By Abha Sharma

“Ma, why do you have to disappear into the kitchen?”

“Ma, after dinner, you are to sit down with us. Right here. No washing dishes. No disappearing in the kitchen.”

My two teenaged children did not appreciate their mother’s customary habit of disappearing, post-dinner, into the host kitchen.

It was Thanksgiving in 2000. Dinner at our Indian supervisor’s home in Galveston, Texas, was a huge potluck affair. The seven-foot-long dining table, loaded with food, revealed it all. At one end was the white porcelain platter with the traditionally cooked American Thanksgiving turkey, stuffed with chopped dry fruits and bread stuffing and whatnot. A small dish of bright, orange-red cranberry sauce glistened nearby, royal, and starkly separate.

The other end of the table was graced by an array of typical Indian dishes: the rasey valeh alloo-tamatar (gravied potato-tomato curry), mixed vegetables, chicken curry, pakodas (the deep-fried potato and onion fritters), masala chana (the spiced, gravied chickpeas) and even a humble dal (the lentil soup). Shut tightly, a stainless steel dabba (box) contained homemade, ghee-covered rotis (tortillas). Green peas gave some color to a rather sad-looking macaroni & cheese casserole baked in a blue-lid covered Pyrex-glass container. Not enough cheese, maybe? No Brussels sprouts. No corn. No almond-sprinkled green beans. Not even the traditional pecan and sweet potato pies either. Desert? White rasogullas, the traditional juicy, dipped-in-sweet-syrup, round white balls made from cottage cheese or paneer. Plenty for seconds and thirds. Thanksgiving was very much a desi (desi refers to South Asians, mostly Indian, Pakistanis, and Bangla Deshis) affair, thank you, with lots of desi food.

I smiled. I also remembered our first Thanksgiving and many other dinner parties during 1989 and 1990, when we were living in the States. We were celebrating the occasion at an Indian home in exactly the same manner. Piling food high onto two dinner plates from a similarly graced dining table, I gathered our two young children, then eight and three years old, and sat down to eat with the other ladies and their kids. The men usually ate separately.  

Singing as best as I could, then helping with the dishes

Post-dinner, the children played amongst themselves. Meanwhile, in the living room, the ladies and men teamed up in two groups. Seated on opposite sides, they began antakshari, the game of the ending letter where a member of one team sang the first verse of a song that began with the consonant of Hindi alphabet on which the other team member’s song had just ended. A friendly, fun competition of endless Hindi Bollywood melodies.

The singing was loud. The exhilaration pulsated. The songs, especially the cherished oldies, were fun to hear, even nostalgic. I participated actively. Even if I did not hear well, I caught onto the song by comprehending just a few words and joined in, albeit a little late.

The problem arose only when the newest, the latest songs in Bollywood were being sung. I was lost. Never heard them before. Could not comprehend a single word. Unable to participate, I would invariably get bored. A few minutes later, I would approach the hostess.

“Can I help you wash them?” I would ask then pick up dishes from the dining table.

In my memory, I started this trend. I helped wash dishes at these parties in the States.

Why did I always recede into the host’s kitchen?

Did I really like to wash dishes?

Did I have this big, kind heart who did not like to see elderly ladies wash dishes at the sink? Actually, that might partly be true.

Why was I not fazed by the possibility of spoiling my fancy silk saree?

Didn’t I do something similar at a cousin’s home, post-dinner, after an unexpected, huge gathering? Despite the suggestion that I should spend time with the other guests in the living room, I had retreated to the kitchen and gloved my hands, ready to wash dishes by her side at the sink. Why?

Discovering the answers with help from HLAA

The answer to my questions emanated not long after I joined the Hearing Loss Association of America (HLAA) in 2010.

