Little Wise Babu

Little babu has the face of an old man. He looks wise. He totters around – the youngest little tot. Two years in this world. Yet he knows the score. He is as wise as he looks. He searches for Aunty. He slowly approaches her office and pokes his head around the bottom of the door frame. His eyes find her body laying on the floor. She is sleeping and he is wide awake – safe on his mission. Little babu bends down towards the floor, hands out stretched he lets his weight topple him forwards. His palms save his head and he is now in a position to crawl. Little babu crawls under the desk and his little fingers find what he is looking for. He presses the switch, looks around and then retreats. He pushes himself up and continues turning off the power. Little Conservationist. He recognises me – but I am only a familiar face. He waits for my reaction. I smile and he smiles back. He is safe. He is mischievous. He decides to put some distance between us. He totters between the racing children. Zooooom they whiz around him.

Another pair of eyes reach his line of sight. Another babu. Like a magnetic connection they are pulled together. Tottering they join forces in this whirlwind of energy. United they manoeuvre like two little unsteady robots, negotiating their way between the racing legs and the unseeing teachers. Focusing on a destination and tottering their way there– hands united. Their tininess makes them invisible as I watch them become babies again to those who see them. Little wise babu reaches for a steel cup of cold water. He wraps his little hands around it and drinks. He is collected by an older child, passively lifted and then deposited. His head turns slowly around to find his abandoned friend and once connected his body joins his eyes. They move further away from the noise and they stand together in the courtyard – watching. They look like two wise old men – watching over the youngsters, discussing the past and the future. Then something catches his attention. Little babu wanders over to the edge of the courtyard, holds onto the red bars and peers down. Quack Quack! It is the muddy family of muddy ducks. He watches the little ducks patter about obdientently following the mother duck. Quack Quack! He is silent - staring - and then lifts his head and see me - staring - out of my open barred window. He turns around. Tottering.

Little babu begins to scream. He was tripped up by a passing whirlwind and has fallen over on the concrete. His little friends is distressed and trying to help. A little pineapple girl hears the calls and her six years mother the Little babu. She picks him up and takes him by the hand. As always she is smiling as she leads the little babu with the wise old face to someone who will soothe his tears. His lip is cut and is bleeding, but all he really needs is reassurance that soon one day the world will stop pushing him over and he will be able to stand his ground. Little squeaky pineapple girl finds An Adult. The day is saved. She returns to the role of child in this space where children can just be. Little babu is quickly quietened. He is curious again. Searching around him, looking in control and ready to move on. Little wise babu. Two years in this world. Born into this beautiful world with blood that keeps trying to kill you.

Bbbbbbb beautiful Ssssss sounds

Today we are sitting on the floor. We are waiting for lunch. All the other children are strapped into their chairs, each individually being fed. Apart from Ana who is on the floor, curled up, eye lids tightly shut. I am entertaining Gita by banging on the table. “Boom Boom” I sing to her “Boom Ba Ba Ba.” The Tap Tap Thud of our hands on the plastic. Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! I sing to her. Ba ba ba ba ba. AAAAAaaaaah. She replies. I feel a release inside me. A new energy coming from her. Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! I repeat as I Tap and Thud. She has removed her hands from mine and is stroking her face, moving her lips and her Baaaaaaaaaa turns to Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I open my mouth and put my hand over it “AhAhAhAhAh.” She lets me open her palm and place it over her own mouth soon she is also softly producing AhAhAhAhs. And she continues to Br and Ba and Ah. I am laughing through my efforts of encouragement; Ahhhhhhh Baaaaa, Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! She starts to join my laughing. I start to tickle her and shake her so that her laugher vibrates through her own body. She keeps laughing to hear it continue. I pull her onto my lap, her legs outstretched on top of mine, but only reaching my knees. I open my legs and she falls through to the floor. Laughing so contagiously that even a smile breaks over the face of Little Princess Josephine, who rarely does anything but cry. I pull my feet together and she reaches forward for my anklet, feeling the rounded beads and then pulling her own feet together in a mirror image which she cannot see but only feel. I push her forward with my body - “Brrooooooooooooooooom” I growl, and then swing her to the right and backwards and then forwards, with sounds and shouts and taps and bangs and vibrations and laughter sending ripples of smiles around the watching faces of the other children. Brooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom and then screeeach back again. She is laughing.

I am handed a bib and a bowl of mush. I sing Indiana Jones to her (I saw it at the cinema last night) in between tap tap ta ta tap on her table. Her hands reach down to press on mine and I am able to wrap the bib around her neck before she has a chance to object. Next comes the hard part. “Gita Gita!” I begin. I scoop up a tea spoon of mush and while holding her neck slightly back with one hand shake off the contents into her open mouth. Immediately she begins to shake her head. Side-to-Side-to- Side-to-Side. “Gita Gita!” I sing to her. “Gita Gita! I Love You!” I keep singing, letting her know I am there, mixing English words with No-Sense words, which to Gita's Bengali ears and eyes that are filled with darkness, the meaning has little relevance, its only the rhythm which matters. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! My syllables getting louder and louder as the spoon arrives at her lips faster and faster. Her hands are still shaking and head still moving, but she still has an open mouth and the food is still disappearing. “Na Na Na”. She says to me. “Gita Gita I Love You!” I sing back to her. “Na na-n-n-na” she says before I manage to deposit the next load of mush. She does well today. She finishes her lunch and there is only one time were her movements quicker than my reactions as her little arm ended up in her bowl.

I pass her a cup of water. She competently holds it to her lips and tips back the cup. If only she could eat so confidently. “Brrrrrrrr.” She tells me. I realise she is blowing bubbles into the remainder of her water. As always we fight for re-possession of the empty cup. I wash her face with a damp cloth and then pull her up “One Two Three.” Her legs follow the demands which I made of her arms. We walk over to her cot and I begin another small routine which I have replaced from the usual 'lifting and depositing' of 'dis-abled' children. I pull down the bars and place her hands on the bed. Next I reach down and place both of her feet on the bottom bar of the cot so that she is now about 10cm from the ground. I lift up her knee and place it on her mattress. As if on auto-pilot she grabs the mattress and pulls herself up into her bed.

Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! The bell rings. “Auntie Auntie” a mashi quickly motions for me to leave. I whisper a Good Bye to Gita. I turn away – I turn back. Gita is sitting facing me. Hand brushing over her lips “brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr” I am not sure if she has yet sensed my distance. I Wave another Good Bye. I smile. A stupid wave. I walk away, hands by my side, ears wide open.

There is a new sound which Gita helped me to find today. It was a sound which I heard for the very first time; it was the sound of Gita's Voice.

The Potter

Tonight there is a very weird light. The sky has turned orange – the colour of gold. The buildings in the distance appear as if they are houses filled with sun. The air in the stone room is still and full. I walk to find freshness, away from the spun golden sky, through the room of colours and smiles and out onto the balcony at the back of New Light. Facing away from the setting sun the sky is already dust coloured. My eyes take a little time to readjust from the strip lights of the classroom and gradually I see that the reflections from the glowing clouds on the still river creates a false silver light which is fading quickly. The air seems a little fresher as it touches my face, enters my nose, refreshes my lungs. I haven't stood here before. I could easily forget I am in the centre of Kalighat. The river, the quiet, the stillness. But then my eyes readjust some more. Small figures dance around just below me. They stop. All is quiet. Then muffled laugher. Movement. Stillness, and so it continues as the children are playing a game of tag, where every time 'It' turns around they need to freeze in time. The fresh air begins to smell of burnt perfume, and I look down to search out the source – a white pillar dirty with the days, housing a Hindu deity and coloured with dying garlands of orange flowers, is sending up signals of smoke. A strange movement catches my attention. I move my eyes to the one small building sitting at the edge of the river. It has a small roof, corner pillars made of wood and no walls.

