Pugli

Another afternoon at Sealdah train station. Strange as very very slowly I am building some sort of relationship with the people I am working with and those who I meet every day. With Deepta and Muhammad (the local staff) I am learning a lot – how to cross roads for one, but also the 'Indian Way' of communicating – or not. For example....

Deepta was intent on doing some hair cutting today, as many of the participants have long hair and beards, matted with dirt and no doubt host to a variety of insects. I had brought a pair of scissors as she had requested but after failing to even cut one dread from one of the guys head, she was unimpressed. However, on another platform there were Raju and Niraj who we always find in exactly the same place. The two guys look very similar, and I can imagine are actually quite handsome under the mass of hair and baggy clothes. Maybe its partly because they have such life in their eyes, and always greet us with a 'Namaste' of raised hands in front of their chests. Its a small act of communication, but for me as a very self-conscious 'outsider' it makes a big difference. Muhammad washed their hands and I began to open up the food packets and before either of the men were any the wiser Deepta attacked a head of hair. This time the scissors didn't have such a battle, and before long, lush black curls were falling away from Raju's head. Now my immediate response was, “Deepta! You didn't ask him!” But she continued anyway, and there was no reaction from the Raju, who seemed to be squatting in a stunned silence watching his pillow fall away from his head. Eventually he began to tidy up the curls, picking them up and placing them in our rubbish bag, while Deepta's fingers worked quickly to reveal his scalp and large infected lumps caused by lice or scabies. Niraj was saved from Deepta's novice hairdressing skills, as unfortunately, one of the main reasons why we are so quick distributing the food is because of the massive audience which we can quickly collect. It seems to be that if you do anything in Kolkata from rummaging inside your bag for a pen, to crouching down to talk to a street child, you have a generous ten and fifteen seconds before passers by have stopped to observe. For the self-respect of those on the food program it can't be pleasent having an audience every lunch time, so we wash hands, open up food boxes, check everything is ok and then walk on. That is of course unless Deepta decides to open up a hair-dressing salon on the way. We picked up our remaining bags of food and walked down the platform. I turned around to see Raju reach his hand up to his naked head and begin to stroke the shaved lumpy scalp. The audience around him silently moved on, and Niraj continued to eat his hot food.

Our next stop was in the main part of the station, ironically next to the 'Women's Help Desk', which is randomly staffed by two be-spectacled ladies reading newspapers. We feed Laura and Sarah every day, and every day they are sitting on the same benches – but not the same bench. The two old women must have lived in the station for years, as they have been on the food program since its conception, and already appeared to have a 'seat' on the benches firmly established. Apparently neither ever smiles, with one being particularly miserable and only asking why we don't give her our 'nice bags' (by which she is referring to the plastic weaved bags which we carry the food boxes in). The ladies used to be friends, sharing the same bench, until one day they argued and since then, one moved, and their parallel lives continued in silence.

We walked outside of the station to find 'Pugli' – a younger women who has also been on the food program for some time. Today was the first time which I have seen her moving, as usually she just lays in the sun, and we have to pick her up, hold her hands out to wash them, and then open up her lunch box, leaving it in front of her hoping that she will eat it. Today however, she was holding a smashed watermelon which she had managed to save from the rubbish. Deepta asked her to sit down, so she did – in a soggy muddy patch of pavement. Today another female worker new to the program asked her in Hindi what her name was. There was no reply from Pugli, as there never is. So I ventured, my own response that her name was 'Pugli' which is what Deepta and Mohammad always affectionately refer to her as.

“'Pugli' means 'crazy'” the new worker told me.

We had fed all the participants on the program apart from one new women. She had been found yesterday, laying in the sun, and too weak to even feed herself. Today she had disappeared. However, there are no shortage of hungry people, and we walked by looking for someone 'suitable' to give the box too. On the main road just outside of the station, there was a old lady. Naked apart from a pair of lose trousers. She was lying underneath a bus shelter as crowds of people walked around her (but never stepping over her). Mohammad asked her if she would like some food, and she sat up in a way of passive agreement. Her hands were washed and water bottle filled, and then we walked away, leaving her looking at a cardboard box of rice, daal, fish and chapati.

What has really had an impact on me today is how little control people on the edges of 'society' have over their 'self'. When they eat, what they eat, where they lay, if they have a head full of hair offering a little padding against their bed of concrete, or a head full of lice. And in Pugli's case, what help is available for her? For a young women who appears to have no will to do anything. Could we force her to go into a home for the drug addicted if it was against her will? What right would we have to move her against her will? Is there even a NGO which would accept her free of charge? Alternatively, what right to we have to walk by and watch her be abused, name her 'crazy' and then wait until she surely is?

The options for the men at the station seem even more futile. And what about Raju and Niraj? How much longer will they remain at the station. Being fed every day, but having little other option of finding help or rehabilitation – rehabilitation back into society. A society where they have a sense of self, and control over their own body. Where they can communicate through words, rather than being a spectacle to be stared at, if they are 'seen' at all .

I haven't been feeling so good today. I fainted this afternoon. Maybe just dehydration. Maybe its just to hot. For those of you how know me, you'll just say its an occupational hazard of being 'Bex'. Either way, I know that I have to somehow justify why I am now sitting in Barista coffee shop rather than my room (which doubles as a sauna during the day). Barista is about ten minutes walk away, and maybe about thirty minutes by foot from Sealdah train station. I am sitting in air conditioning, drinking a cup of chai which has cost me 50 rupees (ten times as much as one which I could buy from chai man). Feeling helpless and feeling a strong sense of admiration for those who continue to work and yet are not overwhelmed.

Food Politics

As a child I remember my mother trying to coax me to finish my unwanted dinner by reminding me of all the starving children in Ethiopia. The response of a six year old was to refuse to eat at all: “please send my food” I would ask. Now I eat and give thanks. Not to any man in the sky, but to my fortune. Based on nothing but birth and privilege. Built upon exploitation and racism. I give thanks that I have a choice. A choice to look dirty because my clothes are unimportant to me. I can buy new ones. No one will judge me from my material appearance – only from my “Fair and Lovely” skin and my “Barbie hair.” I choice to eat – not based on money but based on appetite. And now even a choice of whether I help someone else eat or not, not by sending left over food to television images, but by literary handing boxes of rice and curry. I have no idea what image, feelings of emotions these words are creating within you, but for me already I am feeling the humility of this work which I am trying to describe.

Bending down to take off the elastic bands wrapped around each food package, to empty the individual plastic bags onto the bed of white rice. Taking a few seconds as always to wonder that perhaps they didn't want their lentils mixed into their fish? Feeling a sense of dread and guilt if I spill some daal onto the inanimate pavement. Feeling incredibly humble as I pass over the boxes into wet hands, or place it onto the ground. And then moving on. No time to talk, just a few seconds to check that Niraj's fever has not grown worse since yesterday lunch time. And if we are delayed by trying to pull Pugli up and sit her in front of the little cardboard package, wash her hands while she stares through us to some place far beyond, within minutes she has dozens of pairs of eyes staring down at her.

And it is this guaranteed curiosity from which continues to both amaze and frustrate me. I still see taxis stopping in the middle of the road, windows wound down, drivers' ear pricked, just to overhear random street conversations. Groups of men will arbitrarily form, watching and listening to no-one in particular. And the homeless are not exempt. Every lunch time seems to be like “feeding time at the Zoo.” In fact, we regularly have people urgently calling us over and then to ask “What are you doing?” It is indeed a fine line between making a public statement – interacting with the destitute – and turning them into public spectacles. Attention can all to often be most unwelcome when it can be from the authorities, who in previous years have come down incredibly harshly on the homeless living in the train stations. One of the less violent techniques was the construction of a carpark outside of Sealdah station to try and 'clean' it up, although I don't think it has worked.

