The Blind Girl (Short Story)

 The Blind Girl

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi)

Death is not of this world; it is the path to the next. In this world, nothing truly dies. Not homes, nor the rooms within them. Every room lives, a world unto itself, a realm of enchanting wonder. So profound that one cannot perceive all its layers with mere eyes. Within every single thing, a world resides.

Afi Baji’s brother was telling me this. He often engages me in such conversations. He’s a neighbor, and he makes an effort to humor me, which I tolerate with tight lips. But that day, my tongue broke free from the prison of my teeth.

Amir Bhai’s words always irked me. I am nearly seventeen, no longer a child. He always explains things to me as if God merely attached eyes to people without any real purpose for them. I would listen in silence, after all, what could a blind person say about sight? But that day, I was simmering. God had already barred my eyes, but the world finds ample ways to torment through the ears. My aunt had been speaking about me, calling me “the blind girl, the blind girl.”

That day, he was again emphasizing that one sees not with the eyes, but with the mind.

“It's easy for those with sight to talk,” I retorted. “You try being blind, and then you’ll know.”

As I spoke, I realized I had uttered something incredibly harsh. I had unleashed my aunt’s venom onto this gentle soul. He, poor man, was merely trying to soothe my wounds, and I had poured poison on him. My heart ached even more. I didn’t know what to do. For a couple of minutes, he remained silent. Amir Bhai seemed to have fallen into a trance; he hadn’t expected such a bitter outburst.

“I’m sorry, Amir Bhai.”

He said nothing.

“I didn’t mean it.”

Still, he remained silent. My heart was already wounded, and now the situation was beyond my control. Tears welled up, and I began to sob uncontrollably.

He placed a hand on my head, trying to calm me.

“Hush, my beautiful sister. It’s alright, I don’t mind anything you say.”

I started crying even louder. Afi Baji and Mother also tried to comfort me. It wasn’t new; I often reached my breaking point. After a couple of minutes of crying, my heart felt a little lighter. I quieted down, and Afi Baji and Mother returned to their seats on the sofa opposite my aunt.

“What’s wrong, Asi? Did someone say something?” Amir Bhai asked.

Tears welled up in my eyes again.

“It’s Auntie…”

“They’re all sitting right there, speak softly.”

In a hushed voice, I recounted my entire ordeal.

“Not everything is worth paying attention to!”

From his voice alone, I knew Bhai Jaan was seething with anger at my aunt. My heart swelled with relief.

A moment of silence followed, then he called out to Afi among the gossiping women.

“Afi, tell me, what’s in front of you?”

“Where?”

“On the wall.”

“A mirror.”

“Anything else?”

“What else, Bhai? It’s just a mirror.”

“Do you see anything in the mirror?”

“A lamp, what else?”

“Alright, that’s enough. You can go.”

“What was that about? Why did you call me?”

“Go back and chat with Auntie. I need to explain something about the philosophy of knowledge to Asi.”

He uttered “Auntie” with such biting contempt that I shivered again.

“Did you hear what Afi saw?”

“Yes.”

“Eyes don’t truly see. Many who were born blind gained sight in adulthood, and for days, they couldn’t make sense of what they saw. They simply didn’t know how to see.”

“I often think the same. If I ever gained sight, I wouldn’t recognize any person or any place. Who knows what the world truly is, and what kind of magical city I’ve built in my mind.”

Silence fell for another two minutes.

“What’s wrong, Amir Bhai?”

“You’re right. Neuropsychology also says the same. Eyes merely show a sketch of reality; perception is entirely constructed by the brain.”

Such a complex idea didn’t fully register with me, but I grasped the essence. For the first time, I felt he wasn’t just offering hollow comfort to humor me, but genuinely trying to explain something. My heart gave a tiny leap of excitement.

“Do you understand?”

I nodded faintly.

“You’ve heard what Afi described. Now, touch it and see.”

I quietly got up. I knew the mirror, like everything else in the house. I carefully ran my hands over it. It was a carved wooden frame with a mirror lamp resting on it. It resembled an old-fashioned candelabra, round and round. The lamp's glass also had intricate enamel work, perhaps in yellow, mimicking gold. At that moment, I realized I had never asked about its color. What would I have done with the information anyway? This was all there was; what more could I see? Everything else was just a play of colors and light.

“Alright, now I’ll tell you what I see in front of me.”

My ears pricked up like a rabbit’s.

“A mirror, set in a beautiful wooden frame, shines as if the light originates not from outside, but from within it. With its stolen light, the mirror is a fragment of the moon. Neither does the mirror know it is the most beautiful thing in the room, nor does it care. How could it? What use is a mirror in the land of the blind?”

My nails dug into my palm.

“Beauty never fails to deceive. It shows the lamp, resting upon its chest, so profoundly that reality casts a shadow over the reflection. Amidst the swirling red glass, if the god of art had lowered the half-sphere just a little, it would seem as though Shiva, having entered the previous sphere, had given birth to the next cycle. The soul of the divine has entered even this electric lantern. Soulless reflections lack such captivating allure.”

My heart sank. What was this? It was as if these words had ripped open my chest and grasped my heart. Even poetry wasn't this captivating. What he said after that, or if he said anything at all, I have no idea. Those words had cast a spell over me.

