THE SILVER LINING
- by Chaman Nahal
It is difficult to assess
the range and quality of human emotions. Those with smiling, evergreen faces
may have wormlike griefs gnawing at their existence, and a dull,
idiotic-looking person may be blissfully happy. Life is a strange, humdrum
affair, where even a few moments of peace snatched should be gratefully
acknowledged.
I had recently the very
pleasant experience of staying at a private Guest House in one of the
hill-resorts. A friend of mine had earlier warmly recommended the place to me,
claiming for it all the facilities which most of these boarding-houses
advertise but generally lack. It was centrally situated-close to the post-office,
close to the market, close to the bus stand-and was yet isolated and away from
the common din. There were pleasant views to be had from there, it had an
excellent cuisine, and was well looked after by one of the most charming
hostesses one could find anywhere.
I discovered that the
place exactly corresponded to the details described. But it was the hostess,
particularly, and her husband and their little daughter who really proved to be
the centre of attraction to me.
The lady belonged to the
South, though she had married a North Indian. She was rather dark, but had a
very pleasant face, all smiles and kindness. The husband was a huge, swarthy
man, with large, bony limbs. He was extremely well-mannered and there was not a
trace of that untempered roughness which one finds in most men hailing from the
North.
Mrs Bhandari, the
landlady, took me in hand the moment I arrived. She looked after my luggage,
gave instructions regarding my room, had a cup of delicious coffee improvised
in no time, and then put me at my ease by talking to me informally about myself
and my visit. I was completely won over by the family. It appeared as if I had
known them for years.
While thus chatting with
the two of them, I became aware of the slightly-built girl hiding behind the
settee. She must have been about eight, and was sweet and charming like her
mother. Her hair was closely cropped, with a straight fringe across the
forehead, in Chinese fashion. She was in jeans and, in here half-sleeved loose
jersey and high boots, looked a miniature jungle queen. But she was behaving a
bit too timidly for one, and was trying to avoid me.
I couldn’t help smiling. I
saw that she was staring at me. I said, ‘What’s your name?’ and beckoned to her
to come to me.
The girl became
immediately self-conscious, shook her head, and stood where she was.
I called once more, ‘Hello!
Come here, my dear.’
She blushed and again shook
her head. After a second, she ran out. I thought I saw tears in her eyes.
I suddenly became aware of
an awkward pause in the room, and, turning to look at the Bhandaris, I
discovered that both of them were frowning, a painful look on their faces. Mr
Bhandari squeezed the arm of his wife, and said, apologetically, ‘I’m sorry, Mr
Dhanda. You see, our daughter cannot hear anything, nor speak. That’s why she
didn’t come to you.’
I gasped and muttered
something about being sorry. I became confused and did not know what more to
say. For I was feeling ashamed at my forwardness with a child who was obviously
not in a position to respond to my overtures of friendship. I vaguely felt I
had wronged her and her parents.
It did not take me long to
see that this was a situation the poor parents had to put up with almost daily.
For every day one or two guests left and new ones came along. And, at the very
first meeting, or son afterwards, they would run into the child, be fascinated
by her charm and beauty, and want to talk to her, to pat her, and so on and so
forth. And every time it would result in the child silently smiling, sighing
and withdrawing, leaving looks of agony on the faces of her parents. Often, it
would lead to lengthy explanations as to how the calamity had come about, for
many of the inquisitive visitors liked to know if it was from birth, or the
result of an accident, whether anyone else in the family suffered from a
similar disability; and if any treatment was being given.
The queries were answered
by the parents haltingly and with obvious anguish. What struck me as the worst
part of the situation was that the girl would be often gravely looking on, her
eyes aghast with horror and self-pity, aware that she was the topic of
discussion. She had no other pastime than to run around the house, or play with
the servants. She did not go to school as there was none there to cater for her
needs. They had tried to teach her at home, but without success. She could
only hear faintly, without feeling much, when one shouted close to her ears;
and she could speak nothing except utter animal-like cries of happiness and
sorrow; or say crudely such words as 'ma-ma' or 'unc-ll'. All her other
communications were confined to gestures with her hands, which brought a
fleeting sensation of torture to her whole being when one failed to follow what
she was saying.
To save the child from
such repeated humiliation, I one day suggested something to the Bhandaris which
the parents, after some trepidation, agreed to try. We decided to have bits of
paper typed, and to hand over one of these chits, duly sealed in a cover, to
every new visitor as soon as he entered the Guest House. The text of the chit
ran: 'Our daughter is deaf and dumb. You may hurt her by trying to be friendly
too soon, as she can neither understand nor reply to you kind words. You are
requested to please give her time to approach you and make your acquaintance.
Thank you.’
A line to the effect that
they might be spared questions about her was removed by Mrs Bhandari on the
plea that it would not be compatible with her spirit of hospitality. As it was,
she felt the note was not a very kind one to be given to people who were going
to make her Guest House their temporary home. But she gave consent to save the
girl the untold misery and helplessness she experienced every time a stranger
approached her.
