The Letter A and The Eyes Are Not Her: Relationships and Handicaps - Essay Example

 “The Letter ‘A,’” and “The Eyes Are Not Here”: Relationships and Handicaps. Christy Brown’s “The Letter ‘A,’” and Ruskin Bond’s “The Eyes Are Not Here,” are two poignant short stories which touch the reader’s heart. “The Letter ‘A,’” is an autobiographical account of Brown’s struggle against cerebral palsy. Defying all medical prognoses, Brown writes the letter ‘A’ with his left foot at the age of five, and goes on to become a renowned artist and writer. “The Eyes Are Not Here,” is a fictional tale of a brief encounter between two blind passengers on a short train journey. Each of the passengers is unaware of the others’ disability. In spite of the apparent difference in their setting and the characters, “The Letter ‘A,’” and “The Eyes Are Not Here,” share certain similarities. Both the stories demonstrate the strength of relationships, focus on the triumph of the human spirit over adversity, and explore different kinds of metaphorical blindness. “The Letter ‘A,’” and “The Eyes Are Not Here,” are founded on the beauty of human relationships. In The Letter ‘A,’” the relationship between Christy and his mother is the bedrock on which the narrative is built. This bond is established at birth, when both of them narrowly escape death. It is Christy’s “Mother who first saw that there was something wrong with” him (Christy, 6). Ignoring the doctors, she decides “to take matters into her own hands” (Christy, 6). She rejects, out-of-hand, any though of institutionalizing him. She labors over him for countless hours, attempting to draw him out of the dimness of his chained mind. It is the strength of her love for Christy which makes him confident that he “would always have my mother on my side to help me fight all the battles that were to come, and to inspire me with new strength when I was almost beaten” (Christy, 7). This mother-son relationship is the axis of “The Letter ‘A.’” In the same way, the relationship between the narrator and his co-passenger is the high water mark of “The Eyes Are Not Here.” Unlike Christy’s life-long relationship with his mother, it only lasts for the duration of a short journey. Yet this relationship too is very touching, and is the USP of the story. The words spoken aloud are few, but there is an undercurrent of strong emotion which emphasizes the connection. The two blind passengers share an obvious affinity. The narrator “liked the sound of her voice, and even the sound of her slippers” (Bond, 10). They share a love for the hills in October, and converse comfortably without ever being aware of the handicap they share. As the narrator declares that the memory of this brief encounter “would stay with me for the rest of the journey and for some time after” (Bond, 13), the reader is filled with the sad conviction that, in different circumstances, this relationship would stand the test of time. Both the narratives revolve round the triumph of the spirit over adversity. Christy’s mother refuses to accept the medical prognosis which holds that he “was mentally defective and would remain so” (Christy, 6). In spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, countless hours spent in futile attempts to draw him out, and even when “It all seemed hopeless,” (Christy, 8), the mother does not lose her faith. She persists in “slowly, patiently pulling down the wall, brick by brick,” (Christy, 7), which separates her son from the rest of the world. When Christy finally makes the first crucial, shaky move towards contact with the world, his mother kneels beside him, holds the slate steady for him, supports him with a hand on his shoulder, and urges him on with the whispered, “ “Try again, Chris”” (Christy, 10). It is her indomitable spirit which enables her son to triumph over his cerebral palsy, and become a painter and writer. In the same way, in “The Eyes Are Not Here,” the narrator and his co-passenger do not allow their blindness to detract from the quality of their lives. As each of them hides their handicap and enjoys their journey, conversing about the beauty of the hills, the passing scenery, the triumph of the human spirit over adversity shines out. Neither of them makes their blindness an issue, or lets it detract from their enjoyment of each other’s company. In fact, they make “a fascinating game” (Bond, 13) of playing at living in make believe world in which they can see. The two short stories explore the different kinds of metaphorical blindness which can distort the individual’s view of reality. In “The Letter ‘A,’” the doctors and specialists, and all the relatives and friends, are blind to the creativity and intelligence which lie hidden underneath Christy’s affliction. It is only his mother’s eyes of love which are able see that it is her son’s body which is crippled, and not his mind. It is this refusal to be blind to the inherent possibilities which exist in her son which makes possible the “miracle in their midst” (Christy, 9), and gives her son his “key to mental freedom” (Christy, 10). In “The Eyes Are Not Here,” Bond draws the reader’s attention to two kinds of metaphorical blindness. The first is the blindness of those who have physical sight, but are so casual about it that “it often happens that people with good eyesight fail to see what is right in front of them” (Bond, 12). Sight is taken so much for granted, that even the obvious is overlooked. Secondly, the narrator categorically states that, in the case of the blind, the essential “registers most tellingly on their remaining senses” (Bond, 12). Ironically, Bond then goes on to make the narrator himself oblivious to the blindness of his co-passenger. By failing to realize that the girl is blind, the narrator’s hubris is shown. Blindness can be of various kinds. Christy Brown’s “The Letter ‘A,’” and Ruskin Bond’s “The Eyes Are Not Here,” deal with physical handicaps. Although the treatment of the stories varies, the narratives are similar in their focus on the beauty and strength of human relationships, and the ability of the indomitable human spirit to overcome adversity. Both the tales also explore the fact that blindness need not be physical, but can also be metaphorical. The two stories are highly effective accounts which touch a sympathetic chord in the heart of the reader. I Works Cited. Bond, Ruskin. “The Eyes Are Not Here.” Title of Collection. Ed. Editor's Name(s). City of Publication: Publisher, Year. Page range of entry. Print. Brown, Christy. “The Letter ‘A.’” Title of Collection. Ed. Editor's Name(s). City of Publication: Publisher, Year. Page range of entry. Print. I was born in the Rotunda Hospital, on June 5th, 1932. There were nine children before me and twelve after me, so I myself belong to the middle group. Out of this total of twenty-two, seventeen lived, but four died in infancy, leaving thirteen still to hold the family fort.     Mine was a difficult birth, I am told. Both mother and son almost died. A whole army of relations queued up outside the hospital until the small hours of the morning, waiting for news and praying furiously that it would be good.     After my birth Mother was sent to recuperate for some weeks and I was kept in the hospital while she was away. I remained there for some time, without name, for I wasn't baptized until my mother was well enough to bring me to church.     It was Mother who first saw that there was something wrong with me. I was about four months old at the time. She noticed that my head had a habit of falling backward whenever she tried to feed me. She attempted to correct this by placing her hand on the back of my neck to keep it steady. But when she took it away, back it would drop again. That was the first warning sign. Then she became aware of other defects as I got older. She saw that my hands were clenched nearly all of the time and were inclined to twine behind my back; my mouth couldn't grasp the teat of the bottle because even at that early age my jaws would either lock together tightly, so that it was impossible for her to open them, or they would suddenly become limp and fall loose, dragging my whole mouth to one side. At six months I could not sit up without having a mountain of pillows around me. At twelve months it was the same.     Very worried by this. Mother told my father her fears, and they decided to seek medical advice without any further delay. I was a little over a year old when they began to take me to hospitals and clinics, convinced that there was something definitely wrong with me, something which they could not understand or name, but which was very real and disturbing,     Almost every doctor who saw and examined me labeled me a very interesting but also a hopeless case. Many told Mother very gently that I was mentally defective and would remain so. That was a hard blow to a young mother who had already reared five healthy children. The doctors were so very sure of themselves that Mother's faith in me seemed almost an impertinence. They assured her that nothing could be done for me.     She refused to accept this truth, the inevitable truth—as it then seemed—that I was beyond cure, beyond saving, even beyond hope. She could not and would not believe that I was an imbecile, as the doctors told her. She had nothing in the world to go by, not a scrap of evidence to support her conviction that, though my body was crippled, my mind was not. In spite of all the doctors and specialists told her, she would not agree. I don't believe she knew why—she just knew, without feeling the smallest shade of doubt.     Finding that the doctors could not help in any way beyond telling her not to place her trust in me, or, in other words, to forget I was a human creature, rather to regard me as just something to be fed and washed and then put away again, Mother decided there and then to take matters into her own hands. I was her child, and therefore part of the family. No matter how dull and incapable I might grow up to be, she was determined to treat me on the same plane as the others, and not as the "queer one" in the back room who was never spoken of when there were visitors present.     