There is a man wearing a blue checkered lungi and a white sleeveless vest sitting on a small stool. He is squatting in front of a shape which is changing, transforming in front of his hands and in front my searching eyes. The man is manipulating and expertly moving a mound of clay. He is making it grow taller and thinner. He is removing sections from the top, and setting them down on a tray by his side. I focus my eyes and gradually I begin to discern rows of tiny clay cups. His fingers return to the spinning block in front of his bent knees. Spinning, rising, falling, removing, replacing. The mound of clay seems infinite as he is able to make it grow to the same size despite continuously creating and removing small pots. Gradually the lump of spinning clay can no longer keep up with his manipulations and the original lump is almost completely transformed into rows of stationary chai cups sitting wet at his feet. The wheel stops to spin. The original lump disceted and recreated, leaving a small stationary mound. The potter reaches across to push the new pots away from him, pulling forward a empty tray waiting to be filled. He lifts up a block of untouched, virgin clay and drops it onto his wheel. He picks up a wooden stick and begins to spin. His arms transfering his energy to the edges of the horizontal wheel. The momentum building, his foot working and then he releases the stick, lays it back down by his right side and splashes water over the spinning revolving lump. Whirling with momentum the clay turns. His hands settle on the side of the lump and as if by magic the clay surges upwards. It becomes smoother, uniform, full of soft ridges. Thumbs inserted and another chai cup is created, dis-attached from the whirling lump and then laid down on the new tray. And so it continues. Mesmorising me.

Eventually my eyes can no longer adjust to the fading light and it becomes harder to follow his work. But I am left feeling calmer. The evening air is cooler. I feel a two small arms around my legs and I look down to find a Little Miss Squeeky Pineapple. I reach down and pick her up and walk back into the blue light of New Light.

The Young Ladies from the Soma Home

Urmi draws me a map. It is full of squiggles and no real reference points. I am so going to get lost. I tell her my fears and she dismisses them, telling me it is easy and if I become confused to phone one of the many mobile numbers she writes down for me. I take her squiggles and apprehensively fold it into quarters and put it in my kuta pocket. I am going to try and find Soma Girls Memorial Home. The Soma home was founded a few years ago and it is for the girls of New Light who are older or more at risk. What I mean by 'at risk' is fairly subjective but basically means they are at an age where they are more 'at risk' from attracting the attention of their mothers' clients if they stayed at the main center in Kalighat. Or it could also mean that their families are on the poverty line and they are therefore more at risk from being sold or abused. The other girls who live at the Soma Home are those who have already been abused and have now been rescued. As the girls are aged between six and eighteen there is clearly no minimum age of abuse, and the threshold between 'child' (abuse) and 'adult' (consent) remains appropriately vague.

The Soma Home was named such in memory of one of the girls who died an untimely death due to the absence of proper medical care. The Soma Home is situated in the South of Kolkata, near an area called Tollygunge which is known as the more 'upmarket' part of town. One metro ride later, followed by one autorickshaw and a ten minute walk through a uniquely suburban area and I have arrived at a wide paved avenue. The avenue is lined with trees and the foot rickshaws have been upgraded with cycles. Urmi's squiggles have miraculously done the job and I am left facing a large peach coloured building and a varnished black gate. I ring the bell and a women emmerges. Her English matches my Bengali which means that it is only through a combination of hand signals and smiles that we are able to communicate. I am let into the Home and follow the noise of girls voices up the staircase. Immediately I am impressed by the decor. Seriously nice! Pastel colours mixed by inset Hindu shrines. The House Mother greets me. An older Bengali women, who politely smiles but who lets the girls do the entertaining. There are another three women there. Two young teachers, who are fashinably dressed, speak fantastic English and clearly part of Urmi's plan to provide suitable role models for the girls. They later tell me that they love working at the Soma Home and often come during their time off just to socialise with the girls. There is also another lady with the girls – one who has a remarkable presence. I later find out that she is a social worker. It soon becomes clear that New Light is doing everything in its power to prevent the girl's past from inhibiting their future.

The Soma Home has a powerful effect on me. For those of you who don't know – between the ages of eight and seventeen I lived in an insitution. It was a socially acceptable institution. Not an orphanage in the traditional sense, as it included children with parents, just those who for a variety of reason, decided that it was preferable for their children to grow up away from home. My school was the first and the last all girls boadring school in Scotland, and at the time extremely strict. I remember the early years as being particulaly 'cold.' The dorms were big, filled with beds, limited space for personal belongings and with no carpets underfoot or unncessary decorations. Food was controlled, freedom outside of the school grounds forbidden, every hour accounted for, living space shared with girls from a range of ages, and holidays during term time limited to one weekend once a month. I remember my first day, walking down the central staircase holding on to my mothers hand and looking at the approaching door, knowing that very soon I would be forced to let go and watch her disappear back into the outside world. The feeling of dread building up in me until I could no longer control it and tears spilling out of my young eyes. And then very soon, I became hardened to the routine. At the age of ten I would chastice the 'new' girls who still cried. By seventeen I was so 'independent' my father was confused about how to exercise the parental control he has unwittenly released nine years before. In contrast the girls at Soma Home seemed genuninely happy. The environment was relaxed and very comfortable and 'warm'. We laughed so much. The relations between the young and old girls seemed genuinely caring with many being sisters and the rest being freinds. What struck me the most was the confidence of the girls. They were polite and yet inquistive, and there was absolutely no sign of their background, but only a bursting of dreams to be realised. Girls told me of their boxing classes, Kathak dancing classes, English conversation classes and college applications. I asked if I could see some Kathak dancing and within minutes a space was cleared and five of the 'older' girls began with the opening prayer. The prayer was physical as well as verbal and the aim of which was to give thanks to their teacher, Guruji Pandit Chitresh Das who is a famous classical Indian dancer. Gurji teaches the girls whenever he is visiting from his Califonian home, but the girls continue to practice every day. The dancing is impressive, and with front row seats I sit there grinning as the girls coordinate their moves, stepping in time and speaking the impressive kathak chant which quickly pulls me into another world. The younger girls sit crossed legged next to me, necks bent backwards, eyes pointed up and whispering the sounds, clearly waiting to follow in their expert foot steps.

I am given a tour of the building by a group of girls who surround me like my own aura. Holding tightly onto my hands, and when one lets go another hand quickly moves to take its place. The dorm rooms each contain two bunk beds and a large wardrobe. I am shown the 'babies' bathroom with its tiny shower, knee high toilet and sink. I am shown the computer room, where the lights are turned off to reveal a ceiling full of glowing 'stars'. I am shown the beautifully decorated guest room, invited to jump on the bed, and then invited to stay. "Not tonight" I reply, but in reality I feel scared to stay. I am not sure what emotions and memories this place can evoke.

I leave happy, with shouts of "Good bye Aunty" chasing after me, and little hands refusing to let go and begging promises to return soon. "Turn left Aunty!" they shout through the veranda which they have all piled out onto. I retrace my steps, and smile at my lack of direction. I wave another goodbye and a Thank you. I will return. And next time I will bring some Magic to share with the Magic already shared...

Open Ears

Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA!

Exploring sounds. Walking around with my eyes closed. Trying to imagine never to have known sight. Trying to imagin the intensity of her other five sense; the power of touch, of textures, of temperature, of vibrations and of movement. Her strength of smell as she pulls my fingers towards her nose if I have washed my hands with soap and disinfectant before feeding her. Trying to imagine how intimidating it must be to have taste put into your mouth and how those tastes taste. Trying to imagine how to make sounds, how to talk, how to learn what 'things' are and 'who' people are when they remain invisibile. Trying to Listen. To hear my own voice. My own laugh. The whirl of life around me. Trying to imagine the courage which she has to explore this world.

Today, during her daily exercise regime, we explored the roof. Gita and the other children are brought up to the roof (for as long as the rain holds out) every evening for sunset. Usually she is left to play with the toys, ride a bike or is swung around, but always surrounded by action and activity. After successfully side-steping the mashis we began our daily exercise regime and began our Climb to the Sun again. We were rewarded by our determination by finding a 'quiet' roof, ready for us to explore.

With Gita's hand in mine I guided her over to the wall, and placed her other hand next to the hot brick. We walked around the outside, our bare feet - Pat pat Pat pat - on the hot and uneven concrete. I looked down onto the streets below. I don't need to lift Gita up to be able to 'see' as the muffled noises of the yellow taxis, the rickshaws, the fruit sellers rises up to us. Despite this it still seemed silent. Wind finding our faces. But the air still felt still. We walked under the lines of washing, the sheets brushing against our skin. I move her hand to hold the wire line. She moves it slowly backwards and forwards then faster and faster and faster. I kneel down to her level and listen very carefully. Ding Ding Ding Ding. Such an incredibly soft sound. Then her attention is moved. Her hand follows the line and she finds what she is looking for. A plastic clothes clip, spinning 360 degrees with the movement of the thin wire line. Rattle Rattle Rattle it spins. Rattle Rattle Ding Ding Rattle Rattle Ding.

