Like most
young ones these days—who have a general inclination of ‘caring least about the
world’ and in order to explicitly show it they would thrust ear phones instead
of cotton buds—I was listening to songs while walking so that I may avoid the
chaotic world and attain some sort of “rhythmic nirvana”: a kind of distance, a
detachment, a variant of solitude as if it is actually possible to be alone in
the midst of the crowd; all this achieved just by some simple, stupid, mechanical,
repetitive music. While on way, there was this faint voice coupled with some
gestures that I thought were meant for me—I was back into chaos breaking the
bubble of “nirvanic indifference”. She was enquiring about the nearest police
station. She was small, making up barely to my shoulders, lean with deep sunken
eyes, wearing traditional salvaar-kurta whose colour I don’t remember as I was
drawn more towards her countenance which had a sort of urgency and anger
coupled with melancholy. I tried to be an ideal man of our times—abstract,
least bothered by her plight, avoiding and the sort of man worried about his
evening tea even if the whole world is on fire—and answered that she needed to
ask somebody else as I was new to Mumbai. She seemed as if she ignored my
answer. I was puzzled that she asked the same question again only to get a
similar reply. She reiterated the question a third time. I was embarrassed so I
decided that I would ask someone and let her know. I did and then she briskly
headed in that direction where I pointed. I was walking behind her with
measured steps so as not to cross her, wondering what could be the emergency;
my “rhythmic nirvana” vanished by now. At the next signal I saw her walking
towards me with those deep enquiring eyes and small but fast steps. She
enquired from distance, “How much far is the police station?” I thought, how
would I know and I had already told her. I was later informed by that lady
herself that whatever I told was as good as a thing untold. I mean she did not
say that exactly. She, in our conversation which was pretty much one sided
because whatever little I had spoken I knew was not heard by her, told me that
she was deaf—partially—because her husband would beat her, make her ear bleed,
damaging her ear drum. She would talk, without break, of the atrocities; I
would listen rarely looking into her eyes. One of those rare glances into her
eyes and I could spot the ebb and flow of the transparent liquid; somehow she
was able to restrain the flow beyond the brim of her eyes either because she
became unconsciously aware of the fact that she was talking to a stranger or
she did not have enough to overflow: it must not be her first day with those
tears and may be not enough left for an apt occasion. She also told in the flow
of our conversation how her husband would drink, beat, throw food and the most
recent one which made her seek for a police station: he tried to set her afire.
In this small encounter she told a lot.
Deaf people
usually tend to talk a lot. They are never sure whether whatever they tell is
heard by the opposite party. So they would repeat the same thing again and
again to make sure it is heard. It seems as if they mistake their own inability
to be a part of the one who is listening. May be that’s because their reflex do
not corroborate the response of the listener.
After two or
three more enquiries to ascertain the location we reached the police station. I
was a little nervous because I was not used to observing police in their own den.
I have seen them preying on reckless truck drivers, pouncing on those
participating in an agitation and ambush folks who don’t wear helmets but never
had an encounter with them in their own place: I was in the police station for
the first time. Naturally, I felt guilty; about what I cannot say but by merely
observing a part of the judging machinery in function I felt inclined to some
sort of lingering subliminal guilt; a deed is wrong when it is judged and not
when it is done, I thought to myself: redolent of Nietzsche and his Genealogy
of Morality—killing a man is horrendous because it is judged and we have an
elaborate judicial system, killing a beast is not because we lack a judging
structure. Here, I have no intention to build an edifice of judgement for
bestiality as well. I felt being judged without a deed. May be I am averse to
eyes full of scrutiny. I told her plight two or three times to different
constables. Each time they would point to another one. They would ask for her
place of stay and she was unable to recall. Luckily, she had her address
written down on a properly folded but little crumpled paper; most probably it
was her master’s wife—she was a maid there—who out of sympathy and taking
cognizance of her inability, wrote it for her. Usually, poor folks keep these
things with much care; just as a treasured belonging kept for years and years.
They could make a fresh copy if they want but they choose not to. Instead they
would double their efforts to preserve the original copy.
Finally one of the constables was asked to
accompany the lady to her house. As we were about to leave one of them asked
the lady, “Do you want him arrested?” Of course she was unable to respond owing
to her permanent stupefaction. Sensing that, he made some gestures and she knew
immediately that the constable was asking for her permission. She nodded with
vigorous movement of her whole insignificant existence. I was asked whether I
would like to accompany her and the constable; they thought that I might have
been some well wisher, some responsible neighbour or even son of her mistress.
I was none of them and I let them know it before they could formally ask me,
giving action to their thoughts. I was just one regular pedestrian who luckily
passed by that route that day—I never follow the same route—and was able to
transform, just when it was needed, my “rhythmic nirvanic Buddhist
indifference” and abstractness to sensitivity and concreteness.
