The Circus of Delhi

The train to Delhi was one of the best trains I had ever been on. Strange leaving from Sealdagh train station. Where I used to work. Walking away from the participants of the food programme and all the hundreds of others who wished that they were participants of the food programme. As I walked up the steps to the platform an old women, wearing ragged cloth which could have been any colour but which appeared to be the uniform dark brown which all of the truly destitute wear – if they are fortunate enough - or still care enough - to have clothes. The old women caught my eye because she was crouching disguised as a bag of bones. She was not begging, but just staring 'empty'. I took the two mangoes from my bag and bent down to offer then to her. She slowly looked at my face, stared at my pale eyes and accepted. She raised her hands to her head in thanks as I placed mine on her shoulder – wanting to somehow communicate the feelings she had evoked within me in some (meaningless) way. I walked away and climbed upon my super luxury air conditioned train the Rajastani Express. And this is Kolkata – the juxtaposition of the very rich next to the very poor. Just as in Old Jerusalem – where the orthodox Jews would walk around and behind and next to the Muslim Imams; both seeming invisible to the other but both an intrinsic part of the city.

I was in a super luxury air conditioned cabin because this was the only option – all the trains for the next few days were fully booked. A Very Important Person from the Army was sleeping opposite me. He asked me if I liked Indian food – it was a rhetorical question as he replied for me:

“We Indians love our food – thats why we are all so fat!” He laughed as he tugged on his massive belly.

Indeed we were feed so much food. Ironic as I sat there, with no appetite not wanting nor asking for the food which was being presented to me at two hourly intervals. I put what I could into a plastic bag, wishing that I could send it to the bags of bones which sat half living/ half dying on the steps of Sealdagh train station.

Delhi was different from how I had imagined. Firstly, I was not ripped off – well at least not that I knew of; it is also much greener and cleaner than Kolkata – the train station included. With the destitute hidden out of view my bag of train food went to two children sitting by the road side. And that is something else which Delhi showed me – another life for the street children. While waiting for a bus out of New Delhi and into Himachal Pradesh I met some little people. The first two little people which I met were brother and sister. The brother was wearing a painted moustache, the sister a tiny metal hola hoop. The siblings were circus children and once a sufficient crowd of tourists gathered with their massive bags and supplies of snacks they began their show. The sister back-flipped and cartwheeled, disconnected her arms and stepped through them, slide through the hola hoop as her brother lay in it, and then skipped around collecting money from the hands behind the cameras. Then came the boy selling water again; and then again and again until the 'tourists' became impatient with him and shooed him away like an unwelcome dog. Next there was an eleven year old girl. I know she was eleven because I asked her and I asked her because I really wanted to talk to her. She was street hardened and the sister/mother to a baby boy (who she told me was a girl). She was trying to collect 'milk' money for the babu and when this failed she just tried to get someone to buy babu a 'milk ice cream'. She was a good actress, as was babu – both tilting the head and holding out the hand. Street Survival. I didn't see anyone give her money. Perhaps no one will with every one presuming that someone else will, or that they 'can't afford to give five rupees' to every beggar, or justify their refusal by saying that the money is taken from the children by the organising gangs of adults etc etc. I didn't give her any money. I just gave her one of my two Gita bracelets with the jingely jangly bells on it. I gave it to her and told her it was for her and not for her baby brother. I wanted her to have it because she clearly has nothing apart from little babu. Little babu who is completely dependent upon his big sister – his big sister who talked to me through her face scared with fire – burned away, along with her ears and one finger. Burned away – I suspect; for being female.

Leaving

I had a dream last night that I adopted Gita and Karma. In my dream baby Karma started to talk to me. This amazed me and hurt me as then – in my dream – I believed that if a baby blind girl could speak before a four year old blind girl then the four year old blind girl did not possess the ability to speak. The night before last I dreamt that Gita and a mentally disabled young man who hangs around at the station were on the night bus to Himacheal Pradesh with me. My dream turned into a night terror where I was trying to move and speak but was unable to do either, and yet in my - night terror – I believed that some thing awful would happen if I didn't wake myself up – by either moving or speaking. The night before that I didn't sleep because my mind would not rest. Closing my eyes made no difference as I lay in my bed with my mind whirling; throwing images and questions at me. It was working and thinking and talking to me and making me so very restless that I needed to distract myself. I opened my eyes. I watched my friend - 'The Man Outside' - turn and roll and gesture to no body and my mind continued to whirl. At some time after the night and before the morning I began to make Gita a new folder so that new volunteers would know how capable she was/is. I had printed photos of her walking around on the roof, climbing the stairs on her own, in the park on the swing, holding a glass and drinking from it, taking off her bib – I had printed all the evidence that I knew showed that she is very competent, and in many ways very able. I then wrote advice to the new volunteers – speaking as if I was Gita which I know is a very great liberty to take. However, I told them that “I like to dance, explore the roof, touch the trees in the park” that “I need to learn to eat on my own so please help me to feed myself” that “I have to learn to walk unaided” and “to learn to speak.” I reminded the new volunteers that “I need to learn about the world around me through touch and exploration, so please help me rather than doing things for me.” I couldn't sleep because I was torn between feeling guilty that I had decided to leave Kolkata and that by doing so I was forfeiting Gita's progress: that every single day she was doing something remarkable, which amazed the Mashis and the Sisters but yet she needed the space to do these things. By leaving her I was not guaranteeing her space. Yet the more that I thought about it the more certain I was that there would never be a right time to leave her.

My last few days at Shishu Bahavan provoked some of the strongest emotions. Now I know many of the children and more importantly they know me. I began to provoke smiles by just throwing some around. I realised that I felt completely at ease in a room full of 37 disabled children – knowing how to act – which was normal; and 'normal' for me is playing – it is laughing and smiling and tickling and picking little people up and throwing them around, as for some this is the most stimulation they will receive all day. For others they are unable to even take a few steps on their own and will just sit strapped into their wooden chairs or lay on the mats, curled up - passively watching and passively waiting. As for Gita; now she totally trusts me. My last day working with her really showed me how much she has accepted my presence, and I was really left feeling privileged. On my last day she was exceptionally happy. In fact both breakfast and lunch left me feeling so amazed at her and so scared for myself. For the first time she began to eat on her own – by this I mean that rather than fighting each spoonful she allowed me to wrap her hand around the tea spoon and guide it to her mouth. Admittedly this took some preparation with the spoon being used as a pre-lunch instrument to 'drum' the steel bowl with; and her aim of where her mouth is was drastically off the mark – leaving equal amounts of food on her face and bib then in her mouth. There were also the spontaneous dropping of the spoon in the bowl of mush – spreading a generous amount over my head and shoulders. However, seeing her begin to become independent left me on an incredible high – but as I am trying to explain also caught in a limbo where I know she now feels comfortable with me to learn and to explore and more to the point my presence givers her the space to explore: to play with her food (touching is the only way she can see it after all) and make noise and basically to have the freedom to live outside of herself.

