‘Love transcends language’: Kashmir’s silent village

Dadkhai, Jammu and Kashmir, India - Dressed in their finest shalwar-kameez and sporting well-trimmed moustaches, a group of men deliberate over the terms of a dowry, as the women prepare halwa with dried fruit and a pot of traditional, salty Kashmiri tea, in the adjacent kitchen.

In the modest home of Muhammad Sharief in Dadhkai, a tiny community nestled high in the Himalayan mountains, the two families have gathered to plan the upcoming marriage of Reshma Sharief, 19, and Mukhtar Ahmed, 22.

Muhammad Sharief, 40, the father of the bride, waits patiently as the men continue their discussions. They ultimately agree upon a dowry of $1,200 in cash, plus a few gold ornaments. The elder men murmur prayers as sweet treats are brought out from the kitchen. The home’s rough-cut wooden roof, mud floor and bright walls, coloured in pink and green, hum with the sounds of celebration.

But while the two families have followed all the customary nuptial rules, this marriage will be far from ordinary: Both the bride and groom, like dozens of others in their village, are deaf-mute.

The condition has spanned generations of Dadhkai since the first case was recorded more than a century ago. Whenever a marriage takes place, thoughts inevitably turn towards the day the new couple has children. Even when the parents are not deaf-mute, there is always a fear that their children will be.

“We confront this fear with unwavering faith, bravely pushing it back into the shadows,” says Muhammad Hanief, the village head attending the festivities at the Sharief household.

Throughout the celebration, the bride-to-be remains in the kitchen, adhering to the traditional conservative values of her Gujjar ethnic group. Her fiance attends to the guests, helping to serve food as family members offer their congratulations.

Outside in the courtyard, villager Alam Hussain, an elderly man with a white beard, deep wrinkles and a skinny build, quietly tends to a herd of cattle. At 63, he is among the oldest deaf-mute people in the village, and the only one in his family with the condition.

“I don’t remember how many deaf-mute people there were during my childhood; memory betrays me in my old age,” Hussain says, pointing an index figure to his head while shaking his other hand in the air, conveying his struggle with memory loss.

He communicates through a sign-language interpreter: his neighbour, Shah Muhammad, who treats Hussain with respect and deference, pointing to the high esteem in which elders in this community are held.

But Hussain, who is unmarried, spends much of his time alone. The only work he finds is in the summer, when he takes cattle out to graze. In the past, he says, it was particularly challenging for deaf-mute villagers to find a partner. As the number of people unable to hear or speak has grown over the years, the social landscape in Dadhkai has shifted.

How it all began

Located in the mountainous Doda district of the Jammu and Kashmir region that is claimed by both India and Pakistan, the village of Dadhkai is about 280 kilometres (174 miles) from Srinagar, the capital of Indian-administered Kashmir. It stands as one of the most remote villages in the area, surrounded by Himalayan peaks.

The temperatures are cold, the air is dry and the winters bring heavy snowfall. The village is home to about 2,500 people across 300 families. Most are Muslim Gujjars, a semi-nomadic people scattered across India, Pakistan and Afghanistan. Many earn their living through agriculture or animal husbandry.

The first known case of a deaf-mute person in Dadhkai was recorded in 1901, according to Hanief, when villager Faeji Gujjar’s son was born without the ability to hear or speak. Over time, the condition spread: In 1990, a total of 43 people in the village were reported as deaf-mute; by 2007, that number had grown to 79; and as of last year, it stood at 83, according to village records, although there is no data on how the total population changed in that timeframe. The oldest deaf-mute villager is around 70, while the youngest was born in 2019. Most are women.

According to Hanief, by the late 20th century, mixed marriages involving deaf and hearing spouses had become common. It is possible for the condition to be passed down to children, even when both parents can hear and speak.

