The boy and I had just arrived at the therapy center and were getting off the rickshaw when he saw his most favourite backhoe loader, the one he calls KC. My boy jumped with joy as he watched a man quickly load pieces of broken furniture into the front bucket.
For those who don’t know KC, it is the dirtiest, rattiest, well-worn backhoe loader that works for the municipality around our area, clearing garbage, construction debris, etc. We could not believe it, after many days of looking for KC and many hours of riding around on the scooter, there is it was, right in front of us.
But as the traffic built up behind it in the narrow lane, KC started to slowly move away, weaving to avoid badly parked bikes and cars. We walked a few meters alongside but then it sped up and went down the road. Sean started to cry. Not a stubborn cry or an annoyed cry, but a cry of utter desolation. He held on tightly and wailed, “Mummy, the KC has to come back to me”. I pacified him that KC is working just down the road and that if he could sit with his therapist, I would go get my scooter and we could go ride and catch KC. Sobbing he agreed and we walked back to the therapy center where I handed him over his therapist, quickly explaining the situation.
And then I ran and caught the first rickshaw back home, grabbed my scooter keys, helmet and raced back. I rode back on the Link Road, a largely empty stretch of road at this time. I rode fast, very fast. It felt that I had left a piece of me back there and I had to get there fast and my heart was pulling, going before and faster than me on my scooter.
I have no idea why I do this, why I feel his anguish very deeply.
I don’t know what emotions to identify with this, but that sometimes you purely follow the heart. Not the emotions, not the feeling, not the instinct, not the person, not the drug, not the music… But the heart.