On my last day she climbed the stairs at record speed only taking my hand when she wanted me to lift her and to swing her. We explored the roof but she wanted to explore her voice more; which makes me think that very soon she is going to begin to speak. She would pull on my shoulders to make me sit down and then blindly lean back and trust that my body was waiting for her to break her fall. She would fit herself into my crossed legs and reach for my hands and then begin baaaaaaaing laaaaaaing and maaaaaing. I have started to repeat her sounds to try to make her realise that this is one way in which we can communicate. And whenever I would chant 'Ommmmmm' she would join in and like a test for free diving we would continue to see who could last the longest. But really what had the strongest effect on me was when she sat down in her usual position and then turned herself around so that she was facing me, her legs over my hips. She then leaned forward and placed her head against my chest. She was listening to my heart beat. Quietly she sat as I sat, just breathing and wondering how it was possible to become so connected to a little person who cannot even see me, or who doesn't know my name and who I have never spoken to?

I said goodbye to Gita as she was sitting on the potty – sliding herself around the wet bathroom floor and continuing to make random no sense words. Every now and then she would lift her wrist to her ears to listen to the jingle jangle of the bell bracelet which matched the ones I wear so she can find me and which I gave her and which I know she will randomly discard. I said goodbye feeling that I was betraying her and feeling so thankful to her for trusting me.

The Sister in charge assured me that she would continue to monitor Gita's progress. I tried to tell her again of the potential I see within her. I told her of how grateful I am to Gita for how much she has taught me; how she has helped me to see the world and how she has helped me to communicate in more than just words. The Sister gave me another icon of the Virgin Mary (but this time in gold) and a collection of prayers and Mother Teresa memorabilia. Strange as these small tokens really meant a great deal to me; as I watched her search a small plastic box looking for gifts to give me. She takes her work at Sishu Bahavan seriously and genuinely cares for and loves the children. She said good bye to me, thanking me again and reminding me to pray for the children. And I will pray – I will pray in my way, which is with a focus of mind that I still hope will somehow help the impossible become possible. I will pray that she will see Gita's potential and help her to finally realise it, and I will pray as maybe this is the only 'language' which she understands – blind faith.

On my part, I could not stay in Kolkata indefinitely. I would love to continue the social work there, but to do so I would need a way to fund it and at the moment I simply don't have the resources just to volunteer. And at the same time it seems ridiculous to expect payment when the people we are working with have absolutely nothing – many times including the naked infected and diseased bodies. In stead I am now on my way to McLeod Ganj – the temporary permanent home of the Dalia Lama where I am hoping to do a yoga teaching training course with the aim of one day working within a different medium with disadvantaged children and maybe even blind children; although more immediately it will probably just be a way to fund some more stints of use/less/full 'social' 'work'. I am still researching organisations which may be able to help Gita; but I still feel that adoption is her only really hope of having a life outside of a room, and inside of a living moving changing talking beautiful world. And yes – as my nightly dreams tell me my sub-conscious clearly won't let go of her and it is this connection which reassures me that Gita will continue to be a part of my life; even if it is just for a few months each year.

Three months ago I chose a name for my blog. I wanted a name which made people remember that there was always more than what our lifestyle choices necessarily allows us to see. Even though many times it is easier to keep our eyes 'closed' the reality does not change with blindness. And once we are aware of the reality, sometimes it is too much – making us feel powerless, overwhelmed. Personally, all I feel I can do in such circumstances is to write. A small act of freeing my mind and of trying to share information to those who are physically or mentally in a different place.

Three months ago I chose a name for my blog – before my life took me towards Gita's.

Dirty Blessings

It is so dirty. Brown muddy water washing up the stone river bank. Piles of rubbish consolidated as if a naturally formed spit. I watch as men fully submerge themselves. One stands water waist high and begins salutations. Another man rolls up his lungi as he sits on the stone floor, water lapping at his soapy legs. He scrubs and rubs himself dirtily clean. A man wearing a white shirt framed by a brown suit moves his brief case into his left hand and awkwardly tries to roll up the bottom of this trousers. He steps gingerly into the river. Careful not to loose his balance he leans forwards, places his right hand under the water, scoops out a blessing and pours it over his head. Brown muddy water sticks to the front of his shirt which in turn sticks to his skin. The act seems to have enthused his enthusiasm and he begins to repeat it – torn between trying to bless himself and keep his suit clean. Immediately next to the steps leading down to the river is a open air massage parlor – skinny men, wearing nothing but lungi's work from dawn to dusk. Their office is a collapsible table underneath the railway bridge. Their view is men washing in the dirty water – or the Holy flow of the Hooghly River, depending on your perspective. Their trade is as ancient as the ayurvedic principles which they practice. Forty five minutes costs forty rupees.

At the edge of the steps is a small Hindu shrine. It is covered by an equally small corrugated tin roof which is held in place by two aging wooden planks. My flip flops stick to the muddy concrete – fliiiiiiiip floooooop as they are sucked by the floor and then released by my stride. I extract my feet and sit on the back of the shrine and lean my back ever so lightly against the wall. To my side there is a cat and mouse game between a rat and some crows. The crows have dug out a dead rat from the rubbish which they are feasting on. A live rat is jumping around – each four of its scratchy paws off the mud at the same time. Jump! For a few seconds each minute the live rat manages to latch its jaws to the flesh of the dead rat, but it is outnumbered and soon the crows hop it away. Hop! Jump! Hop! The battle for the dead flesh continues. Eventually the rat scurries back into the rubbish spit, tail trailing behind it. The dead rat is divided and devoured quickly by sharp beaks and hopping claws.

I look at the tree in front of me. Although it is not really a tree – at least not a whole one. It is a concrete block with a mass of mud on top, out of which reaches the branches of a tree. Around the outside of the concrete is a fire place, framed with white tiles showing coloured pictures of Shiva. But in the center there is no fire – just what looks like a fat belly. I tuck my feet under my legs and breathe the air out of my lungs and the tension out of my muscles. Relax.

I am watching the brown water lap towards me. There is a clay pot which is momentarily lifted like a boat, before gravity reclaims it. It captures my attention and yet it is tiny compared to the mass of water which flows in front of me. The river is so wide. The other bank grows into a silhouette as the remaining sun's light is too weak to fight the thick clouds. I imagine the flow of water. The body of its oneness as it runs towards the ocean. Fresh dirty water soon to be filled with salt and purified as it drops into the enormous mass waiting for it. The ocean is amazing. Watching the river makes me miss it. I feel its rhythm, even here, in the middle of this filthy city, as it pulls the liquid released by the monsoon clouds towards it; as it calls the rains from the Himalayas. I relax even more.

