For those who teach others to hear :-)

Paradoxically -- for someone who has always been afflicted by gravitas, has always been serious and aloof -- I have constantly seen myself as an eternal child, someone who hasn't really grown up.

Now firmly in my forties, with the hair on my head showing more salt than pepper, I feel no older -- maybe because of the more-than-a-decade of motorcycling ingrained in me, or because of the artless (and awestruck) poems that I write, or because of the borderline juvenile obsession with which I photograph birds (and nature).

But its not because of the way I am, or because of what I do that I feel most like a child, it is because of my ears.

Increasingly, across the last 3-4 years, it is when I have persisted in looking for a solution (while dealing with the light-headedness and headaches arising from hearing aid trials and audiology sessions) continuing to battle my aural frustrations, it is when I have been to institutes like AYJNIHH or AURED, that I have felt the maximum import of being Hard of Hearing; felt lost and defenceless (like a child?) and struggled to deal with the utter defeat -- of not knowing an adult way to come to terms with it.

But it is also at these institutes that I have felt like a child in another way, felt a kinship with the 4 and 5 year old kids running pell-mell in the corridors unmindful of the large hearing aids draped over their ears (technically called Behind The Ear instruments) wondering at how their ears can tolerate the din (simplistically speaking, most hearing aids are bad at filtering out noises; unless they are programmed -- but when programmed, they damp speech too).

It is here again that I have met the amazing people who teach these children to do something that most of us take for granted.

Teach them to hear.

Teach them to speak.

Teach them that they are special, that they are loved, that they are expected to go out in the world and do wonderful things (like other normal children are taught to).

Teach them with a belief and selflessness that would touch even the most cynical amongst us, with a conviction that belies mainline epithets like "Children of a lesser God" or "differently abled" or even "hearing handicapped".

Teach them to never stop trying, to never give up.

It is because of interacting with teachers like these, because of being touched by their grace that I (in my own frustrated adult way) never stop trying to hear.

It is because of knowing them that I refuse to be deaf.

Happy Teachers Day to all such teachers out there, to those who devote their lives to making special children's lives special.

Because, though love, life and the road have taught me numerous lessons in turn, it is only you who have inspired me to continue the koshish, to make the most of the gifts that I have been given.

P.S. -- I have purposefully stayed away from my blog for a bit, this was written on Teachers Day and incidentally after I had been to AURED Mumbai (to look for a Cochlear Implant for myself). This isn't exactly a comprehensive take on my own increasing defeats with the aural element in my life, and I have not been directly "taught" by any of the teachers I refer to, since my interactions with most of them have had to do with getting hold of a better hearing aid for myself...but then, I have still been lucky enough to be touched by their grace. So this tribute. So to say.

And, ummm...hey, this was first published on Facebook!  

Thodi aur Koshish (akele hi sahi)

Paradoxically -- for someone who has always been afflicted by gravitas, has always been serious and aloof -- I have constantly seen myself as an eternal child, someone who hasn't really grown up.

Now firmly in my forties, with the hair on my head showing more salt than pepper, I feel no older -- maybe because of the more-than-a-decade of motorcycling ingrained in me, or because of the artless (and awestruck) poems that I write, or because of the borderline juvenile obsession with which I photograph birds (and nature).

But its not because of the way I am, or because of what I do that I feel most like a child, it is because of my ears.

Increasingly, across the last 3-4 years, it is when I have persisted in looking for a solution (while dealing with the light-headedness and headaches arising from hearing aid trials and audiology sessions) continuing to battle my aural frustrations, it is when I have been to institutes like AYJNIHH or AURED, that I have felt the maximum import of being Hard of Hearing; felt lost and defenceless (like a child?) and struggled to deal with the utter defeat -- of not knowing an adult way to come to terms with it.

But it is also at these institutes that I have felt like a child in another way, felt a kinship with the 4 and 5 year old kids running pell-mell in the corridors unmindful of the large hearing aids draped over their ears (technically called Behind The Ear instruments) wondering at how their ears can tolerate the din (simplistically speaking, most hearing aids are bad at filtering out noises; unless they are programmed -- but when programmed, they damp speech too). It is here again that I have met the amazing people who teach these children to do something that most of us take for granted.

Teach them to hear.

Teach them to speak.

Teach them that they are special, that they are loved, that they are expected to go out in the world and do wonderful things (like other normal children are taught to).

Teach them with a belief and selflessness that would touch even the most cynical amongst us, with a conviction that belies mainline epithets like "Children of a lesser God" or "differently abled" or even "hearing handicapped".

Teach them to never stop trying, to never give up.

It is because of interacting with teachers like these, because of being touched by their grace that I (in my own frustrated adult way) never stop trying to hear.