The ruse worked well, even
beyond our expectations. Though a few sympathetic questions were still put to
the parents, the poor child was spared. Later, the girl herself slowly became
intimate with many of the guests. The Bhandaris felt relieved, and thought that
at least one of their problems was temporarily solved.
But they had a strange
visitor one day.
It was late in the
afternoon and I was talking to the landlord about some packed lunch that I
needed the next day-I was planning a short excursion, by myself, to a group of
caves nearby. The landlord was in a hurry, arranging things for a new guest who
had booked a room for the season and was supposed to be moving in any
moment-arriving by the Mail train.
And sure enough, soon a
young man came in, a porter carrying his luggage. He was barely twenty-five,
clad in an ill-fitting tweed suit, with drooping shoulders and wide
trouser-bottoms. Because of the journey, he looked untidy, his hair, his
necktie, his shoes-all unkempt and needing attention. But he had a cheerful
face and jet-black eyes sparkling with vitality.
Mr Bhandari stepped
forward and asked, ‘Mr David, I presume?’
The young man looked
closely at his face, smiled and nodded.
‘Room No. 18, please.
Everything is ready.’
The young man again looked
at him, smiled and nodded. He paid the porter, who bowed low-for he was not
asked to return the change-and disappeared. The young man gave me a brief,
friendly look and sat before a huge book, which the landlord had pushed before
him, making the necessary entries about himself and his intended stay.
At this time, he
discovered the sealed envelope containing the typed chit lying on the table,
addressed to him by name. He took the cover and tore it open. This coincided
with the entry of the landlady into the room. She hurriedly asked her husband
if this was the new guest, and, having received confirmation, came forward and
shook hands with the young man.
‘Did you have a nice
journey, Mr David?’ she asked, with her sweet smile.
The young man smiled and
nodded nonchalantly, as if to say, ‘Well, neither very pleasant nor very
unpleasant.’
‘Would you like to have
hot bath immediately or tea first?’
The young man pursed his
lips and shrugged his shoulders obviously implying that one would be as good as
the other and that he had no preferences.
Both the landlord and the
landlady were by now slightly disconcerted by what they inferred to be their
guest’s pride and arrogance, since he had not even deigned to reply adequately
to their polite enquiries.
The young man, meanwhile,
took out the typed chit and started reading it. As soon as he had gone through
it, he looked around, astonished. The little girl, Promodni, was at the moment
playing in the courtyard. We could see her sitting near the flower-beds. The
young man looked at all of us with a smile and darted out towards her.
‘Now this is very
strange!’ Mrs Bhandari cried out in protest, ‘How rude he is!’
‘He shouldn’t have ignored
out request like this,’ the landlord put in, more mildly.
I, too, was a bit upset.
For it was obvious that our effort to save Promodni’s embarrassment from
strangers was going to fail in this instance.
After a few moments, we
all walked out to the verandah, and I was apprehensive of that impending look
of anguish on the faces of the parents and the child.
The scene that confronted
us was something we least expected to see.
The strange young man was
reclining on the grassy ground and Promodni was sitting on his lap. He was
showing her the flowers.
And suddenly, like the
sound of a gun exploding, the shrill animal-like laughter of Promodni pierced
the air.
The parents looked at each
other with wonder and amazement.
‘Our daughter has not
laughed like this for years!’ Mrs Bhandari said.
Curious, we watched the
two of them who were now walking towards us hand in hand. Promodni ran to her
mother and danced about her with joy. She made her queer sounds of ‘ma-ma!
ma-ma!’ and wildly pointed to the young man.
It was Mr David who came
to our rescue.
We soon realized that he
was deaf and dumb, too!
His strange, ambiguous
silences, his sudden rush for the girl on reading the note – all became
instantly clear to us. It took us time to digest the news. And then, both
parents broke into incoherent statements of profuse apologies that they had not
noticed it earlier. Imagining the type of man they were talking to, they spoke
in half-sentences and tried to convey the rest through gestures. But the young
man had not the slightest difficulty in understanding them: he appeared to read
their lips. He gracefully acknowledged their warmth and either nodded or shook
his head in reply. For more complicated and lengthy answers, he used pen and
paper.
The next day, Mrs Bhandari
was full of news. She talked as she had never talked before. She mentioned the
stranger and the plans for the betterment of Promodni he had outlined to her
and her husband. There were schools for such people, he had told them, though
they were beyond most people’s means. He had himself been educated in one such
institution abroad; and had now returned to India to render the same useful
service to others, by staring a school here. She almost broke down with gratitude
when she said that he had agreed to accept Promodni as his first pupil. He had
emphatically stated that the girl could, in course of time, live almost as
normal a life as any one of us who had the powers of hearing and of speech.
Mrs Bhandari laughed like
a carefree girl. She gave us an extra helping of jam and butter and honey at
the table. She looked the happiest woman in the world.