In an attempt to understand this growing phenomenon, genetic tests were conducted on villagers as part of a study published in 2017 by the Indian Journal of Medical Research. The results showed a high incidence of a genetic mutation leading to a deficit in a protein called otoferlin, which is known to contribute to hearing loss.

A separate study published in 2012 by the Indian Journal of Human Genetics suggested that inbreeding in the small community has led to the swift spread of the condition across generations. Muslim Gujjars practise endogamy, which refers to the custom of marrying only within the limits of the local tribe.

External fascination with the village has lasted for decades, as dozens of researchers and doctors have flocked to Dadhkai.

“Initially glad of the interest, villagers have grown resentful of the intrusion,” says Bashir Ahmed, who has three deaf-mute daughters among his seven children. “Initially, they [deaf-mute people] used to volunteer for blood samples, but now they are fed up with giving blood multiple times.”

From the road at the foothills of Dadhkai, it takes about four hours of hiking up into the mountains to reach Ahmed’s house. Throughout the village, trodden grass trails form permanent navigation routes. It was only in 2020 that the village was connected by road; until then, people had to walk for approximately seven kilometres (four miles) after descending the mountain to reach drivable roads.

Ahmed’s home is one of the hundreds of scattered dwellings that collectively constitute Dadhkai. Next to a mulberry tree, his tiny house is built with mud and stones. Inside, women bake chapatis for lunch.

Among his deaf-mute daughters, Aisha Bano, 23, is the oldest. Instead of formal schooling, she has learned to knit from her sister-in-law, and spends her days crafting socks, gloves and sweaters.

Ahmed wanted to give all of his children a formal education, but the closest school catering to deaf-mute people is more than 200km (124 miles) away in Jammu City, he says, “If there were a sign-language school in the village, the situation would have been different for them.”

Ahmed communicates with his deaf-mute daughters using signs. When talking with his son, his tone is firmly authoritative; but with his daughters, his expression softens.

Bano explains how she deals with visits from strangers, if there are no male family members at home: “When my bearded man [father] returns, then you can visit,” she explains in a series of gestures, stroking an imaginary beard as her father laughs.

A language of gestures

Over the decades, villagers in Dadhkai have developed their own unique sign language, which is universally understood by all who live here. Each gesture carries a distinct meaning.

To indicate “woman”, for example, one would point to the side of the nose, aligning with the Gujjar tradition of women piercing their noses and wearing decorative studs. Stroking the beard signifies “man” or “father”, depending on the context of the conversation.

When asking for a photograph, one would draw a frame in the air with the index fingers. The universal hand gesture for “beauty” involves a gesture that connects the tips of the index finger and thumb.

To inquire about marital status, a man would point to the side of his nose (meaning “woman”) and wave a hand (indicating a query): “Are you married?” For the word “vehicle”: a one-handed zigzagging motion in the air mimics a child playing with toy cars.

At just four years old, Uthman Shafi is the youngest of the deaf-mute children in the village. Born to parents who are both able to hear and speak, he’s mischievous - he loves to play outside, and is eager to complain if anyone upsets him. He appears unbothered by the absence of language and speaking abilities. He finds happiness in his toys, candies and in playing with friends.

Uthman is the only deaf-mute member of his immediate family - his parents, Shameem Kounsar, 26, and Muhammad Shafi, 29, can speak and hear, but they lost an older child who was born deaf-mute and later died after a brief illness. Uthman's older sister is not deaf-mute.

Uthman's mother uses the family's one picture book to teach him the correct gestures for every word and image he sees, forming different signs to represent animals and birds. But the absence of a formal sign-language school casts a shadow over his future, Kounsar worries.

“As there are no opportunities for education, maybe he will learn [a trade such as] tailoring,” she says.

Deaf-mute children require extra care and support, but that can be a challenge for villagers with few resources. In Uthman's case, his older sister helps him to learn gestures, but with their father rarely home because he works outside of the village, much of the responsibility lies with Kounsar. Anytime Uthman goes out to play, she keeps an extremely close eye on him - he is not shy, always eager to join the other children outdoors.

