The Unheard Conversations

'Forgive us, oh Lord, for the bounties, laid before us,which we have closed our eyes to'.

1
Around July last year, I can't remember what made me stay at home for a month or thereabout. And then I found myself a special friend. A very special one.

Momma's shop is situated close to a central mosque, and as thus, it's only normal to have the less privileged coming in and out of the neighborhood, mostly seeking for alms and loiteringly pervading the mosque and it's environs. The likes of the blind, the crippled, the dumb, the deaf and then the deaf and dumb had become regular guests. Some have even found for themselves the vague semblance of a 'home', or 'a place of rest' to get back to after the days 'work' around the mosque.

Over time, I've come to see that growing up in their midst has given me a handful of insight on them. And they have in turn gained some kind of familiarity and a feeling of belonging. Such that whenever any of my family members show up at the shop, especially mum, they beam with smiles. For they know, even if they are not getting anything, they'll get smiles, even at the worst moments. And sometimes, a smile or a little exchange of courtesy is all they need.

2
One normal afternoon, while I was returning from the mosque after prayers, i saw a pleasing yet unfamiliar face. And if not for the placard hung around his neck, I never would have thought he was a beggar. Exceedingly handsome, well built frame, perfect skin, dark as ebony , and above all, he had this down to earth smile. Yeah, he beat me to it, because I have always secretly thought I had the gift of a very wide, and to an extent, beautiful smile, but when I saw his smile, beautiful was truly an understatement.

It's typical of me to greet them one after the other, or at least smile and wave, when I am in a hurry or in one of those not very good moods. And still wait for at least a minute for them to reciprocate. So as I was greeting them on that afternoon I noticed him looking at me so intently. His gaze was so powerful, that I dared not ignore. I reciprocated with the widest of my smile and left them 'discussing'.

I headed back to Mum's shop. And to my surprise, he had followed me to the shop. He eagerly gesticulated trying to explain to me that he had been following me. I smiled and

nodded in return, as he turned towards mum and they started conversing. Mum got to learn the basics in their sign language through their constant day to day interactions.

3
The second day came and the normal 'routine' was done, and so were the days that followed. Not until a Saturday, when he came to Mum's shop, walked in, took my hand and placed it on his neck. The hotness I felt, if measured, wouldn't be less than 39 degrees centigrade, he was sick and that was the only way he could let me know, since I didn't really understand his language. I immediately beckoned on a friend of his who accompanied him, to help him shower at the mosque's bathroom while I prepared his medicine. In less than three minutes, he came back all wet and soaked, looking like he was pushed into a swimming pool or beaten by the rain. I wanted to laugh, but then, the pain and helplessness in his distinct white eyes didn't let me. At that point, it was more than inappropriate to mock his naive mind that didn't tell him to take off his clothes before having a bath. I paid less attention to that and gave him the medicine to use. When he was done, I made the sign that he should sleep, but because he was wet, he couldn't go to the mosque. So he slept at the front of Mum's shop, on a couch. While he was sleeping, I kept an eye on him and his temperature. During one of my checkups on him, I found myself lost in thought while looking at him intently. And I thought to myself; anyone who saw him sleeping right now would think he was just normal like us. But then, the innocence, the helplessness were still written all over him, even while he slept, most especially for the posture he slept in.

After three good hours, he woke up to the touch of my hand on his neck, and smiled. He was much better, thank God(Alhamdulillah). I made the sign that he should find something to eat and go 'home'.

4
For another week after that, I didn't lay my eyes on him. In the mornings, I calmly looked for him in every deaf and dumb group I saw. And in the afternoons, i fervently hoped to see him casually living out his routine. And then came the fear; 'Had the drug over reacted?, why is he not here!?, what could have gone wrong?' These thoughts roamed my mind endlessly. I was restless, more mentally than physically. And unfortunately, I had no one to ask of him from, I didn't even know how to.

And on the eighth day, just when I was at the peak of my worries, he showed up, bouncing and showing off his new clothes, taking my hand to his neck and shrugging his shoulders like a little boy who won a fight. My joy knew no bounds. I was exceedingly happy and I showed him with my gestures. And that was how we became good friends. Everyday, after the midday prayers(dhur), he will come around to tell me everything I couldn't and still can't understand but had no choice than to nod my head in acceptance of all he had to 'say'.

5
One day he saw me writing and made a gesture that he would love to write. How stupid of me not to have thought he could write and try to converse through that, I thought. I gave him my pen and jotter and when he did write, I felt so lost that I concluded that we'll have to stick to his incomprehensible sign language. Sincerely, a nursery one pupil wouldn't draw what he wrote to communicate. They were just lines connecting to each other, with no beginning nor visible end. But then, he was happy, it probably was the first time, because he tore out that page, folded it, and tucked it safely into his inner pocket where he kept most of his mini valuables.

To me, that day was a big lesson. He had nothing reasonable to write, yet he was overwhelmed at the opportunity to write. And he was of course thankful. Henceforth, I took it upon me to teach him to write and maybe some how read to himself. We started with the alphabets, and with it, I spelt my name for him, he wrote it many times, and eventually kept it like the very first thing he wrote. I asked him to write his name, but it was all futile. I had no way to tell him I wanted to know his name, for he could only write the letters and he knew not their sounds. And I didn't see the necessity to learn how to ask him in his own language.

6
Suprisingly, one day he came earlier than usual. And what was even more unusual was that he kept talking and talking, with the sign language, till it was time for mid day prayers(dhur). We went to pray. And when we got back, he continued with the signs, still trying to tell me so many things in so many ways I wasn't really understanding. He stayed around till it was like some minutes to afternoon prayers(asr), still tirelessly trying to tell me something. Eventually, it was time for him to go. He waved me a long and unusual good bye and he smiled so hard, it made a mark in my heart.



Days later a friend of his, who could write, came to tell me he had gone back to his home town to see his family. Unconsciously, I let out a tear as I recalled how hard he tried to tell me he was leaving and how unusual he was on that last day that I was unknowingly oblivious to. It felt like I lost someone; a very good friend, a companion who probably was telling me some deep things I unfortunately did not understand.

The thought of never meeting or seeing him again got me worried, but only for a while. For when I eventually got back to school, I found new friends with whom I mingled. But his memories still lingers fresh in my heart and mind.

And just this morning like every once in a while, the memories came back to me and I had the following questions to ask myself:

What if I am like him, what if I am pregnant with words I can't give birth to, what if I have not been immensely blessed with voice and literacy, what if?

Author: Muizah Ummu Sumaiyah Hameed
Editor: Is'haq Abdulrazzaq