The Quiet Revolution: My Journey from the Shadows of “Can’t I?” to “Let’s Roll!” (Even Without Seeing It)

Life, especially in our bustling, team-spirited, and often visually-driven offices in Bengaluru, feels like a perpetual game. A game where everyone’s rolling the dice, strategizing, and making their moves, often with a clear sight of the board. For an introvert like me, it’s often more of a quiet observation from the sidelines, a mental tally of tasks and team dynamics. And then there’s the added layer – the fact that I navigate this world not with my eyes, but with my other senses, my cane, and a healthy dose of intuition. So, the “Can I?” versus “Can’t I?” debate that rages in everyone’s mind often felt like a doubly muted question for me, amplified by the well-meaning whispers of “poor thing” or the often-limiting “just let me do it for you.”
For years, my internal monologue was a strict, overprotective project manager, constantly reminding me of potential blunders. “You want to volunteer for that intricate craft project? Log kya kahenge? (What will people say?) And what if you mess up the pieces, especially when you can’t even see the instructions?” Or, “You want to arrange the materials for everyone? Arre, beta, it’s too fiddly! You might misplace them, or worse, get in someone’s way.” It was a constant negotiation with myself, a mental game of Snakes and Ladders where my inner voice was always landing on a snake. It felt like being offered a chance to lead a team activity, but hesitating to even touch the presentation, not just because I was shy, but also because I worried if I’d miss a visual cue or if someone would judge my unique approach. The emptiness of that “what if” felt far more frustrating than any missed opportunity.
My turning point wasn’t a grand, game-changing move, but a series of small, often surprisingly collaborative, moments during a volunteering activity at the office. We were tasked with making tactile Ludo kits for a local school for blind children. I had a vision for contributing beyond just assembling – I wanted to be involved in the making of the board itself, something I could truly feel and understand independently. My introverted self wanted to simply offer to help with the simpler, more repetitive tasks, to remain in the background. But then, a stronger impulse, a little voice in my mind, nudged me. “You always wanted to create something truly impactful, didn’t you? What’s the worst that can happen? The squares are wonky? The pieces don’t fit perfectly? You’re already ‘blind’ to visual perfection, so what’s the difference?” Encouraged by this audacious thought, and perhaps the comforting hum of the office air conditioning, I decided to take the plunge.
I was, predictably, a bit awkward. I couldn’t cut the cardboard perfectly straight, relying on touch to gauge the edges. I couldn’t draw the lines for the grid; instead, I used string and glue to create raised boundaries for the squares. My counting of the spaces felt slow, as I had to physically trace each one. People paused, some offered to take over (“Bhaiya, let me just draw these lines quickly for you!”), which, while helpful, also highlighted what I couldn’t perceive. But you know what else happened? Krishna, my always-reliable visual interpreter, who usually gets absorbed in troubleshooting code, turned to me with genuine curiosity. “How are you making sure the squares are even?” he asked, his voice intrigued. “Can I help you with the borders? I can tell you if they’re perfectly parallel.” He then proceeded to carefully guide my hand, helping me lay down the string for the boundaries, his voice describing the visual alignment as my fingers felt the placement.
That afternoon, I realized a profound truth: it’s better to act and “mess up” than to avoid and remain a spectator. Failure, especially for someone creating something tangible without sight, isn’t a dead end; it’s more like a crucial sensory guide, a textured map for the next attempt. It’s the universe’s way of saying, “Alright, craftsman, that wasn’t quite the right angle. Try again, but this time, feel the pressure of the glue more evenly, or listen to the subtle shifts in the cardboard as you press down.” It’s the difference between never trying to build anything because you fear precision, and a few wonky edges leading to a deeper understanding of materials and a more confident hand.
Think of it this way: my hands are my primary tools, my mind a sophisticated blueprint reader. If I keep them idle, fearing what they might not achieve perfectly, I’ll never build anything. I’ll just sit there, unproductive, my potential for creation untapped. When I act, even if the result isn’t visually perfect, I’m engaging those tools. I’m gathering tactile information, understanding the resistance of materials, the nuances of different textures. It’s like a chef cooking a new dish without seeing it. A dough that feels too sticky might need more flour. A spice that smells too strong might need less. Without trying, you’ll never know if your creation is a functional masterpiece or a unique, personalized delight.
And when you “fail,” when your squares aren’t perfectly square or your pieces don’t quite stand straight, boy, do you learn. You grow. You evolve. It’s like adding new, valuable textures to your understanding, creating a richer, more robust skill set. That initially awkward Ludo-making attempt led to Krishna, and then others, joining in. My colleagues, initially hesitant, became an impromptu assembly line. Someone started helping me find different textured materials for the pieces, describing their shapes and weights as I felt them. Another colleague helped me find a textured fabric for the board itself, checking its smoothness. Each perceived “mess up” was a collaborative opportunity, a chance for others to lend their skills and for me to refine my methods. We didn’t just make a Ludo set; we created a shared experience, a tactile testament to collective effort and inclusion. The entire team rallied, turning a personal challenge into a truly accessible Ludo kit for the children.
So, the next time that “Can I?” vs. “Can’t I?” dilemma surfaces in your office, remember this: the fear of imperfection, of doing things differently, is a fragile barrier, easily overcome with a single, brave move, especially if that move is guided by touch and a spirit of joyful experimentation. Don’t be that person who regrets not rolling the dice on a new project. Don’t be the one who whispers “someone else can do it better” when the opportunity to contribute arises, especially when your unique senses are itching to make an impact. Take that leap, even if it feels like stepping onto an unfamiliar board. Because in the grand, vibrant, and often visually-centric game of corporate life, the most enjoyable plays are often those that are felt, shaped, and experienced in ways that go beyond mere sight. As they say in Bengaluru, “Prayatna maadre, yella maadbahudu!” (If you try, you can do anything!), even if that “doing” involves making a Ludo board for the blind, one confident, if sometimes fumbling, tactical move at a time. And that, my friends, is a game worth playing.