Blue
They call it blue.
Some say it is a colour, a perception that occurs when light with a wavelength of 440 nanometres to 490 nanometres.
Others do not see a colour, but hear a tune. They say it is a music form, named as such due to its inclusion of so-called blue notes, played at a lower pitch than those of the major scale for expressive purposes.
Still others will say it is an ache of the heart, a state of depression, a frightful condition felt by those who have emotional burdens too heavy to speak of, for fear of loading these sad weights on those so blissfully free of them.
Then others might only know it as a spoken word, their eyes having never been opened to the vibrant world all others inhabit.
I?
I see the blue irises of eyes that have never seen, eyes behind which lies the most melancholy soul I have ever known. A sad tune plays in the background, and a small smile that only ever so rarely adorned that beautiful face, completing at last an image of perfection.
As those who have known me longest might tell you, I am a most practical person, and I have never in my life engaged in activity that was of no tangible use to me.
But of course, that was not to say that I did not go on the odd holiday or pleasure trip. These I saw as necessities to maintain my sanity in the fast-paced society we all are a part of. These were just a way for me to get rest that without which, my physical body, weak as it was, would be sure to break down. A means to an end.
Never once had I looked upon anything without degrading it to whether it should profit me, or otherwise. A job I deemed as profitable, for one needs the foul bits of paper whose value has been grossly elevated for the trade of goods. A close relationship, of friendship or family, I deemed not so, unless of course, one requires their aid in certain matters.
In emotions, literature, art and music, I saw no value.
Then I met her.
*
It was just another hectic weekday. I had exited the office, told my colleagues I was exhausted and would retire for the day, but we all knew that “home” was a mere illusion. It mattered not where we were. If there was work to be done, we had no choice but to spend every waking hour completing it. And sometimes, a dose of caffeine to extend the definition of what those hours were.
Tired, irritable, I entered a nearby café, packed way above full capacity. The crowds did no favours to my temper, as I jostled my way in, and almost tripped several times over anonymous feet.
To my surprise, I found a seat opposite a woman, apparently asleep, and sat with as much dignity as I could while being pushed along by a blindly surging crowd. Unfolding the pitiful tattered remains of a newspaper, I began to examine carefully articles I had perused hurriedly as I walked briskly to work, a sandwich which could very well have contained peanut butter months older than its stated expiry date.
I was interrupted however, by a nervous voice, which I soon concluded had been that of the woman on the other side of the table.
“Is there somebody?”
I thought it an odd question. The café was filled to bursting with people, so I should think the natural conclusion would be that there were quite a few somebodies. At any rate, she was looking right at me, and should at least have seen my face, being directly in her line of vision.
“I’m sorry, I… I can’t see.”
So she was blind. That explained several things.
“I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”
“Oh, that’s quite alright. What time is it though?”
I glanced at my wristwatch.
“Half past five actually.”
Her face paled visibly.
“Sarah is going to kill me,” she muttered, “I told her I’d be back at four. She’ll never let me out alone…”
I quite lost my footing, and simply sat blankly, and as I recovered, she asked if I could help her call a number which was written on a small card she had drawn from one of her pockets. I fumbled for my handphone and did so, passing it to her after I had made sure the call had gotten through.
It was at this point that I began to take fuller notice of her appearance. Her neat raven hair fell all the way to the seat, and her unfocused eyes were of a bright blue that contrasted with her otherwise Asian features, and hinted at a partially European heritage. She was, I had to admit to myself, at least fairly attractive, if not rather overwhelmingly so. I never believed in love at first sight, and for that matter, did not believe in love at all at that point of time. But the slight attraction to her at our first meeting certainly paved the way for a consequent meetings.
At first I deceived myself, saying that I constantly visited her due to her disability, and indeed perhaps it was partially so.
When I first led her into the apartment, Sarah had an outburst that rendered me rather concerned for her safety. Sarah was her best friend and “minder” as Myra, as I learned that she was named, would occasionally call her when annoyed to a great extent,
*
“I can’t believe you! You told me that you would be careful. And that after I explicitly told you to not fall asleep randomly at any place you happen to be. You’re blind for goodness’ sake!”
“Thanks a lot for the reminder, Sarah,” said Myra rather morosely.
“Well that strange habit of yours would certainly be a lot less worrisome if not for your condition!”
*
Perhaps I felt a certain need to take care of her. After all, surely it was natural for a man to feel a strong need to protect a blind woman. Could it be that beauty conveyed a certain kind of fragility like a delicate flower?
Whatever the reason was, I found myself replacing Sarah’s position whenever I could, leaving Sarah free to pursue her own interests during the weekends, and also giving opportunity for the two of us to grow closer in friendship. And perhaps something more.
*
Travel was an inconvenience for Myra, and most days she preferred to stay at home, listening to music, one of the few forms of entertainment that was easily available to those who were visually impaired. The more time I spent with her, I began to like the things she liked, among them a love for the Blues.
But as we became closer, it became more and more apparent that Myra was a troubled soul. Her blindness was an obvious cause, but I often wondered why I never heard anything about her parents or her family, and one day she confided to me that she had been abandoned at an orphanage from birth, perhaps due to her lack of sight. A combination of the two, I believed led to much emotional scarring. I rarely saw her smile, except while half-asleep, listening to her favourite music playing, her troubles momentarily forgotten.
Her constant demands that she be allowed to travel alone without a human guide or guide dog were false shows of confidence behind which she tried to hide her own insecurities. Her independence was less out of faith in herself than out of fear that those she became close to might one day abandon her.
All the more I sought to protect her and to be her greatest friend. That I could one day open her heart to the world, and if possible, her eyes.
*
Then one fateful day, she was diagnosed with cancer.
I wondered how a single person could be stricken with such great misfortune. Surely there had been some mistake, for why would any benevolent God not show mercy to one already so cursed?
She had one year to live.
During the first few months of this terrible revelation, I came to an understanding. Perhaps it was a relief to be relieved of such a burden. And death is not so terrible a thing if what awaits is a merciful and loving God in paradise.
*
Her only regret, Myra said, was that she never caught a glimpse of the world she had spent her mortal life on.
I urged my car on faster and faster.
The sky was clear, a beautiful azure; and I saw her sightless eyes in it.
We can only accept a cornea from a deceased donor.
I covered my eyes as I swerved my car suddenly to the side.
I hope you enjoy my last gift to you on Earth.
I’ll be waiting for you in heaven.
