Post # 71 : The diary of a Blindman (*1)

My operation is in few hours. Though they say there are no major risks in operation, I still think I may die. So I asked my dad to bring my chart, ruler and needle. I wanted to write.
People always hide their personal diaries. I'm writing mine on a public hospital bed. This is the best thing about Braille. No one can see what I am writing.
I was lucky enough to learn Braille.
This word "luck" has many memories associated.
I was unlucky to born with Optic Nerve Hypoplasia (ONH).
Doctors discovered it when I was 13 months old when I fell from a bed and my parents took me to a hospital.
My mother kept blaming herself for next six months for, not taking care of me. It took six months for doctors to convince her that it was genetic and fall had nothing to do with it.
My father left no hospital and my mother left no temple, mosque, Gurudwara or church.
Hospital clearly told my father that there was no cure for ONH. And my mother, she never got a reply.
Doctor said that the next child could generate the same defection in womb. (Which hasn't been proven yet)
So my parents decided not to try. What's worse than a blind child? Two blind children!
What's worse than having two blind children?
One of them having brain issues.
Yes, ONH can associate itself with Morsier's syndrome which causes some brain issues.
I was lucky enough to not get that. Next child might not have been(?)
My parents were not poor. They were ready to put any amount of money to get me treated.
I consider it unlucky for me. Had been they poor and left me in a temple and I would have died and avoided all those sufferings.
Luckily, they sent me to a blind boarding school.
                         ******
I was not at all okay with thoughts of leaving my parents. I was crying all the way. I mean, who puts a 7-year-old blind scared kid in a boarding school?
I remember standing in front of my father and touching around his belt to find his hands and begging him not to go. But he did go and I kept crying.
My parents weren't cruel as I thought then. They were strong and wise.
The school was really big and noisy. I wasn't used to either.
We were made to wear hostel clothes during evenings and school uniforms during mornings. Everyone had their names embroidered on their clothes for ease of identification.
I mixed up in a few days. I made friends.
Year after year I survived. Parents came every 6-8 months. But I never missed them.
There were a few seniors that always inspired me that I can join the mainstream people.
But there were also some religious mainstream bastards who visited school and provided us free food in the name of god (with a small g).
We were used to listening statements like "bhole panchhi hai ye. Inhe dukh nahi pohnchna chahiye"
Why don't you people understand?
Why do you treat us like abnormal people? We are just unique.
It hurts when you consider us something other than human beings.
We don't need your help as much as we need your respect.
Coming back, I made it to class tenth. And things decided to change when God decided to enter.
That year when my parents visited ; I was having a walk with them. I was holding my father's hand and he suddenly stopped.
"Is that a car?" I said pointing to his right.
"What?! How do you know?" He was in shock. A good shock.
"Everything is black. This thing is less black" I said.
I had started to see and differentiate between different shades of black because of whatever image my underdeveloped eye nerve could carry was now received by my brain.
My mother started to cry. Because few months ago she had made a mannat to some god requesting to show some sign of improvement.
God shouldn't have entered.
*To be continued*
~ Chaand Sethi

Post #72 : The diary of a Blindman (*2)

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Post # 71 : The diary of a Blindman (*1)

My operation is in few hours. Though they say there are no major risks in operation, I still think I may die. So I asked my dad to bring my chart, ruler and needle. I wanted to write.
People always hide their personal diaries. I'm writing mine on a public hospital bed. This is the best thing about Braille. No one can see what I am writing.
I was lucky enough to learn Braille.
This word "luck" has many memories associated.
I was unlucky to born with Optic Nerve Hypoplasia (ONH).
Doctors discovered it when I was 13 months old when I fell from a bed and my parents took me to a hospital.
My mother kept blaming herself for next six months for, not taking care of me. It took six months for doctors to convince her that it was genetic and fall had nothing to do with it.
My father left no hospital and my mother left no temple, mosque, Gurudwara or church.
Hospital clearly told my father that there was no cure for ONH. And my mother, she never got a reply.
Doctor said that the next child could generate the same defection in womb. (Which hasn't been proven yet)
So my parents decided not to try. What's worse than a blind child? Two blind children!
What's worse than having two blind children?
One of them having brain issues.
Yes, ONH can associate itself with Morsier's syndrome which causes some brain issues.
I was lucky enough to not get that. Next child might not have been(?)
My parents were not poor. They were ready to put any amount of money to get me treated.
I consider it unlucky for me. Had been they poor and left me in a temple and I would have died and avoided all those sufferings.
Luckily, they sent me to a blind boarding school.
                         ******
I was not at all okay with thoughts of leaving my parents. I was crying all the way. I mean, who puts a 7-year-old blind scared kid in a boarding school?
I remember standing in front of my father and touching around his belt to find his hands and begging him not to go. But he did go and I kept crying.
My parents weren't cruel as I thought then. They were strong and wise.
The school was really big and noisy. I wasn't used to either.
We were made to wear hostel clothes during evenings and school uniforms during mornings. Everyone had their names embroidered on their clothes for ease of identification.
I mixed up in a few days. I made friends.
Year after year I survived. Parents came every 6-8 months. But I never missed them.
There were a few seniors that always inspired me that I can join the mainstream people.
But there were also some religious mainstream bastards who visited school and provided us free food in the name of god (with a small g).
We were used to listening statements like "bhole panchhi hai ye. Inhe dukh nahi pohnchna chahiye"
Why don't you people understand?
Why do you treat us like abnormal people? We are just unique.
It hurts when you consider us something other than human beings.
We don't need your help as much as we need your respect.
Coming back, I made it to class tenth. And things decided to change when God decided to enter.
That year when my parents visited ; I was having a walk with them. I was holding my father's hand and he suddenly stopped.
"Is that a car?" I said pointing to his right.
"What?! How do you know?" He was in shock. A good shock.
"Everything is black. This thing is less black" I said.
I had started to see and differentiate between different shades of black because of whatever image my underdeveloped eye nerve could carry was now received by my brain.
My mother started to cry. Because few months ago she had made a mannat to some god requesting to show some sign of improvement.
God shouldn't have entered.
*To be continued*
~ Chaand Sethi

Post #72 : The diary of a Blindman (*2)

2 Comments:

At July 19, 2014 at 6:33 AM , Blogger sethi.bhushan said...

Oh man.. I wrote a comment around half of length of your article. Couldn't get publish how.. I can't add my feelings again..Sorry

 
At August 1, 2014 at 4:45 PM , Blogger chand sethi said...

well.., ^^ this comment was enough :)

 

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