By Abha Sharma

“Look, Mummy, I just taught Abha to fine-chop ginger. What do you think?”

Meena proudly displayed the bowl of chopped slender pieces of peeled ginger to our mother. Meena is my second oldest sister. As a child I called her Meena Jiji, and later, after she became an aunt to her numerous nieces and nephews, Me Mo.

Vegetable chopping, Me Mo often said to me, was a fine art. I was lousy at it. She, on the other hand, was truly dedicated to it. Her freezer was always stocked with bags of uniformly chopped, colorful vegetables. Ginger, cabbage, carrots, green onions, French beans and all kinds of leafy greens, even radish leaves, pretty much had the same fate under her knife. Cruciferous vegetables were labors of love, cauliflower particularly. Heads of creamy-white florets were broken into small, equal pieces, their hardy stems accorded equal importance, cut, and frozen separately. These tough pieces transformed into tender, tasty dinners of fried veggies, often accompanied by green peas from the kilos of Delhi peapods Me Mo peeled each mid-winter. Even the colorless, fleshy rind of a juicy red watermelon found its purpose. Grated lovingly, the strands were cooked in milk and garnished with honey, fragrant rose petals, and sliced almonds to create a variation of the famous rice kheer.

Chatting nineteen to the dozen, Me Mo and I were busy in our parent’s big kitchen in Dehra Dun, India, preparing ingredients for an evening of bhelpuri. The dish was, and continues to be, one of my favorite street foods. Together, we had peeled five large red onions and boiled one kilo of light-brown potatoes in salted water. A raw medium-sized tangy green mango lay hidden amidst inviting sprigs of clean, washed cilantro, mint, and some green chilies — all destined for delectable chutneys. Warily, I eyed them. That would be some tedious chopping indeed. Luckily, Me Mo asked me not to touch them. She would do the herbs. I sighed in relief. I would rather grate the inner white meat of the husked coconut or fine chop the onions, potatoes, and tomatoes…anything but the herbs.

Meanwhile in the adjoining room, Daddy was setting out the dining table with the usual trimmings for bhelpuri: aloo bhujia (thin and spicy fried potato noodles), salted peanuts, and a package of mathris (deep-fried, white-beige savory flour crackers).

An hour later, amidst a flurry of namastes and loud greetings my other sisters arrived with their families. Raj and our two young children joined them. Everyone settled themselves in our parent’s spacious living room. A low diwan couch, plenty of chairs, armchairs and a cabinet holding the TV set at one end faced the six-seater dining table at the other. Already seated next to each other at the table, our parents joyfully beamed at their large clan.

The party had begun. Holding a huge steel degchi, Daddy called out names of ingredients he wanted, one by one. Eager, helpful hands passed him what he asked for. First, a generous amount of puffed rice went in. Measured portions of chopped onions, potatoes, tomatoes, tiny mango pieces and cilantro followed, playfully tossed into the degchi. Next came the white and brown freshly grated coconut flesh and crunchy peanuts. Mixing everything well with a big spatula, Daddy seasoned and spiced it. Last to go in was the aloo bhujia. Sprinkled all over, these yellow spicy potato noodle strands locked in the tomato-reds and white puffed rice, while the colorful mint-cilantro and sweet tamarind chutneys spiraled their own designs throughout. Finally, with a flourish of his hands, Daddy topped each plate with one or two mathris. Truly, a foodie’s visual delight.

The room grew noisier. Plenty of back and forth conversations between groups of family seated all around me. I smiled, but for the most part, I remained quiet, focused on eating.

“Itna chup kyoon? Why are you so quiet?” Me Mo asked me with some concern. Just an hour ago, the two of us had chatted non-stop, and now there I was silently eating my bhelpuri.

I shrugged. I had no answer for her. I really did not know. Not at that time.  

Twenty-plus years later, I did. The answer dawned upon me quite randomly, in sharp contrast to how deeply I had held on to Me Mo’s question in my mind all through these years.