Pat pat Pat pat. We walk slowly on. Her right palm reached out. Waiting. Two large plastic barrels. Turned upside down. Warmed Hot with the Heat from the sun. She strokes the side but then her hand remains still. Tap Tap Thud Thud Da Da Da d d d d. I randomly create different sounds from the outside to the edges. She doesn't tap herself but instead she moves her hand on top of mine and pushes. Faster and faster she makes me bang. Both of us listening. And then I stop. Silence.

Pat pat Pat pat. We walk on. A soft drip. Her hands feel around the top of a red bin filled up with water. I wait in anticipation. Her hands become wet. Without even a moments hesitation she leans forward. Arms right down, head following, legs trying to lift. I am smiling so much, but I pull her out. I want to let her jump in and splash and explore the Wet. But for now I unwillingly try to restrain her. I have to. We are meant to be downstairs in the 'nursery' and not exploring the amazing sounds of the mundane roof. I have already ignored the protests of one mashi, which was easy as it was in Bengali, and my replies of revolution in English. But I don't want to jeopardise any of our future morning adventures by bringing down a soaking (smiling) wet Gita. With a reluctance equal to Gita's determination, I hold her back. She pushes her body onto my arm and learns forward. Her arms submerged. I close my eyes and let her splashes touch my skin. It is warm, moist, refreshing, and very 'different'. The wind touches and combines to produce cool, stinging sensations. But Gita is still trying to climb into the bucket and the only way I have to stop her is to do what I know will always work. I tickle her and tickle her until she is laying on the floor with her contagious laugh, laughing so loudly that I am also laughing. Almost as if there was CCTV a mashi appears bringing with her what I can only imagine to be shouts of objection as she takes Gita from in front of me, lifts her up, and carries her down the stairs. I feel annoyed as I wanted Gita to practice walking down the stairs on her own. But really there is little I can do apart from follow. Pat Pat.

I am still smiling so much from Gita's laughter. It is still rippling through me.

Macerena! (With the Sisters...)

Hilarious morning at Shishu Bhavan. It began with a new tactic my the mashis to try and wake up Gita and Ana who always spend breakfast laying face down on top of their plastic chair/ table (which also double as a rocking chair, if turned the other way). Today I found them both standing up holding onto the rails of the nearest cots. They were swaying from side to side, but as their 'eyes' are never open they still looked firmly asleep. I shouted 'Good Morning' into both sets of ears and then began the usual tickling. The poor girls have no choice but to start to smile despite their dedication to sleep. I picked up Ana and placed her in her chair. Immediately she turns into a piece of human jelly and flops down, her little body sliding underneath the table and the legs appearing back on the floor, with only two arms left pointing out of the chair. It is impossible to pull her 'up' so I pull her 'down' and so the cycle continues – plop into the chair – wheeeeeeeeeeee – out onto the floor – a silent slide for the sleeping. Gita is a little larger so it is harder for her to play the same silent sleeping game. Instead she likes to throw her legs over the side and sit in the chair like a hammock – but like Ana she seems to instantly fall asleep again. I tickle until finally I receive a sound. Laughing is the only sound which either of the girls make, and this rarity makes it even more precious to hear.

Maria, a long term Spanish volunteer, who is incredible with the children, is saying 'Buenos Dia' to Jay. Jay is an older girl – maybe around 12 or 13 who sits in the same chair for most of the day, with her head bent so far down she almost curls back into herself. A Tiny Monkey Boy from the active section uses Jay as his entertainment when all of his other mischief has bored him. He likes to tease Jay by sneaking up and taking things from her table, but she has quick reactions and will roll her head up to give then a sharp slap wherever her hand might fall. Sometimes this manages to dissuade Tiny Monkey Boy and sometimes it just increases the 'risk' of his one person game. Jay always has her hair very neatly tied, and perhaps because she is larger than the rest of the children, she seems to have her 'own' clothes. Many of the other children are dressed in the same clothes – like a uniform but a very pretty ones. Today Maria is waving a silver tube of lipstick at Jay. Jay reaches out to take it with a massive smile spreading over her face. She loves any jewelry, bindis and clearly red lipstick. Maria bends down and starts to expertly trace Jay's lips. She is then attacked from behind as a cheeky Tiny Monkey Boy who jumps onto her back. The lipstick is accidentally left in the happy hands of Jay. Jay has the best 'seat' in Shishu Bhavan. Right next to the window, where the warm breeze can be felt, and the sun's energy absorbed. I am playing with Gita. We are standing in front of the open window. I am looking out onto Bose Road and Gita is playing with the sun on her face, swaying from side to side, letting the light and the warmth pass over her skin. Her body is leaning lightly onto my legs and her hands reaching up to hold onto the metal bars of the window frame.

I am distracted by the movement of Jay, casting a shadow over the light. She lifts up the table in front of her chair and stands up. She lifts up her kurta, pulls down her trousers and hides the 'lost lipstick' where it will never be found. She pulls her trousers back up, sits back in her hair, replaces her table and the continues to peer into herself. Jay hasn't seen me see. But Gita has; she has felt the angle of my body change and has moved herself around to stay leaning against my knees.

Maria returns with a Tiny Monkey Boy now wandering around under small sheet – one of his favorite activities. She asks Jay for her lipstick and Jay slowly moves her head up and lifts up her arm to motion that she has thrown it out of the window. The only sign of her reselection of events is the smile spread over her face, which is also mirrored by me, as I marvel at her intelligence, which like many of the children is so superficially masked by their physical disabilities. Maria is confused. Once again I don't want to betray Jay. She found herself in possession of her first lipstick and with quick thinking hid it in the only private place she has, yet Maria wants to know why she threw it out of the window and I know that before long one of the mashi's will take her to the toilet and all will be revealed. I motion to Maria that the lipstick is well hidden and Maria laughs out loud but for now she will let Jay enjoy her small act of defiance/personal possession.

Later in the morning we are able to make Jay's smile continue by teaching the Sisters a new dance. The sound system in Shishu Bhavan seems to be broken so instead we have been energising the atmosphere with some new tunes. The curiosity of two of the younger Sisters was captured and before long we had a line jumping up and down and humming. Arms outstretched, palms turning, hands on the elbows, the head, the hips and then Whaaaaoooo Macarena! Absolutely hilarious watching as the Sisters jump around, hands on their robed white hips, swinging and swaying in an utterly unorthodox manner. Maria and I laughed so much we could hardly keep dancing and before long even Jay had forgot about her hidden treasure and was standing in line, with Maria guiding her arms through the movements. Gita remained blind to cause of our hilarity but kept a hand on my legs feeling the vibrations and still sharing the collective laughter with every Whaaaaaooo Macarena - A Hoi!

When I left Jay still had a lipstick down her trousers, Gita was innocently distributing karma by sticking her legs through the bars of her cot to prod a captive Tiny Monkey Boy, and the tune of Macarena was proving highly infectious amongst the Sisters.

Little Girls

The children of the station are playing. They have new friends which the arrival of the monsoon has brought. They have a playground at the end of the platform. It has moving trains which if you hold on to will carry you along and slide you down the concrete towards the railway tracks. The sliding children are mainly little girls. Maybe five. Maybe six years young. With faces too old and bodies too small. They brothers are working, or sniffing, or running. They see a Magic Man but they don't know he is a Magic Man. They just see a white man with a bag of food. Play time is put on hold as they begin their work:“Uncle Uncle!” They cry. Hands reaching for his hands and for his arms. Little brown eyes hungry for biscuits and bananas. But there are too many of them. He knows that the biscuits and bananas inside his 'magic' bag are too few. In the anarchy of the station they would be fought for and he does not want to create war. A little sister totters along and tries to reach her hand inside the 'magic' bag. In her couple of years of life she has learned to try and take what won't be given. But Magic Man remains strong and he lifts the bag out of the little hungry hands reach. Magic Man wishes he had a hundred bananas and biscuits. But his Magic skills are limited to making little people laugh and not curing their hunger. He continues to walk but the little hands become more determined. The little hands are now firmly attached to his tightly closed palms, trying to pry them open. They will not be defeated. They do not want this walking pot of money and food to walk away. “Uncle Uncle!” They smile and giggle and run along. “Hotel Uncle?” They ask.

