Open Ears

Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA!

Exploring sounds. Walking around with my eyes closed. Trying to imagine never to have known sight. Trying to imagin the intensity of her other five sense; the power of touch, of textures, of temperature, of vibrations and of movement. Her strength of smell as she pulls my fingers towards her nose if I have washed my hands with soap and disinfectant before feeding her. Trying to imagine how intimidating it must be to have taste put into your mouth and how those tastes taste. Trying to imagine how to make sounds, how to talk, how to learn what 'things' are and 'who' people are when they remain invisibile. Trying to Listen. To hear my own voice. My own laugh. The whirl of life around me. Trying to imagine the courage which she has to explore this world.

Today, during her daily exercise regime, we explored the roof. Gita and the other children are brought up to the roof (for as long as the rain holds out) every evening for sunset. Usually she is left to play with the toys, ride a bike or is swung around, but always surrounded by action and activity. After successfully side-steping the mashis we began our daily exercise regime and began our Climb to the Sun again. We were rewarded by our determination by finding a 'quiet' roof, ready for us to explore.

With Gita's hand in mine I guided her over to the wall, and placed her other hand next to the hot brick. We walked around the outside, our bare feet - Pat pat Pat pat - on the hot and uneven concrete. I looked down onto the streets below. I don't need to lift Gita up to be able to 'see' as the muffled noises of the yellow taxis, the rickshaws, the fruit sellers rises up to us. Despite this it still seemed silent. Wind finding our faces. But the air still felt still. We walked under the lines of washing, the sheets brushing against our skin. I move her hand to hold the wire line. She moves it slowly backwards and forwards then faster and faster and faster. I kneel down to her level and listen very carefully. Ding Ding Ding Ding. Such an incredibly soft sound. Then her attention is moved. Her hand follows the line and she finds what she is looking for. A plastic clothes clip, spinning 360 degrees with the movement of the thin wire line. Rattle Rattle Rattle it spins. Rattle Rattle Ding Ding Rattle Rattle Ding.

Pat pat Pat pat. We walk slowly on. Her right palm reached out. Waiting. Two large plastic barrels. Turned upside down. Warmed Hot with the Heat from the sun. She strokes the side but then her hand remains still. Tap Tap Thud Thud Da Da Da d d d d. I randomly create different sounds from the outside to the edges. She doesn't tap herself but instead she moves her hand on top of mine and pushes. Faster and faster she makes me bang. Both of us listening. And then I stop. Silence.

Pat pat Pat pat. We walk on. A soft drip. Her hands feel around the top of a red bin filled up with water. I wait in anticipation. Her hands become wet. Without even a moments hesitation she leans forward. Arms right down, head following, legs trying to lift. I am smiling so much, but I pull her out. I want to let her jump in and splash and explore the Wet. But for now I unwillingly try to restrain her. I have to. We are meant to be downstairs in the 'nursery' and not exploring the amazing sounds of the mundane roof. I have already ignored the protests of one mashi, which was easy as it was in Bengali, and my replies of revolution in English. But I don't want to jeopardise any of our future morning adventures by bringing down a soaking (smiling) wet Gita. With a reluctance equal to Gita's determination, I hold her back. She pushes her body onto my arm and learns forward. Her arms submerged. I close my eyes and let her splashes touch my skin. It is warm, moist, refreshing, and very 'different'. The wind touches and combines to produce cool, stinging sensations. But Gita is still trying to climb into the bucket and the only way I have to stop her is to do what I know will always work. I tickle her and tickle her until she is laying on the floor with her contagious laugh, laughing so loudly that I am also laughing. Almost as if there was CCTV a mashi appears bringing with her what I can only imagine to be shouts of objection as she takes Gita from in front of me, lifts her up, and carries her down the stairs. I feel annoyed as I wanted Gita to practice walking down the stairs on her own. But really there is little I can do apart from follow. Pat Pat.

I am still smiling so much from Gita's laughter. It is still rippling through me.