In her dying moments, a stranger changed my life

Maverick’s story
It was a cold November morning, and I had travelled with my family to our ancestral temple in a village in Tamil Nadu. My sister’s 11-month-old baby was to be tonsured for the first time – a religious head-shaving that in Hinduism is a way of discarding the evil eye and removing any negativity from past lives; a new start.

My wife drove, but asked me to park the car while she went inside with our son and her parents. I walked around the front of the vehicle and slid into the passenger seat. But when I tried to park, I felt resistance. As I pressed down on the accelerator, I noticed a middle-aged man running towards me, waving his arms frantically as he yelled for me to move the car backwards.
My mind raced as I reversed. I prayed silently that I hadn’t hurt anyone.

It was only when I got out of the car that I saw her. The thin, frail woman who now lay on the ground, shaking and murmuring. Panicked, my mind tried to make sense of how she’d come to be there – she must have sat down, assuming I’d already parked – and how badly injured she was. She curled into a foetal position as I sat down beside her and gently placed her head on my lap.

“Does it hurt anywhere, paati (granny)?” I asked.

She nodded, pointing to her leg.

I slowly pulled back the torn sari near her knee. The flesh was missing.

“You’ve been hurt, but we’ll take care of it,” I promised.

“No one will take care of me … just let me sit,” she pleaded.

Villagers started to gather, but kept their distance. One man said the woman slept on the streets near the temple and was often seen begging. A woman chided her for always sitting too close to cars. “If you don’t do something now, no one will take care of her, and she’ll die,” a man muttered before leaving.
Between groans, the woman told me her name: Chinnammal.

“Can you find my bag, thangam?” she asked, using a Tamil term for a loved one that translates to “gold”. She was in pain, but speaking to me, the person who had caused it, with such kindness.

I looked around and found her old cotton bag. It was stuffed to the brim with an open packet of chips, a half-eaten bun, a few 10-rupee notes, and some clothes.

The ambulance arrived, but there was only the driver, and it would take at least three people to lift her safely; we needed another pair of hands. There were close to 25 people around us, but no one moved.

“No one will come to lift her. She’s from a different caste. I have come to do temple rituals – otherwise, I would help,” a priest explained before hurrying away.

My wife, who had by now seen the commotion and approached, stepped forward to help, and together, we lifted Chinnammal into the ambulance. I climbed in with her.

I could see from her face that the pain came in waves. I sat next to her, one arm under her shoulders, in a kind of half-hug.

“My bag?” she asked, looking relieved when I placed it beside her hand.

“You are the first person to take me in a car,” she told me, her voice trembling.

She called me saami, a Tamil term that translates to God. I couldn’t understand how she could show me such love and respect. I asked for her forgiveness, but she simply asked me to help her sit up.

When we pulled into the hospital, two nurses in neatly pressed white uniforms appeared with a stretcher. I helped the ambulance driver lift Chinnammal onto it and wheeled her into the hospital. I told the nurses what I knew of her injuries, while they exchanged uneasy glances. When Chinnammal lurched forward and vomited, the nurses scolded her and backed away in disgust.

Inside the emergency room, the nursing manager explained that Chinnammal’s blood pressure and heart rate were high, but she was stable. She had two major injuries – a broken hip and severe grazing that would require skin grafts. Her leg, he said, was not so serious and would heal quickly.

Chinnammal reached for my hands. Hers were small and bony, but her grip was firm. Her eyes flickered, drifting in and out of focus. A soft-spoken doctor told me it was a miracle she was stable after sustaining such serious injuries.

She quietly listened to the doctor speak, but when he mentioned it would take three months for her hip to heal, Chinnammal started to wail.

“I will visit you every weekend, paati,” I reassured her.