Happiness

I search the running faces. I can't see the pineapple. I search the shaved heads. I look for the blue and white dress. There are several – but they are not her. I realise that I am disappointed. My heart sinks more than it already has today. She was the small happiness which I was selfishly searching. I begin to wonder where she is? Perhaps she just hasn't seen me? Perhaps she has forgotten me – maybe ten day is too long for a six year old trained to forget? Perhaps she has left New Light? But surely she would not have gone home unless her mother has returned from hospital? And what of the abuse she has already had to suffer once? The running feet whizz around me. I feel sad which makes me feel bad. I smile at the smiling faces staring up at me. Vying for my attention but I know the smiles I return are only shallow. Hands search for mine and small fingers play with my watch. Pressing the buttons but too weakly for any mechanical reaction. Their eyes remain focused. Loud little voices rise to me ears and I try to return the energy which they so freely give to me. Slowly I pull the fingers away and turn my back. The cries follow the disappointment I leave behind.

I lean on the balcony and search the running heads on the path below. I search for a small squeaky pineapple. But there I can't find one. Defeated I sit. A tray appears in front of me. It presents four small thick glasses of steaming chai; thick brown liquid wobbling beneath a shade of condensation. The woman who has made the chai and who is holding the tray does not use any words to communicate with me but only extends her arm. I reply by carefully extracting a glass, fingers wrapped painfully around the rim. She turns around and limps away, back into New Light. In my silence I sip the sweetened darkened milk. I stare onto the streets below. Children playing, women waiting, men joking. I feel guilty that two little girls have captured my attention – one without sight – one with too much history – both abandoned. I feel fortunate to have what I consider to be a real privilege to work with them. I know they give me far more happiness than the giggles which I can give them. But with one not here I am left missing. As I think these thoughts a “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” travels through the classroom! A Pat Pat Pat Pat Pat Pat at full speed! The smile accompanying our Crush is as large as the collision. I look down at the little shaved head clinging to my legs and bend down to greet the two eyes beneath it. We smile so much at each other. No words are exchanged as both know the miscomprehension which they will bring but the connection between our eyes and the happiness they communicate is much more effective than any “Hello! I have missed you!” I tickle her and she collapses even more as her arms wrap around my neck demanding to be lifted up and hugged. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuug. So tightly. I kola walk her over to the swivel chair and point to her to remove the blue beaded bracelet around my wrist. Her small fingers quickly twist open the clasp and its rings fall away from my wrist. I wrap it around hers. One. Two. Three. Four. Five times it goes. Her smile is so wide that it travels around the room. She is torn between shouting for everyone to look and hiding it under our hands – just in case presents from Aunty are not allowed. She is playing it safe and as one of the tutors walks by the clever Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple folds forwards and presses her shaved head against my barbie hair. The tutor walks past and I tighten the clasp. I bring my right wrist next her hers. Snap! We match. Little and Large. Rings of blue beads around both of our wrists. She is smiling so much and it is a pleasure to see.

The bracelet had been for Gita as she always loves to feel the beads on my wrist and hear their invisible sounds as she rolls them against my skin. But as always she refused to hold her arms still for long enough for me to wrap it around her wrist and picked it up and threw it as far as she had the patience to. I feel happiness as unlike Gita, Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple shows me her smile. She lifts her head back and points it towards me and then sends her happiness and energy through her shining eyes. A bell rings and I begin the challenge of depositing her back in the class room. She has clearly become much more confident with the other children. She lets me place her down on the floor and she finds the little lady who had been so determined to work my watch. She shoves her newly decorated wrist in front of her and then grabs mine and pulls it towards her. Another pair of eyes search up to me. I don't have another to give I try to explain by showing my empty hands. The another pair of eyes doesn't understand. She wants one. I squeeze off the pink skinny bangle and pop it over her hand. It is so big for the another pair of eyes that it could reach all the way up to her shoulder. She is appeased but not satisfied. Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple sends a pair of hands up towards me. Arms outreached. Smile beaming. I mimic her as my hands reach up to the ceiling fan. She laughs and jumps. I bend and lift. We smile.

Peaceful Land of Angry Languages

Silly Siliguri. The perfect description of the 'border' town: The border between 'West Bengal' and the 'Gorkhaland' that is spoken about, shouted about and 'striked' about and yet still to be legalised. It must be difficult for the GNLF to put pressure on the West Bengal and national government by demanding a complete shut down in goods and services from its own people. Although two days is not enough to make an accurate conclusion, and it would be unlikely that support is indeed unified, it did seem that the majority of Darjeeling's inhabitants still supported the demands of the GNLF. In the most basic of terms, people spoke positively about the creation of 'Gorkhaland' and negatively about their position within West Bengal. Moreover, people seemed to respect rather than resent the enforced strike. They vocally joined the demonstrations, and they joined in the thousands, filling up the narrow streets and standing and smiling in solidarity. Those who 'escaped' with us did so humbly. They appeared apologetic to the GNFL party leaders. And today the leadership of the GNFL has paused to give the people it claims to represent an opportunity to prepare: Darjeeling announced a two day relaxation in its 'indefinite' bandh in order to allow people to stock up on limited supplies. Unfortunately Siliguri announced a retaliation strike: the aim of which was to prevent supplies from reaching the hill station. The popular support for this retaliation seemed much less convincing as police marched around Siliguri 'reminding' people to close their shops and restaurants. A band of boys and young men walked around waving the CPI-M flag, but their efforts seemed more recreational than political. However, resentment was clearly rising towards the Gorkha's with violence directed towards Siliguri's Nepali speaking residents. I heard accounts of tourists from Sikkim who had been left 6 km outside of Siliguri. Apparently their jeeps were unable to pass through the crowds of Bengali speakers who were “brandishing sticks and knives” threatening the Nepali speaking suburbians.

The fighting breaking out around Siliguri was based primarily on a distinction made between mother tongues. This segregation through language is a challenge which India has being trying to negotiate since independence. Nepali and Bengali are two of 1652 mother tongues listed in the national census; with Sanskrit the common written medium. However, until the Gorkha's stop feeling/being seen as Nepali speaking invaders from Nepal rather than 'Gorka's' from 'Gorkhaland' tensions are going to continue to grow. Moreover, it is not that the Gorkha's are rallying against 'India' but rather against the government of West Bengal. In fact Darjeeling itself is a pretty diverse town: full of Indian 'Nepalis' speaking Bengali to their Bengali friends, Tibetans who have made India their 'temporary' permanent home and who speak Nepali with their 'Gorkha' friends and the older Gorkha gentleman, educated in the UK, who worked for the state and who now stand on the street corners discussing politics in most perfect and polite form of English to be found outside of Buckingham Palace. And then of course there is the Assamese from neighbouring Assam, Dzongkha from Bhutan and Limba, Lepcha and Bhutia of Sikkim, which are only a few of the many other dialects of the north and east which remain indistinguishable to my 'English' ears, but which are spoken throughout of the town. What the Gorkha's do want is to be recognised as equal Indian citizens of their own autonomous state. In the past India has managed to negotiate differences by recognising them. The multilingual country has diffused marginalisation of minorities by allowing different languages the space to be learned and to be spoke; but the question remains if West Bengal and the national government are prepared to allow the creation of a new state for the space to exist within? Ultimately, the events in Siliguri demonstrated that more also needs to be done to reassure/ reintegrate the Bengali speakers.

In regards to my exploration of this imagined 'Gorkhaland' I was ready to be defeated and try and visit the Kingdom of Sikkim in the North – of West Bengal. Sikkim received its own recognition as a separate state within India in 1975 (or 2003 if you are the Chinese government) so now it is trying its best not to be drawn into the current political/ geographic debate. However, by virtue of its position at the end of the highway which runs through Darjeeling to Siliguri the strike and counter strike severely restricted the movement of people and supplies to and from the area. Movement along the highway had been restricted to army personal for the safety of all potential travelers. In fact the restriction was taken so seriously by the bus and jeep drivers that I heard a driver refuse an offer of 3000 rupees (higher than the average monthly wage for a Bengali) for the journey which should have cost 150 rupees. This refusal gives values in economic terms to the gravity of the situation. Alternatively helicopters were scheduled to transport people out of the northern kingdom. It seemed as if we were trying to move against the flow, which ultimately left us little choice but to go with it.

