27/06/2025
Andrew’s Story : A Lesson in Resilience from Manipur
The words of Helen Keller: “I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” have always impacted me for years and shaped my perspective, a quiet reminder to be grateful amid life’s challenges.
But today, on a humid morning in Guwahati, as I walked through the sterile corridors of St. John’s Hospital with Fr. Tom at the behest of Sr. Kripa, the hospital’s director, those words transformed from distant wisdom into a visceral truth that shook me to my core.
We were there to visit a young boy, a patient Sr. Kripa had spoken of with urgency and compassion. As we approached Room No. 415, Fr. Tom and I braced ourselves, unsure of what to expect. The door creaked open, and the sight before us stopped us in our tracks. A boy, no older than ten or eleven, sat naked in a chair facing the window, his small frame wrapped in bandages that covered his body and torso. His left arm was gone, the stump hidden beneath a swath of gauze. His eyes, wide and unseeing, stared out into the distance as if searching for something beyond the hospital walls.
This was young Andrew, from Thamanglong, Manipur, and this was our first introduction to him and his story. Beside him stood a man—his father—his weathered face engraved with a quiet, unyielding grief. As Fr. Tom and I exchanged glances, both of us grappling with the shock of what we saw. The air in the room felt thick and heavy with the weight of unspoken pain.
We approached Andrew’s father gently, and as we spoke, he began to unravel the tragedy that had brought them here. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the anguish he carried. It was May 10th, he said, just days after Manipur’s second bloody anniversary—a grim milestone in a state torn by unrest and conflict. Andrew, like any young boy of his age is full of the boundless energy. So, being a Saturday, he had gone out to play along with his friends and the children of their village on the outskirts of their village where mud was being piled high into mud-hills by JCBs working on a road expansion project. While his father worked in the fields and his mother tended to their home.
The children laughed and climbed, their voices echoing through the warm air. But in an instant, joy turned to horror. Andrew was standing atop one of the mud hills, close to a high-tension wire that hung precariously overhead. Without warning, the wire snapped. It lashed across Andrew’s body, striking the left side of his head and hand before searing across his small frame. The force was merciless, the voltage catastrophic. It sliced through his left arm, severing it at the shoulder. His skull was fractured, his body charred by the burns that ravaged his skin. The other children screamed, helpless, as Andrew collapsed, his world reduced to pain and darkness.
By some miracle, Andrew survived. He was rushed to St. John’s Hospital, Guwahati on 22nd May after the initial emergency treatment, where he now lies, 35 days later, still fighting for his life. The doctors called his survival a miracle, but they were candid about the road ahead. His injuries were severe, his recovery uncertain. The burns required painful, ongoing treatment, and the medications—specialized and expensive—were far beyond what his father could afford. A poor farmer with seven mouths to feed, Andrew’s father was already stretched thin, living in a state where unrest, food scarcity, and soaring prices cast a constant shadow. The hospital bills loomed like a storm cloud, threatening to drown the family in debt and despair.
As I listened to his father speak, I felt the weight of Helen Keller’s words settle deeper into my soul. I had come to the hospital carrying my own small burdens—worries about trivial things, frustrations that now seemed insignificant. But standing in that room, looking at Andrew’s fragile form and his father’s weary resolve, I was humbled. This boy, so young and so broken, was fighting a battle I could scarcely imagine. His father, despite the odds, stood by his side, holding onto hope in a world that seemed determined to crush it.
Andrew’s story was not just one of tragedy; it was a testament to resilience, to the stubborn human spirit that refuses to give up. I thought of the countless others in Manipur, living in the shadow of conflict, where every day brought new uncertainties. Yet here was this family, clinging to each other, to faith and the possibility of a better tomorrow.
As we left Room No. 415, promising to return with whatever support we could gather, I felt a stirring in my heart. Andrew’s story was not just a lesson in gratitude; it was a plea for compassion—reminding us that gratitude is not just about what we have, but about the strength we find in the face of what we’ve lost and what we can give.
Allen Brooks
A true Story.