This is anther risk of using volunteers; although we can draw attention to the need to act, we can also embarrass the authorities. This may cause them to crack down on the extended presence of tourists in the train station or alternatively push out the homeless (although I have no idea where they could go, the streets already seem full). Some of Kolkata's largest charities actually attempt to carry out their work in the stations silently, with the volunteers asked not to talk about their work. Now with packs of very 'visible' foreigners walking around with bags of food seems a little too ambitious. However, it is certainly true that the few programs running at the train stations offer some sustenance/ hope to those with nothing. I know of one old man who was found recently, with sticks for arms and a skin bag for a body, with the only form of identification on him being a slip from Kolkata Medical College. At least those who had dismissed him had the foresight to deposit him where he might be transported to the Mother House and receive 'free' 'care' if not medical care. But this isn't the case for all – other old men, the mad, the drug addicted and far too many young men seem to have little alternatives.

Out of the fifteen people on the Food Program four are women and eleven men. Now I have typed and deleted and typed again, but I have no idea how to describe these fifteen people without using labels such as 'old' 'mentally unstable' 'disabled' or judgmental observations such as 'surprisingly clean/ polite/ happy'. But basically the poorest and sickest of the poor seem to be either the oldest or young men such as Niraj, Raju and Ramu; all of whom seem to have no apparent physical or mental disability but appear to be 'institutionalized' into destitution after years of living at Sealdah station.

Before I came came to Thailand I spent a few days with a close friend of mine. A cyclist who was touring around Asia raising money and awareness of the lack of help for mentally unstable young men in the UK. My friend is young and brave and with a combination of personal determination and external support he has managed to fight years of depression to turn his life around. Now think of India. Full of children growing up on the streets. Living next to abuse, addictions, mutilation. Children with physical 'imperfections' which cast them out of society. Or those already born as outcasts – the Dalit community or the 'untouchables', the tribals or the lower castes. Throw into the mix some unemployment, poverty, illness, disease and soon the question of why there are so many young men of the streets suddenly doesn't seem so obvious. Add a degree of mental trauma or instability and the perhaps the participants of the food program no longer appear as outcasts, but as survivors – men who are still sane despite all the daily challenges around them; Men who still take pride in their appearance. Who still wash their hair, hands and clothes, and for who the provision of one small box of food every lunch time may be enough to sustain or even improve their physical or mental health just enough to continue to live.

I don't know exactly why but I am finding my experience of the Food Program hard to express. Perhaps because the provision of food holds connotations of power, luxury, choice and survival. Perhaps because I don't feel I have the right to 'describe' the people I have the briefest interaction with every day.

Red Light? New Light!

I am sitting in the office of an absolutely incredible women. My lap top is perched on the edge of her desk, there is a small child with a squeaky toy underneath. The toy (a green plastic pineapple) actually functions as a bell, which the incredible women will use if she needs to get the attention of one of her staff. This is because she is the busiest women I have yet to meet in India. And this is quite a statement as women in India are all pretty busy. Although once I did walk into her office to find her laying on the stone floor. She sat up, brushed her hair from her head, complained about the afternoon heat, and then motioned for me to join her, “Bex do you mind? Its too hot for chairs.” Air conditioning is not an option for a women who gave up her former job in social policy development for real hands on grass-roots change. She applies this duality to all of her actions – well educated, impassioned and with so much energy she dances with being overwhelming, but ultimately, she uses this power to achieve her dreams. And even these she argues, are “shared dreams”.

She is Urmi Basu, a self-divorced Bengali women who choose her passions and her convictions over a traditional family life. Her twenty year old son, is the only indicator of her age, because her energy and drive is surely from a women much younger in years. She performs miracles which she denies. She transforms lives, although insists her role is merely a 'facilitator'. If anyone in Kolkata is on their way to sainthood, then Urmi is surely in the running:

Urmi is founder and director of New Light; a creche-cum night shelter which with the help of her fellow 'dreamers' she established seven years ago in Kolkata's Kalighat district. The center is easily reached by following a series of local famous landmarks – first there is the massive Kali Temple in the heart of the pedestrianized market area, second there is the famous Mother Teresa House, Kalighat, home for the Dying and Destitute. From here take a right onto a street covered in chai stalls, puga stalls and flower garlands, and on the left you will find an unusual amount of young women, standing or sitting, all wearing bright colours, beautiful saris, kohl decorated eyes, bindis, gold earrings and bracelets and smelling of fresh perfume. Walk through the young women into a small alleyway, lined with small 'chicken hut' like rooms, with wire windows in front of tiny beds, and past the loose dirty curtains hanging down to indicate whether or not business is in progress. From here you can ask any old man, women or child where 'New Light' is and you will be directed into a tiny courtyard full of piles of washing. Follow the small stone stair case up to a converted roof top and you will find yourself face to face with brightly painted murals, piles of tiny shoes, and a hive of happiness - Welcome to New Light – quite literally a 'bright light' in the heart of the Kolkata's oldest red-light district.

Urmi founded New Light to provide a service which simply did not exist – to provide a care centre for the children who have no other family members to care for them while their mothers are servicing clients. It has since evolved according to need and now its functions far beyond that of creche, providing a safe haven for children to come and study, play or socialise after school hours (aka mothers working hours); open more hours than there are in a day, and more days then there are in a week, New Light never closes. In the past seven years it has provided shelter to several hundreds of children, and currently has 132 under its supervision. It employs four teachers to provide remedial classes for the children, many of whom have been denied the right to education or have only received intermittent schooling. For those who have had no experience with the formal education system, this special attention helps to bring the children up to standard.

I want all of these children to have the very best of education. If my son wants to go to university to study law then I want these children to be able to make that same choice.

Urmi is busy explaining to some Spanish visitors what will happen once the children at New Light reach the age of 18; basically she will not accept just 'providing' but at 'improving' and 'facilitating' until even the poorest children have the ability to realise their Rights. Bright children are encouraged to apply for private schools; New Lights teachers provide extra tuition, and New Light provides financial sponsorship. I listen as Urmi explains that she wants to continue to provide this support after the children have left the center. She is not into creating expectations which will not be realised, “if they want to form businesses, then they will need seed money and we will provide that seed money”.

When asked about Soma Home – the home for the girls living in a residential area outside of Kalighat – she enthusiastically begins to talk about the style of Katark dancing which some of the older girls are learning:

It is incredibly complex. The girls must learn to count a rhythm which is in counterpoint to the rhythm on the percussion, splitting it into triplets or quintuplets and then tap it out with their feet.

The 32 girls at the Soma home are living outside of Kalighat for their own protection – they are at the prime age for being bought by their mothers interested clients. And this generational change – out of the sex industry – is exactly what New Light is about. It is not just turning around the lives of boys and girls “who have had experiences which a women of 20 years of age would have problems dealing with” but of real community development...of creating opportunities for Kalighat's young beyond being forced to sell their bodies:

In ten years time I want Kalighat to be full of skilled men and women. I want our young people to be able to realise their dreams, form cooperatives, open their own fashion boutiques, flower shops, travel centers if thats what they want.

She turns to me and asks, "Do you know of any French Volunteers who can bake bread?” (I guess she has an idea for some of the older children to set up a bakery..) When asked about funding, she brushes off the question. She will find a way and quite simply is too driven to stop working to fulfill these 'dreams':

Yes we will continue to grow in every direction, because we are about community development and change, and we cannot stop here!

While Urmi talks, her captivated Spanish audience nod. I sit in the corner silently typing away. I am compiling the annual report for New Light. At the moment I am trying to write the section about the new HIV/AIDS hospital which will service the local community. The opening ceremony was last week – it was blessed by four different religions; Hindi, Jainism, Islam and Christian.

Throughout the afternoon women, girls and her staff have been coming in to ask her advice or to seek help. So far today I have heard of three young children who have been left abandoned at their village home for three months after they mother disappeared. I have heard of one 14 year old Nepali girl who was sold a week ago, but amazingly managed to phone her father before she was locked in a darkened room just a stones throw from this office. Through communication with an anti-trafficking organisation in Nepal, New Light was contacted and the girl located. A young women of 21, draped in orange cloth and decorated in gold, came into the office with her four year old beaming son. She was on her way to work and has finally reached the hard decision that she must leave her son at New Light - permanently. The young mother was married at 15, pimped by her husband for five years and now left abandoned in an industry which is all she knows. She is beautiful and will be able to work for some more years yet. She has courage to realise the potential for her son. New Light is currently operating at maximum capacity “I could fill a new center in one hour” she tells me, but of course, just like the other cases, Urmi agrees. She wants to send this little boy to a good school in Darjeeling, “we really have a chance to turn his life around, he is young enough that he will forget the trauma of this childhood.”