Across the village, people have learned how to provide these types of additional support for those who need them. When a deaf-mute villager takes a trip to the market, the common practice is that they are accompanied by another villager who holds their hand tightly.

“Our disabled children can’t hear what is happening around, or if there is a call for danger,” Ahmed explains.

'They accept solitude as their fate'

Hanief, the village head, recalls an incident several years ago, in which his own deaf-mute son, Ahmed, who is now 20, fled from their rented room during a trip to Jammu city for a medical checkup. This had become a bit of a pattern, with the young man often running away from home for days, wandering in the forest and sleeping under trees.

Hanief looked everywhere for his son across Jammu city - from shops to cinemas to bus stations - but after days without any sighting, he filed a police report. He also told a local religious leader about the incident and asked for guidance. The reply comforted him: “After how much time Jacob found his lost son Joseph, and you are growing impatient just after a few days?”

The religious leader assured him of his son’s return, and sure enough, in a matter of days, Hanief received a phone call from a newspaper editor, who had picked up on the story after Hanief gave public notice of his son’s disappearance: “We have found your son, and he is with the police,” the editor told him. Early the next morning, Hanief reunited with his son, embracing him and kissing his forehead.

“The deaf-mute person’s life becomes challenging if he or she remains unmarried, leading to the sense of dependence and loneliness,” Hanief says, noting many have learned to “accept solitude as their fate and continue to live as spectators in the journey of life, without a companion”. Of his three biological sons, two are deaf-mute; Ahmed is the only one who remains single. Hanief also has two daughters with the condition.

This was certainly the case for sisters Maryam and Khadija who are in their 50s. They live in the stone-and-mud house they grew up in along with one of their brothers, his wife and their children. Both the sisters are deaf-mute as is one of their nieces, Zainab, who is 15.

Like others in the village, they spend their summers grazing cattle and most of their spare time on household chores - they are not physically disabled in any way, unlike Zainab who is physically very weak and needs more care.

Summer, they gesture, is their favourite time of the year when they can roam the upper reaches of the mountains and take the cattle to the forests.

Last summer, however, disaster struck. The winds were unusually strong and damaged the roof of the house and then their younger sister, Malaika, who was 40 and also deaf-mute, died. She is buried up in the hills near where she spent happy times in the grazing fields.

The sisters are dressed in old, ragged clothes - there is little money to spare after the cost of the roof repairs - but gesture that they are happy to live with their brother. They love to relive memories of growing up in the house and learning how to make chapattis with their mother. They couldn't go to school, but they were happy, they say with sign language.

The sisters laugh loudly as they sign memories to each other so fast it is hard to keep up with their conversation.

They say they never feel alone - whenever they feel like sharing some news, they walk an hour and a half along the narrow trails that wind up the mountain to visit their friend, Aisha Banu.

Khadija says life can be tough. She gestures in sign language as her nephew's wife, Mubeen Fatima, 20, translates. "God didn't give us words - we were born like this, empty."

But Maryam jumps in. "God keeps us and we are happy with it," she concludes.

For deaf-mute people in Dadhkai, getting married today is easier than it was in the past. With the number of deaf-mute villagers continuing to grow, residents have increasingly pursued cross-marriage between afflicted and unaffected residents, Hanief says.

In many cases where one parent is deaf-mute and the other can hear and speak, they produce a child without the condition, he notes. It is now common for deaf-mute people in Dadhkai to marry people who do not have the condition, as efforts by village elders to lift the associated stigma have proven successful.

With a higher number of deaf-mute women than men, the initial challenge was to convince men to accept deaf-mute brides - so the village elders led by example, Hanief says. Two of his own deaf-mute children, one daughter and one son, have married partners who can speak and hear, and none of their children have been born deaf-mute.