My legs feel comfortable and I feel invisible. Sitted on the shrine people respect my silence. I lower my eyes away from the boats chugging upstream, and focus back on the lapping brown water. Moving and yet stationary, licking the concrete sand. I listen. I hear the movements of the bathers and the prayers around me. Men walk by fliiiiiiip flooooooop before squatting and peeeeeeeeeing into the rubbish and then fliiiiiiip floooooooping back to the edge of the water and then splassssh - pluuuuunge. The rat has been joined by more comrades and is now even bolder as together they scurry about, jumping and digging. Suddenly I feel vibrations. They shake the shrine underneath me, and the wall touches my back. The vibrations grow into a sound and soon a train is passing overhead. Chug Chugggga Chug Chugggga Chug Chuggggga it shakes.

I feel at peace. My eyelids lowered, the lapping water calming me, my visibility blurred. The fading light camouflages the concrete roots of the tree. It now appears to be a mighty tree drinking from the Holy Hooghly River.

The natural in the middle of the urban, as the river of life cleanses and feeds and then calms a surprised spinning woman.

Kathak Ta Thei Thei Ta

Completely amazed by Kathak. Need to learn. WOW! An ancient Indian art form. A physical and verbal fusion between spoken word and musical rhythm, Ta Thei Thei Ta, which to my novice ears sounds like Ra-da da-d a d ara-da-da da DA! Da dad da drarara da da. Da Da da-da-da- DA! The movement of the feet, the hands, the beats of the ghugharu bells. Tap dancing – but with naked feed – a soft tap a wave of jingles. And so quick a 'jingle' doesn't even come close to the sound which is produced. More like a soft series of crashes, as ankles lined with small bells rise and fall as rapidly as the feet pounding the floor. The vibrations being sent up the dancers body to her posed face, moving her shoulders and rippling up to her cheeks. Hands holding up the lengths of silk cloth, to show the listening audience the skill of her steps. Feet jumping at us, outlined with red paint, below the rrrrring rrrrring rrrrring of the tapping bells and the ra-ra da-d a d ara-da-da da DA DA DA DA! Of the tongue. How she can keep the sounds coming during such a rage of mesmorising motion is amazing. Hands let the skirt drop but the feet keep pounding and the rrrring rrrrring rrrrring of the tapping jingling bells shaking around the theatre. The words are picked up by another female voice. As precisely as the passing of a relay baton: Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! High but smooth. As rhythmic and addictive as the beat of the tabla. Thud dud dud dud. Thud dud dud dud. Da dad da drarara da da. Da Da da-da-da-d DA! Behind this plays the harmonium the lollllls of this are picked out by a sitar. The sounds of the dance penetrate the ears and move the hands. The eyes follow the movements of the body – which seems to be following a different beat to the feet. The dancer's hands move and take the audiences attention with it. Like a conductor she identifies the rhythm of her own feet– a hand is pointed DA DA DA DA! Is what it says. The hands return to collect the skirt. Feet pound. Heels Turning turning turning turning turning. Silk flying upwards. Like a whirling dervish. Feet solid – tapd tapd tapd tapd. Faster and faster taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaappppppppppppppppppppppppppppd. Skirt flying, sounds flying, eyes returning to connect with our watching eyes after every full rotation and then spinning away – connect – spin – connect – spin – connect - spinning the audience into a dizzy sway. Da da-d da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-da-d. Da da-d-da dr-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-da-d- DA! And on and on the voice trills over and over. Guiding the beats and revealing the rhythm. Dark round eyes finally stay connected. Hands release and point. Mouth opened. Voices, drums, thud dud dud, lollllls and tri tri tras joined, slowing.
Ending.
Vibrating outwards from the source, across the stage, into our chairs, up my body and finally, through these fingers.

For more info on Kathak see:

Kathak

Tarang

YouTube

Help Wanted

I want you to meet Karma. I have just met her. I went to visit the tiny babies and ended up with a Karma to feed. But she was easy. So quiet. No fighting the food – for she has yet to be scared of it and she is also natural yogi – with feet permanently in her mouth whenever the spoon wasn't. Scruffy fluffy hair like a mohican. She is a mirror image of Gita, but just so tiny. A few months old. Born without eyes, born to be given away. To grow up like Gita – isolated from a family and from the world.

I am becoming so frustrated with circumstances and with myself. I know the blind girls at Sishu Bhavan are lucky – they have food and a bed, toys to play with, a constant stream of volunteers and a happy environment. They could have been left on the street, they could be without food or care. But I am not satisfied. I am left feeling frustrated because I feel their power. They are so full of potential and I have absolutely no idea about how it is going to be realised.

I asked the Sister in charge of Sishu Bhavan if Gita could have a re evaluation to see if she really does have any other challenges apart from not having eyes... “There is no need” I was told “She is retarded” Full Stop. I asked the Sister what the future would be for Gita and her reply “I cannot think about her future. I can only think about her present.” I asked what I could do? “Prayer” was the her first answer and “find her a family” the second. Prayer to me means power of the mind – and trust me I am thinking powerfully about this one. And find a family? How? Place an add in the paper?

Unable to accept the Sisters fatalism I went to visit a blind boarding school which teaches the national curriculum but in braille. I went to see for myself what the chances of Gita being accepted were. The teacher I spoke with was adamant “we only accept normal blind children”. Again that word - 'normal'. And with the sisters convinced that Gita is a 'retard' this is not the answer which I wanted to hear.

But the blind school also confused me. The day I visited it was a holiday in respect of the schools one hundred year anniversary. In fact I still felt as if it were 1908 rather than 2008. Big empty rooms. Indeed it was a beautiful space. But devoid of life – of entertainment or of stimulus. Outside were a group of boys of eight years of age. Exploring a van. They were all crowded around it, touching and feeling the metal warmed by the afternoon sun, the dusty plastic of the bumpers, the glass of the windows, the wing mirrors. Eyes tightly closed – or open and unseeing. It was powerful to see. I felt drawn towards them, and I went. I began to speak – hoping that my English words made sense. Breaking all Indian conventions I reached my hand out to touch theirs. Walking down the path were another group of young men. Hands on shoulders – shoulders walking in a line. Again I spoke and touched. I wished I could ask their advice about Gita; I wished they could talk to her to explain to her. I wished I could tell them how without even knowing them I admired them. They walked on. I began to think – is this what I am fighting for? For Gita to live here. With no more stimulation than she already has? With only a handful of carers? And to learn brail and then what? How to support herself? How many jobs are there in India for young blind women?