It is because of knowing them that I refuse to be deaf.

Happy Teachers' Day to all such teachers out there, to those who devote their lives to making special children's lives special.

Because, though love, life and the road have taught me numerous lessons in turn, it is only you who have inspired me to continue the Koshish, to make the most of the gifts that I have been given.


*First published on Facebook, yesterday -- on Teachers' Day.

Come Again (Shit, What Did I Miss) ?

You know how it is with the Phantom -- that inimitable
super hero who wears his underwear over his trunks (or
tights), is married to the gorgeous Diana Palmer and has
a pet wolf (no, its not a dog) called Devil and a white
stallion called Hero.

You know how it is even with this superhero, the ghost who
walks, the lord of the Bandar and the protector of peace in
the jungle; however loath he be, even he has to go to the city,
from time to time.

And go he does, by simply becoming Mr. Walker, by donning a hat,
a coat and a pair of dark glasses.

I am no ghost who walks (with a loyal retinue of pygmies)
ruling the dark woods, but when it comes to interacting with
the dynamic character and the "news and events" section
of my corporate website called the city my trips are as
rare as the Phantom's.

And no, I am not saying my trips to the city -- I stay in a
part of Secunderabad that is still, out and out "suburbia" -- are
limited because of my current fascination with the photography
of birds, butterflies and wide open spaces. Or because (for more
or less, the last two months) I don't sally forth into it to earn
a living.

Nor because I am a recluse living in a tree house.

It's just so that when it comes to engaging with the
amplification of the city's vibrancy and cultural spirit -- be
it theatre, dance, a book release, an art exhibition, or any
other "happening" or it's collective pulse / voice -- a private
party, an evening at a pub, and so on; when it comes to engaging
with the auditory element in all of these, when it comes to
hearing to the city, what registers on me is cacophony and chaos.

Because, my ears (hearing aids, in fact) can't do a lot of things
yours can. Because, though they are sophisticated and sexy (who
says size matters -- when it comes to hearing aids) when new and
used in controlled environments (like the audiologist's
sound-proofed cabin or programming / audiology) lab,
my hearing aids just suck --

http://www.wired.com/culture/culturereviews/magazine/16-02/su_hearing_aids.

And, though I was told (I have been using these for more than a
year now)otherwise, my hearing aids seem to be incapable of
dealing with the loudness of voices, like that arising
out of recruitment --

http://www.hearinglosshelp.com/articles/recruitment.htm

And since every environment is different, with its own ambient
and unique sound fingerprint and since every new voice is
different, there is no way for me to know how much of my next
interaction with the "city" will be chaos and cacophony.

And how much of it will be a blessed voice that makes meaning.

But (though I am not into wearing underwear on top or flying
around in a cape, or interested in comparisons with super
heroes and their ilk) while I am not chicken, I do wish that
there are more places in the city where I can go and luxuriate
without getting assailed through the ears.

I also wish there were more spaces where I could be like a
gunman in an alien saloon -- in a wild west setting -- who
can sit with his back to a wall and watch the batwing doors
and not bother about anything because he can deal with
whatever he can see coming at him.

But then, if wishes could be horses, I would carry an
audiologist's sound-proof cabin with me everywhere. Or
everyone would carry a notepad (and not be stressed)
to write notes for me.

P.S. -- Written largely for no reason but for still thinking
in terms of "shit, what all did I miss?" after having
had some fairly cacophonic interactions with the "city"
on my 10 days of tripping. Two Cafe Coffee Day outlets
(and one upscale bar), metro and railway stations in Delhi,
the market, Vishwanath Galli and crowded bathing Ghats and a
boat on the Ganga (with a boatman called Rajan whose voice was
as high pitched as a child's; who typed the name of a
Ghat -- Vacchadraj -- on his cellphone for me).

Flashbacks of a fool -- is "this" important?

As far as confessions go, "this" isn't much and deals with an almost open secret about me.

Even the little man seems to be understanding how to get around "this" now and mimes for me, when he is in a patient / ultra-communicative mood.

So, if you are wondering why I am disclosing "this" now, frankly there is no specific reason.

Yet, since this is the first time ever I am writing about "this" at length, one can say I am coming out of a peculiar and strange closet.

By "closet", I am referring to a close circle of people who know about "this" -- family, friends, colleagues (lot of them past, some current) and probably some readers who have guessed what "this" is, either by reading Hoshang Ji's foreword to my book or by reading the poems where I refer to "this", in a multi-layered, far from direct, maybe stoic way.

By "closet", I am not referring to my sexual orientation, this post is not about that.

Peculiarly enough my decision to "come out of the closet" was made long back -- on the first of this June -- on one of the beaches opposite Thotlakonda (near Vizag) just after I had attended my Grandmother's fourth death anniversary.

