This lady is their friend, philosopher and eyes 

Sharmila Ganesan | TNN

It’s a constant joke among her friends that Urmiben dresses up for marriages as she does for funerals. Her usual sober cotton saree and a blue bag that says, ‘Open your eyes, From darkness to light.’ No make-up, no jewellery. Except, maybe, that brilliant toothless smile that reaches her eyes through those thick glasses, everytime. Her friends can’t see her, though. They just know this simple lady, whom they met by chance, albeit too well. After all, in the past 20 years, she has become their favourite habit. Whenever these blind women feel like seeing the world around them, they call Urmiben. And she merrily obliges.

Be it reading, writing, shopping or just giving company, 62-year-old Urmi Shah is game for any kind of help for the blind. Every morning, she reads out a few pages to the visually challenged callers from the book of their choice. It could be spiritual, fictional or any other genre in English, Hindi, Marathi or Gujarati. Though, she may not always understand what she reads out. “I read for a physiotherapy student too. The scientific terms are too difficult to remember,’’ she says.

She has her own style and her voice develops its own culture. “My voice is awful. I just read,’’ insists Shah, who pauses and modulates her voice, like a nursery school teacher. “Should I go slow?’’ she would ask some visually impaired children of ninth grade, whom she reads to on Mondays and Thursdays. She paints mental pictures for them, like describing zodiac symbols. “Pisces has two fish, facing opposite directions, Sagittarius has a bow and arrow,’’ and so on.

Although she doesn’t have expensive tastes, friends say her choice is ‘rich’. She enjoys shopping for them. From grocery to ornaments, she advises them on what and how to buy, describes each item to them, asks them to touch and feel fabrics, bargains and even learns from them. “I didn’t know what dangling earrings or Paithani sarees meant, until they told me,’’ she confesses. In the market, she walks with a purpose. Her eyes keep searching for things that could be useful for them, like a threader, which helps thread a needle. “Once I accompanied a well-to-do girl to this parlour at the Taj for a haircut. It was so posh, my God,’’ muses Shah. She used to even arrange picnics for blind women and invent one minute games they would enjoy. “They knit so beautifully,’’ says Shah, who started imitating them. She can now knit simultaneously while reading out the newspaper to her visually challenged husband, Bihari.

It was in 1968 that Shah first came in contact with the blind community. She was then working with the Income Tax department and was looking for a way to utilise her evenings. “I had never seen a blind person before, except some beggars,’’ she said. She approached National Association for the Blind, who asked her to assist a blind boy pursuing his LLB, with his reading. She would go to the boy’s hostel where his friends would join him. One of them was Bihari, who worked with the Blind Men’s Association.

Love blossomed over the brailler between the kind-hearted man and Urmi. “We had a common cause—to help the blind. We thought if we were together, we can serve better,’’ she says. But people tried to dissuade her saying that blind people are suspicious. Her parents agreed only on the condition that she would not regret her decision. She assured them and today, she says, everyone is happy. “In my colony, they call us the fast walkers,’’ says Urmi, who never complains about travelling anywhere from her one-room-kitchen home at Kandivli.

When this frail veteran talks, there is an urgency, perhaps, to see a smile on the faces of these people in need. When she achieves it through her jokes and easy chiding, Shah smiles again. If someone needs her at the hospital, she is there. The non-religious Shah believes most in communication. Language, relationship, context or person are no handicaps. Her idea is to communicate as much as possible with people, both sighted and blind who are ‘no different’. Besides, she also edits a Braille journal called Vartaman, where she summarises useful newspaper articles to be later translated into Braille.

She now works with support from her husband, Bihari. He taught her to be organised, she taught him to make khichdi. They share a unique equation. She washes clothes, he dries them. He even clears the utensils she leaves behind, in the hurry to attend to another blind person. Her hectic selfless routine bothers Bihari a bit, but he doesn’t complain. After all, they had made an agreement at the time of marriage—she would work only till they repay a pending loan. She resigned in 1988 to devote herself to this cause fully. Joining an NGO was out of the question. “I didn’t want to do what the organisation tells me. I wanted to work independently. That’s why I left my job too.’’

Bihari tries teaching her to say ‘no’ sometimes, but in vain. He does not verbally appreciate her service. “But he allows me,’’ she says. This approval is certificate enough. “Normally, people have one heart and one brain. She has two hearts and no brain,’’ jokes Bihari, who fell for her helping nature. “What you youngsters call wavelength.’’

She doesn’t give reasons though. “I just fell in love,’’ says the philosophy graduate, who has one take on life: ‘It should be enjoyed.’ This is her idea of enjoyment.

Publication:Times of India Mumbai; Date:Aug 20, 2006; Section:Times City; Page Number:3