‘How sad is my lot, I must avoid all things that are important to me…I am resolved to rise above every obstacle, but how will it be possible?’ The fierce sunlight pierced through the gap in my curtains, forcing me to wake from my oblivious slumber. I shuffled through my room and walked down to the kitchen where my mother stood. Her hearing had grown acute and always knew when I was around, though I was a quiet person. She smiled and gestured,’ Good Morning’ as her lips moved in an exaggerated manner. She did this so I would grow accustomed to lip reading. I signed back.

After breakfast, I drifted to the piano and sat, staring. I could not speak my feelings because I did not know how, but the piano could. The piano could mimic intonation, variation and emotion as far as I was concerned. I remembered being skeptical about learning to play. I was a problematic five-year-old and shoved my tutor away whenever she tried to converse with me. I then ran up to my room and cried, for I knew not how to learn. I didn’t understand. She found me a little later, huddled in a corner. She mimed ‘come.’ Her palm stretched out and then jerked back in toward her. Sniffling, I grasped her hand and followed her to the piano.

It was a baby grand that seemed to have an ancient history of its own. It stood tall and proud as though it just belonged. The tutor placed my cold hands on the solid wood of the piano and mimed ‘wait.’ She sat herself down on the padded seat and pressed a note. The wood under my hands vibrated and I snatched them away, frightened. I looked at my teacher…’calm.’ I nodded and placed my hands gingerly back on the wood. She began to play. The wood thrummed against my skin and goosebumps dotted my arms. At that time, the vibrations did not mean anything to me, but as I grew I realized each note had a different frequency, a different vibration. I peered at my teacher when the vibrations stopped. She smiled at me and made a hand gesture, ’Music.’

My mother bought me a digital piano. It was frustrating. I had to rest my left foot on the speaker above the pedals so I could feel the vibrations. I worked at a frustratingly slow pace. I spent a whole day memorizing a note and it’s unique vibration. As the notes got lower, the vibrations got slower (infinitesimally so). My tutor worked patiently with me every day, smiling tenderly at me as she corrected my poise and fingering.

When I was six, I finally learnt a song. It consisted of only three notes that repeated themselves, much like a routine. 3,2,1,2,3,3,3 was the fingering and the tune that I repeated over and over again, even after my tutor had gone. My mother would come in and sit by me, listening to me play the repetitive song again and again, hour after hour, day after day.

My progress increased when I had familiarized myself with the notes on the piano. My teacher taught me how to read notes and play songs fluently. There was an exercise we did every morning. She placed my hands on a speaker and blindfolded me. Then, she would play a note and I was to guess if it was of low range, middle range or high range, using hand gestures to communicate with her. Though I was not aware of it at that time, this was teaching me how to hear.

My mother came out of the kitchen to find me sitting blankly at the piano. She tapped me gently and brought me back from my reverie. I looked at her quizzically as she placed her hands behind her back.
Oh, she wasn’t going to sign.
I focused on her mouth meticulously as she slowly spoke her silent words.”P…lay…fo..r…me.” I smiled at her and made a flicking motion beside my forehead as though a light bulb had materialized there, the sign for ‘I understand.’ I rested both of my hands tenderly on the keys and began to play. I no longer needed to feel the vibrations for I could hear perfectly well. I had the melody in my head. My hands flew across the notes, strong but gentle, caressing each note. I embraced the ataraxia of playing and gracefully ended with what my teacher calls a broken chord. Looking up at my mother for approval, I saw her crying and she mimed something. ‘Love.’

I was 18 when I played that piece for her, and it took me a month to finally perfect it. I had finished my race, my ruthless competitor my hearing. I had won a competition playing that piece which made my hours spent worthwhile. I have great pride in calling myself a musician.’ I am not a deaf musician. I am a musician…who so happens to be deaf.’ Now, when people ask me how I’ve managed to overcome my obstacle, I tell them for I now can speak,” slow and steady wins the race.”