The enquiry desk, reservations desk and booking office at Siliguri train station all told us the same thing – the trains back to Kolkata were full. Four extra trains had been scheduled the day before, but they had left only partially filled as no one (including the booking offices) knew about them. Sure enough the train station today was overflowing with Bengali tourists trying desperately to leave their holiday. We bought a bus ticket. A curfew was announced. No buses were allowed to leave. We stood at the side of the road as an army jeep drove by. A smart young Indian from Kolkata stood next to us. We were all told to leave the pavement. The smart young Indian insisted on 'helping' us. He said we could share his seat on the night train and yet ultimately he wanted to give us more than a section of a plastic cushion. Without a doubt we caused him far more stress than the local events did. I felt embarrassed at this shy strangers determination to find us seats. Why did he want to 'help' us? Because we were foreigners? Would he have felt the same if we were foreigners from the developing world? If our skins were a darker shade? Conversely would I have helped this strange man if he was stuck in Oxford? Would I have spent my afternoon arguing with the local bureaucracy, paying 'corruption' fines and then sharing my food? Ultimately, his determination meant that we were piled onto a full train with each of its ten or more carriages crammed to the corridors. Slowly the mechanic giant rattled its way away from the hills, dragging with it 1000 plus people and leaving behind calls for statehood to be read about, folded away and pushed down the side of the seat.

Arriving back in Sealdgh station was bizarre. Seeing the people who I work with from the 'other' perspective – as dirty bodies laying on the platform. As bodies who were sidestepped, kicked or avoided. Bodies which could easily be 'filtered' out – to be turned into sub-human beings laying invisible, waiting for the hours to pass before their one meal is delivered. Arriving back in Kolkata was also bizarre - being asked by Bengali's in the state's capital how my holiday was and listening as they laughed about the fruitless persistence of the Gorkhas and spoke about my 'bad timing'. Being asked by the manager of the guest house not to talk to the porters about Darjeeling. Answering the barrage of questions about Darjeeling asked by the 'Nepali' porters. Listening as they spoke about their frustration of the 'situation', trying to coax them to share their political views, and hearing the longing in their voices as they spoke of their Himalayas. The porters who share with me their resentment of having to choose work over their families, and who ask me directly and indirectly, and with a mixture of English and Nepali, to confirm the ''friendliness' and 'beauty' of their peaceful land.

For a beautiful book exploring the complexities and contradictions of the area around Darjeeling read Kiran Desai: The Inheritance of Loss

Resentful Retreat

Another blissful sleep followed by a resentful wake up. Matilda knocks on the door. Are we going to leave she asks? She is clearly concerned that her only guests are still here. We reply that we had a great day yesterday and intend to stay for a few more days. She asks for our passport details in case our embassies contact her. I restrain myself and take a short hot happy shower before piling on my piles of t-shirts and two pairs of trousers. I am enjoying not wearing my kuta, or having to wrap my body up in a scarf and camouflage my blond hair. The hills are clearly far less conservative than its lowland capital. We walk out to meet Sherab and Jake at a cafe they claim is famous for its breakfasts. We stand at the door which is only slightly ajar and a small servant quickly ushers us inside. Sherab and Jake are already seated with pages of Tibetan script laid out in front of them. My friends tease them they must be CIA spies. I laugh too loudly for the owner quickly motions me to be quiet. She is clearly concerned that her disobedience of the 'indefinite' strike will be alerted by my merriment. We talk in subdued tones. We eat porridge and drink milky chai, sweetened with golden sugar. Jake drinks coffee. Apparently, just a few days before tourists would be queuing for a seat. The cafe must be losing a lot of revenue and I wonder what the owner really thinks of the GNLF tactics? We profusely thank her and duck down back out through the shutter which has now been pulled down to mask the partially opened door. Sherab offers to take us to the monastery where he lives. It is only a short walk away through quiet streets. The echoes of distant chanting can be heard, but from the distance they sound more like shouts from a children's playground. Sherab's monastery is beautiful. It is tiny, with a small temple welcomed by a patch of green grass and a frame of bushes. His room is even more simple than Jake's with a stone floor, a door which doesn't quite shut and a tiny table/shrine. We sit on his single bed and I ask permission to look at his pile of books. My attention is immediately directed to a tiny publication by Nepal's Kopan Monastery: The Four R's. The coincidence unnerves me as this is the one Buddhist practice which I am familiar with and which has helped me more than any psychologist ever could.

A twenty one year old ex-Italian monk who also lives at the monastery phones Sherab. He is concerned by the change of events. We walk to the monastery's kitchen and sit with its four Tibetan monks, one ex-Italian one and a Chinese student of Tibetan. We are asked if we want to share the daal bhat that they are eating. We decline. The ex-Italian monk tells us he is leaving to Nepal. He says that overnight the 'situation' has become much worse, with rumours of violence spreading. The monks are concerned that their food supplies are inadequate. Shouts from outside begin to filter through our conversation and one by one the table disbands and moves to the edge of the garden. Below the monastery a large crowd has gathered around a small police stall. Unlike yesterday it seems unorganized and much more passionately voiced. Within minutes wise Sherab has packed a small rucksack and Jake is patiently seeking the advice of his teacher despite the intermittent mobile reception. The lack of information, the access to food and transport and the immanent departure of our remaining new foreign friends seems to tell us it is time to leave. Reluctantly, for I love this place and feel spoiled for seeing it without the 20,000 other tourists.

We make our way back to Andy's, passed the shouting crowd. One tire has been lit and is blowing black noxious smoke into the crowd. A protester bends down and uses its flame to light his cigarette. Although the crowd are clearly more vocal than yesterday, the atmosphere is far from threatening. Smartly dressed women, with painted lips and gold earrings link arms next to men in their distinctive tweed jackets and leather shoes. We squeeze through the mass, find Andy's, throw our clothes into the bags and meet Jake at the main bus terminal.

There are no buses. In fact there are no vehicles at all. Within the short time it has taken us to pack Sherab has already left with the Italian ex-monk and the Chinese student of Tibetan. A crackly phone call tells is that they have caught the last jeep. We ask about transportation to Siliguri and are given the reply: 'impossible'. We turn to discuss our options but are called over towards a crowd of men in the middle of which stands a parked jeep. Our bags are thrown on its roof and we are thrown inside. An intense debate surrounds us as the remaining seats are quickly occupied by locals. The doors are reopened and we are shouted out. Our bags removed from the roof and the driver tells us 'impossible'. Confused we stand and passively wait for a solution to appear. Within minutes it does. Our bags are replaced on the roof and we are replaced inside. It seems the GNLF have given their consent to a final jeep of 'tourists' to leave Darjeeling. The all important word of exemption is scribbled on a sheet of paper and the front seat passengers optimistically try to glue it with nothing more than condensation to the inside of the windscreen. I fish around in my rucksack and find a tiny roll of tape. It works and our labeled 'TOURIST' jeep full of four 'tourists' and about nine locals careers out of the square to stop a few meters later. Our driver jumps out and begins negotiations. A few minutes later a shutter is rolled up and our jeep reversed into a closed shop which in more peaceful times is actually a petrol station. Off we go; speeding down the hill, breaking only to cruise around the hairpin bends and floating through the encompassing mist.

The first 'check point' emerges. The jeep slows and the GNLF approach. It is a group of women. They approach us, look at our 'label', look at us, and then wave us on. The second check point is not quite so easily fooled. It consists of a wooden bench upon which sit a line of tweed jacket wearing men. They tell our driver than no vehicles are allowed past. They politely explain to us, that although we are clearly 'tourists' the rest of our jeep clearly are not. They apologise for any inconvenience but cannot let us continue. We will have to return back up the hill we have just sped down. Some more words are exchanged and our jeep does a 360 degree turn and much to the confusion of the 'tourists' we continue towards the plains as the GNFL return to their bench. It seems this literally was the 'bench mark' as after this I just had to reveal my blond hair (much to the amusement of the old man sitting behind me) and we were waved down the hill.

