Reflections and Realisations
Gomathinarayanan

I sat there, on the uncomfortable bench in the doctor's waiting room, wondering who had gone in before me. It was getting late; but two patients had come in after me and already introduced themselves and were in the midst of a lively conversation - most probably about the swelling on the nose of the elderly man. Their talk was just an indistinct murmur to me though I knew they were talking loudly enough. I only wished they wouldn't ask me anything...what if I didn't hear them? Or heard wrong? Though they'd be prepared for it being in an ENT specialist's waiting room. As I sat there, I tried, to recollect my "case". As if I could ever forget that day of discovery two years ago when I had stood before that leaky tap ready to begin my Sunday morning chores. Somehow, watching drop after drop reach the half-full bucket below, I had felt vaguely uneasy. Something was wrong, something was missing. Then it struck me. What was missing was the sound of dripping water! The familiar rhythm and sound as water met water was not there. It was then, while watching that eerie soundless drip that I first realised I was going deaf. With mounting panic, I watched the silent bubbles in the bucket and then turned the tap till the full stream came down with an audible splash. And then I sobbed with relief that there was still something to be heard.

A hundred odd things that had been happening to me became explicable now. Like those sniggers from my students in class; those questioning glances from people that had often ended conversations and had left me wondering what gaffe I had committed; and the accusations that I didn't take any interest in what was going on.

The doctor's audiogram had shown that I was deaf to certain frequencies. Nothing could be done since the nerves had been affected, though a hearing - aid may be of some help. So, now I knew there was nothing wrong with my tape-recorder or the bow of my violin. The fault was in my ears that music was turning to noise. And so, no more music for me. I listened helplessly as day by day Ravi Shankar, Balachandar, Mali and Lalgudi, sitar and veena, flute and violin, gradually turned to twangs, drones and screeches. What malicious spirit could have turned all those well-Ioved bhajans and ghazals to such cacophony.

And so...no more teaching for me, and I had loved that too. And no more lectures, debates, plays, films…There is not much fun watching others laugh at a joke and wondering what it could have been. And so...life had begun to shrink and I felt squeezed into to a smaller and smaller world as I grew deafer. The doorbell, the telephone, the whistle of the cooker -these must be the inventions of sadistic over-privileged people -people who had their auditory systems intact. I rush a hundred times a day to the phone or the front door, hearing imaginary bells. And when someone does finally ring, I am greeted with an exasperated query: "Whatever has been happening? I've been ringing and ringing and ringing"
I dread these bells for another reason too, for they are the prelude to talk and talkers. The impatience and frustration of those who talk to me make me so anxious, that I make a fool of myself. The thought that I am entering the lonely silent world of the deaf -slowly, but surely and irrevocably -is hard to bear. Such were my thoughts as I sat there in the specialist's waiting room. It was not as if I didn't know what to expect for he was but the latest in a long line of experts and quacks who had been peeping into my ears for a long time now. He could only tell me that nothing could be done. I could already hear his apologetic conclusion: "You see madam, when the nerves have been affected. ..." It's then time to forget the warbling of mynahs and the laughter of children. .." I would complete it for him.

Whoever was inside with the doctor had been taking a long time. Just as I stood up to stretch my stiff joints, the door opened and the doctor's assistant beckoned me in.

I paused for a moment at the door and took in the trio at the doctor's table. A young girl in a bright dress - she could not have been more than six or seven - was gesturing vigorously to her parents, shaking her head, and producing animal - like noises. Then she saw me entering and gave me a shy smile.

That smile from a deaf child did something to me. "The birds don't warble for