I am frustrated because I want her to be able to learn the world – not only to learn to walk on her own, to learn to communicate, to wash herself, feed herself, but to be able to walk outside and to live outside of an institution; to live according to her own choices– but is this realisitic? Is this possible in this country at this time? Maybe for Jamie – but for a Woman? For Gita? For baby Karma who lies in a cot like a 'normal' baby – about to follow in the dark footsteps of four year old Gita?

And the alternative scares me – it would be as the Sister says – for her to be adopted; and it would take either a very rich Indian family or a foreign one. And this causes me to feel disappointed in myself as I believe in indigenous adoption – that the adoption of a child should be with as limited trauma as possible – that the child be given the opportunity to learn their native language, to learn their culture and be close to what they are familiar with. But in Gita's case this would not be enough. She needs specialised care in order to become independent and once she is, she needs the opportunities to live what my 'Western' mind believes to be a full Life.

Feeling very on my own about Gita I have contacted as many organisation working with blind children that I could find. Only the ones outside of India replied and most of these told me that they only worked inside their respective 'developed' countries. The exception was one: The Blind Children's Fund. My new friend at the BFC has within only a few exchanges of emails given me so much support. Thank you. She has reassured me that Gita's development is indeed 'normal' for a child in her circumstances. She is sending me a box of information of how work with blind children and help them to achieve their potential. She has also sent me a List. It is a List of adoption agencies in America and in the UK which specialises in looking for families for blind children. And now what? I try and 'sell' Gita – try and show how amazing she is? How she deserves a family? And what of the new parents? Do they even exist? And if they are there am I stealing them from another orphan? Is this the best for Gita? I guess I am going to try. It would be easy to give up after only one week of trying. Or would it? Because now I feel that this is my part of our friendship. She has let me know her. She has shown me her energy. I guess I now have a responsibility which I can't really turn away from by tricking myself by saying that this is not my responsibility. So now I will try: “New parents wanted for an amazing little girl – currently living in an orphanage in India – without eyes - and for the moment 'retarded'.”

Any help welcome.

Blind Childrens Fund

Giant Child

Paeter is a large man. For an Indian he is a Giant. Under 'normal' circumstances his height would have been a social advantage – as a sign of 'good breeding' as the higher castes are generally taller than the 'average' Indian: generations of better nutrition by virtue of greater wealth. But for Paeter his circumstances are anything but 'normal'. Paeter has the mental age of around five years old. Psychologically he is still a child. Unfortunately for Paeter his body does not know this and instead his young mind rattles around inside of a Giant. Unable to communicate, but bursting with emotions and frustrations. His swinging arms are seen as premeditated punches, his screams of pain as angry threats. He spends his time at the train station. Where else is he meant to go? Like the street children he wonders around looking for food. Unlike the street children he remains naive to the dangers of his mobile home. Unlike the street children he hasn't worked out how to trick or to steal in order to survive. Unlike the street children he is protected only by a facade of a grown man. Unlike grown men – his inability to control his strength has left him an outcast; cast out from society and cast out from charity as he intimidates those with the power to help him. Unlike the street children this facade makes the Giant Child visible to the police, who use his size to justify extreme force. Avoided in the street, children hide from him, women scurry around him, even men feel threatened.

Then Paeter the Giant Child was found by a foreigner. A foreigner who wasn't scared or intimated, who saw his age and felt a little of his pain. He was taken to Sisters of the Missionaries of Charity. The foreigner felt happy. He felt relieved. He felt that finally Paeter had a home. A place where he would be safe. Protected. But God's House was not eternal and one day the foreigner found Paeter back at the station. The foreigner was confused. The station was far away from Paeter's new home. He was covered in bruises and cuts and blood. He moved erratically. Confused, like a lost small child, panicking for help. Unable to find help, but waiting to be helped. The foreigner tried to help. He tried to soothe the giant child's pain. He showed him kindness and patience and eventually managed to coax Paeter into a taxi and back to the Sisters.

But Paeter was still upset. He was distressed and he was scared. He moved clumsily. He felt confused. His pain was reflected in his strength and his strength still scared the Sisters. The Sisters then gave the foreigner some advice. The Sisters told the foreigner that Paeter the Giant Child had no place at the Missionaries of Charity. The Giant Child who swung his arms and shouted was not welcome. The Sisters told the foreigner to take the Giant Child back to the train station and find a train going far far away, and leave him; leave Paeter on a train going to Punjab.

My Friend I Never Knew

I remember walking up a hill in Darjeeling to be introduced to a man around my age from Sweden. The man around my age was also working with disadvantaged children in India. We agreed to meet later to talk about our work, to exchange information and experiences. We never met because the next day we had to rush away from the striking hill station. We will never meet because a few days ago he killed himself.

I would have like to have talked to you. I would liked to have listened to your thoughts. I would have liked to have known that you only had six weeks left to live. I hope you have found Peace. My friend I never knew.

Learning to See

The more time that I spent with Gita the more that I am finding out about her; she is showing me how to she sees. That often when I think she is listening to something in fact she is feeling. When I give her a squeaky toy to squeeeeak she will just gently flick it with her fingers, feeling the smooth texture. When I try to squeeeeak it next to her ear she turns away. I lift it to my ear and SQUEEEEAK! It is so loud. It makes me think about how many of my clickings and tappings next to her ears are actually too strong. Today we explored a box of 'smelly stuff' which I found in the nursery cupboard. Like a small child Gita seemed more interested in the large plastic container than what was inside. Again she used her fingers to 'flick' the texture. I opened up a smaller container labeled 'Cardamom'. I held it in front of her nose. I looked expectantly wondering if I would see her nostrils flare, or her nose move closer, but her only reaction was stillness. She stopped moving her arms and stopped her fingers from 'flicking'. Cumin, Cinnamon, Masala. All the same – her only reaction was no reaction.

Enough of the sitting and I take her hand and we negotiate our way between the corridor of cots and over the small step to the stairs. I no longer need to tell her how many steps there are. She knows on her own. In fact I also 'see' so much more now. I know that there is a small incline after the step which she will slow down when she crosses in order not to slide. I know that at the top of the stairs she likes to tap on the large tin trunk, and I know that since a Mashi painted the large tin trunk blue it now longer makes the same tinny sound so Gita no longer likes it quite so much. I know that at the window the two metal clips which hold the shutters open can be flicked up and dropped to tink tink tink against the window sill. I know that if I bend down and keep talking she sometimes thinks that I have sat down and will trustingly bend down to drop on top of me. We cross through another door way and stand on the roof where the floor is more gravely and a little wet from the mornings rain. Again it seems so much more quiet and still then the crazy noisiness of the nursery: the same sounds of the same tape playing too loud to hear the small details or to distinguish between the voice speaking to her and the louder one further away; or to hear the sound of the child in on a toy bike approaching her about to knock her over.