I felt a strange mixture of emotions. As the coolness of the air was replaced by a warm humidity and the fog lifted, I didn't feel relieved but rather annoyed that I was 'exempt'. Just like in the Occupied Palestinian Territories I was able to be 'freer' than the local people, whose land I was a guest. Moreover, I wanted to learn more about the Gorkha's demands. I still had unanswered questions about the apparent support for the cause despite the self-harm in the methods. I still wanted to walk around the tea gardens, visit the monastery's and talk to Tenzin about why he can't return to Tibet.

We arrive in Siliguri to be told that there is a strike in retaliation to Darjeeling's strike. We ask if we can catch a jeep to Sikkim, 'impossible' we are told...

Protests and Peace Pagodas

My new friend's 'Tibetan' name is Sherab – which means 'New Wisdom'. Darjeeling as I was soon to find out includes a population of whom 10-20 percent are Tibetan. Sherab however, is not Tibetan (or at least not in this life time) but is a young American living in a small monastery in Darjeeling and studying at the local Tibetan language school. Appearances are indeed deceiving.

Sherab knew as much (or rather as little) as we did about the unfolding political situation but as his school was on strike he agreed on giving us a guided tour, the first stop of which was at the house of a fellow American student: Jake is tall and skinny, wears a thick tweed waistcoat, plastic shoes and is armed with a brown woolly hat and tent sized umbrella. He welcomed us into his tiny room and boiled us some Darjeeling tea. Taking the advice of the billboards around town, he drinks his tea natural – “without the taste masked by milk or sugar”. This is useful under the present circumstances, as both milk and sugar appear to be in particularly short supply. Jake then decided to join our small excursion. Next stop – a monastery, where we collected a monk by the name of Tenzin who Sherab wisely decided would be a more appropriate guide.

Tenzin has only been learning English for a year, but with the help of our two excellent translators I was able to ask him as many questions as I could think of: He was 28 years old, had left Tibet as a child and had spent the past seventeen years of his life living in monasteries around India. He has never been back to Tibet as he fears that he will be imprisoned if he tries. Tenzin has an incredible presence around him, and rather stereotypically conveys calmness just by 'being'. He guides our party out of the main town, up the hill and through an Army check point. We pass a collection of buildings – some looking like old English houses, with white painted window frames inset in grey stone bricks, and accompanied by small patches of manicured gardens. Others are plainer and more typically 'Nepali' but still covered in greenery as shrubs and flowers bloom out of plastic cartons and buckets. In between is a scattering of different gompa's and monastery's, some of which are reminiscent of Lhasa's Potala Palace and Jokhang Monastry. Tattered prayer flags stretch across the roads, adding both blessings and colours to the hills. Jake stops to vocalise the words of one. A collection of strange weaved statues made out of hardened dough and thread stand on top of a black plastic water barrel. The crafts look like dream catchers and Jake explains that they are to trap 'evil' outside of the houses. We pass many dogs, which seem muted by both the climate and by a series of mutilations – broken and bent limbs. We pass an old man wearing a topi, a tweed jacket and leather shoes. He is walking his cat – a tiny kitten attached to him by a piece of green plastic string. We walk one by one down stone steps on the other side of the hill. Sherab steps with his hands out by his side, as if flying while walking. I stop to bend down and lay my hands on the grass. It is soaked with morning dew that has not been confined to the dawn but renewed minute by minute by the thick mountain air. Eventually we all arrive at the local Japanese Peace Pagoda.

The Pagoda is one of 70 around the world. It is incredibly scenic. Its simple white shape contrasting and camouflaged against the white of the clouded sky and the green of the misty hills. During our walk the weather has changed from cold to hot to cloudy to sunny to damp and to rain. We seek shelter from the falling water and walk into the small temple next to the pagoda, leaving our boots, flip flops, trainers and plastic shoes at the entrance. The temple smells musty and fresh, with the damp air blowing in through the massive open white framed windows. We sit at the back of the carpeted room, while a nun wrapped up in woollies lays down what looks like tennis racket drums and bent sticks. Two other monks appear and a women, with long shiny black hair begins to beat a massive drum. Na-Mu Myo-Ho-Ren-Ge-Kyo begins the chant and a monk motions to use to pick up the tennis racket drums. Symbols painted in black outline our instruments, the 'meaning' of which we beat out with the sticks. The chanting continues and the beat surrounds us and drifts out of the window. I wonder how my Catholic friend is feeling. My curiosity is dampened by my own romanticism, as I let the rhythm soothe my active mind and I begin to think about how many times and by how many hands my worn 'tennis racket' drum has been played. I know that I feel far more comfortable sitting cross legged on the floor than on any wooden pew, with the repetition of the foreign words making them become deceivingly familiar. My curiosity is reinvoked as my friend spontaneously moves towards the monk to receive a 'sugar' blessing. A few minutes later the rest of our random party follow his lead and lay down our drums and take the proffered sugar balls from the smiling monk. As the light fades and the temperature quickly drops we leave the temple and walk back to the town center. I have stopped asking Tenzin questions and instead enjoy listening to the strange sounds of the three Buddhists. I admire Sherab's and Jake's mastery of such a foreign language from such a 'forbidden' land.

People are milling around the streets, talking and walking. The atmosphere seems relaxed, but all but the pharmacies remain closed. I buy a small carton of apple juice from one. I am already missing fresh fruit and vegetables. I offer a sip to Sherab, he declines saying he is trying to avoid snacks. We pass another pharmacy and again squeeze through the door to investigate – never before have pharmacies held such an appeal. We examine the collection of wheat biscuits and chocolate bars. I buy some yellow toilet paper. Sherab buys some locally produced potatoes chips and peanuts with masala salt. We walk along a steep road lined with small empty stalls. I wonder what it must look like when it is open. Amongst the closed stalls, shops and strangely named hotels we pass an open stable filled with horses. The horses are eating discarded roasted corn leaves, and “no” it is “not possible to rent a horse.” “The horses are also on strike” is the serious explanation given to our jocular request. We thank Tenzin and he offers to take us on another local tour tomorrow. We arrange to meet him at 1pm and he replies with the only two Tibetan words which I can understand: Tashi Deleg.

Jake invites us back to his room for dinner. I am surprised: next to the toilet he has a small two ringed stove, and on his desk he has an impressive collection of local dried herbs and spices. My Italian friend's offers of help ranging from “I can cut something?” to “can I wash something” go unheeded as Jake clearly has a system and an enjoyment of provision. He leaves the rest of us to sit on his floor and narrow bed and explore his small library. I pick up a book about Tibetan Tantra and ask the cook for some more elaboration. He steps away from the stove and quickly removes it from my sight. He apologies: “this is only for those who have been initiated.” I do not understand but try to mask my embarrassment by asking his permission to look at his Nepali phrase book. I have so many questions to ask these two American Buddhists: were they Buddhist before studying Tibetan? Why Tibetan? Did they plan to use the political power of their new linguistic key?

Dinner is a plate of rice, yellow daal, potatoes, onions and garlic and some greens. It is hot and seasoned and severed humbly. We sit on the floor and my questions are answered. Sherab wants to be a translator but personally he wants to learn Tibetan so that he can read the dharma's himself. Jake plans to spend an indefinite amount of time in a Tibetan monastery. Both were Buddhists prior to their studies, but their beliefs have been strengthened by their new knowledge. Sherab lives in monasteries whenever he can – in India and in California. Jake spent two months wandering the Indian countryside with two Tibetan monks who were on a pilgrimage visiting ancient Buddhist places of interest. Neither describe themselves as political activists – both are clearly committed to 'Tibet'. Sherab returns my inquisition and asks me about Tibet. He has never visited.

There is a power cut and with the help of a Indian lighter (which hides a small light) and Jake's umbrella tent we make our way back through the mountain rain to Andy's. My Catholic friend expresses surprise at our new Buddhist friends. “I thought Buddhist Tibetan students would just smoke dope and be hippies, but they are really serious. Really focused. Really great to meet them.” Through the blackness of the dark we follow the empty corridor to our silent chilly room. My Catholic friend rolls himself a joint. I sleep, cold and happy and with the confusions of Kolkata far far away.