These 'stories' surround me as I sit here typing and thinking and listening. Even the tiny six year old sitting under the desk, playing with the squeaky pineapple, has just been 'rescued'. Today is her first day at New Light. Her mother is a sex worker and has been in hospital for several months, she recently contacted Urmi concerned for her abandoned child's welfare. The little six year old was being sexually abused.

Its now dark and the stream of visitors into the office has slowed down although the flow of children is now at its peak. One of the practical challenges of today is how to arrange the passports for ten children without birth certificates; ten of the children have been invited to visit Germany and Spain on a three month cultural tour. Urmi slides down into her chair.

Bex I have a sink full of dirty dishes, a load of wet washing waiting to be hung on the line another load waiting to put in the machine, and about ten water bottles to be filled.

I tell her to stop thinking so much; it might rain anyway. But really I am amazed. Unlike her dishes and laundry her work cannot wait. Everyday the situations she has to deal with have to be solved immediately. “If I have a child who needs help, that child will need help now, and not in a week or a month.” Indeed, she has a large battle on her hands, which she takes with an immaculately dressed stride; she is in a continuous battle against Indian bureaucracy – which as an eloquent debater that refuses to be defeated, she fights with the professed skill of a supreme court judge.

I am really learning so much from sitting in this chair. I wonder if Wonder Woman came from Bengal?

There is a cheeky squeak from under our desk and a teacher appears to carry the latest resident of New Light to class.

For more information about New Light, including some great photos, visit the following links:

New Light

New Light Carnival

A Visit to Kolkata's Red Light District

Presentation by Urmi

24 Hours with Rakesh

Station Kids, Street Kids, Magic Kids

Fishing for Wishes is how some of the more resourceful children- with the help of a small magnet and a piece of string - can afford to live; both of Kolkata's main train stations, are flanked by the Hooghly River, which is a tributary to the Holy Ganges, and many travelers will toss a coin into its waters to wish for a safe journey. Add into the equation, trains littered with left over food, rich travelers disembarking from Delhi, an extensive roof, paved platforms and even a public water tap and it soon becomes obvious why train stations double as unofficial institutions for the orphans, poor, mad, sick and homeless. And the number of children – of all ages and both sexes – who sleep on its floors, scour the trains and hang out in packs is astounding, and today I visited a Center full of thirty such boys.

Now please do not misunderstand me – there are far more than only thirty homeless boys; although there is no official census on the number of homeless children, I am sure that a hundred orphanages could be filled within the hour – easily. However, the Center has reached its capacity, and until one of its older boys is able to independently support himself, or the family of a younger child contacted and rehabilitated, no new boys will be coaxed to leave the station. (There are several boys at the Center who are not 'orphans' in a traditional, but many ran away from home after a young life of hard physical labour, or after being sent to work as 'servants'.) The orphanage was opened three years ago and is funded by a Spanish NGO and staffed by local workers and full of boys found at Howrah train station. The staff would visit the train station regularly and try to establish a relationship with the boys in order to build trust and dispel suspicion; not an easy task as considering that the station is a center for trafficking and children are at risk from sexual abuse and/or being sold. But this is also a reason why it is important that aid/ relief workers have a daily public presence as well as an ear to the proverbial concrete. Of course many boys who go to Center would have problems readjusting. Many children who live on the streets quickly adapt and may have been members of some of the more established child gangs, where they have much more authority, power and 'freedom' than children at the center and the routine of going to school every day. For the older boys (the oldest in the Center is thirteen) formal education may not even be viable as they are unable to join a class with the youngest boys of five or six, so the Center also offers a more practical a vocational training scheme which may offer more chances of employment. Drug addiction and rehabilitation is also very real problem. However, what I saw today is tiny boys the age of six years old, just having fun, playing and having free access to food and water and a safe non-violent environment.

Now the point of my visit to the Center was to assist a group of Spanish volunteers who wanted to perform some Magic. We began our mission to the orphanage by taking a collection of different buses, raising many eyebrows, and eventually crossing a muddy field to be seated in a colourful room in front of thirty staring faces. A ball was passed and one by one the boys introduced themselves – name and age. Then little arms were raised as the youngest boys were eager to recite a song or poem to us and the older boys told us they were becoming ready to be 'men'. Our turn, and the Spanish Army and Bex all introduced themselves and then the preparations of Magic began. Now obviously, good old Magic Man was the center of the show, while the rest of us painted faces and blew up balloons. What was interesting though was that the responses of the children was much 'older' than the ages which they had just recited. Accusations of 'cheat' 'cheat' were regularly shouted out, while fascination of the 'turning paper into money' trick brought a stand up audience. Without trying to bow down to stereotypes, very quickly it became obvious that these boys were wiser than their years.

After they had all been armed with blow up swords, and a orchestra of 'popping' began and finished, we tied a box full of sweets and balloons to the ceiling, and blind folded and armed with a cricket bat the children had to one by one try to hit the box open. After much effort, the box came crashing to the ground, and colours of gold and silver, and tiny balloons fell from the sky and burst all over the children. Within seconds the glittering sweets had all disappeared. The speed of picking up the sweets from the floor and depositing them in pockets was really extraordinary. Later at dinner I saw the same technique, with food collected but then stored in pockets for extra safe keeping. What was unexpected though, was after a mini war for far too many sweets, small boys would later come up to me and insist on sharing their loot. I think the best experiences of the day was watching when the smallest and undoubtedly cutest boy 'found' the small pile of sweets I had hidden in his pockets - in order to ensure his survival through the 'c/rush'. He felt the lumps in his pockets, dug his little hands inside and pulled out shiny parcels of toffee. His eyes gleamed with amazement, fingers explored, more packets of sweetness found and waves of smiles spread across his cheeks – Magic!

The rest of the afternoon was spent either in the fields playing football (with a real football, rather than the usual empty water bottle or ball of tape) or on the breezy roof. I spent nearly an hour with a boy who had found himself in possession of one of Magic Mans 'flying' wheeeeeeeeeeing balloons – after a lot of puff the piece of plastic extends into a magnificent oblong shape and if held up and released zooms around the room, bouncing of walls and squeaking all the way. Shouts of 'Mama Mia!' followed it around from below. The shouting smiling face was covered in scars, which ran down his arms and had taken one of his fingers. He was completely mesmorised, and never tired, puffing and zooming until POP!

The roof a beautiful place to spend the rest of the day – as small black kite made of sheets of plastic and string was sent up into the sky. Kites make me think of Freedom. They remind me of one of the forms of 'resistance' children in the Occupied Palestinian Territories would use, flying them from the refugee camps when they themselves weren't able to move. I sat on the roof watching while being tugged to play a board game which I was no good at, but another super happy boy was determined to teach me, and failing that, he was determined that at least I should win! The game involved flicking a circular counter into a pile of other counters and trying to get one of them into one of the four holes. I ended up with a very sore finger, and even though hardly any of my counters ended up in the correct holes...I won.

As the day wore on it really became obvious how independent the children were – there was very little need for the staff to become involved, and the boys just played. The exception was one boy who remained sad all day (apart from when he was asked to assist Magic Man) but according to the staff there was very little which seemed to make him smile. Before we left there was a Spanish Army, one Magic Man and Me all holding onto arms and turning, sending feet flying and ripples of laughing. Balancing tricks were also performed as boys climbed on top of legs and held arms after receiving some expert tuition of Halvero – their 26 year old Spainish Mentor who shares his time between the center and a mirror project in Brazil, and there would be endless possibilities for recreational projects, outdoor pursuits and camps with the children, which has left me day dreaming of possibilities.

As soon as the light left, candles were lit and we were escorted to the small road, leaving shouts of 'Goodbye Auntie! Good bye Uncle!' Amidst a trail of glittering sweet wrappers and burst balloons. We waited at the side of the road for a bus back to central Kolkata. The winds were really picking up and dusk was been blown into our eyes and then blowing us over. I could imagine the little kite flier manipulating his sheet of plastic, pulling the strings backwards and forwards, running across the concrete roof, feet jumping and landing. Running, jumping and landing. Jumping, flying. Far far away...

