LAHORE: Some 20 to 25 people are standing in small groups outside the Yhaqoo Hotel on Temple Road, Mozang, on Saturday night. They are all talking to each other, but there is no sound. They have occupied an almost 20-metre-long stretch of the roadside on which are parked motorcycles, some of them owned by those standing around here. A couple of seniors have appropriated a wooden bench while others stand — their language being communicated through the hands, sign language. Passers-by can’t understand a word, but they certainly pick up on the exuberance. The traffic on the road, meanwhile, slows down here: there is a curve, true, but gawkers are more interested in the deaf people. The spot is known in the area.

A group I approach is comprised of older men, one of whom is Hasan Ali. After confirming that I am really a journalist — I write it on paper and he scans my job-related identity card — he writes down his name and his age: 54. A resident of Gulberg II, Ali has a small-time job with a private bank. He writes that he has been coming to Yhaqoo Hotel for the past 13 years, never missing a Saturday. He comes to converse out with his friends, and calling it their Chai Club, or tea house, he says that they talk about every topic under the sun but politics is the favourite subject. Not every deaf person in this group can use sign language, though. When asked to engage a bearded old man in conversation, Ali tells me that the senior citizen does not know sign language or how to write.

The epithet of hotel with Yhaqoo should not mislead: it consists of only one small room that can accommodate no more than eight or nine people on three wooden benches placed along the walls, surrounding a table. Only one person can move through the entrance as the rest of the area is occupied by a young man making and pouring tea. A couple of benches are placed on the footpath. That’s why most of these differently abled people are found standing outside. Their interest is not in having comfortable chairs or furniture, but in camaraderie and of course the strong tea, the taste of which has not changed over the years.

Lost in conversation, a group of four men pay attention to me only when they notice my camera. They open up once they have confirmed my identity. Short written queries glean the information that I am meeting Waseem, Malik, Irfan and Saeed — who refer to themselves as ‘Team Deaf’. Waseem communicates on behalf of the others. Through brief notes and signs, he tells me that he runs a business and comes here on his motorbike to meet friends. Saeed depends on agricultural land for his livelihood.

Two deaf transgender persons, Khalida and Irfan, also frequent the place. They take a bench on the other side of the corner of the hotel, away from the rush, with four or five other persons. They don’t know proper sign language. Shahzaib Khan, whose ancestral home is on Temple Road and who is sitting with the group, communicates on their behalf.

“I was born in this area and grew up here,” says Khan. “I have been witnessing this gathering of the deaf here since I was a little child and I have been seeing Khalida here for the last 22 years. Khalida can read and write. Among these deaf and mute people, many are highly qualified and all of them work to earn their livelihood.” He adds that since he has spent so much time with this community, he can understand what they say.

As this exchange takes place, two men wrapped in warm shawls draw closer. Neither can read or write. They show their national identity cards to offer their names and addresses: Mohammad Khalid and Mohammad Rafique, residents of a village of the Jaranwala tehsil of Faisalabad. The former looks about 50 while the latter is perhaps half his age. They work as daily wage earners and have no proper place to sleep, they say through an intermediary.

Manzoor Ahmed is the eldest of the relatively young waiters at the hotel. A resident of Theng Morr near Kasur, he is well known to the regular customers. Talking about the hotel and the gathering of special persons, he says: “This hotel was set up by two brothers, Yaqoob (Yhaqoo) and Hameed, around 1947. I started working here in 1971 when I was a little boy — next year, I’ll turn 60. My family still lives at our native home. Yhaqoo passed away many years ago, and now his grandsons run this place.”

Manzoor says nobody knows about the area and the place better than him. Talking about the deaf, he says that, “They started gathering here in the late 1970s or early 1980s. Most of the old ones have died. These men are all from the younger generation. On weekends, mostly Saturdays, they start gathering at around 10pm and stay till around 1am.”

Published in Dawn, February 10th, 2017