For another perspective by Sherab see Echoes Bouncing off Echoes

Gorkhaland for Gorkha's

I woke up to a cold silence. It was bliss. After the humidity of Kolkata, and over two years living in Asia this was the first morning since living in Oxford that I had woken up piled underneath blankets and with fresh air around my face. I stood under the shower and let hot water pour over my head and warm my body. I later read a sign requesting guests to limit their water consumption as it was in short supply. I was guiltily glad to have read the sign after my shower. The guest house was deserted but the streets were still full of casual activity. The sounds of shouting became louder, and gradually the first signs of yesterdays 'unrest' came into view. A large procession – headed by women – shouted their way up the hill. We stood and watched. The camaraderie made me miss marching: I thought about the London based Rhythms of Resistance, a pink drum band which never fails to raise morale and to attract the attention of the passive at London demonstrations. I tried to imagine their drums and pink feathers winding their way through Darjeeling. Perhaps the streets would be too narrow.

Now if anything I was curious rather than concerned. The area between Sikkim and Siliguri has officially been demanding separation from the state of Bengal since 1907. The demonstrations are being led by the Gorkha National Liberation Front (GNLF) who have set themselves the aim of achieving an independent state within India by 2010: “Gorkhaland for Gorkha’s.” Gorkhas are ethnic Nepalis who invaded what is now the Darjeeling district in 1780. Until then, the area had been ruled by the kings of Sikkim. After Indian independence, the Gorkhas remained under the rule of the West Bengal state and were left feeling severely under represented. Tension has continued to build and calls for a separate state of Gorkhaland increased. In 1988 their demands were briefly appeased by the formation of the Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council, but still feeling neglected by both the national government and the West Bengal state (who still refuses to accept Nepali as one of the state's official languages) tension has continued to grow. The Darjeeling Gorkha Hill council argues that it has limited administrative and financial control. Their council members (some of whom we met during their revolving 24 hours hunger strike in Darjeeling) complain that they receive the same standard salary (2,500 rupees per month) although the district is much more expensive to live. Predictably, the Gorkha population feel inadequately represented.

On the streets this was vocalised by people with who argued that they work on the tea plantations which cover the hills and their hotels and restaurants feed and accommodate thousands of tourists per year but in return to the large revenue this provides to the ruling state they receive very little in way of infrastructure and basic services. Like the rest of West Bengal the 'Communist' government continues to marginalise state health care and education by diverting public funds into private alternatives. More specifically to Darjeeling, the area suffers from inadequate mountain roads and as the sign on my guest house door warned me – a water shortage. This is despite having one of the highest annual levels of rainfall in the country. The town's water system has not been renovated since the British era, despite having a massive increase in its population as well as seasonal surges of tourists bringing approximately 8000 each day. Unfortunately ethnic tensions are being manipulated as Bengali opposition groups (rumoured to be supported by the ruling CPI-M party) argue that the Gorkha's are trying to steal 'their' land and are actually not 'Indian' but 'foreigners' from Nepal.

Despite the absence of a samba beats the procession was still rhythmic, with speaker systems shouting out slogans and voices echoing them. Flags depicting the umbrellas of the Gorkha Hill Council walked by followed by the crossed Kurkuri's on the green flags of the GNLF. We waited for the slogans, flags and feet to march by and then searched for the only restaurant still selling food. We found it and immediately found ourselves being hurried through the door . We piled into a pile of rucksacks from yet more tourists still trying to make an 'escape'. Breakfast was available we were told, on the condition that we ordered pancakes. We ordered pancakes and I squeezed back out of the door and went in search of a newspaper. I found a small man, holding a wooden staff and loaded down with a stack of national and regional publications. He handed me copies of The Statesman and The Times of India. Darjeeling was on the front page of both, with one showing two wandering tourists looking extremely lost in the crowded bus depot we had arrived at only yesterday. I was disappointed that one of the tourists was not me. I made a mental note to look for random photographers during the day ahead. The front page also informed me that the bandh had now been announced as ‘indefinite.’

Personally, I was feeling pretty privileged to still be in Darjeeling and have the opportunity to see the town without tourists and to talk to people about the political situation. My luck was also about to increase as I randomly asked a passing jean wearing, trainer clad, clearly foreign foreigner if he was also leaving – his reply “I live here”. We returned to the now empty restaurant and ate jam pancakes.

Tourist Exodus?!

Last Sunday I (along with some fellow volunteers) decided to find relief from pre-monsoon heat of Kolkata and visit Darjeeling. Fourteen hours later and after my first experience of Indian trains we arrived in West Bengal’s most northerly train station; New Jalpaiguri. A one legged shoe shine sitting at the entrance to the train station offered some free advice - a strike had just been announced and it was impossible to go to Darjeeling. I looked down to the newspaper which I was holding and read the front page – members of the Gorkhaland Party were four days into their hunger strike. The strike (or bandh in Nepali) in Darjeeling was in support of the fasters. However, everyone I asked and everyone who offered their free advice told me a different story – the bandh would be over by four pm, the bandh was for 24 hours etc etc. What was clear was that the bandh was to prevent movement of goods and services from Darjeeling to the main town 70 km south – Siliguri. We managed to find a bus to Siliguri.

In Siliguri we were told a similar story “Darjeeling impossible”. All public buses had stopped running and the four wheel drive jeeps with signs to Darjeeling on the windscreen were sitting empty. We walked down to the Siliguri Junction train station which was said to have a 'toy' train that very slowly crawled up the hills to Darjeeling. After moving between the ‘enquiry desk’ to the ‘Reservation desk’ and then back to the ‘Ticket booking office’ multiple times we were told that perhaps the toy train would be leaving but if it did there would be “a ninety percent chance” that it would be stopped on the way. We carried our bags back out of the train station resigned to be spending our first night away from the craziness of Kolkata in the silliness of Siliguri. We walked past a full jeep. “Darjeeling?” We were asked. And the very next second we were piled into the full jeep and careering out of Siliguri.

Now the north of West Bengal is surrounded by recognized and unrecognized countries and states: Nepal to the west, Assam to the east. Sikkim, Bhutan, Tibet and China to the North and Bangladesh to the South. Throughout the morning I had gradually began to realize that I could understand a surprising amount of what was being said, primarily because the main language in the region is actually Nepali. I asked the driver what time we would arrive and his reply (“we will arrive after we leave”) was as nonsensical as my question, but ultimately meant that for the rest of the journey he would refer to me as ‘diddy’ and endeavour to include me in all of the discussions.

The road was not direct though and required stopping at every possible closed shop looking for diesel. The bandh means that all shops, including petrol stations, are forced to close. The lack of diesel is another reason why the movement of vehicles is restricted. Our energetic driver remained on the edge of this seat spinning us through small villages and reversing through alleyways determined and before long the wooden shutters of a shop were opened and a plastic can of diesel produced. We soared up through the mountain hills. The air becoming cooler and fresher and the roads narrower. Soon the fields began to turn into small bushes – full of dark green tea plantations as we twisted and turned our way through hair pin bends up to and eventually above the clouds. We abruptly stopped for lunch – as even during a bandh the driver needs to eat! We piled into a tiny wooden restaurent on the edge of road, which was in turn on the edge of the hill and drank chai and ate momo's while a travelling minstrel silently agreed to stem my curiousity by playing his tiny wooden guitar shaped instrument. I knocked back another cup of chai before we piled back in the jeep with the driver asking 'diddy' if she was actually drinking raksi – a very alcholic Nepali rice brew. I tried to reply that our crazy driver must be the one drinking the raksi, but I think the humour was lost in translation as he continued to negotiate our jeep at the same speed furiously up the hills.