Hospitals to Die For

It is sometimes argued that the difference between being 'happy' or being 'sad' is really a physical difference and not physiological. If we are too hot, or too thirsty, or too cold, or too hungry, or sick, or with an injury, it is our 'physical body' which is suffering. Undoubtedly strength of mind can help minimise the extent to which we feel the pain, but if we are in good health then our sufferings are drastically minimized.

Since I have arrived in Kolkata every day produces more questions. My visits to Topsia Clinic was no exception. Likewise, when I walk through Sealdah train station to distribute 15 people lunch, I pass over bodies. Some mutilated with disease, others just mentally mutilated from a life of being 'Just Another Poor Man', or Woman, or Girl, or Boy, or Babu. Sealdah train station rose particular questions for me because it is right next to Nilratan Sarkar Medical College and Hospital; a state hospital. Yet people remained slumbered outside. And if medics or volunteers find someone near to death, they are transported to the Mother House rather than a few meters to the hospital. There are even cases where volunteers find patients in situations of severe neglect inside of the hospital and have had little choice but to carry them out and take them to Kalighat House where at least they are washed, feed and watered. Strange?

And what of the Mother House dispensary at the entrance to the train station which provides basic first aid and bandaging to the poor when the poverty stricken should receive medical care at radically reduced rates from the state government? And what of food rations available for those unable to provide for themselves? And what of free hospital beds for those who need operations? And why the need for Topsia Clinic if there are locals doctor? The State of West Bengal has after all been governed by the Communist Party of India for the past thirty years and one would think that there would be some sort of social safety net for the ill, injured, disabled, single mothers, child mothers, refugees or those still chastised by the remnants of the caste system? The answers my friend? Complicated.

I quizzed the Nurse. I received irate replies. The Nurse spoke passionately and with conviction and left me with little doubt that he is filling a gap out of necessity rather than charity. The doctors he replied are expensive. For the anonymous poor, destitute, refugees, mentally challenged or orphaned, finding the correct paperwork to receive their Right to medical care is not always an option. Without either papers or payment patients are refused treatment. And if they are able to find the papers, bribes might be necessary or waiting lists longer than remaining life energy. Besides, health care is still not free. In the government hospitals there is a ration of free beds, but a diagnosis and operation still needs to be paid for – even if at a radically reduced rate. For the poor, this means that they often wait until they are severely sick before trying to borrow or beg the required money. A blood test costs 30 rupees, which is the equivalent of about 35 British pence, 44 Euro cents, or 70 US cents. 30 rupees could easily feed a poor person for a day.

In regards to the local doctors, the Nurse argued that diagnosis's are given at a distance, and hands-on care is rare. Although many of the doctors have received their full medical training they haven't been able to pay for the final exam. Ironically this is a blessing for the poor who can't afford to go private, as once certified many Indian doctors are either working in private hospitals or overseas, where the conditions are much less challenging. The 'brain drain' is flowing quicker than the education system can refill. As for the hospitals, “corrupt and inefficient” seems to be the general reply when I ask the opinions of locals or medics working here. Patients are often turned away, or must bribe there way in and then once there, although the operations themselves are viewed as sound, there are long waiting lists, piles of paperwork to negotiate your way through, and a shocking lack of basic sanitary care.

Today I accompanied a long term volunteer on a visit two hospitals. This volunteer gave me a blessed icon of 'The Other Mother', is training to be a priest and streaked through the Mother House after Mass the day before yesterday. He is 200 percent committed, equally spontaneous and entirely unconventional. With such a combination he achieves some formidable results. Like the French volunteer I was lucky enough to meet on my first day, it was a privilege to walk next to him. Today helped me to answer many of my practical questions which were still left unanswered. He spoke of carrying a dying man into hospitals to be told the correct paperwork was missing. His response was to find a random stamp, provide a signature and with the appropriate amount the self-confidence return the 'completed' paperwork and have the patient admitted just in time to have save his life. Today I saw that food and drinking water is not provided. Washing sheets, clothes and patients is the role of the family. So what if the patient's family is poor, or far away or does not exist? It should not be presumed that the nurses will clean and dress wounds, and today I saw a young man cleaning his crushed leg with a bottle of savlon. I changed the bedsheets of a man with no family, and Mr Unconventional distributed food and a little money to the select individuals he had helped to help by finding/ buying them a 'free' bed and sponsoring their treatment.

Visiting the hospitals today helped me to understand the demand for free alternatives, and how ventures such as Topsia Clinic are essential for helping the local community to maintain a basic threshold of health care. The denial of essential aftercare and hygiene explained the massive number of post-operation infections which these clinics have to deal with, and which could easily cause repeat infection, amputation or fatality. Once again the conundrum is – how can the health care system be improved if there are non-state ran “free” alternatives, which are preferential in that at least they provide 'care' if not 'medical' care?

More information on the conditions of government hospitals in Kolkata has been complied by the Bengali Human Rights Group People for Better Treatment Prepare to be shocked.

Bed Time

Another night time chai, at the Chai stall. A friendly face waves good night from across the street. He is not sleeping on the street – just sleeping outside. On the same spot where he works. He shouts good night from underneath a thick blanket as he lies on top of his cart, on which during the day he sells his wares. His friends and colleagues walk by, pulling down the metal shutters of their shop stalls and clicking padlocks into place. Brushing teeth and spitting into the alleyway.

Paul appears, as always as if from no where. He waves a big hello and my friends point to his eyes and to me and Paul is already enthusiastically nodding. No problem my friend. Silently it has been communicated that he will walk me back to my guest house. I have walked this road many times during the day, but by night it looks very different. I pass so many sleeping people, lined up next to rickshaws or chai stalls. Taxi door stand open as feet poke out of the backseat, or gentle snores escape from wound down windows. Bodies lay everywhere, inside trucks, underneath trucks, even on top of the cabins of trucks. Many sleep directly on the pavement, some have a mattress of cardboard, or others with pillows and blankets arranged in courtyards a small distance from the pavements. Insomnia does not seem to be a problem. Maybe too tired to be awake, maybe accustomed to the night time sounds of footsteps and car horns. These people don't look homeless. They simply look as if the streets are their home.

The longer I spend in Kolkata the more I 'see' and tonight I see that there are many different classes of homelessness. There are those who have a family or community of workers on the street, or whose 'homes' are far away or too full. For some it is just more practical to sleep outside their work – or underneath it. Others have constructed more 'permanent' shelters, which are not dismantled at first light, but remain poised against walls or fences, and guard a small bundle of belongings. Then there are those who before sleeping remove their sandals from their feet to place under their heads; a pillow and a safe. For these street sleepers, their alarm clocks are the numbers of pedestrians whose number increase with the dawn's light, walking through their beds of pavement.

And so I'd like to ask you: What is a Home? Can a home be made of the wheels of your rickshaw, and the roof of its undercarriage? Can a home be a piece of concrete marked by flattened cardboard or two pieces of plastic sheeting tied together, which is where you and your family, or your colleagues sleep every single night? Can a home be a street if you don't 'own' it, but if it is where you don't just walk, but wash, defecate, work, eat and then sleep upon? And if so, maybe this is why it becomes impossible to talk of the 'homeless.'

Paul pretends to drive a car, points to his eyes, squints and then points to those sleeping near the road. He slams one hand into the other to motion a crash. Indeed it must be very dangerous to drive at night. It must be very dangerous to sleep at night. I wave goodbye to Paul. Walk down the road and bang lightly on the metal concertina door. The security guard is sleeping on the stone floor underneath the table. Tap Tap Tap. I don't want to wake him, but I want to go to bed. Tap Tap. He rolls, wakes, jumps up and then inserts the massive key into the massive padlock. Click! The lock jumps open. Screeeeeech. The metal door is pulled back. I turn and wave goodnight to Paul, who is still standing, watching at the end of the road. A silent wave back. I step inside the guest house. Screeeeeech. An apologetic whisper of "Danyabad", as I walk to my double bed, inside toilet and running water.

