One reckless mistake leaves the narrator bound to a wheelchair. And what is a five-week sentence of complete leg rest to a hyperactive teenage boy but utter distress?
“Five weeks…?” I couldn’t believe it!
My father silenced me with a stern look and my elder brother Hasan escorted me out. My parents followed soon, clutching the prescription. It was going to be a long, cruel summer as I was bound to a wheelchair due to my injured leg.
The fateful event took place in early June when I stubbornly tagged along with my brother and elder cousins on their hiking trip. On the big day, I refused to let anyone guide me and proclaimed that I was “sensible enough to take care of myself,” acting solely on my own will and following the 19-year-olds, the only difference being my obvious inexperience.
My unreasonable attitude makes the misfortune that fate planned for me seem a little justified, the true reaping of what I had sown. I had adjusted the gear myself and, unsurprisingly, it was not securely fastened. One moment I was facing the jagged rocks and shrubs, overwhelmed by the earthy scent of mud; the next thing I knew, I was lying on a hospital bed, my head heavy with sedatives and the pungent smell of phenyl in the air. My left tibia was badly fractured.
“It has been three days already. How long now?” Mama’s stressed voice greeted me after my grand awakening.
“His body needs time to heal,” the doctor replied. “But bear in mind, his discharge will be followed by strict bed rest and medication for a long period.”
Mama let out a helpless sigh as I closed my eyes, willing life to skip this mournful period altogether.
The doctor’s words were true. Five motionless weeks followed my hospitalisation, a nightmare indeed! I could not stand without crutches, let alone walk. I had to sleep most of the day and, for the rest of the time, I was too grumpy and restricted to enjoy life. A physiotherapist dropped by every two days for mild exercises necessary for my recovery and the healing of the bone.
Hasan helped me the most, mostly because, according to some twisted theory of his, my accident was his fault. I didn’t understand his reasoning, but I let the matter slide. He helped me get to the washroom, coaxed me into swallowing the supplements and took me out for some fresh air in the park.
It was an inexplicable agony as I sat on the bench, watching my friends play football or cricket, or simply run around. My heart ached to join them; my leg ached not to. Sometimes a friend or two would drop by the house for some video games, but not regularly; we were all the outdoor type.
The ultimate distress came when Hasan left for a camping trip. A day later, the doctor came for a check-up and gave some good news that lit up my parents’ faces.
“Now is a critical time! It’s healing perfectly and should be fully recovered in nearly 10 days. Have ample rest and try not to move around too much if you wish to enjoy your summer break!”
“I’ll be free soon!” I thought over and over as I fell asleep that night.
On the afternoon three days later, instinct blinded rationality and I decided to prove my speedy recovery by walking to the kitchen without support. Grabbing a crutch just in case, I hobbled to the snack cabinet and gobbled down two chocolate-chip cookies.
In the process of replacing the jar, disaster struck and undid the progress of the past weeks. As I stretched my dominant right arm outwards, my left side tilted against the crutch. Off it went, slipping on the smooth marble floor, and I landed directly on the injured leg. As I lost my balance and fell, my tear ducts burst open, blurring my vision.
One trembling touch sent stars flashing before my eyes, confirming my worst fears. My parents rushed in at the sound of breaking glass and the horrible cry that escaped my throat.
Five weeks down the drain, it was time to visit the doctor again.
Published in Dawn, Young World, June 20th, 2026