In the case of Reshma Sharief and Mukhtar Ahmed, whose marriage has just been fixed, the fact that both spouses are deaf-mute is a source of some anxiety - but there is also hope, Hanief says, “because there have been instances in the village where both parents were deaf-mute but the child [was not].”

'We can tell within three days of a birth'

In India and Pakistan, it is common for expectant parents to pray for a boy - a hangover from times when girls were not expected to earn a living, and could be seen as a liability for poor families. But in Dadhkai, expecting parents pray for a child who is not deaf or mute, hoping to avoid the associated challenges. Deaf-mute children are more likely to remain dependent on their families, they cannot attend regular school, and their job prospects are limited.

The physical development of children born deaf-mute can often be delayed as well, meaning they are sometimes much smaller than children the same age.

The fear and stigma surrounding this condition are so great that “outsiders won’t marry into Dadhkai families at all, even if the prospective bride or groom is normal and healthy”, Hanief says.

The village lacks a proper hospital, traditionally relying on midwives to deliver babies. Before the main road was connected to the village in 2020, there were instances in which women in labour had to be carried down the mountain on cots, and then taken for kilometres to reach drivable roads, before they could reach a hospital.

Doctors at a hospital in the nearby village of Gandoh say the condition of deaf-mutism cannot be confirmed until the child is around two years of age, by which time most children can speak. To determine deafness, “once it is observed that the newborn is not responding, it means the child is unable to hear. For that ,there must be advanced medical screening," says Mudasir Ul Islam, a Srinagar-based doctor.

But villagers in Dadhkai believe they have developed their own unique way of determining almost immediately whether a newborn will be deaf-mute. They say it becomes clear within three days of birth, when a prayer is recited in the baby’s ear. “If the baby is unafflicted, he or she will open their eyes, let out a weak cry, and drink milk,” says village pharmacist Ghulam Nabi, adding that deaf-mute babies do not display the same behaviour.

Although there is no clear basis for this belief, villagers say it has always been a reliable method of determining which babies would grow up deaf and mute.

“There have been cases when staff in the hospital didn’t have any clue about the newborn’s deaf-mute condition; we confirmed it in our village,” Nabi says.

Life outside Dadhkai

Outside, under the noontime sun, cattle graze on wild grass in a village courtyard, as a group of children play a game of hide-and-seek. A young woman, Pyaro Banu, who is 20, is carrying two babies, one bouncing at her hip and the other snug in a pouch on her back.

She says her family was among dozens who fled Dadhkai to escape violence from armed groups in the mid-2000s, eventually settling in Punjab, India. Today, she has returned for a visit after a six-month absence.

Her former neighbour, Farooq Ahmed, also migrated to Punjab with his family in 2005, but he often returns and spends weeks wandering the village, engaging in sign-language conversations with neighbours.

Ahmed and two of his five brothers are themselves deaf-mute. He has returned to Dadkhai to visit his friend, Reham Ali, also deaf-mute, who is married with children.

Ahmed says that living outside the village has allowed him to develop skills that aid him in his daily life. He travels alone on a motorcycle from Punjab, using Google Maps for navigation, and communicates with his family via video calls.

While riding his motorcycle, he frequently checks his side mirrors, as he cannot hear horns or other sound signals.

“If I need to refill petrol or eat food while travelling, I show the person simple gestures and get things I need,” says Ahmed, speaking through a sign-language interpreter. “Most of the time, I remain tightlipped, not trying to initiate long conversations, as it gets difficult for other people to understand our gestures.”

Punjab is easier to navigate than Dadhkai, he says, because “we don’t have to ascend or descend mountains for errands. There are infrastructure and opportunities, compared to Dadhkai village, where people only do cattle business.”

Ahmed shows a picture of the woman he loves back in his community in Punjab, but asks that it be kept a secret from others in the village.

“Love transcends language; silence is more beautiful, and words can sometimes dilute feelings,” he says, placing a single index finger on his lips. “It is the heart-to-heart connection that is important.”