Even here sleep doesn't come. The fan rockets around recklessly. Noisily and tirelessly it tries to dispel the days humidity. The breeze it creates is hot. My sheets become damp under my body, and my hair begins to stick to my cling to my neck. I take my sarong and walk out onto the roof. I sit in a old wicker chair staring out into the haze of Kolkata. By the light of the half moon I can make out the beautiful ruins of the old Indian Capital. The sound of the night traffic is muffled by height. A cool breeze strokes my face....Finally, sleep lazily takes me.

Fifteen Boxes of Food

A longer post; I hope you will find the time to read it...

We set off on foot across one of the busiest roads in the city center. Now there is no technique to crossing these roads. It literally is a case of walking your own life across to the other side and hoping that it makes it. Of course like a shoal of schooling fish, there are safety in numbers, so often you will find yourself gaining momentum with a crowd of waiting pedestrians. Eventually a silent agreement is reached that together you can take on the tsunami of traffic. Today this sort of worked, with half of our contingent making it across in one go, and the other half (the one with Me tottering around in the middle of it) left somewhere in the middle, standing like lost lemmings. Packs of yellow taxis zoomed passed us. Hands were raised just in case a stationary bus decided to join the zooming army; the driver of which sits above like a god blind to the lemmings below. Feet were made to dance. Courage sallowed, and any semblance of self-preservation discarded. Eventually our small group made it across to the outside of Sealdah train station.

“Remember that after two pm the traffic changes direction, so if you want to catch the bus back you need to go to Bose Road.”
“Why does it change direction?” I ask.
The Nurse smiles, “It just does...”

The Nurse is accompanying us today as it is my first day working on the Food Program. One of the conditions is that I will commit to volunteer for a minimum of one month. The time minimum means that the poor and hungry aren't made to feel like a tourist attraction – with every day having new faces hand them food, and the Nurse and his team do not have to waste time re-training a new volunteer every few days. The distribution itself is a surprising quick. The collection of the freshly cooked food packets from a local restaurant, the time taken to cross the 'road' and the distribution of the food to the fifteen participants will take a total of about one and a half hours.


Now the philosophy behind the program is interesting. The Nurse believes in long term solutions rather than providing immediate relief from a days hunger. So not only will the participants be able to benefit from long term nutrition, but with the certainty of knowing that they will eat one hot meal each day a massive mental strain is taken away. The hope is that they can then refocus their energy on looking for a source of income and on their health and safety. By visiting the same people every day, their well-being can be monitored and gradually they can be encouraged to take a little more care about their own well being. The provision of one hot nutritious meal a day is also a step towards reducing the health risks of living on the streets; it is hoped that it will help to re-establish a routine of minimal hygiene and gradually increase the physical strength and immunity of the participants. Before the food is distributed the participants are encouraged to wash their hands at the public water fountain. For those too old, weak or without the will, the team wash their hands with a bottle of water and soap. It is a small – but important – detail.

The Nurse also employs four permanent Indian staff; two of which will be working on the food program everyday – the volunteer (Me) is therefore 'helping' but not replacing local workers. There are three large bags to be carried, a first aid kit, and many bottles of water. There are also many hands to be washed and food packets to be opened. Ultimately, the program is not only providing employment for a handful of people, but in a very practical sense, there are Bengali and Hindi speaking people interacting with the participants every day. If they have any immediate problems or health concerns these can be communicated. The daily interaction also works to try and keep the the poorest of the poor integrated into 'society'. One of the challenges of local aid organisations is how to achieve just this; Those without homes and food are slowly pushed further and further to the edge of the community, to the extent that mental instability becomes a high risk illness for the destitute.


Another advantage of the local staff, is that they are making a strong statement by interacting with the marginalised: it seems to be firmly embedded in the Indian culture to observe; other travelers love to look, and to see the provision of daily aid beyond the transfer of left over food or coins is really working to make the destitute visible.


The Nurse and his team spent two months monitoring the station everyday in order to identify fifteen people who were always in the same location and therefore would be able to benefit from the regularity of the meals. Those with an alternative means of support (such as a women with a husband) were not eligible. Now the number of homeless children, women and men at the train station comes into the hundreds so the selection is incredibly difficult and to me seems almost humbling; that it is within 'our' (and by this I mean to include you - who even if not geographically present have the means to support the poor and destitute) power to choose who eats today and who might not.


There are of course many other considerations. For example, does providing free food prevent independent alternatives from being sort? But if this was the case then why are there so many hungry people searching (and failing) to find food each and every day and night? Or does providing free food take the pressure from the government to act? However, the homeless are usually those who fall out of the state social net or victims of a system of bureaucracy and corruption. Many of the destitute are refugees from a different country (most typically Bangladesh), from a different state (and therefore not entitled to aid from the West Bengali government) or without a birth certificate to prove their entitlement to state help (which is clearly a major problem for orphans, street children, mentally disabled or trafficked children and women). It could also be argued that helping to feed fifteen people wastes a lot of resources and time on short term satisfaction for a few, rather than focusing on long term solutions for the many. Yet as explained, the idea behind the food program is that one solid meal a day is enough to make a massive short and long term difference to these fifteen lives. And unfortunately resources are not limitless. Besides, if one were to be overwhelmed by the magnitude of the poor and destitute in Kolkata, then no aid would ever be offered.


One of the final dangers is that providing food everyday may actually encourage movement to the train station. Yet the reply to this is simple – there are hungry homeless people all over the city, and they are attracted to the train station for practical reasons regardless of a few select handouts. For all of the participants on the food program, the station is their home. For some they have slept on the platform for so many years they can't remember when they first arrived.

Now I will write more about the food program after I have worked on it for more than one day; but for now all I will share, is that providing food to those who have nothing is not humbling, but almost embarrassing. Today I felt awkward; I felt rude – another 'stranger' 'watching'. Appearing to hand out food and then to walk away to sit at a computer and write about it. There is no doubt that it is impossible to be anything but an observer. Perhaps I can try and show you the daily reality of some of the people who have no choice but to reveal their lives to me, but to even begin to try and understand what life must be like without anything, including in some cases communication with other people or rights over your own body, will remain impossible. At the moment I can do little more than give thanks for the freedoms and the choices which I have and the fact that I will eat today without even thinking twice about it. Because the liberty to eat is mine and because poverty or circumstance has never threatened it.

Meanwhile, on the way home the buses remained a mystery...I walked! More to come...

Topsia Clinic

I need to find out more about Kolkata's public doctors and state hospitals Tomorrow I will ask one of the medical team who live on the floor below. I have moved rooms. Now I am staying in a hostel just for long term volunteers. We have a cheaper rate and filtered water. The majority seem to be working in health care, so I have just the abundance of resources which I need to answer the questions of today:

Today I worked my second shift at a small clinic in Topsia village. Topsia is a Muslim village about 30 minutes by taxi from Sudder Street. It is also at the edge of an urban slum area and incredibly poor. The clinic is a relatively new venture (two years old) and staffed by an Australian Nurse and his team. Now I have no medical training what so ever. Unless of course you count my PADI Emergency First Aid. But I don't; so far my knowledge of CPR and the maximum participant-to-mannequin ratio has had zero relevance. However, the Nurse who I worked alongside was very forgiving and welcomed the extra pair of hands. As I have reiterated before – I am not a health care practitioner. I am not 'good' at dealing with the sickness; especially someone else's. However, after nearly two weeks surrounded by physical suffering, I decided it was about time to grow up and face the physical limitations of the human body – illness and disease. Besides, I was as 'qualified' as the next volunteer – which meant physically able and with time to donate.

The Nurse has decided to dedicate five years to community health care here in Kolkata by initiating a series of grass-roots projects. These include providing food to 30 members of the local community every day, providing hearing tests for children suspected of having learning difficulties due to ear trauma (courtesy of the combination of filthy water, lack of infrastructure, sewage treatment and waste disposal), and sponsoring his Indian staff to receive nursing training, teacher training and English lessons. In regards to Topsia clinic; it is very basic and yet works to try and fill the vital gap between the national health service and community medicine. The tiny room has one plastic table, two chairs, two stools, a kettle for boiling hot water, a backpack full of cleaning agents, local antibiotics, ear drops, bandages, tweezers, pincers, scissors, thermometers, as well as two little devices for testing iron levels and blood sugar levels respectively. Today it also contained one Nurse, one Indian Assistant and once again – one Me.

