He feels himself sinking. He’s the boy who keeps trying to swim but invariably sinks to the bottom and has to be fished out, spitting mud, while boatmen fold over in laughter. “No,” he says quietly. “No, I did not.”
“Mr. Philipose, I witnessed you in some danger at Central Station. I trust you remember. A few, but not all, of your lecturers have noticed that you are struggling. That when a question is asked of you, either you fail to hear the question, or your answer falls short because you misunderstood what was asked. I’m afraid your deafness may be severe enough to preclude your continuing.”
“Deafness.” That word feels like a cudgel blow to the back of his head. Call him inattentive, say he’s unfit, unmotivated, but not that. I’m not deaf. The issue is volume. People choose to mumble, to speak in half sentences or whispers. He’s kept that terrible word at bay. He despises labels that take away. Can’t swim. Can’t hear. Can’t . . .
In the silence that follows there’s so much he can hear: the ticking of the big clock, the creaking of a chair as the principal takes a seat. This must be uncomfortable for him too.
At last, Brattlestone says, “I’m sorry. I will refer you to the college doctor. He might arrange for you to see a specialist. I don’t see how you can continue unless your hearing improves. Be prepared.”
CHAPTER 41
Advantage of the Disadvantage
1943, Madras
But he isn’t prepared. He isn’t prepared for the relief that washes over him—relief mingled with humiliation. Relief, because his body must have known that college would be a struggle, and meanwhile his soul pines for Parambil. His romantic notion of the study of English literature has been cruelly dashed by the dry texts, and even drier lectures—judging by his fellow students’ notes that he borrows. He had secretly wished for a miracle to spring him free, but he isn’t prepared for this kind of degrading exit.
Nor is he prepared for the line that snakes out from the Ear, Nose, and Throat Clinic at General Hospital, just opposite Central Station. One patient breathes down the neck of the next, right up to the examining stool beside Dr. Seshaya, and no patient is on the stool more than a minute. Dr. Seshaya has a bulldog’s jowls, growl, and breath. He spins Philipose sideways on the revolving stool, grabbing his earlobe in a mastiff’s clamp, then swivels his head-mirror down, to peer and poke in his ear canal, before spinning him the other way to manhandle the other ear.
Seshaya holds his fist by Philipose’s ear and says, “Tell me what you hear.” Hear what? “Never mind.” He repeats on the other ear. Seshaya unclenches his fist and restores his watch to his wrist. Now he presses a tuning fork here and then there, saying wearily, “Tell me when the sound stops,” and “You hear it the same on both sides?” while ignoring Philipose’s answers. Exam over, Seshaya scribbles on a piece of paper. “Your tympanic membranes are fine. Middle ear is fine. Show the peon this chit. He’ll take you to Gurumurthy for formal audiology tests.”
“So am I all right, sir?”
“No,” Seshaya says, without looking up. “I’m saying that it’s not a problem in your eardrum, or your ossicles—your ear bones. Things we might fix. The problem is in the nerve that takes sound to the brain. You have nerve deafness. Very common. Runs in families. You’re young, but it happens.”
“Sir, is there treatment for the nerve—”
“Next!”
The next patient, a woman with a red, mushroom-like growth pushing out of her nostril, bumps Philipose off the stool with her hip and the peon leads him away.
Vadivel Kanakaraj Gurumurthy, BA (Failed), doesn’t hear them knock or enter or call his name, and is busy scribbling with ink-stained fingers, papers spread out before him and thick with his writing. The peon finally shouts, “GURUMURTHY SAAR!”
“Yes? . . . Yes, welcome, yes!” He hastily puts his papers away and studies the chit. “College student, aah? Oh . . . So sorry.” And he truly is sorry, unlike Seshaya, who hardly registered his existence. Gurumurthy’s patients must be very deaf because his voice is unnaturally loud. “Not to worry! We shall tesht! Auditory and vestibular. Fully teshting will be there!”
Gurumurthy’s tests are more sophisticated than Seshaya’s. With the tone generator, Philipose hears tones that Gurumurthy does not—the audiologist’s hearing is worse than the patient’s. He deploys two different tuning forks, does tests of balance, and finally injects cold water into each ear while studying Philipose’s eye movements. The last causes shocking dizziness.
“Doctor Seshaya is miserably correct,” Gurumurthy says at last. “I’m sorry, my friend. It’s nerve deafness. Me also! Not canal, not ear bones, but nerve only.”
“Is there nothing to be done?” Philipose hears his mouth reflexively sound this question. His brain is still in shock.
“Everything can be done! You’re doing it, only you are not knowing! Face-reading, is it not? Preferable term to lip-reading because we must learn to read whole face. I will show you how to read the world, my friend, not to worry! I will give you tips and some personal observations in a booklet. See, I may not be medical doctor, but I am audiologist. And also physicist. BA only! Madras University!”
“Yes, I saw on the door.”
“Aah, yes. ‘Failed,’ but one day it will be ‘Honors.’ ” His smile is that of a man who must give himself frequent motivational talks. “See, I am always clearing the written exams!” he says, as if Philipose had asked. The bright smile crumbles at the edges. “But every year in viva only, Professor Venkatacharya is failing me. He is whispering—who can hear his questions? Anyway, if not before he dies, most certainly after, I shall pass viva.”
Philipose spends the next two hours with Gurumurthy. Seshaya does not seem to send him many patients at all, and so Gurumurthy has plenty of time and is eager to share what he knows.
Back in the college hostel, Philipose repacks his trunk, ties his bedroll, and takes down the “picture” that Baby Mol gave him. Her self-portrait captures the essentials: a smile stretching to the edge of the disc that is her face, and a red ribbon poking out of her hair. He waits till there are no voices in the corridor; everyone is now off to class. He pulls out the letter Uplift Master gave him at the railway station.
Satkar Lodge turns out to be a narrow five-story structure in a warren of such buildings, each one just inches from its neighbors. Mohan Nair, the “man to see in a pinch,” is not to be seen. Philipose hears a radio crackling. He calls out. A face creased like an old map peeks out from a curtained area behind the counter. Mohan Nair’s eyes are bleary and bloodshot, but he has an innkeeper’s easy smile. “How is that old goat?” he says after studying Master’s letter of introduction. “Does he wear that Favre-Leuba watch? Don’t ask how I got it for him. And at that price!”
Philipose says he needs a room for two nights, “and a train ticket to Cochin in three days if you can, please.” He tries to sound like someone who’s sure of what he wants, instead of one whose legs have been chopped off.
“Aah, aah!” Nair says. “Ticket in three days? What else? A flying carpet? Monay, if you get in queue at Central Station, you won’t find a ticket for at least two months.” Philipose’s heart sinks. Nair rings a bell. “But . . . let’s see what I can do.” He winks and flashes the smile that says, In a crooked house, there’s no point using the front door.