Hari Christian Krishna brought her two different little bracelets with small little jingly jangly bells on. Each one lasted only one day. I don't know where they have gone. One day I saw Princess Josephine wearing one. But anyway I stopped asking Hari Christian Krishna to buy them and instead bought myself two so now she can easily find my hands from the many which brush passed her.

On the roof, where there is a slight breeze which smells damp and of soap, I clap some tunes while she explores on her own. I am so proud of her when I think of the first day (see Broken Eyes) when I had to drag a swaying body around. I clap so she knows where I am but in the stillness of the roof she has the audible space to explore her own voice. She murmurs ba ba ba ba quietly. Then she starts to whisper a haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa from the back of the throat – a new sound and not one which she has copied as it is a Casper the Ghost sound. Haaaaaaaa haaaaaaa she plays. The Mashi's are hanging out the sheets and we have to walk through them in order to find her tinging wire. I close my eyes as the pressure of the damp sheets press against my face and brushes over my hair.

“The sheets on your face are from the beds. They are pink. Pink is a warm colour. Warm is like the feel of the milk you hate to drink for breakfast.” I walk over to the edge of the white stone wall, telling her about the day below “I can see lots of yellow zooooming and boooming taxi's which are splashing in the puddles. The puddles are full of rain, and rain is water which has fallen from the sky and the sky is all the space above you and around you.” I am trying to talk to her more rather than just making no sense sounds as I realised that she never actually hears words spoken to her apart from songs which are sang and her name. And not only is it difficult to resist the temptation to make sounds which she has just in the past day or so started to try to imitate but I am realising that until she learns language, there is so little meaning for her in any of the descriptive words which I use.

“Ting Ting Ting” she flicks the wire around the edge and we follow it until it leads her to the big plastic barrels which we bang on. Bang Bang Bang around the edge. She feels upwards on top of the rim and then hands follow inside, all the time feeling the vibrations from my bangs. I watch as the water inside ripples over her reflection as she leans forwards trying to reach the Wetness inside. The water is too low in the barrel for her to feel but she keeps trying. I stretch over to the tap on the wall and turn it a little.

Drip Drip Drip. Immediately she stops. Turns and follows. Hands searching for the watery wet sounds. Fingers find it, head lowers and she lets the Wetness touch her face. I turn it off and her hands follow the tap but they don't turn it. Instead she flicks the rust of the connecting pipe. She lowers her head down. She turns her head and presses her ear firmly on top of the pipe. She moves across and finds a larger piece of pipe free from any obstructions from the tap. Again she presses her ear against it. Now she has aroused my curiosity and I follow her lead.

I bend down and listen. There are so many different sounds: A low rumble which seems to come from far away, then a gurgling and then a high pitched eeeeeeeeeeeeeee from the pressure inside while at the same time I can feel the shudders against my ear from the moving water. Her own ear is still firmly pressed against the rusty pipe. I start to try and explain what it is she is hearing and then I stop and just let her listen. I think she would stay there for hours but I decide for her than she needs her exercise. I don't like to decide for her but it is precisely because she has spent all of her life being picked up and sat down and feed and clothed and led that I now need to show her within the confines of the nursery, staircase and rooftop that physical mobility is normality.

To regain her attention I take out my secret weapon and aim it at her face. Spuuuuuurt! A small powerful stream of water sprays at her face. She begins to giggle and then to laugh and I know that I now have her back in our world ready to explore with me. But before...I close my eyes and aim at my face. I miss and hit my wrapped up hair. I try again. It makes me laugh. Another pure laugh like just like Gita is teaching me - to laugh without knowing the meaning of anything, without responding to social convention or out of habit or to create a certain impression, or to put on a happy 'mask' - but just a pure laugh in response to a bursting of positive emotions. She follows my vocal Happiness and reaches for my hand. In her so brave way she is teaching me to feel and to touch – she is teaching me how she sees.

Adopted Cake

As I walk into the Mother House this morning something catches my attention. Sitting on top of the Mother's tomb is a small child. The small child is wearing a white frilly dress and surrounded by a line of smartly dressed Indian men and women. The small child in the white frilly dress is one of the 100 plus children from the 'abled' active section of Shishu Bhavan. The small child in the white frilly dress is really one of the 'lucky' ones. Not only was she saved once – just by given an opportunity to live, but she was born 'perfect' without disability. This immediately increased her 'adoptability' and today she will begin her new life out side.

What really struck me as strange though was not as the Sister by my side said "ah..she is sitting in the [dead] Mother's lap" but that she was adopted by an Indian family. It struck me as strange as all of the 'prospective' parents which visit the orphanage are foriegn. Even Jamie will be adopted by some ex-volunteers; although the process may take a formidable one to two years. But again the volunteers are foriegners and were undoubtably charmed beyond escape by clever Jamie (see Broken Eyes posted in May).

Once we had a Indian family visit the 'imperfect' section and when asked if they were here to adopt they replied most certainly NOT! They were after all a Bharamin family – which they explained to us ignorant volunteers – a high caste and therefore they were not allowed to adopt a child from a low caste for god forbid – an untouchable.

So why were they in our 'imperfect' 'untouchable' 'pollutable' section: "Ah because we have some spare wedding cake we would like to 'donate'".

I wanted to ask why they weren't allowed to adopt a child? Which part of their democratic constitution forbid it? Which part of their social conscience prevented them from donating more than some left over cake? I write in this tone because this is the disappointment which I feel. That children continue to go abandoned by those too poor to provide care and those too rich to care. That the educated 'rich' are not educated enough to not be 'polluted' by the touch of a small child who just simply needs someone to love them. Who needs to live outside of one room. Who like Gita – needs an opportunity to find herself in this world rather than in one which she hides on her own just because she has yet to be invited to join the real one yet.

The two large slices of pink spongy cake were given to children to celebate Peter, Shiv's and Sunali's joint birthday.

The Man Outside

I couldn't sleep last night. This is pretty normal for me – always a life of extremes, of either passing out with tiredness or a restless insomniac. Last night the fan appeared too weak and then too strong; the mosquitoes appeared too hungry, my book appeared too boring and then not boring enough. The searching hands of a four year old Blind Queen kept coming into my head, and then Beautiful Smiles and Small Monkeys. I went to the window and looked out from between the bars which hung my clothes drying from the day; my purple head scarf blowing Gita's lice out into the evening sky – or back into my room. The green wooden shutters were wide open and looked down into the courtyard below. If I stood on my tip toes I could just make out the corner of the two plastic chairs pulled together by the night watch man. Hare's bicycle. The massive metal doors from my 'Modern Lodge – the Ideal Place for Tourists' remained firmly closed. Beyond the door lay the man which I had eaten dinner with.