Outside queued tiny tots carried by concerned mothers, sick fathers missing work, anemic grandmothers and scabies covered children. The clinic officially opens from ten o'clock until noon, but today the stream of sick seemed infinite. The Nurse told me that word was spreading, so popularity was increasing. However, he also said that the severity of the cases they were treating was decreasing. Two years ago it was not uncommon for people near to death to visit him, and now it is not so common. The Nurse is a nurse. He is not a doctor. And the community clinic is a clinic and not a hospital. The Nurse will hand out antibiotics for ear, skin or chest infections but for anything more serious recommendations are written on pieces of paper, and with the help of the Indian assistant, the patient is asked to seek out the local doctor.

This morning at Topsia clinic I saw for myself the combined dangers of being both sick and poor.

About half way through the morning when the days humidity was approaching its climax, and the stream of patients had overflowed to line the walls, the Nurse asked me to dress the leg of Ali. Ali had been in a motorbike accident about eight months ago. Now he received hospital treatment and one of his two broken bones had been pinned back together. The other was not. Six to seven months later Ali appeared at the clinic. The Nurse recalled, “the maggots feeding on his leg were keeping it clean, but they were also making the wound larger.” As the Nurse peered into a little boys leaking ears, I soaked a cotton bud in dettol and carefully began to remove the dressing. Fear building up in me as each layer was removed. Finally, I pulled back the soggy layer padding the enormous crater in his shin. The Nurse leaned over. “Ah, its healing nicely!” I looked up at Ali. He smiled back at me. I tried to remain focused. Its only a leg. I reassured myself. I have one. I repeated. Its just that I can't see the bone when I look at mine. The other voice in my head replied.

The hole I had to clean was so deep. Sure enough the new pink skin was slowly healing, but there was a large piece of brown tibia protruding. A clear reminder that we are all just skin and bones: Easily broken - and not necessarily always easily fixed. My job was to scrape off the yellow scabs forming along the edges of the wound, clean and then re-dress. I was scared to cause him more pain. But my shock at his own injury brought the required focus. I dragged the blade across new flesh and wiped it on a cotton bud. I was proud of myself. How ridiculous! It wasn't my bone that was poking out of my leg. I looked up at Ali again. He smiled back at me, again.

The second patient who remains in my mind is a little tennis super star who arrived into the clinic as 'just another boy' with a head full of scabies. The 'just another boy' is aged six. He appeared silently, removing his little topi to reveal infected lumps oozing with yellow puss. He was the bravest little tennis super star I have ever had the pleasure to meet. It was my first time to remove the infected lumps which rose up from underneath his scalp, and I am sure my clumsy technique left much to be desired, but he didn't whimper once. He just remained seated, back straight and topi clenched between his little lumpy hands. This little hero walked out of the clinic looking like a little tennis super star – white bandage wrapped around his head, as the women waiting at the door chastised him for self-consciously trying to replace his faithful topi.

And this is what Topsia clinic does; it provides a service which the poor cannot afford, but which the poor need the most. And this is why I am amazed that the state hospitals and government doctors seem to by-pass the poor, despite apparent policies to the contrary. Why the need for Topsia Clinic? Why are the destitute taken to the Mother Houses of the Mission of Charity, where they receive only the most basic of medical care? Why are patients operated on and then walk out with bones still trying to escape from skin and skin ripe to feed maggots? Why are educated mothers producing brave little boys with heads full of parasites?

We dismantle the clinic and carry the medicines through the narrow alleyways. Behind us echo the pattering steps of little feet. Mister Mister! The Nurse turns around to be greeted by a Witch Doctor. He is shimmying his grass skirt and jingling his array of threaded shells.

“Whats this!” Asks the Nurse?
“Ah Mister there is a fancy dress competition at school today” replies the painted white face poking out from his crown of leaves.

I smile. Perhaps my little tennis super star won't have such a bad afternoon after all.

Sweet Chai

A last cup of chai magically transforms into eight as the Chai Man insists on refilling our clay cups to finish off his pot. A small boy wearing a baggy T-shirt, advertising a Spanish Cycling Club is cleaning the stall. He opens a small packet of soap crystals into his palm, adds a splash of water and with his bare hand, washes the side of the steel unit. The chai pot is removed from the stove and chapatis are rolled by Uncle and cooked by Chai Man. It is finally dinner time. A circle of tinged yellow dough is placed on top of the blackened hotplate. Within seconds it begins to transform into a chapati. The hotplate is removed and the circle of dough is rotated above the ambers. It begins to bubble at the edges. Puff!

The chai shop is now closed and we remain seated on the concrete ledge, watching as hawkers carefully pack away their unsold goods into large biscuit tins. Two men continue to work. Rounds of cloth wrapped into a coil on top of their heads. It is nearly midnight and they are still transporting large bamboo trays of heavy bricks from the street onto a truck. Their carotid arteries look ready to pop as necks strain under the weight. Backwards and forwards, silently walking. Knees and necks bending with each jumping, balancing step. I understand why there are believers in karma. As we sit - watching. Drinking our chai. We with our white skin and university education. With our political freedoms and economic freedoms. People must wonder what they did to deserve such a hard life? I know I wonder what I did to be born so privileged. I don't just wonder, I continually question the Justice of this world.

Magic Man swings his arm up and then back down, releasing his chai cup at its highest point and sending it crashing back to the ground. It crumbles upon impact. A Spanish Cycling Club t-shirt sweeps passed and its discarded fragments are collected and brushed into a pile of clay and muddy street dirt. Each brush rolls and breaks, gathers and deposits and soon the clay and dirt joins the rest of the nights refuse. Cigarette butts, paper packets, expanding bamboo plates; which had once been fashioned into squares, but now obediently return to their original form. I rotate the clay cup in my hands. It has just fed me four warm cups of spicy chai. It sits so perfectly in my palms. I don't want to crush it.

The small boy inside the baggy T-shirt works really hard. When I give a smile, he rushes one back, but then his focus is directed back to the refuse. I ask Chai Man/ Chapati Chef what relation the boy is. "Servant" he replies and reaches over and fills up my small clay cup freeing me from the dilemma of how to dispose of it.

Street Wedding

Music. On a street corner. Behind a parked truck. Dancing. Glimmering Saris. The jangle of anklets. The eternity of dark shining eyes framed with ovals of Kohl. Bangles. Beats. Moving Feet. A Eunuch. “Ah! Friends! Come and join. Come!” The audience was pushed aside to make a space for strangers. A dark patch of pavement, crammed with a crowd of smiles. “Welcome to our Wedding.” A wedding on the street. For those with no walls to dance within, and where passersby become spontaneous guests. A wedding for a couple with no material possessions but who dance and smile and sing and celebrate and cheer. A carpet of concrete and nocturnal lighting through a smog screened moon. I watch mesmerized; not by the movement, sounds of colour, but by my own thoughts. Why aren't we all always Happy? When we have a body that works and walks and talks. When we have food to eat and thirst which is quenched. When we have economic freedoms which are realised, and political rights which are respected? When we have friends to love. When we have too much?

India Game!

It would be hard to walk at night on my own. Indian women shop during the day but by night the streets are left to the men and those without homes. All the occupants of the restaurants are either volunteers, tourists, or Bengali men. The staff are men and young boys. But rarely do you see Bengali women socialising in the evening. Its not that I feel unsafe – just very visible. Very 'seen'. However, as always I was going to be stubborn and wanted to do a bit of evening exploration. A solution – Magic Man! I walked to a busy corner, eyes searching for magic signs.

Wheeeeeee. A flying balloon shot to the sky and underneath stood a smiling boy who had momentarily replaced his role of beggar with that of child. I had found my chaperon. Leaving happy child with his sword made of rubber and air, we walked behind Sudder Street to the New Market; a pedestrianized area full of large trucks, rickshaws, street hawkers and temporary shops.