That evening, so long ago, with all of the different conversations swirling around me in my parents’ living room, I had, without awareness, simply defaulted to my “non-listening mode.”  In other words, I had “tuned out.” The “catch-up” mode for comprehending everyone in the get-together must have become too difficult. Unlike solo conversations, group conversations could get tough for me. Still do. Certainly, it was not from a lack of trying. I must have tried. Initially. Then again, I might not have. Maybe, I did not even want to request help to catch up on what I had missed. And unless someone specifically summoned my attention and asked to talk directly to me, I could and would be oblivious to it all.

This, my default mode, carried out unconsciously, was my salve. Always. That evening, I was doing what I usually do best amidst a gathering: I was pretending. Pretense was always easy. With a pleasant smile, an expressive face, and years of conditioning, I must have pretended, and pretended well, to comprehend everything.   

Of course, my sister knew about my hearing loss. She also knew that over the years, I had begun to wear hearing aids – even if only one, increasingly – almost all the time. And of course, the other members of my family also knew about my hearing loss issues. Unfortunately, what none of us, including me, knew or had access to in those times were strategies for communicating with someone who has hearing loss and who, at times, wore one or no hearing aid. In other words, no one including me, had an inkling: “What would be the best way to talk to Abha?”

And because, I, consciously or unconsciously, continued the bluff game, I prolonged their mistaken assumption that I was always comprehending them.

Over the years, I have learned the onus lies on me, fair and square. I must advocate for myself wherever I go, as many times as necessary, if I want to have a great group conversation. That alone could prevent my default, non-active listening, non-participating mode. All that realization was well and good, an eye-opener but yes, I must have a plan, put it in practice and go about it to the best of my abilities.

I must let speakers know that they have to get my attention first and further, face me continually while speaking. They should inform me if they are changing the subject. And finally, sometimes, they might have to ascertain if I am comprehending them well enough. Something on the following lines:

“Abha, can I speak with you?” A tap on my shoulder would be nice.

“Listen, I am going to change the subject here, okay?”

“By the way, did you get what I just said? I am not sure you got me. Maybe I can rephrase this sentence?”

Easier said than done, for them, and also for me. Even with the best of intentions, people forget what to say and do after a few minutes of talking. And I, apart from being embarrassed to repeat my request, might just tune out and revert to my default non-listening mode. Who was to know?

The fact that amongst everyone at the family gathering, it was Me Mo alone who had noticed and remarked upon my silence left an indelible imprint on me. Maybe it was because I was sitting next to her. Maybe it was because after an hour of conversing together (where I might have barely requested her to repeat anything), I was now sitting quietly amidst everyone. Justifiably intrigued, my sister had questioned me. “Why are you so quiet, Abha?”

I like to think my sister was concerned for me. She was, after all, my favorite sister. Always had been for as long as I could remember.

Read Part 2 here.

About the Author

Born and brought up in India, Abha Sharma 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. With 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, along with her husband, has also translated the published The Secrets Hidden Beneath the Palm Tree written by Angeliki Stamatopoulou-Pedersen into Hindi, “Khajoor ke ped ke neeche chupe rahasya” as a print and ebook, 2021. (The links for the Hindi version: https://store.pothi.com/book/angiliki-stamatopoulou-pedersen-khajoor-ke-ped-ke-neeche-chupe-rahasya/; https://www.amazon.in/dp/0984643028?ref=myi_title_dp.)

Other professional activities include being invited to deliver an online talk on disability-related issues in light of her own personal experience, “Your ears don’t listen?” a personal narrative organized by Vivekananda Chair in collaboration with School of Letters, Mahatma Gandhi University, Kottayam, Kerala, India; August 18, 2023, and “Reclaiming the artist in me” for the event “Artists with Disabilities: A perspective on accessibility, opportunities, and celebrating talent,” EastHUB organization, Seattle, WA. April 21, 2022 (https://easthub.org/collaborator/abha-sharma/).

Additionally, Abha has served as panelist for The Emotional Impacts of Hearing Loss: Finding Support and Community; HLAA-Washington Annual Community Meeting, April 26, 2025, and for the Endurance Grants, Artist Trust, WA, 2022.

She has also successfully completed UW Professional and Continuing Education: A workshop for women: writing & publishing personal essays Educational Units, January to March 2022.

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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