That was a momentous decision as far as my future life was concerned. It meant that I would always have my mother on my side to help me fight all the battles that were to come, and to inspire me with new strength when I was almost beaten. But it wasn't easy for her because now the relatives and friends had decided otherwise. They contended that I should be taken kindly, sympathetically, but not seriously. That would be a mistake. "For your own sake," they told her, "don't look to this boy as you would to the others; it would only break your heart in the end." Luckily for me, Mother and Father held out against the lot of them. But Mother wasn't content just to say that I was not an idiot: she set out to prove it, not because of any rigid sense of duty, but out of love. That is why she was so successful.     At this time she had the five other children to look after besides the "difficult one," though as yet it was not by any means a full house. They were my brothers, Jim, Tony, and Paddy, and my two sisters, Lily and Mona, all of them very young, just a year or so between each of them, so that they were almost exactly like steps of stairs.     Four years rolled by and I was now five, and still as helpless as a newly born baby. While my father was out at bricklaying, earning our bread and butter for us, Mother was slowly, patiently pulling down the wall, brick by brick, that seemed to thrust itself between me and the other children, slowly, patiently penetrating beyond the thick curtain that hung over my mind, separating it from theirs. It was hard, heartbreaking work, for often all she got from me in return was a vague smile and perhaps a faint gurgle. I could not speak or even mumble, nor could I sit up without support on my own, let alone take steps. But I wasn't inert or motionless. I seemed, indeed, to be convulsed with movement, wild, stiff, snakelike movement that never left me, except in sleep. My fingers twisted and twitched continually, my arms twined backwards and would often shoot out suddenly this way and that, and my head lolled and sagged sideways. I was a queer, crooked little fellow.     Mother tells me how one day she had been sitting with me for hours in an upstairs bedroom, showing me pictures out of a great big storybook that I had got from Santa Claus last Christmas and telling me the names of the different animals and flowers that were in them, trying without success to get me to repeat them. This had gone on for hours while she talked and laughed with me. Then at the end of it she leaned over me and said gently into my ear:     "Did you like it, Chris? Did you like the bears and the monkeys and all the lovely flowers? Nod your head for yes, like a good boy."     But I could make no sign that I had understood her. Her face was bent over mine hopefully. Suddenly, involuntarily, my queer hand reached up and grasped one of the dark curls that fell in a thick cluster about her neck. Gently she loosened the clenched fingers, though some dark strands were still clutched between them.     Then she turned away from my curious stare and left the room, crying. The door closed behind her. It all seemed hopeless. It looked as though there was some justification for my relatives' contention that I was an idiot and beyond help.     They now spoke of an institution.     "Never!" said my mother almost fiercely, when this was suggested to her. "I know my boy is not an idiot; it is his body that is shattered, not his mind. I'm sure of that."     Sure? Yet inwardly, she prayed God would give her some proof of her faith. She knew it was one thing to believe but quite another thing to prove.     I was now five, and still I showed no real sign of intelligence. I showed no apparent interest in things except with my toes—more especially those of my left foot. Although my natural habits were clean, I could not aid myself, but in this respect my father took care of me. I used to lie on my back all the time in the kitchen or, on bright warm days, out in the garden, a little bundle of crooked muscles and twisted nerves, surrounded by a family that loved me and hoped for me and that made me part of their own warmth and humanity. I was lonely, imprisoned in a world of my own, unable to communicate with others, cut off, separated from them as though a glass wall stood between my existence and theirs, thrusting me beyond the sphere of their lives and activities, I longed to run about and play with the rest, but I was unable to break loose from my bondage.     Then suddenly, it happened! In a moment everything was changed, my future life molded into a definite shape, my mother’s faith in me rewarded, and her secret fear changed into open triumph.     It happened so quickly, so simply after all the years of waiting and uncertainty, that I can see and feel the whole scene as if it had happened last week. It was the afternoon of a cold, gray December day. The streets outside glistened with snow, the white sparkling flakes stuck and melted on the windowpanes and hung on the boughs of the trees like molten silver. The wind howled dismally, whipping up little whirling columns of snow that rose and fell at every fresh gust. And over all, the dull, murky sky stretched like a dark canopy, a vast infinity of grayness.         Inside, all the family were gathered round the big kitchen fire that lit up the little room with a warm glow and made giant shadows dance on the walls and ceiling.         In a corner Mona and Paddy were sitting, huddled together, a few torn school primers before them. They were writing down little sums onto an old chipped slate, using a bright piece of yellow chalk. I was close to them, propped up by a few pillows against the wall, watching.         