I couldn't tell if the Man was sleeping or just conversing with himself. I wanted to believe that he was awake – like me; looking down upon him. I saw his hand appear next to his laying head and then it would pause. Perhaps waving away mosquitoes? But no, he brought it down to his side and continued the motion. The dark blue blanket which he usually wears around his head was now around his waist. Perhaps he was as hot as I was. But what about during the day when it is so much hotter – when he hides under it? Or when he sits at the table hooded and almost invisible apart from his elegant fingers quickly working his rice and daal?

The Man is always with his blanket but this is because he has no where else to keep it. The first time I met him I was talking on the phone sitting out side of a shop. He approached, bent down in front of me and began to touch my filthy feet. At the time I was too preoccupied with Portugal to pay him much attention but I definitely didn't allow him to meet me – or rather I definitely didn't allow myself to met him. Now I still find his persistent touching of my feet annoying. Now it annoys me because it still prevents me from really knowing him. Because he makes himself different – when I know he is not – when I know he is a Man who speaks perfect English, who even reads English which means that I should be able to easily communicate with him. Who I know has the kindest smile which he gives more to his chest than to his companions as his head is always tilted down. Who I know that has the most gentle manners and who always tries to make me eat the food bought for him before finally devouring it. Who went riding on the back of Hare's bike tonight and then came back riding the bike with Hare on the back. But when I bend down to lift up his touching hands, he stands readjusts his slipping blanket and then turns to the next foreigner and continues the process. For this is how the Man lives his days. Among the foreigners. Watching them and walking behind them, and understanding so very much about our lives and who we are but only giving us the quietest mumbles in return. His comprehension of English and his nifty bike riding skills is proof that he was not always on the Outside. That at one time he had a life not only of his own, or a life on his own, but which connected with people on the same level. Where he spoke to comprehending eyes and read to receive information and rode to go somewhere. Now all of his days and his nights are the same. Walking around the street which he has literally lived on for over ten years, bending down, standing up, bending down, cloaked in his blanket of a bed sheet. I watch him laying at the side of the road, waving his hand to himself. He places them carefully on his chest and then lifts one hand up to continue again. I am mesmorised by his precise movements, I feel intrusive blindly watching him.

Suddenly and without warning he leaps up. A dog is frozen in time and then snaps from its trance and runs towards the Man. The loud Beeeep of a car warns of its approach but it is an unwelcome alarm clock for the Man, who with one arm over his eyes to shield him from the white light jumps up to shoe the jumping dog away,. The light passes and the startled dog runs down the street. The Man stretches back out on his patch of road: in front of a laundry service, and opposite a rubbish pile, next to the gutter of the sewage water and underneath a sign reading 'U.S Travel'. The Man pulls his blanket firmly over his head.

Invisible Birthday

The month of July is the birthday month in the orphanage – well at least this year any way. Every Saturday there is going to be a birthday party for 2 or 3 of the children at a time. What is fantastic about this is that it means Gita has a birthday which had been forgotten. Only three weeks late is ok; after all for her every day is the same and she is so closed to the meaning of events that it means every Saturday she will experience something a little 'different' even if she has no idea that she is the star for one of them.

I walk into the nursery and see Gita all dressed up – she is wearing a bright yellow sari over her red sesame street t-shirt. She also has a golden tiara perched on top of her hair which I am amazed about and almost as if she can read my thoughts she reaches up and throws it into the crowd of children seated at her feet. Queen Gita has cast of her crown while her Clever Clogs King (the cohort of Monkey Boy) whose birthday it also is/was, is about to slide off his chair in excitement. Next to them is patiently seated Little Bow Peep who has gone 'Indian Style' and rather than wearing one of her usual fluffy frilly pink dresses, she is also wearing a matching yellow and red sairee. This Saturday we also had a special guest which was one of the Sisters from the floor below. Special Guest Sister was presented with a caterpillar card from a confused child, who thought perhaps the caterpillar card was for herself rather than for the Sister. Meanwhile, I remained convinced that the Sister in charge of the nursery was going to present her friend with a new toy – a tiny plastic cow which could be pulled along by an invisible thread so that it looked like it moved. However, the Trotting Toy Cow Sister disappointed me by only giving her (and about 37 watching children) a very precise demonstration of the magical toy....the real Magic however was hanging near by....Mr Magic Man had been tricked into coming to sharing his animals disguised as ballons and furry things disguised as animals.

The start of the party began with the presentation of the birthday cakes. Now usually a cake is only given if it is provided by the volunteers and due to some mis communication by either myself or the Trotting Toy Cow Sister the Royal Party ended up with two – I should have known that Queen Gita would have had a previous consort leave her cake money! Trotting Toy Cow Sister lit the candels and presented it to the Royal Party. Very quickly I realised why the candels I bought were 10 rupees more than their competitors. No matter how much Clever Clogs King tried to blow out the candles, and despite the best efforts of Little Bow Peep or even the sneaky whoooo from a Monkey Mouth my birthday candles would only fade for a second before jumping back to life. As for Queen Gita – I remained completely at a lost for how I should explain to her that she needs to blow air from her mouth to extinguish the hot flames from a sticky cake which is being held near her and which don't extinguish unless fully submerged in water? Next appeared magic foam, which covered the babies and sent The Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the World into a craze of mad jumping – which as she was strapped into her chair was alarming for the days new volunteers. Meanwhile, the rest of the 'inactive' children - also strapped into their chairs – just sat as they were passively covered in white bubbly stuff. Clever Clogs King also became completely covered in the white bubbly stuff, and wandered around for the next few minutes blind – looking through a mist of white foamy glasses, which gradually dissolved to dribble down his happy regal face.

Magic Man began his show. He entered the nursery Whisteling and Watching and was greated with a bouncing chair and waving arms from the corner of the room: The Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the World remembered him from a pervious visit and so her jumps for joy continued. Meanwhile 34 pairs of eyes were fixed on his multi coloured red-yellow-green coat, tall patchwork hat and wiggling wogglying eye balls as he peered from face to face building up anticipation. Even Lipstick Girl was intrigued and the only visible exceptions were Ana, who had slid off her slide chair to sleep some more on the floor, and of course Birthday Girl Queen Gita who leaned forward into her sari and began to Clap to herself:

Clap – a – Clap – Clap in the middle of the noise: singing and dancing, and musical whirl of invisible laughing and shouting seeing voices Clap – a – Clap in to my world where I try to ignore the RAMA-HA-HA-LA-GGGITAHAHA of the darkness outside of my light.

