My wheelchair flew like the wind

Disabled activist Naseema Hurzuk's story is representative of the trials and victories of millions of disabled people in India. In these excerpts from her book Naseema, The Incredible Story, she writes about Mohammed who has no hands but can hit a four in a cricket match, about wheelchair basketball matches in England, and moreNaseema is the touching personal narrative of a wheelchair-bound paraplegic woman who led a normal and healthy life till the age of 16. From bewilderment at first and then suicidal depression, to coping and then rising from the ashes, her story is primarily one of transcendence - how she transcended her own disability by taking on the pain of other disabled people. This truthful story reveals her own grinding personal struggle, her fights against societal apathy towards disability, unbelievable bureaucratic hurdles, lack of simple physical access and inclusivity, and finally her grit and determination that propelled her to be a pillar of strength for other disabled people. Naseema is the founder of Helpers of the Handicapped in Kolhapur, Maharashtra , and won numerous awards for her outstanding work. Naseema, The Incredible Story was originally written in Marathi. It has been translated into English by Aasha Deodhar and published by Viveka Foundation, New Delhi .

Do you know what it feels like to be a paraplegic?

As a small girl, I had read a story about a king who had been cursed by someone. Half his body turned to stone, rendering him immobile, pinning him down in a particular place for years. Then someone came and removed the curse and he became a whole man again. Half my body, from the waist to the tips of my toes, had turned to stone. The only difference was that the king in the story was standing whereas I had to lie down all the while. Half my body was going to be listless for the rest of my life. I had no control over my urine or bowels, neither was I aware of when I passed them. When there was an odour I was turned on my side and the sheets would be changed. It required four people to do this. Powder, perfume and even incense sticks were used to keep the odour at bay. The radio was switched on to cheer me up and a storybook kept next to me. But the tears flowed and kept wetting my pillow. Only a sleeping pill would finally put an end to my tears.I was sixteen and begging Allah Miyan to give me death. My death would also free those who love me. Either that or my legs should be restored to me, I bargained. At the very least, give me enough strength to manage my own toilet needs so that Ma was not troubled. I'd heard that God punished people in strange ways for doing bad things. But what wrong did I do? I'd never harmed anyone in school or during the one year in college. I'd always been happy helping others. I'd shared my books and notes with anyone who needed them. At Aaji's place, I washed utensils and clothes, carried water from the well, cleaned the courtyard and strung mogra garlands. And I enjoyed their affection in return. So why me? I just couldn't understand.