It was the chalk that attracted me so much. It was a long, slender stick of vivid yellow. I had never seen anything like it before, and it showed up so well against the black surface of the slate that I was fascinated by it as much as if it had been a stick of gold.         Suddenly, I wanted desperately to do what my sister was doing. Then—without thinking or knowing exactly what I was doing, I reached out and took the stick of chalk out of my sister’s hand—with my left foot.         I do not know why I used my left foot to do this. It is a puzzle to many people as well as to myself, for, although I had displayed a curious interest in my toes at an early age, I had never attempted before this to use either of my feet in any way. They could have been as useless to me as were my hands. That day, however, my left foot, apparently by its own volition, reached out and very impolitely took the chalk out of my sister's hand.         I held it tightly between my toes, and, acting on an impulse, made a wild sort of scribble with it on the slate. Next moment I stopped, a bit dazed, surprised, looking down at the stick of yellow chalk stuck between my toes, not knowing what to do with it next, hardly knowing how it got there. Then I looked up and became aware that everyone had stopped talking and was staring at me silently. Nobody stirred. Mona, her black curls framing her chubby little face, stared at me with great big eyes and open mouth. Across the open hearth, his face lit by flames, sat my father, leaning forward, hands outspread on his knees, his shoulders tense. I felt the sweat break out on my forehead.     My mother came in from the pantry with a steaming pot in her hand. She stopped midway between the table and the fire, feeling the tension flowing through the room. She followed their stare and saw me in the corner. Her eyes looked from my face down to my foot, with the chalk gripped between my toes. She put down the pot.     Then she crossed over to me and knelt down beside me, as she had done so many times before.     "I'll show you what to do with it, Chris," she said, very slowly and in a queer, choked way, her face flushed as if with some inner excitement.     Taking another piece of chalk from Mona, she hesitated, then very deliberately drew, on the floor in front of me, the single letter "A."     "Copy that," she said, looking steadily at me. "Copy it, Christy."     I couldn't.     I looked about me, looked around at the faces that were turned towards me, tense, excited faces that were at that moment frozen, immobile, eager, waiting for a miracle in their midst.     The stillness was profound. The room was full of flame and shadow that danced before my eyes and lulled my taut nerves into a sort of waking sleep. I could hear the sound of the water tap dripping in the pantry, the loud ticking of the clock on the mantel shelf, and the soft hiss and crackle of the logs on the open hearth.     I tried again. I put out my foot and made a wild jerking stab with the chalk which produced a very crooked line and nothing more. Mother held the slate steady for me.     “Try again, Chris,” she whispered in my ear. “Again.”     I did. I stiffened my body and put my left foot out again, for the third time. I drew one side of the letter. I drew half the other side. Then the stick of chalk broke end I was left with a stump. I wanted to fling it away and give up. Then I felt my mother’s hand on my shoulder. I tried once more. Out went my foot. I shook, I sweated and strained every muscle. My hands were so tightly clenched that my fingernails bit into the flesh. I set my teeth so hard that I nearly pierced my lower lip. Everything in the room swam rill the faces around me were mere patches of white. But—I drew it—the letter "A". There it was on the floor before me. Shaky, with awkward, wobbly sides and a very uneven center line. But it was the letter "A." I looked up. I saw my mothers face for a moment, tears on her cheeks. Then my father stooped and hoisted me onto his shoulder.     I had done it! It had started—the thing that was to give my mind its chance of expressing itself. True, I couldn't speak with my lips. But now I would, speak through something more lasting than spoken words--written words.     That one letter, scrawled on the floor with a broken bit of yellow chalk gripped between my toes, was my road to a new world, my key to mental freedom. It was to provide a source of relaxation to the tense, taut thing that was I, which panted for expression behind a twisted mouth.    I had the compartment to myself up to Rohana, and then a girl got in . the couple who saw her off were probably her parents; they seemed very anxious about her comfort, and the women gave the girl detailed instructions as to where to keep her things, when not to lean out of the windows, and how to avoid speaking to strangers. They said their good-byes; the train pulled out of the station. As I was totally blind at the time, my eyes sensitive only to light and darkness, I was unable to tell what the girl looked like; but I knew she wore slippers from the way they slapped against her heels. It would take me some time to discover something about her looks and perhaps I never would. But I liked the sound of her voice, and even the sound of her slippers. ‘           ‘Are you going all the way to Dehra?’ I asked. I must have been sitting in a dark corner because my voice started her. She gave a little exclamation and said,’ I didn’t know anyone else was here.’             Well, it often happens that people with good eyesight fail to see what is right in front of them. They have too much to take in, I suppose. Whereas people who cannot see (or see very little) have to take in only the essentials, whatever registers most tellingly on their remaining senses             ‘I didn’t if I would be able to prevent her from discovering that I was blind, I thought. ‘Provided I keep to my seat, It shouldn’t be too difficult.’             The girl said, ‘I’m getting down at Saharanpur. My aunt is meeting me threre.’ Then I Had better no be too familiar,’ I said. ‘Aunts are usually formidable creatures.’ ‘When are you going?’ she asked. ‘To dehra, and then to Mussoorie.’ ‘Oh, how lucky you are, I wish I were going to Mussoorie. I love the hills. Especially in October.’ ‘Yes this is the best time, ‘I said calling on my memories. The hills are covered with wild dahlias, the sun is delicious, and at night you can sit in front of a log-fire and drink a little brandy. Most of the tourists have gone, and the roads are quite and almost deserted. Yes October is the best time.’             She was silent, and I wondered if my words had touched her, or whether she thought me a romantic fool. Then I made a mistake. ‘What is it like?’ I asked. She    seemed to find nothing strange in the question. Had she noticed already that I could not see? But her next question removed my doubts. ‘Why don’t you look out the window?’ she asked. I moved easily along the berth and felt for the window-ledge. The window was open, and I faced it, making pretence, of studying the landscape. I heard the panting of the engine, the rumble of the wheels, and in my mind’s eye, I could see the telegraph-posts flashing by. ‘Have you noticed,’ I ventured, that the trees seem to be moving while we seem to be standing still?     ‘That always happens,’ she said. ‘Do you see any animals? Hardly any animals left in the forests near Dehra.’      I turned from the window and faced the girl, and for a while we sat in silence. ‘you have an interesting face,’ I remarked. I was becoming quit daring, but it was a safe remark. Few girls can resist flattery. She laughed pleasantly, a clear ringing laugh. ‘It’s nice to be told I have an Interesting face. I am tired of people telling me I have a pretty face.’ ‘Oh, so you do have a pretty face.’ Thought I, and aloud I said: ‘You are very gallant young man,’ she said. ‘But why are you so serious? I thought then, that I would try to laugh for her,’ but the thought of laughter only made me feel troubled and lonely. We’ll soon be at your station,’ I said. ‘Thank goodness it’s a short journey. I can bear to sit in a train for more than two or three hours.’ Yet I was prepared to sit there for almost any length of time, Just to listen to her talking. Her voice had the sparkle of a mountain stream. As soon as she left the train, she would forget our brief encounter; but it would stay with me for the rest of the journey and for some time after.             The sngine’s whistle shrieked, the carriage wheels changed their sound and rhythm.             The girl got up and began to collect her things. I wondered if she wore her hair in a burn, or if it was plaited, or if it hung loose over her shoulders, or if it was cut very short.             The train drew slowly into the station. Outside, there was the shouting of porters and vendors and a high-pitched female voice near the carriage door which must have belonged to the girl’s aunt.             ‘Good-bye,’ said the girl.     She was standing very close to me, so close that the perfume from her hair was tantalizing. I wanted to raise my hand and touch her hair,’ but she moved away, and only the perfume still lingered where she had stood. ‘You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, but the scent of the roses will linger there still….. There was some confusion in the doorway. A man, getting into the compartment, stammered an apology. Then the door banged shut, and the world was shut out again. I returned to my berth. The guard blew his whistle and we off. Once again, I had a game to play with a new fellow- traveler. The train gathered speed, the wheels took up their song, the carriage groaned and shook. I found the window and sat in front of it, staring into the daylight that was darkness form me. So many things were happening outside the window. It could be a fascinating game, guessing what went on out there. The man who had entered the compartment broke into my reverie. ‘You must be disappointed,’ he said,’ I’m not as attractive a travelling companion as the one who just left.’             ‘She was an interesting girl,’ I said.’ Can you tell me –did she keep her hair long or short?’             ‘I don’t remember,’ he said, sounding puzzled.’ it was her eyes I noticed, not her hair. She had beautiful eyes but they were of no use to her, she was completely blind. Didn’t you notice?’ Read More