A ping pong ball is swallowed. Gulp! Eyebrows are raised while others stare. Another! And then Another! Magic Magic Magic Man! Show us how you can? A rope is cut and then made whole? How can this be? To fix the broken without even a scar? Magic Man show us your hands? How can this be? A Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee into Queen Gita's world Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee it goes. She reaches forward to the fluffy fluffy fluff. The tickles continue as her fingers explore. A fluffy feather is whipped out “Happy Birthday Amazing Queen” - pop! A red rose appears from the feathery middle. She reaches for the feathers, tracing them from Magic Mans fingers to her own, bringing with it a pure smile as her happiness overflows outwards. Then it is hid from all as she tilts her head forwards, unaware of facial expressions as a means to communicate:

What is this – new soft fluffy feel? Tickling my arms? Another hand from an invisible body. Music and shouts and screams and whistles and all the time GGGGGITAHAHA? The soft fluffy feel goes back to my Clap – a – Clap Clap. Whaaaaaaaao. A push back. Moving things all around me. Onto the floor. I sit and think – think in what? Not in words but in sounds and emotions. AHHHHHHHHHHRHHHHHHHGGG! Loud. Hands to block out the Loud. Head down. Hiding where I know.

Magic Man takes out his furry animal. The children start to scream. They believe it is real. Even the Sisters take a step back. "The difference between the sane and the insane is knowing the difference between reality and imagination". The furry animal wants to explore the nursey. It is still attached to Magic Man who controls it but it keeps trying to escape. It tries to crawl over the children it looks at The Girl with the Most Amazing Smile in the World and she jumps in her chair in reply:

Over here! Come to me! I cannot come to you – but I want to! I want to stroke you to play with you. To share my thoughts which are trapped in this body which sees and understands and Smiles and laughs but which cannot speak but moves without control. Over Here! Just let me know you!

Magic Man manages to calm his imagined animal. But just before he puts it into a trance and before he hides it back under his hat, it manages to take a peek at Birthday Girl Queen Gita:

Who is this quiet Queen? With a head full of thoughts and hands which never stay still? Touching and moving, clapping and drumming? Why does she hang her head so low? Why does she have no friends? Why doesn't she hide from me like all the other children?

The imagined magical animal quickly rushes over Queen Gita's moving hands and she comes back into our world. She stops her clapping and her hands move to follow the new feel. She strokes and touches. And then nothing. Stillness. The furry fur has vanished from her touch.

But Magic Man knows how to find the pure smile from Queen Gita. He pulls out a small plastic box. He places it near her searching hands. She touches and takes it and pushes it to her ear. She flicks her fingers over the bumps and lumps on the outside, totally unaware of what hides inside, waiting to be heard. Magic Man manages to open up his magical box from between her feeling hands, and by doing so he reveals the inside: two tiny wobbling birds. One is yellow and one is green and both begin to Chrip Chrip Chrip!

So high these sounds. So loud into my head. What do they mean? Where are they from? Will anything ever answer all my questions which I cannot even ask but only feel?

Queen Gita throws the magical box. It lands on the floor and slides. Rattle Rattley Chrip Chrip. Ana turns around. Her one working ear following this new sound within her room. She is so much more closed to the world than Queen Gita but this Chrip Chrip has awakened both her and her curiousity. A Japanese woman who speaks so few words in English but manages to communicate so well with silent Ana helps her to find it. She picks it up and Ana follows the Chirps. She lumps up from the floor and onto her lap. Legs wrapped around her waist. An extraordinary reaction. Ana listening and touching – another person. Beautiful to see. To feel.

Monkey Boy finds Magic Man "Aunty Aunty" he shouts to him. Monkey Boy knows no men for his world is full of female volunteers speaking to him in so many strange accents and languages, full of novice Sisters drapped in white and then the shouting dragging 'working' Bengali Mashis. Aunty Aunty balloon balloon!

Magic Man has started to turn his bag of 1000 balloons into 1000 animals. Woofing dogs, wobbling flowers, oinking piggy wig wigs, swords of yellow steel and a red heart filled with two white birds of Peace.

POP! POP! POP! AHAHAH. "Eyes and Ears and Fingers and Toes" Aunty Aunty! Crasssssh! POP! Balloon! Mashi! AHAH. GITTAAHA! GITTAAHA!

Magic Man finds the searching hands. The searching hands take what they cannot see. Fingers touch and hands lift, ear to plastic – squeeeeak squeeeeak! A long bouncing soft squeeeeaky feel.

A small child bumps into Queen Gita. She falls over her. POP! Queen Gita sways back to sitting. Her hands search....

Where did the new long bounding soft squeeeaky feel go? Away? Away into where?

Clap – a – Clap her head bends forward and she begins to hit the floor.

Finally the excited energy of those around her has reached Queen Gita. She now wants to dance – it is her party after all. She stands and starts to walk but a sari isn't the most birthday suit to young blind child, so she stumbles and sits. I take it off to reveal her glowing red T-shirt and shorts. Much better. We join hands and sway to side – to- side. I test her trust and push her forwards and backwards as she leans on me:

Be Ba De Da Be Ba whaaaaaoooo to one side whaaaooo to the other whaaaooo forwards whaaaoooo backwards. Feeling these hands bigger than mine, following to the arms bigger than mine. Pushing down like a lever....waiting....waiting.....head near the ground.....eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Wheeeeeeeeee! Spinning Spinnning. Fuzziness and Happinesss. Be Ba De Da.

The parties and the watchers are sat on the benches or wheeled and carried back to their respective sides of the room. The steel bowls are handed out to the volunteers to begin to feed a late breakfast of birthday cake and warm milk. Queen Gita wants to keep dancing. She is too excited now. She wants to sway from side to side and be swung. But no – now she must eat her birthday cake.

GITHHAAA AH! Thud! Sitting? A chair. Not my usual. Hand on my head. AH! Cold metal spoon into my mouth. Wet Mushy Soggy stuff. AHHHH! I try to push it away but it keeps coming back. Away! It comes back. I open my mouth and swallow as fast as the cold metal keeps coming.

The Mashi's are insistent and as she screams and cries and pushes away the spoon her birthday cake flies around her plastic chair. Hand on her head, head pushed back. Spoon between the crying lips. Queen Gita needs to learn to feed herself. She does not need to be traumatised by an uninvited metal spoon.

I move. More and more her unseeing eyes brings water to mine. I make the water disappear by seeing the sharing of magical eyes with watching stationary bodies.

What are all these colours moving in front of us? Where did his magic furry friend go? Who is he? Where did he come from?

The Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the World jis still jumping from within her wooden cushioned chair. I look at her and she Smiles. She points to Queen Gita.

Why do you leave her when you are always with her? Gita who has no eyes? Who never sees me but only feels me? She needs yours? I want to hug her and love her and play with her. But instead – I sit and watch and wave and Smile.

I blow her a kiss and she catches it and pulls it to her. I find the magical box on the floor. The little birds have flown away. The battery case is empty. The Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the World uses her smile to pull me towards her. I follow her command. She flings an arm in front of her and it points to my hands. I pass her the magical musical box. She Smiles The Most Beautiful Smile in the World. She opens it and looks at the two empty spaces. She pulls it to her ear to listen. She waits.