In 2007, we moved to Fort Worth, Texas where my husband Raj and I were employed as research faculty at the University of North Texas Health Science Center. A few years later, driving through the town one day, I came across a board sign with information on HLAA and chapter meetings, in particular, about one scheduled to be held at the Fellowship Hall of the Central Christian Church nearby. Intrigued, I planned to attend. Clearly, my first chapter meeting was life changing: I felt completely at home amidst a group of members that were partly or wholly deaf, some of whom wore hearing aids, while others used the sign language. Still others (very few then) wore cochlear implants. A regular attendee thereafter, I served on the chapter board and even attended the annual HLAA convention in Portland in 2013. Life-changing once again.

Hearing Life magazine holds another key

Hearing Life is the HLAA quarterly publication. As a member, I subscribed to it. Four times a year, the magazine arrived in my mailbox. Faithfully and lovingly stacked up one on top of each other, they lay there pretty much untouched for almost two years on my coffee table at home. One afternoon, home early from work, I glanced upon an interesting cover and lapped it all up. Not just that one issue — I skimmed quite a few. Right then.

From there on, I solved many mysteries of my life. I finally understood the whys and hows of my behavior, including why I was so generous with party throwers.

Stories shared in Hearing Life helped me realize what and how I could and needed to change, both about myself and my misconceptions. Things I had not heard from any audiologist. Things I had not bothered to understand even when I was advised by an audiologist.  

For years, I’d enjoyed and preferred conversations that were one-to-one or in small groups of friends or family, without understanding why. Now I caught on. Figuring out what was being said in a gathering of speakers for long periods of time drained me. Listening with sensorineural hearing loss was already hard. Pretending to comprehend several speakers at the same time or in succession, all the while trying to lip-read and guess the words being said exhausted me. So, then what did I do?

I disappeared. I disappeared from the gathering, and washed dishes in the quiet comfort of the kitchen. Be it mine or the host. Dishwashing was easy, effortless, undemanding. No listening involved. I was in control.

Also, while I was washing dishes, I processed conversations, a delayed comprehension of what some people had said. And, of course, during all this time, I hoped that no one would come by, at least not for some time. I so needed that break from listening to people.

Simply put, I would rather wash dishes than listen to people in a group setting even if the conversation was interesting. The knowledge of this overwhelmed me. It was my first a-ha! moment!

Hearing aids: Two are better than one

The second a-ha! moment was hard to swallow, but I did it. Finally.

Audiology tests had always revealed that I should wear two hearing aids. As early as 1990, the audiologist, especially in the States, would remind me of this and ask me to wear both hearing aids and wear them consistently. Did I listen? Not me.

“Why don’t you want to wear both, Abha? It would really be helpful to wear them all the time, not just when you have to speak with someone.” Gently, my audiologist questioned me.

Not convinced, I continued to wear only one, the right one. Also, not always, just when I chose to.

In retrospect, my subconscious mind might have been trying to go along with the words spoken by the doctor who had first diagnosed my bilateral sensorineural hearing loss in India in the 1970s.

“Despite the severe hearing loss, you have done well so far. I do recommend hearing aids. But, try not to wear all the time. You might get too used to them. You will be fine,” he had said.

At age thirteen, Dr. Emerick was my idol with his very positive and comforting words. I so wanted to believe that I could continue doing well without the hearing aids. I did not want to get used to them. I so wanted to be fine even when I was not, even when I really needed the hearing aids.

By wearing one hearing aid or none at all, not only was I hard-pressed to listen, I was forced to speak loudly. After all, I could not hear my own voice. Double whammy. Unwittingly, I tired myself. On the other hand, when I began to wear the hearing aids — both of them and consistently — I heard myself louder, whereupon I spoke softer. Without even trying.

Two hearing aids entered only late in my life. In my mid-fifties. Today, I am never without them, at least in my waking hours.

Telling others I have a hearing loss: please face me

A monthly feature of my life back then, chapter meetings in Fort Worth were held on a second Saturday with at least 25-30 attendees. The highlight? An invited talk by an authority on hearing loss issues, or the latest development in hearing technology followed by coffee or tea and light refreshments hosted by any one of the many members. Printed name tags for easy identification, brochures on deafness and hearing loss, an attendance sheet, catchy handouts, and occasionally pins inscribed with “Please Face Me” set up strategically on a table greeted the eyes as one entered the meeting hall. The last always captivated me.

