Getting an earful

Their venom is like the venom of a serpent; they are like the deaf adder that stoppeth her ear. Psalm 58:4

Right folks, here’s the thing. We are 70 plus. We are employing the royal ‘we’ here. Alright, alright, we tell a lie, we are 75 plus. In fact, sod it, let’s call a spade a shovel. We are 80 minus. That should, more or less, pin our age down to the closest geo-stationary position, but we are damned if you are expecting anything more precise from us. At which point, I am done with the royal ‘we’ and shall revert to the more accustomed first-person singular, as I just did there. Those of you who are reading this with the aid of a powerful pair of bifocals are doubtless motoring along life’s highway, enduring the odd health pothole or speed breaker. If you are not afflicted by anything seriously life-threatening, and I exclude migraine, mild depression, cervical and lower back pain, knee or hip trouble from that list, the first things to start bothering you are the eyes and the ears. In fact, ocular issues can crop up at a much earlier age. Even toddlers and those in their early teens are happily sporting fashionable Harry Potter spectacles with nary a care in the world, forget about septuagenarians. Speaking of Harry Potter, the pair of spectacles he wore looks pretty much like the one Mahatma Gandhi had patented! Make of that what you will.

Let me put the subject of eyes to one side. For now, specifically for my contemplation in this article, I ask you to lend me your ears. Going gradually deaf is a devilish thing, gradually being the operative word. As the Bard might have put it, ‘creeps in this petty pace from day to day.’ The reason being that owing to the natural decline of some of our faculties, we do not realise, or want to, that our hearing is somewhat impaired. More than anything else, we quickly slip into a defensive mode. We are in denial. I am not talking about going stone deaf here, not like the wondrous actress Marlee Matlin in Children of a lesser God who was deaf in real life and played the role to perfection on celluloid. I am talking of subtle changes in hearing patterns that we barely notice. In Tamil, we have a colourfully coined onomatopoeic word, damaaram, applied somewhat mockingly to a stone-deaf person, the coinage connoting that even a very loud explosion or bang will leave the unfortunate person blissfully unaware. That is another peculiarity with us humans. We are quite happy to make all manner of jokes about the deaf. Other afflictions like blindness are treated more gravely and with sympathy. Have you ever come across a deaf beggar knocking on your car window at a crossing? I thought not.

A person who is hard of hearing will never say something like, ‘If you don’t mind, could you speak a little louder? I am somewhat aurally handicapped.’ Anymore than you are likely to get the person to say, ‘I am deaf.’ Closer to home, quite literally, it is being periodically pointed out to me by my better half that I should be seriously considering a hearing aid. Some tests and visits to ENT specialists would be in order, she suggests helpfully. Been there, done that but nothing alarming came out of it. Opinion, however, is divided between the two of us as to what it was that she actually said to me.

I knew she said something, but I was somewhat hazy on the details. ‘Sorry, what was that again? It’s that damned generator going full blast. Can’t hear a blessed thing. I must remember to complain to the building admin manager to do something about it. It is a dinosaur. They must be having silencers or mufflers and stuff, surely.’

I felt I had handled that quite adroitly but the good wife wasn’t buying. ‘It is always the generator. Or else the roar of some low flying aircraft that is preventing you from hearing clearly. Why don’t you come up with something original? Like, “I think my hearing is going.”’

‘But my dear, that is precisely the point at issue here. You cannot deny that with the air force undertaking all these aerial exercises, what with an imminent conflict with our westerly neighbours being bandied about, you can’t blame me for begging your pardon every now and then. In fact, I am surprised this daily din hasn’t affected your hearing.’

Clearly unimpressed by my eloquence, she pressed on. ‘Look, last night well after ten, when we could have heard the proverbial pin drop, I asked you in clear, ringing tones if you have paid the maintenance bill for our apartment to the society. And what was your answer?’

‘What was my answer to what? And please don’t start saying things like deaf as a doorpost.’

‘You said it yourself. Now read my lips. I was asking if you had settled our maintenance bill. Last month we were late and they were threatening us with a penalty. One more delay and they might cut our power supply.’ She was sounding quite crotchety.

‘There you go. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Speak clearly, enunciate properly and I am all ears. The problem is you keep mumbling. And let me tell you, even at the dead of night, those crickets are chirping at high decibels. They always appear to come alive at night time. Maybe you are unable to hear them.’

‘Nice try,’ riposted my bitter half, ‘you have an answer for everything. Except, most of the time your answers are wrong because you have not heard the question.’

‘And speaking of crickets, my research tells me that this chirping sound from the crickets is produced by adult male crickets through a specialised biological process called stridulation, where they rub their leathery front wings together, thus producing that continuous chirping sound, that prevents us humans from engaging in intelligent conversation.’ I leaned back on my reclining chair triumphantly.

‘You quickly looked all that up on Google, didn’t you? That still does not change the fact that your average doorpost can hear more clearly than your far from incipient deafness will allow. And that goes for adders as well.’

‘Very droll. Anyhow, you will be glad to know that I have been including carrots on a regular basis in my diet.’

The good wife looked puzzled. ‘Carrots? What’s carrots got to do with anything?’

‘I am sure someone told me carrots are excellent for improving one’s hearing. Are you sure it wasn’t you?’

‘I might have said carrots are good for the eyes, and you heard ears! Proving my point again. I know of no food supplement that can improve hearing. So there.’

By now, I was beginning to get restless. ‘Look, I have been stuck on page 36 of The Girl on the Boat for the past 30 minutes. I have read the second paragraph 12 times because of your frequent questions about my imagined hearing problem.’

‘Imagined? That should get more laughs than page 36 of The Girl on the Boat. Forget about re-reading the second paragraph. You have read that book at least 27 times. I have not seen a more dog-eared novel in my life. Thank heavens your eyesight, with your new glasses, is fairly sharp.’

I deflected again. ‘Bloody hell, it’s those damned crickets again. I only half heard what you just said. What can I say? You need a refined sense of humour to understand why a person would read a Wodehouse classic 27 times. Even if I know that it was the butler who put the strychnine in the soup, it is the way the Master says it that consumes me. I rest my case.’ I thought I finished quite strongly there, though the strychnine reference is from somewhere else. Agatha Christie, I’ll wager.

She was resigned to her fate. ‘And I am resting my weary bones till the crickets go to sleep and I shall rise again when the more sonorous chirping sounds of the Koel, Red-vented Bulbul or the Magpie-Robin wakes me up. I can never quite tell them apart, though my ornithologist friend educates me daily on the subject. You, of course, will not hear any of that. More’s the pity.’

‘I am sorry, what was that again? I was just starting on page 37. Didn’t quite catch what you were saying.’ And I fell about laughing helplessly as I continued lapping up Wodehouse’s nautical romp.’

‘Nothing. Good night.’

The good lady wife turned over and slipped into the land of Nod. She could at least have wished me good night!