I was a lion.

No, seriously, I was — or at least I used to be.

I grew up in somewhat desperate times. Let’s say, in a run-down, poor suburb where beggars flocked on the crossroads. I saw extreme hunger, for people would scavenge from the trash, trying to live off the streets in my neighborhood.

The narrow, crisscross alleys in old Dhaka had no names.

The world was running at a much slower pace than it is today, people didn’t know about the internet, and George Bush Senior was America’s president.

I was discovering the same reality everyday — same damn thing — that I don’t know how to walk. Or stand. Go to school, or to the bathroom by myself.

I was eight years old then. Tiny face, thin limbs — much too thin, the full-sleeves I used to wear made me look ridiculous. I knew then that I was not normal, yet I chose to ignore it. Or as long as I could, I ignored it. But how will I keep explaining to myself, that it’s not a big deal? As much as I hated the word then– I hate it even today–I knew what I was: I was disabled. I was very dependent on others to carry me around.

Shame and guilt would engulf me sometimes. Perhaps, all the time. For I didn’t know whom to blame for my condition. But that didn’t change the fact: I won’t be better. Ever — somehow, I knew it firmly.

At the age of eight years, I still crawled my way around. Crawling — as in, on all fours, that was my only means of locomotion. I didn’t have the muscle power to stand on my legs, let alone walk.

But I was creative, imagination was my secret power. Even so, I was rational in my mind’s eye: I never pictured myself as a superman in my daydreams, because superman flies, and I can’t stand on my own. No, I wasn’t even a hero- cuz heroes fight, at the very least, they can walk — save others. Nope, I was none of them.

I was a lion.

Lion was a closer match to the old-frail boy, who had ideas constantly exploding in his tiny head. Locked in a limp body, he would tirelessly drag those numb legs of his. Yeah, I was a lion– a four-legged creature roaming, looking up occasionally to sense what the humans were up to. It didn’t bother me much that I didn’t walk– for me, my movements were not crawls, because babies crawl. I roamed my kingdom, our dilapidated dwelling place.

Except, when I look back at those old photographs of mine with my cousins, all happy-healthy kids in their colorful shoes, standing tall, smiling — I don’t see the lion. I see a young boy, sitting in front of them, ashamed, not able to stand up, like the others. Or walk. Or, wear a pair of shoes. The lion didn’t roar– it whimpered deep inside. The world was fast-changing, everyone was growing up, except him. His eyes still communicate these to me, even today, from those photos.

I wish I could tell him now, he need not to worry.

I don’t like to talk about triumphs too much. What is a triumph for one, could be a trifle for another. Yet, I can’t help but think about the first time I was able to stand, and even took a step, all on my own. Life started to change for me that day.

I was 12 years old when I walked for the first time.