“Auntie Auntie!” Shouted three little ladies to my legs. I looked down at the other female night walkers. My hands being swung and my strange face explored. “Auntie what is your name?” Confused looks. “Dex? AH! Your name is soo sweet to my lips. ” They giggled. Hands over mouths. Younger ladies hiding behind bigger ones. “Jump with us!!”

“Jump!” Soar. Land. Extend. Bend. “Jump!” Soar. Land. Extend. “Jump!” And so it continued until laughter became contagious and the grip of tiny clammy fingers could not help but slide away.

We past another little boy holding a gun the size of himself. He was aiming directly at a piece of cardboard lined with small balloons. Feet spread and a determined smile in place. Bang!...Hmmm. All nine balloons had survived the close range assault. The stall proprietor quickly bent down, snapped back the gun, inserted a new cartridge and returned it to the little waiting hands. Aim...Fire....Silence! The mini solider didn't mind. He had loved his few minutes with his only toy. Gun was returned and next customer cajoled.

“My Friend My Friend! India Game! One rupee a shot!” We had been stopped. “I am a peaceful man – no balloons” surrendered Magic Man. I suppose for Magic Mans ballons are to 'create' and not to 'pop.' With his hands above his head he walked towards the war toy. The proprietor nodded and consulted his board of tricks. A candle was lighted. It dangled precariously next to the rows of air filled plastic colour. Melting wax dribbled down its stem, changing is form as quickly as its flame flickered. The stationary target was moving as surely as a floating duck. Crack. Snap. Bang. Burn. “Ah my friend!” Sympathized the proprietor. He takes the gun to give us an expert demonstration. I take a photograph and in return he gives me a toothless smile and asks for the 'postcard'. I add it to my growing list of portraits to print. The expert fire shooter collects his one rupee and turns to the street to tout for more business. He will need five customers to buy one large cup of chai.

Eyes Wide Shut

Today has been a day of listening. Of opening my ears as well as my eyes. The tinkle trinkle of the bicycles, fearlessly fighting the low rumble tumble of the traffic. These shrills jumped into one ear bounced around and then spilled out of the other. The rolling lullullulll of the marching bells of the rickshaws. The tin tin tin of the woman's steel dish, who everyday lays outside of Park Street metro station, relentlessness tapping her plate on the pavement. A tin tin tin which seemed to vibrate through the rubber of my sandals, into my bones to releases the DING of a falling coin from my palm. “Newspaper Madam?, Taxi Madam?” Boooom. A horn. Whooosh. Booooom. Beeeeeep. Whooosh. Ting! Tinkle Trinkle. The Tap Tap Tap of a distant carpenter. “Hindu Temple Madam? This way! Hindu Temple.” “Indian Game? Indian Game?” Beeeeep. Whooosh.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I learned so much today that the street sounds are still mixing with the silent words of my thoughts, creating a monsoon in my head. The words are going crazy because they have no release. Their impact is resonating between my ears, catching the sounds and compounding one another. I am unable to write these words because you are unable to read them. You are unable to read them because the street on which I stay is not at all what it appears to those who pass through. Because eyes are not enough and once the ears hear, the mouth is requested to remain silent. The typing fingers still. And once asked, ethics become an issue. And once SPEAKING OUT is viewed as unethical in another mind, mine needs to ask Why?

How can a solution to the destitute be found beyond the relief of the days hunger? How can the work of volunteers do more than just bridge the gap between the social and the political if it remains invisible? What I do know is that nothing is as first as it my seem, and because of that I now need to respect my status as 'visitor'; as observer and more relevantly as an 'outsider'. Until this changes, or until I find explanations some words will have to remain 'hidden.'

But there are also some things which today have been explained.

Now I do understand that there is a reason why we are asked not to show affection to the street children. Because countries care more of image rather than of Justice. Because money can buy Rights. Because this world is fucked up and because I can not not be angry.

Magic Man

Today I gave jumping Baghdad T-shirt man a new name. From now on I will call him Magic Man. Today was also a compulsory day off for all volunteers at the Mother House. The reason why - “otherwise they would work everyday.” Magic Man, another new friend and I went in search of a photography exhibition advertised in the Telegraph as “India by Magnum – Plural perspectives.” We walked down Sudder Street to where the tarmac thins to reveal crumbling concrete bricks and turns to a small market selling fake sunglasses, hemp shopping bags, piles of T-shirts, boxes of shirts, small plates fashioned out of bamboo and holding pieces of tempting watermelon. We turn the corner onto Park Street – a wider multiple laned road (although the actual 'lanes' are yet to be painted) framed by banks, shops and air conditioned restaurants. Men gathered around the popular Hot Kati Roll: a small window containing a tiny space, piles of dough, a hot stove, chopping board and a wooden painted menu. The menu listed every version of vegetable or chicken roti you would care to imagine – and then added 'with egg or without egg'. The Hot Kati roti rolls were expertly rolled in paper by trained fingers and in exchange for a few rupees passed to searching hands. Magic Man ordered one.

We waited and around our legs jumped two smiling children. “One rupee for me and one for her!” the braver one beamed. Giving money is a tough one. There is always the danger the children are being forced to work for a bigger operation and the money is passed on to the exploiters. Small little hands and young pretty faces have a much greater economic viability than the old and the sick. Add signs of physical injury and the economic pull increases even more and such rumours of forced child mutilation are gradually reaching my disbelieving ears. So Magic Man decided to give some laughter instead. He unzipped his bag and reached inside. Slowly he pulled out a long thin deflated balloon. Small brown eyes widened, and then widen further until they nearly popped. Magic Man pulled and pinged, blew and twisted, tied and sucked....a poooodle! “Woof Woof” Magic Man barked and the newly born blue poodle found its way to its new owner. Clap Clap Clap! Eruptions of laughter. Another round: ping, pull, sqeeeeack...Hurrah! A magic sword! The hilt is passed to a tiny face frozen in awe. New weapon examined. And then tested - “Ow! Be careful with that! Its very very sharp!” warned the Magic Man. Meanwhile, the new owner was contemplating sitting on her new poodle. And new faces appeared below the many older 'adult' ones, who were also enjoying the show. Swords all round, and then....a pink pig! “Oink Oink!”

Magic Man collected his vegetable Hot Kati roti roll which had magically doubled and then halved, turning now into four little pieces of hot tastiness. Poodle, swords, pig and roti's in hand the little gang of beaming children were left wide eyed and wide mouthed and we continued our search for the photo exhibition. We walked past the double windows of Flurys. White china tea pots sat on top of starched table cloths, small trays of cakes and an Indian clientèle more British than the British. “Please Sir any cigarettes?” a bare chested man asked in perfect English. A hand extended as he sat with his young family on his concrete floor. My eyes remained down. Magic Man reached into his magic bag and satisfied the request, and his payment was a smile where smiles do not belong.

We continued our search for “India” which was meant to be at a place called Bose Pacia. Security guards pointed, strangers consulted, wrong turns were taken. However, one thing Kolkata does with sincere determination is to assist lost travelers. Even without asking for directions, arms are raised and advice shouted and before long we found the images we had been searching for. A collection of archival photographs from 1947 to the present day by fourteen different Magnum photographers. The hand out explained:

Situated between the political and the poetic, personal visions of the subcontinent [which] embody a continuous concern with documenting the world while challenging the way it is depicted.

Simply displayed as a slide show images without captions flashed before us. A reflection of reality. Whatever the photographer decides the reality should be. To see then to show and then to be seen. The salt farms, markets, cities, portraits which silently spoke, staring eyes of women, children, sex workers, awe inspiring beauty. Time. India through the eyes of fourteen Magnum photographers, and only one of whom is India. Is it easier to show the image of a country as an observer than as a actor? Is it possible to view ones country through a neutral lens? Images which carry a powerful message which within just a few days of being here I know 'India' does not want the world to see. But how to make the poor and destitute invisible? How not to see the streets as a home for so many people? How to airbrush the rag pickers from the rubbish? This denial is dangerous and with every day its existence is becoming harder and harder to hide from a visitors eyes.

