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.