When we eventually arrived in Darjeeling it didn’t actually occur to me as strange that there were crowds of people squeezing themselves into the two buses bursting at the windows, with the roof rack even overflowing with both bags and people. I was too happy to have finally reached our desired destination after nearly a full day traveling. Unlike other places where I had been during a strike the streets seemed relatively busy. All the shops were shut, but because there was no curfew groups of people were walking around, talking or queuing outside of the pharmacies. The pharmacies were the only shops allowed to open, and luckily they do not just sell medicines. Perhaps they used to only just sell medicine, but years of bandhs have taught them an important business lesson and now they are full with packets of biscuits, soups, noodles (apparently the sustaining food of the Nepali Maoists) juice and extremely old Cadbury's chocolate. Again, the rush to the pharmacies to buy everything but medicines failed to make much of an impression on us and we began our search for a guest house. Darjeeling’s tiny streets are crammed high with guest houses once again, they were also on strike. Eventually we climbed up to find one room left in ‘Andy’s Guest house', owned by a Nepalese Lady called Matilda, who has never been to Nepal.

After wandering the streets, harassing the lady selling bootlegged Chai from a kettle disguised in a blanket, admiring the fog filled views, we found the one food substance exempt from the bandh – corn. Several roasted corns later and with a take away dinner of a bag full of biscuits and we returned to ‘Andy’s’ where the night was to become even stranger. At around eleven o’clock people started moving and the previous silence of the hills disturbed by excited chatter. A friend went to investigate and returned to say that tourist were being evacuated and what did we want to do? I replied that we would decide in the morning. “There leaving now” was the response. Hmmm. The occupants of our entire guest house we leaving, and yet we had just arrived – which had been a major achievement in itself. We went to sleep.

Stranded in Siliguri

The last few days have been completely and utterly crazy: Full of active resistance, passive resistance, road blocks, strikes, demonstrations, hunger strikes and ‘tourist exemptions’ amongst a million other experiences which I can only now begin to reflect upon. Basically I ended up in the middle of a ‘lock in’ in Darjeeling – which meant that although I had the choice to leave initially I decided to stay. After two days the situation looked far more serious, with possible food shortages and realized rumors of violence. I am now in the neighboring town of Siliguri – which has also closed down in retaliation to Darjeeling’s strikes. As I said, the last few days have been completely and utterly crazy and while I wait for the travel restrictions to be lifted the next few blogs are my attempt to try and share with you the current events of northern West Bengal - or rather ‘Gorkhaland’. Read on…

Climbing to the Sun

I have become far too attached and I have no idea what to do about it. My solution today was not to go to the orphanage and use the time to write instead. I have been going every morning and I am totally addicted. I have found such an energy with Gita and I look forward too much to seeing her everyday. By the evening I am still singing stupid tunes or tapping random sounds out. I think of her and think of her life and her options and how beautiful she is and it makes me happy and sad. I hear sounds – so many more sounds than I have been conscious of before, and this is not just because Kolkata is a noisy noisy place, but because she makes me Listen.

Yesterday was a particularly powerful day. As usual I found her sleeping on her plastic rocking chair/ dining table. I used to wonder if it was because her and Ana had been given too much medication, which is why they are the only kids (and usually the most active 'disabled' ones) who find it so difficult to wake up in the mornings. But apparently the only medication that they receive is a vitamin complex syrup. Perhaps seeing no light makes the little bodies harder to adapt from night to day...

I try to tickle her awake and tap on her table and eventually she reaches for my hands, places hers on the outside of mine and begins to push them together. Clap Clap Clap.

Their breakfast appears. All of the 'disabled' children eat food which has been turned into mush, but Gita is one of the only children (along with Pete, a lovely boy who also happens to have Downs Syndrome) who eats the same food as the active children – but again only after it has been 'mushed'. I tie a bib around her neck, which isn't easy as she lifts up her hands to try and find mine. Today she is wearing a particularly fancy dress, which means that breakfast is likely to be a particularly messy affair.

Gita and Ana are always wearing matching outfits, both of which are shiny and bright. A new volunteer asks me if they are sisters, which I guess is an improvement from my first day when I thought they were brothers. Regardless of this unconventional uniform, new volunteers often subconsciously pair off children with the same disability, same haircut and same sex, as siblings. But I guess its because these children often share the same traits. Gita and Ana both sway from side to side, or kick their legs, while both of the baby Princesses (Sharma and Josephine) are both so light, with floppy arms and legs and matching white leather 'adapted' shoes. I guess its tough for these little people to create their identity when none can talk, choose their clothes, have any personal belongings and are seen first as a diagnosis and then second as a child.

I take a steel bowl containing two plain biscuits, pour in warm milk from a bottle and then 'mush'. The first spoonful is always the hardest and then once she has tasted the food on her lips the next spoonfuls are easier to deposit. I shout “Gita” to her followed by “Kana”. Biscuit mush is now on her lips and her arms have began to wave around her ears. I have to be careful to keep the bowl out of firing range while at the same time keep it posed ready to catch any rejected mush if she decides to lock her jaw shut. This morning I have it easy and Gita doesn't need so much persuading, and after one month I have learned that the key is continuous interaction.

“Give me a G - G!” I shout at her and bring the tea spoon to her half open mouth.

“Give me a I - I!” and so it continues until I have spealt her name tens of times and the milky mushy biscuit bowl is now shared between her tummy, her face and the table.

“Hurrah! Wonderful! Hurrah!”. I pour the remaining milk into a plastic cup and I put her hands around it. She takes it and brings it to her mouth. Finishing all the contents but leaving the edge of the cup pressed against her lips. I try to pull it down but she resists and presses her face against its rim. She needs to learn how to feed herself, but first she needs more confidence with food. I have no idea why blind children find it hard to eat – in fact maybe they don't – but Gita and Ana certainly do. I guess it must be very strange putting something you can't see into your mouth. I have been trying to help her to use the spoon herself, but whenever I pass it to her she just throws it down on the floor, preempting the ding by quickly placing her hands over her ears. I am hoping that once she is able to eat on her own perhaps she will be moved over to the 'active' section. At the moment she is surrounded by children and babies who can hardly move, when her only 'disability' is the absence of sight.

In the past month I have been trying to make her more independent. When I first came she would walk by shifting her weight from one foot to the other, meaning that she wouldn't go forward just side to side unless she was pulled. Now she will happily totter slightly behind me as we hold hands and whenever she lifts up her second hand to join her first hand I take it away and direct it to her side. Slowly she is gaining the confidence to walk forwards and occasionally if I stand in front of her and clap and call her name she will take the steps on her own. Today however, she did something amazing. We were walking up and down the stairs. Her 'exercise' which after making myself her personal trainer, I decided was a necessity. This required determination from both of us, as the mashi's aren't always so impressed with my training routine, but thankfully they are often too busy to notice me innocently walking out of the door and up and down the steps to the roof.

“One step; Two step; Three step..” her left hand is still within mine and her right reaches up to touch the cool banister. The steps must be enormous for her. It would be the equivalent of me climbing up a pile of chairs. I am always one step ahead with tension in my arm so she knows to keep moving up. She places so much weight on my hand which I keep trying to transfer to the banister. “Four step; Five step. Six step” At this point we are joined by tiny Monkey Boy from the active section. He races under my feet causing Gita to collapse into me. But as always she makes no sound and just pushes herself back up. The word 'Resilience' doesn't even come close to describe Gita's determination. Tiny Monkey Boy is trying to pull down a large piece of plywood from the stone landing. I manage to reach up and hold the plywood with my right hand disabling Tiny Monkey Boy. Tiny Monkey Boy throws his weight towards the plywood. I tell Tiny Monkey Boy to stop which he replies to with a big toothy grin. I grab his arm and pluck him into the air and turn around to realise that I have let go of Gita. She has reached around to join her left hand with her right on the banister. She has one left foot raised above the step reaches forward and then deposits it safely and securely. She leans into the banister and pulls up her other leg. I am left standing mesmerized, with a Tiny Monkey Boy dangling in my hand. "Seven step, Eighth step” I shout trying not to let my hysteria distract her “Nine step, Ten step.” I am close to tears. I deposit Monkey Boy (who immediately returns to his own personal mission of attack and destroy) and grab Gita: “Gita!!!! Well Done! Gita! You are AMAZING! Well done!!” I am so happy. This shows she can easily walk on her own. I am so so so proud of her. I lead her onto the roof pick her up and swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing her around. Feet lifted off the ground and dress floating outwards like a flying ball of sun.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee round and round we go. The sun shines down on us, reflecting off the tiny silver pieces on her orange dress and stinging my eyes. She is glowing. She is laughing and laughing and laughing until I no longer have the power to turn her as I am laughing and laughing and laughing.