We walk back as the rain clouds build up. The light fades before it flashes in an electric strip back to the sky. We stop for a Jal Jeera. One with masala, one with salt, all with Magic Man's foreigner friendly bottled water. Crushed limes, spices and “a little ice”. The perfect medicine for 44 degrees humidity. Suuuuuuuuck! A tiny swimming straw delivers the citrus liquid into our arid mouths. We stood at the side of the crazy busy yellow moving screaming screeching road with our little glasses in our hands. Each one watching. Each one thinking. Then each one trying to pay for the other. Generosity is not restricted to strangers without a smile, and trying to buy a new friend a 4 rupee soft drink is a continuous battle. Thunder rolls towards us and then water splashes down on top of us, sticking my kuta to my skin and soaking into my hair. Flip flops squelch as we move towards the metro. The smile of my mouth confuses the frown of my wet eyebrows. The rain brings a welcome coolness to me. To me with a room, a bed and dry clothes. I guess the preamblings of the monsoon rain will mean something very different for the Magic Mans young audience. For the young family with the concrete floor, and the father who speaks perfect English. For Kolkata's five million who sleep in its slums tonight.

We squash into the entrance to the metro, passing a sign; “No Photographs Allowed.”

http://www.magnumphotos.com/

Broken Eyes

This afternoon I volunteered at Shishu Bhavan. It is a House specifically for young children who are orphans or at least might as well be as have been left by their families, sometimes, newly born and laying at the gate entrance. After my reactions to Kalighat I decided that perhaps working with young children might provide the sense of 'hope' which I needed in order to continue. Sure enough the nursery provided a dramatic contrast to the ward at Kaligaot. Loud children's music came booming out of every corner and colours and toys were everywhere. Inflatable animals hung from the ceiling, and the many rows of barred cots were decorated with stuffed animals of all sizes and descriptions. I negotiated my way between the racing toddlers and walked between the corridor of cots to the play station for disabled children. There were five female volunteers all sitting on the floor and with children draped over them. Many were severely disabled and unable to move without aid. Others were walking with the aid of leg braces. Again an apron was donned and I was told to play with “Gita”. I took the little hand which reached towards me and before long we were both jumping to the sounds of Happy Birthday or whatever else came out of the music system. I rubbing my face on my shoulder to remove the sweat, as both hands were firmly engaged by Gita. I was unable to persuade Gita to make one verbal sound all day - with the exception of laughing, which she did with such ease I wondered why all of us born with sound body and mind don't walk around laughing every second of every day? I also have no idea how old Gita is, only that she came up to my knees, and was incredibly easy to make smile. Each child has a folder with their details and conditions listed, but Gita felt that it was more important that we dance rather than let me spend time shifting through paper. I even made the stupid mistake of initially calling her a “strong little man” as the Italian volunteer who had introduced us confused her prefixes and called “her” a “he”. Besides, Gita's “condition” was visibly obvious, as her little eyes remained tightly closed.

We bounced along until I was presented with tiny tot Julie, who sat like a princess amid a regal carriage of a plastic bike, drawn by a plastic bear. Gita took control from Mr Bear and walked behind the princess pushing her along. It was a challenge to convince Gita to push as she had an inclination to rock from leg to leg while standing in the same place. Once again the role of 'carer' rather than 'facilitator' was difficult to avoid and I had to constantly stop myself from leading, as we meandered backwards and forwards, between the cots and “active” children; many of whom were vying for my attention by providing entertainment to Princess Julie and a unwelcome obstacle to Gita, who responded by leaning back against my legs. One little girl decided it really was her 'turn' to push the princess by frequently biting my hands. Hmmm. Eventually Gita and I managed to distract her with the help of a large plastic ball identical to one I used for abdominal crunches. After Gita and I walked the equivalent of a mini walkathon it was time to for Princess Julie to have her afternoon lemon water. I picked her out of her carriage as her stick legs dangled at awkward angels pulled down by her little orthopedic shoes. She was tiny, and could not have been more than 12 to 18 months old. I sat crossed legged on a cot and the first challenge of my afternoon began. Bottle in hand. She refused to drink. She cried. I distracted her with a plastic crocodile. The tears stopped, but the juice just poured out of her mouth and dibbled down her pretty white dress. An Indian Massi (carer) took control, and before long she was watered from the inside and not out. I then had the pleasure of meeting Jamie. A blind boy who seemed the only child able to speak or to understand a little English. Without a doubt he was an incredibly gifted little person (the only age marker I can share is that he came to just above my knees). He asked continuous questions and would not stop until he was satisfied with the answers.

“Auntie Auntie whats this?” He called to me. He took my hand and placed it on top of the carriage bear. Mr Bear was wearing a plastic hat, which once upon a time had worked as a button causing his eyes to blink and a plastic tongue to poke out from his empty plastic mouth. I told him it was a button. What for Auntie? What does it do? He insisted as he pushed the 'hat'. I took his hand and led it over Mr Bears frozen face. "It is to make the eyes move and the tongue come out of the lips" I explained. “Eyes Auntie? Where Auntie? Eyes Where?” I led his little hands to feel inside the empty holes of Mr Bear's empty eyes as he pushed the button again. “Its broken” I told him. Jamie was unimpressed and began to search for the 'electric guitar' and off he wandered, feeling his way through the maze of children, toys and cots.

A bell rang and the play station was cleared with lightening efficiency as toys were replaced by specially adapted baby chairs. Children were tied or strapped in, and dinner was served. I sat down next to one little girl, picked up her food and spoon and began to feed her. No go. No way. She cried. Then she screamed. I looked around. There was no reaction from the other volunteers or from the Massis, who proceeded to feed the children seated opposite them without even a whimper. I tried again. Food went flying. I tried again and again. But no. Eventually, a volunteer turned to me and said, “she's used to being held when she's fed, she hates the chair. Try one of those over there.” She motioned to pop stair Gita who was now in possession of Jamie's prized guitar and another little blind child. “Their easier” I was reassured. I let Gita enjoy her new found talent and gained the attention of the other child by tapping the tray in front of her. Soon he joined in and I felt a renewed sense of optimism. Spoon to mouth – mouth firmly clamped. Hmmm. I tried everything. Zoooooom. Bringing a smile in order to trick the spoon inside the laughing mouth, but nothing would work. “Impossible!” Another volunteer shouted over. “Impossible. He will never eat.

I moved chairs again and tapped a beat to Gita's automatic toy guitar. She loved the buttons and the tunes and refused to put it down, but as I wanted to feed her and not the instrument, eventually she agreed. Again nothing. No open mouth, no swallow. Just a firm resolution that today she would not be feed by Bex. Gradually the other children were washed and taken upstairs to the flat roof. Their outdoor playground. Gita and I remained. Cold food in hand, guitar on the floor. And then as if by magic a massi appeared, took the bowl under Gita's chin, tipped her head backwards, and gave her the fasted food I have ever seen. Within seconds the bowl was cleared and not even one wince of refusal from pop star Gita. Shocked, amazed, thankful and disheartened I took Gita to join the other children.

Jamie raced around the roof. He wanted the bike. “The small one Aunty.” He eventually found it with no help from me. Another child was riding it. A massive grin appeared on Jamie's face as he sped across the roof, pushing the bike with a child still on top of it. He is incredible. Gita and I rocked/walked around for a while trying to avoid the other children rushing around not looking where they are going. Unlike Jamie, Gita seemed completely reliant on me to keep her from being floored. I solved the problem by lifting her up. Wheeeeeeeeeeeee. Wheeeeeeeeeee. Gita howling with laughter, me with dizziness. She pulled my wrist closer to her as she pushed the tiny round beads on my wrist backwards and forwards. She was almost touching her ear to them as I realised she was listening to the tiny rattling sound she was making with her tiny fingers.

As I type a song by The Thievery Corporation comes on my play list. The track title flashes up on my laptop, “Heavan's gonna burn your eyes.” I want to stop my mind from thinking. I close my eyes, lift my wrist to my ear, and roll the beads. Raat-tat-tat. Raat-tat- tat.