Deafening Silence

A couple of days ago, I watched with keen interest as a group of blind men attempted to cross a busy street. Together, they held each other’s hands and cautiously tested the flow of traffic. The lead man, whose bravery widened my eyes in admiration, placed his own front hand in the midst of passing rickshaws and motorcycles, endangering other parts of his body that he could not do without. But it is his ears which are now his most precious commodity. His ears are his compass, guiding him towards a destination less than fifty feet away. He must listen to the bustle of the road and appreciate the sounds as if they make up a symphony, for his existence relies on their own. Together, they intersect in his mind and as a skilled listener, he must separate them. There is the engine of a rickshaw, the dialogue of its passengers, the construction men working across the street, and a sole policeman directing traffic. Is he coming to help? Or will we be alone? He wonders.
I ask myself the same questions. Who will be the first driver to stop, creating a pathway for these men? How long will their journey take them? Even for someone blessed with 20/20 vision, crossing the street seems like a death wish and often takes five times the amount of time it would normally take to walk across the road. If I had to rely on my ears to maneuver my way around, I would be terrified to even leave the house. But apart from the hazards associated with blindness, how do these men deal with the ubiquitous noise?
Here in India, tourists may very well wish for deafness. Upon arrival, the noise seems as dangerous to the body as the water. Foreigners search for a quiet enclave and are often disappointed to find few exist. Privacy, like silence, is almost entirely absent from Indian society. As an overwhelming and unforgiving force, the racket resembles the intensity of a cricket bat hitting an oncoming ball. We, the foreigners, are flung to the far edge of the field, unable to recover from such a tumultuous smack. Secretly, we were hoping the batter would miss. But now, as we sail through the air, we can see India from a completely different view. During our flight, we come to realize that an escape from the sound would be an exit from the culture. For the volume of the landscape carries as much significance as the sights themselves. After all, India is home to Bollywood, the ever sacred “om,” and the mesmerizing sitar. And let us not forget that India is the true model of linguistic diversity, where there are almost twenty official languages and more than 1,600 dialects. If anything, the blind will never be alone in India. Sound is their faithful partner, loyal and consistently present.
In the safety of my apartment, far from the hectic streets below, I take a moment to be the blind person. I close my eyes without the bravery the lead man had no choice but to embrace, and listen to the tune my neighborhood in Bangalore emanates. I easily acknowledge that there are no empty spaces in time and every instant is filled. The constant honking becomes as steady as the tampura. Close by, the arrival of a train is accompanied with the shrill of its whistle. Work is being done in my building, and I focus on the sweeping of a broom, the faint conversations in Kannada, the thrashing of a nail being hammered, and the shock of doors being slammed without warning. Water leaks from a faucet in my bathroom, a travel clock continues its cycle of time, and a dog, like my own living in the States, barks his own lonely melody for anyone willing to listen. Bells ring as worshippers call out to their gods, boys play in the streets, and my own breath rises and falls. Without the noise, India’s landscape is a blank book, which no one can read. Sound adds a story. It adds life and purpose.
Without the noise, the blind man’s world ceases to exist. The street becomes a deathly plank, hovering over hungry sharks below. The sound that the traveler at first curses and ultimately accepts is the same sound that allows a man’s life to be lived. I never saw the blind men cross the street. My rickshaw passed them in a fleeting moment, only offering me a quick glimpse of their intention. But I think of them often in my new life that is painted, not plagued by the constant clamor. I close my eyes and I see India through sound. I feel India through her vibrations. It is not the noise that would cause deafness here, but rather the silence.