A physical expression of my needs for good communication? Over the years, I collected a bunch of those pins for myself and was content to simply dump them in a straw basket in my dresser drawer. Occasionally, I even wiped them clean. Lying snugly, the badges beckoned to be pinned on, but to no avail.

Why would I not wear a “Face Me” button? How hard could it be to pin one on my dress every day when I went out to face the world?

I have no answer, but clearly, we — Deaf people and people with hearing loss — need to actively advocate for ourselves. We need to let people know what we want from them in order to have a good, meaningful, painless, easy conversation. We want them to face us. Period.

“Hi, I have hearing loss issues. You might have to speak clearly and slowly for me. A bit loud, please. Also, can you please face me? It would make listening easier for me. Thank you so much for your understanding.”

We might express our needs well at the initial introductions. But people forget. And we hesitate to repeat our request to “Please Face Me.” Instead, we get into the pretending game. Agreed, it is hard to do, but we need to remind them. Not once, but several times. Again, who likes to do that? Not me. Wearing the aptly inscribed pin would have been a great reminder for me to ask and for others to see and hopefully carry out the instructions. Easier conversations for everyone involved. Not 100% foolproof, agreed again. And of course, I would need to put up with all those intent stares from people curious about the inscription.  

I also never want to hear, “Never mind. It was not important.” That hurts. Like nothing else.

For now, I am a very proud and appreciative badge-wearer who might still forget to wear it sometimes.

Another gift to me from HLAA: putting some things first

Finally, stories shared in Hearing Life taught me to take care of my needs. First.

For years, I had never cared to clean the hearing aids. Where was the time? Of course, I had the entire cleaning kit. But there was always something to rush to. The kit was nice and compact, the tiny black brush and the cleaning wipes each in their own container. I even cut the sheets into small pieces to save on their use. But did I wipe-clean my aids every morning? Did I clear my ears with an ear bud after a shower? Did I air-dry my ears with the hairdryer? Not me. Not until I found myself hurting and taking a course of antibiotics. An itchy ear and pain were becoming all too frequent, especially in Seattle winters. And I was getting older by the year.

Today, my dresser drawer is stocked with good quality earbuds and a hairdryer. I also follow a strict hearing aid cleaning protocol before I wear them after a shower.

Indeed, there was and is much to thank HLAA for. Not least is the fact that attending parties is different now. I wear two hearing aids. ALWAYS. And while I would be happy to, I do not always offer to help wash the dishes.

Instead, I get away with my little granddaughter, Sakina, and together, we disappear to play “hide and seek” in the crowded party.

About the Author

Born and brought up in India, Abha is an Asian American emerging artist, writer and research scientist at the University of Washington, Seattle. She struggled to hear since childhood but was diagnosed with sensorineural hearing loss only in her early teens. Strongly supported and encouraged by her parents, Abha persevered to educate herself while actively pursuing the arts as well. A doctorate in Biophysics from a premier medical research institute in New Delhi, she is a scientist by profession and an artist by heart.

Abha married Rajendra and, later along with their two young children, the couple traversed a tough immigration process as bio-researchers in Texas to pursue the American dream.

A recipient of the 2021 Grants for Artists’ Progress (GAP) Award from the Artist Trust, and the Artists Up Mentorly Scholarship from the state of Washington, Abha was a semi-finalist in the She Writes Press and SparkPress Towards Diversity in Publishing (STEP) contest. She has been awarded several scholarships including the Altman Writers of Color from the Hudson Valley Writers Center New York (2021-2022) and is published in several literary magazines. One of her essays- “Kitaab” was nominated by the editors of The Touchstone Literary Magazine for inclusion in Sundress Publication’s Best of the Net Anthology.

Abha keeps herself joyous, sane, and alive through writing, crafting, painting, walking the woods with music in her ears (preferably near water bodies, even small ones will do), rediscovering alternative nutritional and water therapies, reviving stories about strong women in her life and spending quality time with her three grandchildren. Also, she is always ready to dance to music if you have the inclination for it.

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