Inattentively, my lifeless eyes drifted towards the women sitting in the other corner of the drawing-room, wondering if they had overheard anything. All was well. Apart from my burning ears, no one had heard these mystical words. Everyone was engrossed in their chatter, and Amir Bhai sat calmly.

That night, I can’t say for certain how long I slept or how long I remained awake. Sometimes those words echoed in my ears, sometimes my blind eyes conjured Amir Bhai’s imagined face. That day, for the first time, I realized I knew absolutely nothing about Amir Bhai’s features. For the first time, such anger surged through me at my disability that I wanted to smash the marbles in my face. The tears came when it seemed that, right or wrong, I did possess the features of some people. But of Amir Bhai, I had nothing. I had never touched his face to see what he looked like. To me, Amir was just a name, a faceless name.

After that day, I began to try to see with my mind. Instead of just remembering how long or wide something was, or where it was placed, I started thinking about things themselves. What would colors be like? I ran my hands over different colored objects, sniffed them, tapped them, tried many ways, but colors remained elusive. What was red, and what was blue? Nor did I understand how eyes, without touching, could tell that a ball was light and a stone of the same size was heavy. Now, it seemed to me that the world I was weaving with my hands, ears, and nose was that of a bat, not of humans. In my seventeenth year, I realized that I was disabled.

After that day, I began to feel a strange curiosity about everything. It was like a greedy urge, to form a picture of every object in my mind. Now, it was as if I was sucking on everything with my hands. And with each absorption, my realization deepened that I was an entity outside of others’ worlds. The high wall of their world could not be crossed without the wings of sight. The higher this wall seemed, the deeper my depression became.

I tried to talk to Afi and Mother, but instead of understanding me, they would offer comfort. In their condolences, I smelled pity. I began to despise sympathy.

Then, anger started to build against Amir Bhai. It was he who had made me realize I was different from others, disabled! Before his philosophical nonsense, I had been happy in my life. I always felt different from others, but only different, not less. In fact, I often felt as if others were the disabled ones. Inside the house, I had no difficulty moving around; it was only challenging to go outside. But I always went out with someone, and I rarely went out anyway. My entire life was within the house, and here, I was in charge. How often would I sense someone’s arrival by sound or scent, while those with me wouldn’t realize the person was approaching from behind? While others were engrossed in the spectacles of color and light, I, through rustling sounds, movements, and the distinct scents emanating from different parts of bodies, would perceive things that made others seem truly blind in my presence within the house.

All this commotion was caused by Amir Bhai. In his attempt to convince me that sighted people don’t know how to see, he had shown me my own blindness.

Constantly, the thought plagued me that everyone else could see, and I alone was blind. What did the world look like to others? What were colors? What shape did things have? What did a chair look like to those with eyes? Thinking about these and a thousand other such questions consumed my days and half my nights, leaving my mind numb. In just a few days of such intense contemplation, my brain simply shut down.

My family gradually began to notice my silence. But no one suspected that after seventeen years of living happily with my blindness, suddenly, my very existence was being consumed by my sightless eyes.

Some thought one thing, some another. Everyone offered a remedy according to their own theories. I laughed at myself when Amir Bhai also kept asking me what was wrong. The murderer of my laughter was so innocent that I now began to feel affection for him. Amir Bhai also suggested the most unusual cure: “Bring her books.” When he said this, my heart involuntarily cried out:

Azee-aton ke tamaam nishtar,

Meri ragon mein utar kar woh,

Bari mohabbat se poochta hai,

Tumhari aankhon ko kya hua?

(He injects all his sharp instruments into my veins, then with great affection, asks, "What happened to your eyes?")

Well, let the one by whose hand I died also perform the burial. I said nothing. But when Bhai Huran (a respectful term) took on the responsibility of bringing the books himself, I couldn't resist.

“Bring a book on painting,” I said. I meant it as a subtle taunt, wondering what kind of Braille book on painting he would bring for a blind person. When he happily agreed, I felt hurt by his insensitivity. Never mind, I thought, they'll go to find the book and realize what I've asked for, and why. Then they'll know what they've done to me.

Two days later, he placed a book in my hands, and I was astonished. What kind of book on paintings in Braille had he found? I silently took it. That night, I opened it, and the book seemed to swallow me whole. It was a book on Signs and Symbols in Art.

I was engrossed in that book for the entire following month.

One day, Amir Bhai came to visit and again initiated the same conversation: seeing is not the work of the eyes. I intentionally remained silent, not even offering a "hmm" or "aha." After a short while, he realized I wasn’t speaking. He too fell silent.

“Amir Bhai, are you smoking a cigarette?”

“Yes, should I stop?”

“It’s half-smoked, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t flicked the ash. It will fall.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll put it out.”

“Leave it. Fire is divine. Tobacco, wrapped in paper, is turned into dead ash. Through the window of the mind’s eye, the fire enters me. Life flickers on the wings of dead things. If the end of life is death, then what joy is there in witnessing this brief spectacle, carrying death on both shoulders? Life itself is a shadow of death. I, too, am a cigarette. My existence is being consumed to fuel the flame of life. The puff of life will cast me out of the real world and into the magical realm of quantum mechanics. Burning for a moment between two deaths, I, too, am merely a cigarette.”

Silence lingered for a couple of minutes.

“Oh, the ash fell.”

Finally, Amir Bhai’s stifled voice emerged.