Granddad It Happened One Summer Evening: Heading Home from Practice, I Saw an Old Man Fallen on the Pavement. Everyone Passing By Thought He Was Drunk and Avoided Him, but He Was Reaching Out for Help, Mumbling Unintelligibly. My Mum Always Taught Me to Lend a Hand Where I Can, so I Approached and Asked, “Do You Need Help?” He Couldn’t Answer Coherently, Just Reached Out to Me. A Woman Walking Past Warned, “Stay Away, He’s Drunk and Dirty, You’ll Catch Something!” I Noticed His Hands Were Covered in Blood and Fear Rose Up in Me. He Tried to Tell Me What Happened but Only Managed Mumbles—He Pointed to a Bag Beside Him Full of Broken Beer Bottles. That’s Why His Hands Were Bleeding. I Cleaned His Hands with Wet Wipes Before Helping Him Up—Not Wanting to Get Blood All Over My Clothes, If I’m Honest… Once His Hands Were Clean, I Helped Him to His Feet and Tried to Ask His Address, but He Couldn’t Respond Properly. Instead, He Signalled Where to Go and Led Me to a Block of Flats in the Same Estate. He Pointed at the Intercom and Indicated Two Numbers—I Realised It Was His Flat Number. I Buzzed the Flat and a Woman’s Alarmed Voice Came Through. The Old Man Mumbled Again, and Seconds Later a Man and Woman Rushed Out. They Checked Him Over First, then the Man Thanked Me and Carried the Old Gentleman Inside. The Woman Was Eager to Thank Me and Insisted I Wait, Suddenly Remembering Something. She Darted Up the Stairs and Returned with a Massive Basket of Raspberries from Their Own Garden—She Boasted About Them. I Tried to Refuse, but She Was Insistent. She Explained How Distraught They Were When They’d Arrived Home from Their Allotment and Found Grandpa Missing. Here’s the Thing: During the War, He’d Been Captured by the Germans. Holding an Important Post, He Injured His Own Tongue to Stop Himself Talking. With No Sanitation in the Camps, He Developed an Infection and Lost Half His Tongue—Now He Can Hardly Speak, Only Makes Noises Like a Deaf-Mute. Teens in Our Estate Started Drinking Beer in the Playground, Smashing Bottles Everywhere. Even After We Complained to Police, Nothing Changed—Kids Kept Getting Cut. Ever Since My Daughter Sonya Sliced Her Foot, Grandpa Has Been Picking Up the Glass to Keep the Playground Safe for Children, Despite His Bad Legs. We Tried Everything to Stop Him—Even Hiding the Keys—but He Still Slipped Out. Last Time He Fell, He Lay Five Hours on Cold Ground Before Anyone Helped. We Were About to Start Searching When You Called Downstairs. Thank You. After Hearing Her Story, I Was Left Speechless. She Pressed Raspberries into My Hands, and I Bowed—Yes, Bowed—to Her, Words Failing Me. On The Way Home, I Burst Into Tears. Why Is It Like This in Our Country? Why Do We Only Think of Ourselves? To Everyone: If You See Someone Fallen and Unable to Get Up, Don’t Assume the Worst. Approach and Offer Your Help—They Might Truly Need It. Especially to Young People: Let’s Remember We’re HUMANS, Not ANIMALS!

Granddad

It was a summers evening, and I was on my way home after sports practice. The air felt thick and drowsy, like it was weighed down with memories. Along the pavement under the slanted gold of dusk, I found an elderly gentleman sprawled across the tarmac, unable to stand. Everyone walking byfaces half-turned, eyes slipping awaydodged around him, muttering as if he were drunk, while the old man mumbled softly to himself, stretching shaky hands towards the passerby.

Since childhood, my mother had told me to offer help whenever I could, even in the wild logic of dreams. So I kneeled beside him and asked quietly, Do you need some help, sir? But he couldnt form any clear words, just a low, garbled moan and the desperate flutter of his fingers, grasping at the sleeves of my shirt.

A woman walking past threw over her shoulder in that brisk, English tone, Leave him be! Cant you see hes drunk? Hell rub you up with whatever filth hes carrying. Look how dirty he is! I glanced more closely and saw, to my horror, his hands were streaked with blood. Fear sluiced over me, icy and unexpected.

I asked what had happened, but only got more muffled groans. Resignedly, he picked up a battered carrier bag that had been resting on the ground beside him, and from within came the glint of broken beer bottles. He gathered a few more shards, tucking them carefully awayso thats why his hands were bleeding.

I fetched some wet wipes from my bag and began gently cleaning his hands, grimacing as blood mixed with grime. Once Id cleaned him up, I helped him to his feet. But when I asked for his address, he only mumbled again, his words dissolving like mist. After a moment, he gestured up the street with one trembling hand, and so I half-carried, half-walked him towards a block of flats at the end of the square.

At the front door, he pointed at the intercom system and, with jerking fingers, showed me two numbers. I realised these must be his flat number, and pressing the buttons, I waited. A womans worried voice floated down, vivid in the early evening hush. The old man mumbled again. Within moments, a middle-aged woman and a man burst out the door.

They rushed to the old gentleman, voices full with worrychecking him over anxiously. Then, turning to me, the man offered a heartfelt thanks before scooping the old man up in his arms and carrying him inside. The woman, frazzled but grateful, pressed me for how they could thank me. I politely refused, already backing away, but she abruptly told me to wait, as if struck by a forgotten thought.

She dashed up the steps and re-emerged moments later with the largest punnet of raspberries Id ever seenlush, red, as if conjured out of the dreamstuff of summer. Homegrown! she beamed. I thanked her but tried to refuse. Go on, take them! she insisted. We nearly lost our minds when we got back from the cottage and realised Granddad wasnt at home.

The truth of it is, he was captured in the warby the Germans, you know. Wouldnt speak a word so as not to give up secrets; he held a high post, back then. Injured his own tongue on purpose. The medics were useless, he developed an infection, and they had to remove half of it. Thats why he doesnt speak properly nowjust strange, guttural noises like a mute. And the teenagers around herealways lingering in the play area, drinking lager and smashing the bottles. Weve complained to the police, but it doesnt help. Children are always getting their hands cut, sometimes worse. Granddads made it his mission, ever since my daughter Katie cut her foot, to go and clear the glass after those kids. Hes old, his legs barely hold him up, but he still goes. Weve tried hiding the keys, warning him, but he always finds a way. One time hed fallen, and lay out in the bitter cold for five hours before I found him. No one helped. We were about to start searching again when the bell rang tonightthanks to you.

Her words stunned me. She pushed the raspberries into my arms, and I found myself bowing awkwardly, unable to speak, leaving for home in a confused haze. Halfway back, the tears started. Why is it always like this in our country? Why do we only look out for ourselves? If you see someone has fallen and cant get up, dont assume theyre a drunkardgo over and check. Maybe they need your help. And to the younger ones: lets remember were HUMANS, not pigs.