked on the door gently.

The house help opened the door. We entered the house to see the man seated in his chair in the drawing room. Without wasting any time on pleasantries, he got to the point. He saw the reports, examined my father meticulously and approved the current treatment approach.

By the time we finished discussing my father’s ailment, the house help said,

I will leave now. Food is on the dining table. She informed him in an unusually loud voice, closing the door behind her.

She always thinks I am hard of hearing. The old man spoke, followed by a gentle laugh and continued. It is because of the other elderly people in the neighbourhood where she works.

We shared a laugh. While he conversed, I tried to surmise from his appearance the persona of the old man. I failed miserably to penetrate any deeper than his outer layers of skin. I should say not more than the dead cells over the skin.

Even while he sat comfortably on the sofa, one could appreciate the height of the man. He was a tall man approaching six feet, with unusually long lower limbs. Very few grey hair remained on the otherwise visible scalp. He sported a long white beard that matched his dark beard in the old pictures of him hanging on the wall. His voice was unruffled, authoritative, solid and manly. He was wearing a white half-hand shirt neatly tucked into grey trousers. He was at ease in his chair with his right leg over his left, fit and flexible, unlike the many other octogenarians I have seen in my life. His exposed arms had the shadowy resemblance of the athletic, muscular young man receiving a trophy in the photo frame on the bookshelf to his right.

That was a cricket tournament played amongst doctors. One of the happiest memories in my life. He spoke, noticing my gaze. Every word was spaced perfectly and spelt out clearly and distinctly without a hurry.

You look fit and fabulous, I complimented him.

Remaining fit was the obsessive part of my daily routine those days, which has kept me in good stead till now. Touch wood.

I looked at my protruding belly and exclaimed, I am now thirty-six. I wish I could be as fit as you were.

He laughed, looking at my belly. When I say he laughed, it’s always a quarter of a smile, never more than that. He pointed his finger towards my belly and said, Six months of dedicated exercise and diet, your pot belly will become a washboard. Do it not for the appearance, but for preventing any untoward effects on your heart.

The words moved me and ignited a single-minded determination to achieve a health goal. After all, I had to pay heed to the advice from an eminent physician.

He stood up to display his broad shoulders, and tall lean frame, walking with ease towards the cupboard on the right, albeit slow. I wanted to confirm his true age, and so I asked, Sir, if you do not mind, may I know your age.

Again, a peal of gentle laughter from the man followed by a quick sharp answer, I will be eighty-two next month.

No way! You look at least twenty years younger.

Not my fault. I did not wish to live this long too. Not alone. My age will be evident when I take a long walk. He replied with a hint of the vast ocean of sadness that hid inside him. My thoughts rushed back to the old man’s weird, hurried walk to the park. Age was evident at that time, I felt.

He was searching for something in his cupboard.

Can you come here, my boy?

I walked up to him to see a cupboard full of trophies of varying sizes, some golden, some silver, some tied with colourful ribbons and some with a medal hanging around them.

Can you pick that black bag?

I stretched my hands into the trophy cabinet to get the long black bag placed behind the trophies without disturbing the arrangement.

That’s for you. Have fun.

Startled by the gesture, I quickly opened the bag. It was a rucksack with a yoga mat rolled inside it. I thanked him profusely.

That’s so kind of you.

Begin what you want to do today. Don’t wait for tomorrow morning.

I know from many in the neighbourhood that the old man had absolutely no inclination or obsession towards any material possession. He used to give away things, surprising anyone who visited his home.

That day kick-started our journey together for the years to come. I filled the void in his life and enjoyed listening to the man’s beautiful stories, whenever he wished to share them. The next six years gave me the treasure trove of memories I shall cherish all my life.

2

A DARK PAGE IN HIS DIARY

The old man had a turbulent past. He tried to avoid speaking of it. Some of the pages that remain in his diary reflect the depth of emotions he experienced in his life. One such moving page.

A dark day in a boy’s life.

What have I done? he thought. He felt like an uprooted tree barely holding on to the ground by its few roots from this ravaging storm that shook him from all sides and left him broken. Life is brutal, a bitter truth he realised that day. The eagles of yesteryear’s wrongdoings hunt happily and mercilessly as we try to run far away. Fate ripped out his happiness and left him alive to roam this life. He felt a hollowness that day, a void that could never be filled. Every second of life seemed like an agony, a painful walk, fruitless labour, a meaningless journey, the distance and destination of which is unknown to him. Can there be a more brutal punishment than this? His anger was channelised against an unknown but perpetual enemy. How sinister the games played by fate are, he thought. Cursing the untouchable, unchallengeable, unreachable, formless entity with mountains of sorrow, endless pain, and bitterly pathetic life. He cursed it for not giving him the chance to reconcile with his dearest. The hand on his shoulder, the hand of his dearest friend trying to console him, broke his cursing spell.

The chain of thoughts stopped, and he stared emptily at a lily plant opposite him. The hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality, which he had forgotten for a brief period. The return to reality was harsh; his formless enemy had already bestowed immense sorrow upon him. Tears started to dribble down his face like a leak from a dam. His friends sitting beside him noticed the torrential rain that was pouring, wetting his dress and reddening his eyes. He was sitting at the gate on a bench, accompanied by his friends. On the street, rows of chairs had been occupied by mostly middle aged and elderly men,