A World of Silence: Apurva’s Story

Apurva sat by the window, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the frosted glass. Outside, the world seemed alive with chatter — the rustling leaves, the distant hum of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from children playing in the street. Inside, silence enveloped him, an immutable companion. He was deaf and mute, living in a world where expressions took the place of words and gestures bore the weight of his unspoken thoughts.

His family adored him, though their love was often tinged with a helplessness they couldn’t quite shake. His mother, Meera, was a gentle soul who had tried every method she could find to communicate better with her son. She had attended workshops, learned sign language, and spent countless hours sitting across from him, hoping that her love would bridge the chasm between them. Yet, there were moments when she felt like a failure — moments when his face would cloud over with frustration, and she knew she hadn’t understood him.

Apurva’s father, Ravi, approached the matter differently. A man of few words himself, Ravi believed in silent companionship. He would sit beside Apurva during the evening, their shadows stretching across the living room wall as Ravi tinkered with his tools and Apurva sketched in his notebook. But even in this shared silence, Ravi felt an invisible barrier. He longed to be a part of his son’s inner world, to understand the labyrinth of emotions hidden behind his calm demeanour.

At school, things were no easier. Apurva had been placed in an inclusive classroom, where teachers tried their best to accommodate him. His peers, though well-meaning, often stumbled. They would wave enthusiastically at him, miming exaggerated gestures to make him laugh. But they didn’t understand his more complex needs.

One day during recess, Apurva tried to communicate with his best friend, Rohan. He pointed at the drawing on his paper — a kite soaring in a stormy sky — and tapped his chest repeatedly, indicating his heart. Rohan tilted his head, puzzled.
“You want to fly a kite?” Rohan guessed.
Apurva shook his head vigorously, his eyes pleading for understanding. But the words remained locked within him, and Rohan eventually shrugged and walked away, leaving Apurva alone with his artwork.

That evening, Apurva refused to eat dinner. Meera noticed the subtle changes in his mood — the stiffness in his posture, the downcast eyes. She tried to coax him, but he turned his face away. Ravi, observing silently, placed a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder. Apurva flinched.

In their ways, both parents felt the weight of their inadequacy. Meera sat up late that night, her heart heavy with guilt. “What kind of mother am I if I can’t even understand my child?” she murmured. Ravi, who had been watching her from the doorway, replied, “You’re the kind of mother who never gives up. But maybe it’s not just about understanding him. Maybe we need to help him express himself in a way he feels seen.”

The turning point came on a quiet Saturday morning. Meera had been researching art therapy for weeks and decided to give it a try. She brought Apurva a set of acrylic paints and a large canvas. “Show me,” she signed to him. “Whatever you want to say, paint it.”

At first, Apurva hesitated. But as the morning light streamed through the window, he began to paint. His strokes were bold, his colours vivid. By the time he was done, the canvas depicted a solitary figure standing on a bridge, surrounded by people on either side. The figure’s face was a blur, a swirl of colours suggesting presence and absence.

Meera stared at the painting, her throat tightening. “This is how you feel?” she asked, her hands trembling as she signed the question. Apurva nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks. It was the first time he had managed to convey his isolation so powerfully, leaving Meera and Ravi shaken.

From that day onward, the family began to focus on building Apurva’s world, not just accommodating it. They encouraged him to paint, write, and create. At school, his teachers began using his art as a medium to communicate with him. Rohan, eager to reconnect, joined him in his artistic pursuits. “You don’t need to talk,” he told Apurva one day. Your drawings speak louder than words.”

Slowly but surely, Apurva’s world grew larger. The people around him learned to adapt, to meet him where he was instead of pulling him toward their understanding. And Apurva, in turn, began to thrive.

Yet, there were still moments of struggle. Days when misunderstandings arose, when frustration simmered beneath the surface. But now, those moments didn’t define him. Instead, they became stepping stones — reminders of how far he and his loved ones had come.

In Apurva’s world of silence, the loudest truths weren’t spoken. They were felt, painted, and lived. And in that world, he was no longer alone.

This post is a part of the “International Day of Persons with Disability” blog hop hosted by Sakshi Varma – Tripleamommy. #IDPD2024Bloghop.

Access all posts of this blog hop at https://tripleamommy.com/2024/12/02/beyond-barriers-amplifying-voices-for-inclusion-marking-idpd-2024/.

Neerja Bhatnagar

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I have written 3 solo books and 3 anthologies. You can buy my books on Amazon. If you are on Kindle Unlimited, you can read them for free. Pls, do check and share your reviews.