“I feel sorry for you,” my Uber driver said in a soft tone.

I was commuting home a few years ago and taken aback at this declaration. But, I was not surprised. As a visually impaired person, this is one of the many things I struggle to understand about sighted people — their urge to say and feel sorry for no reason.

“I’m living the dream, in a fulfilling job with plenty of family and friends, why are you sorry?” I thought in my head. Instead, I said, “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

But dear reader, here’s the thing, I’m increasingly not sorry.

So today, I’d like to let off some steam. Let go of the obligation to be patient as a person with disability, and talk about what I call Sighted People Problems. Or, things that sighted people say to me.

First, let’s talk about strangers who don’t know me. I’ve recently realised that my patience level with such folks is plummeting as I get older. And as a visually challenged person in India, patience with strangers becomes critical to maintaining your sanity.

Strangers are scared of me. As if I’m a Humboldt Penguin recently liberated from the Mumbai zoo, and somehow alive in our beautiful tropical climate. So, whenever I am out with any person, like any self-respecting exotic species, I get stared at. A lot. Strangers look at me as if they’ve never seen a fully-grown, adult, visually impaired person living their life before.

Unfortunately, most of them likely never have.

The friend accompanying me always gives them dirty looks. But all the natural penguin habitats on Earth will probably melt away before people stop staring.

When the situation demands that I interact with strangers, it becomes obvious that they’d…rather not. Like when waiters at restaurants ask friends or family, “so, what will he have?” As if they expect me to have unsalted French fries and ask for a high chair. God forbid, I order beer.

Sometimes, avoidance becomes reverence with strangers. Not for me, but for those assisting me! Before a recent early morning flight, when my airline assistant found me a seat at the gate, the person sitting next to me thanked him profusely. 

“You are doing god’s own work, my boy,” he gushed as the staff member accepted the praise.

“He’s just doing his job,” I grumbled in my sleep-deprived state.

Would the person sitting next to me say the same to the airline staffer scanning boarding passes or the pilot flying the aircraft? I don’t think so. So, why is it that someone doing their job which happens to involve me, becomes a divine servant of God?

But what about when I travel alone? Surely, things are better. You would assume so, but spoiler alert: not by a long shot.

When I am out by myself, strangers don’t think twice before invading my space, grabbing me, and asking me questions that people who’ve known me for years shy away from. The most common one is — “where do you need to go?” “Honestly dear stranger, none of your business,” is what I want to say. But my standard response is, “I can get wherever I need to go, thanks.” To no one's surprise, that seldom seems to have an effect.

Instead of giving me useful information, folks on the street routinely assume where I need to go, and give me directions that I didn’t ask for. The most popular one? “STOP!” As if a rift to the upside-down just materialised in front of me. Which, if that did happen, the five-foot long piece of graphite and aluminum in my right hand, my cane, would let me avoid it.

Verbal assaults are one thing, but I really lose my cool when things get physical. 

Grabbing arms and elbows are pretty much a daily occurrence. So called concerned good Samaritans have literally chased me down a road, grabbed me by my shoulders, and used their bodies to block me. All to help. 

Last time I checked, touching random people going about their business is a punishable offence. So why should it be any different for people with disabilities? 

I don’t understand these people’s urges to be helpful, even though most of the time, they are being the exact opposite. It feels like nothing is off the table for them. I was at a friend’s wedding recently where an uncle of his wanted me to meet another of his cousins, who is an ophthalmologist. I politely told him, I’m good. The last thing I needed at a buddy’s wedding was intrusive questions and medical advice. But being the nice Indian uncle he is, he pointed me out to the ophthalmologist cousin anyway. Who tracked me down, and without preamble, launched into his questions.

“Is this retinal detachment?” he asked as if he was just itching to whip out his instruments, and begin surgery right there, next to the live dosa counter. When I choked out a noncommittal response, smiled, and walked away with my friends, he still didn’t give up. He chased one of them down and gave him the speech that was reserved for me.

It seems no one can deny these good Samaritans the satisfaction.

To be honest, I feel guilty after these interactions. Most of the time, the intentions of people are well-meaning. It’s just that they’ve been conditioned by society. About how helpless we are, how we always struggle and how their benevolence — however little or thoughtless — will make a measurable difference in our lives. I increasingly get the urge to give them a piece of my mind; but obviously snapping at strangers accomplishes nothing. What would happen is, I’d just end up feeling worse about myself afterwards. So, here below, dear sighted people, is a quick primer.

Do I need help from time to time? Absolutely. But only when I ask.

Does there need to be physical contact to help? No. I appreciate specific information and direction.

If I need to be physically guided, I’ll be the one doing the grabbing. Only someone’s elbow, and after checking with them that it’s okay to do so.

For those of us wanting to take initiative, the best way to help is by contributing resources and time to volunteer, sensitise and build accessibility — instead of sporadic acts of forced kindness.

Ultimately what we all want is inclusion. And while infrastructure and technology can be upgraded, people’s mindsets are what need to change. If you ask me, what inclusion looks like, my answer would be a simple starting point.

Being able to go about my day like anyone else.