Maybe this decision was influenced by the occasion-strengthened memories of her -- I can't claim to have got over her loss but with every passing year, on attending her death ceremony, I get a heightened understanding of the grace, charisma and silent dignity with which she had lived her life.

Maybe this decision was influenced by the other-worldliness of that beach setting -- a sun-splashed evening of what was an overcast day, when as I lay / sat amidst the surf and gazed out to sea (with the only other person on the beach being my 10 year old nephew -- goose-stepping and stilt-walking to stay dry) a white-bellied sea eagle flew in and passed barely two coconut palm trunk lengths / heights away from me, the extremities of its wings burning a russet gold as they caught the setting sun, almost meeting at the "down-flap" while it furiously beat them to get higher, now that it was above land.

Either it was the occasion or the setting but from the very moment I decided to acknowledge "this", wave after wave of self-realization kept washing over me.

I may write about these self-realizations sometime soon and in all probability here itself.

Or I may decide not to.

Or I may deal with them through my poetry.

Or I may decide not to.

But it was pretty clear then (and is even more clearer now) that I have been a fool in the way I have dealt with "this". It was also clear that "this" will not go away and since my pride won't go away either, life will not get any easier for me.

So then, the "this". I am what I would choose to be called "Hard of Hearing".

No, I don't like being referred to by derivatives of "hearing challenged", "hearing impaired" or other glorified politically correct words which mean nothing but "hearing disability", because I don't consider my being Hard of Hearing a disability.

And yes, you are welcome to blame this on the pride I mentioned earlier.

At least in my case, its important that I retain my pride and dignity, because from what I have learned, the world doesn't understand the strange world of being "Hard of Hearing". For instance, the world (at least that of recruiters and other strangers who interact with me based on quaint checklists) assumes that the Hard of Hearing are good for nothing and discriminates -- either by shying away as if repelled or by assuming dystopian scenarios of my capabilities where I probably come across as someone needing a dole, kindness, sympathy, whatever...

That's something which will never cut ice with me, since I have an overpowering aversion, almost bordering the physical when it comes to dealing with misplaced senses of superciliousness / arrogance manifesting as kindness.

So then, the "this". I am Hard of Hearing and I do have a far from easy day (with family, work or with friends / colleagues) when my hearing aids don't work properly.

Yes, life's tough as it is, and even tougher when one is mistaken for a freak / retard / loonie if he cannot hear (properly).

No, I am not in denial, I have no problem in explaining the degree of my "Hard of Hearing" ness, the nature, the other nitty-gritty involved in it, but believe me its a long, "very very" technical story that you may not understand totally and I will find boring.

I mean, it's the progressive story of something like ten years of my life and by now it bores me.

And oh yes, the "this" doesn't mean I am a recluse, or not social. Not more than any other poet / writer I know or you know.

It means (among other difficulties I face on a routine "bad ear" day) that I cannot converse on phones and find it difficult to follow conversations at crowded places (like conference rooms of companies, poetry readings, cocktail evenings and bars).

Or, you could say that when my hearing aids don't work, I hear almost nothing of voices.

Apart from some friends (most of whom anyway know about "this") I really don't know who visits this blog. Frankly, I don't blog much and I certainly haven't promoted this blog. So I don't really expect anything earth-shattering to happen because of this blog post.

My days will go on, mellowly delightful when poetry comes or surging with adrenaline when I chase it. Some days (some at least) will hopefully be full of poems "written" down and "rewritten" down and stashed away. And someday soon (hopefully soon) I will sit down and plan the next book too.

Is poetry life? Is life poetry? Which should I consider a bigger priority? I don't know.

Talking of life, I will still treat it as a gift meant to be lived and chase adventures endeavoring to love and laugh as much as I can.

WTF, hearing aids or no hearing aids, I have one life and I intend to live it.

P.S. -- I know I probably come across as a bit angry. And whatever you may think about it, the pride / dignity / anger is important to me, so I will retain it, thank you so much.

P.P.S -- So, if I had decided to disclose / confess / uncloset "this" at the beginning of June, why did it take me so long? Firstly, I did not know what that bird was, took me a bit of thinking and googling to figure out it was a "white-bellied". Secondly, I had to figure out how to be best described and that took time too, I will settle for "Hard of Hearing", thank you. Thirdly, among other crazy things that have happened to me in the last two months, I have lost one hearing aid and taken up 2 other sets for trials -- and been battered and bruised by the chaos of voices machine-gunning into my head. And lastly, I have been busy with the demands of writing copy (and some poetry).

P.P.P.S -- The title of this blog post is borrowed from a Daniel Craig movie that I have seen more than 4-5 times on the telly. Late at night, with subtitles (of course).