Nakul.

Ma’am, woh toh pagal hai. Uska dimag kharab hai - the first feedback I get about him from one of the teachers in the school. Everywhere I go, any conversation I have about him, this is all I get to hear. Uska dimag kharab hai, he is an abnormal child. Maushis, Kakas, teachers, staff. EVERYONE. They sometimes make the gesture of pointing their finger towards their head and twisting it when they see me struggling with him in class. I’d like to think they are trying to help me - make a pitiful face and tell me, it’s not your fault, it is his.

The psychology student in me cringes in pain, at first. I do what I can, ask them to speak politely about a child. But that is not the point. Whether or not I try to get all these people to be polite is secondary. The real battle is yet to begin. Inside my classroom.

He enters my class, two weeks after I have started teaching. Apparently, all this while the school has been allowing me to adjust and adapt. I wonder what’s the big deal. He comes up to me and with the widest grin, says, Good Afternoon Bhaiyaa. And at once, the whole of my class is tumbling down laughing. That is when I realize – this is the big deal.

After much thought, I consider my co-fellows’ suggestions, and discuss this in class. It is tricky terrain to walk on, I don’t want them to have sympathy and end up differentiating him. I only want them to empathise. To understand that he has different needs and that it is okay. They are 7 years old, and talking to them about this means putting my faith to test. It takes a long time, for me to get this clear in my head, even longer for them to understand what I am expecting off them. To start with, they stop laughing at him. He is now sitting among his classmates, something very new for him and for others. It’s been a month, and he still calls me Bhaiyaa sometimes. Until one day, when he walks upto me after school and says, ‘didi, ghar pe didi nahi hai.’

With instructions, the rest of my class has started to help him and help themselves. He still shouts incessantly and loves to draw. Publishing is his favourite part of the Writer’s Workshop. By now, he has two best friends in class, and loves them to the core. My class doesn’t laugh at him, but with him. I’m starting to think we are getting somewhere.

One day, during prayer, he jumps out in excitement and manages to push his best friend down the bench. The next day, I am called into the office and told that there has been a fracture and he may be held responsible for it. The next day still I am told he may be asked to leave school. The parent comes and screams at me for having her son sit next to ‘that boy’. A week later I am informed that he has been excused and that he can continue school, though this maybe his last year over here. He needs a special school, they tell me.

I need to keep telling my class time and again, reminding them to help him and each other. This is taking too much time, I think.

Orals begin. I ask my class to revise QUIETLY while I am taking orals. Except for I can hear Ekansh read the poems aloud. I look up, he is sitting with Nakul. Ekansh looks at me, “Didi, I tell Nakul, he learn.”

I call him over for his orals. Good Better Best, he starts. Good Better Best. Om comes over from behind and gives him the book, “See and read, Nakul. Yes, didi? Okay no.”

I smile. 36 tiny little seven year olds have restored my faith in humanity.

Mauna Vratham

The first thing I realized that people always assume that everyone can speak. And once they know you can’t, it turns into pity.

What starts out an attempt to be more self-aware and articulate, turns into a harsh realization. Silence is deadly. To both sides, the one without a voice and the one comprehending.

Silence is beautiful. I walk into a busy market with a bunch of close friends who guide me through every step. In about an hour, they learn my signals and it gets easier for us to communicate. I am getting to self-awareness, I think, at least a point one percent of it. I am extremely conscious, I’d like to say it makes me mindful too. I speak a few syllables by mistake (2 to be precise) and one whole sentence and curse myself for the same. The others say it is okay. I think to myself it is the first time.  I will gradually get there.

People at the market smile at me after they find out, I can’t speak. I’d like to say it is out of kindness. And not pity, but I’ll never know. Some respond to me in sign language. Some don’t respond at all. But all of that, only after I have communicated with them first. If I did not, I wonder if they will know.

I falter. I trip. It takes three times the usual to make everyone understand what I am trying to explain. It takes me a lot of time to figure out, before I start to explain. At some point it gets frustrating. My friends try to be as cheerful as possible. They are always cheerful usually too. At some point, I start questioning myself as to why really am I doing this. It is so much more painful to be silent than being inarticulate ad speaking too much.

But I can speak. God forbid something happens, I can scream. I can call for help. I can sing. I can shout. This is just one evening. Or maybe there are more to come. Silence truly seems to be beautiful.

But is it? In some corner of the world, there is someone for whom this is not just one evening, or twelve hours. For whom this is the way of life. She may not have friends. He may be in deep trouble. She may be crying out loud without a voice. He maybe singing full of love without a sound. Every single day of their life.

I don not now if this has made me self-aware. Or articulate. I don not know if this has been transformational. But has this evening changed my life? Yes, I believe. Yes, it has.

I am loved. And I wish the same for everyone. Voice or no voice.

Peace.