Monsoon Time

Monsoon. Boom. RAH! goes the thunder. Dark in the night. Sounding its arrival. Cracking the skies open, revealing an earthquake from above. I am here, it seems to scream to the entire continent. Water every where. Falling, rising, flowing. Relentless. Bashing down from so high above the land it tries to soak too deep into. It hits the tiled roofs, it triiickles through the holes and then it pours. The ceilings seem to rain. Pipes overflow into waterfalls, and waterfalls fall flushing down the side of houses – outside and in. Trees creak. Bang! Horizontal on roads, cement hugging escaping roots. As the rain eases the water rises. The silence of the skies is replaced by chaos below. Already there are rivers filled of people where rickshaws drivers still try to run while their full carriages appear like boats, bobbing awkwardly through the surge of water. Wheels and Water both trying desperately to keep moving. The wheeling wooden wheels pulled by determined skinny men, sweat soaked, Water Washed; determined to take advantage of the new business opportunity as water laps over the exhausts of stubborn motorbikes and drowns escaping taxi's. Chug! As they splutter to a stop, wheeled to higher ground and then abandoned. A bicycle chained to a metal post by a rusting bicycle chain rises as if by magic.

Emergency forces are called: Rubbish collectors. Thin skinny sticks, poking and pulling: retrieving refuse which is still thrown without foresight. A whirlpool whizzes around and around. Swirling and pulling. A plastic bottle bobs in circles marking the whirling center. Pedestrians try to wade around it as more are created: man holes revealed to try to help the water find its real river and leave the roads to be. Splash Wwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaa Splash as our legs move through this new liquid pressure. Streets crammed with moving people trying to walk when they could be swimming. Flip flops floating from feet. Plastic bags tripping and sticking. Sediment marking and abandoned needles floating.

Thrash! As a straw brush breaks the surface of the river road, followed by screaming children, chasing the swimming river rat which paddles next to wading legs. Splaaaaaaaaaaaaaaash sings another stream released from a peeing man. Urinating in the public urinals – the street river. Meanwhile public water fountains continue to pump. A man digs around in a new concrete mote. He has found a colony of flat black worms, winging their way expertly around through the water. Shops are evacuated from within – goods placed higher, and customers sitting crossed legged in cafes.

Water rushes everywhere, relentlessly swallowing slums and sinking plastic houses as new ones are hastily constructed – a paddling pool above your flooded bed. Children yawn in class as they cannot sleep laying in the rain. Pavement 'houses' crumble, the train station bursts with seasonal-new arrivals as its permanent residents try to mark their territory. Mobile clinics are rendered immobile as epidemics are given free reign.

Government officials speak of 2010 as the 'dry' monsoon – when the water will finally be allowed to flow underneath the concrete rivers.

Hour Out

Once a month the some of the children from Shishu Bhavan have the opportunity to go to an evening Children's Mass at the Mother House. I figured that any opportunity for the children to leave the room must be justifiable. All the children from the 'active' section were to attend along with a select 'active' if assisted 'inactive' children. The children were dressed in their matching outfits, hair/ lice tied back and shoes fitted. I was in charge of carrying one of the two Princesses who was given a green fridge magnet in the shape of a letter G as backup entertainment. I carried her downstairs which was an adventure in itself as she usually just totters around the room. We paused outside the perfect babies so Princess Josephine could give a wave of solidarity. One American volunteer asked if we were going in a bus. I responded with a laugh - after all the Mother House was not even a five minute walk from Sishu Bhavan and all of the children could walk unaided apart from a handful who just required some extra patience and assistance. It was only a short walk – but enough to feel the street and to see other people walk by, and the buses and cars and maybe even a crow or a wandering cow. Within seconds a big Missionaries of Charities van reversed and the children were piled in.

There was an exception. A small princess who was so silent that it was not noticed that she was sitting in my arms. I felt privileged to show her the world from on the street rather than from above it. She sat on my arm as if it were a little throne and rotated her head this way and that – an outside table full of cooked potatoes and a small naked baby, chickens hanging upside from from a bicycle which wheels by as a taxi slows to a stop. A pitter patter of bare feet preempted the running rickshaw man. Lull lull goes his warning bell to clear the road for his VIPs. A bunch of spick and span white shiny school uniforms; faces munching down on tiffin. So noisy, so smelly – no matter how many lives can be piled into one room there will always be so much more life on this street.

We arrive at the Mother House and walk into the room which extends out around the Mother Teresa's tomb. I always think it is a very large tomb for such a small lady but as time seems to be turning her into a Saint perhaps not. The children are all arranged in front of the alter. Cross legged and seated on the floor. Apart from Lipstick Girl who manages to procure a chair and the Sisters who are kneeling in a appropriately subservient and Christian way. Princess Josephine is still silent, that is of course apart from the rotation of her head which won't stop swiveling around. The room fills up – with people standing along the walls and in the doorway.

Something started in regards to the service, perhaps a prayer or a hymn, I am not sure but I know that from then on I really began to see the masked intelligence of an eleven year old girl from Shisa Bhavan. The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World was sitting on the floor – unattended but Watching and Enjoying. And then everyone around her stood up. She was left on the floor – flapping her arms and tilting her neck back -so desperately wanting to be part of the standing congregation. I quickly deposited the Princess with eagerly awaiting arms and went to The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World. Now The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World wears calipus – these are material and metal straps wound tightly around her legs and which lead down to her surgically adapted shoes. Ultimately it is really quite hard to push her from sitting to standing – especially if she is perched on top of you. So I levered her up and down and up again throughout the Service – each time become increasingly paranoid that I was somehow offending the congregation by my disruption to the proceedings and at the same time becoming increasingly frustrated at the lack of Christian help. It appeared that eyes were the only proactive part of the watching bodies. Eventually I managed to work out a system whereby I wedged her between me and the Mother's Tomb and used it to help me lift her up. I figured the use of the tomb was not disrespectful but perfect opportunity for the extra small dead Mother in the extra large box to help us both out.

The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World seemed to agree and took her new position in the center of the room as an opportunity to flash one of her most beautiful smiles in the world at all the new faces who were drawn to her. I watched as the New Faces would either pretend they hadn't seen or awkwardly grin back . As the Service went on The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World became increasingly desperate to make the most of her time outside of The Room. She began to fling her arms around, hitting whatever and whoever was between them. The 'Receiver' would initially look horrified but then their eyes would lead them to the most beautiful smile in the world and their mouth could not help but try to imitate. The greatest challenge however was when Communion was offered. I rapidly began to understand why one of the Sisters had been madly motioning to me – we were seated in the popular path right next to the Mother's Tomb, between the congregation and the alter. This meant that as I tried to nudge The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World away from the traffic she was positioned with the prime opportunity to show her Love to all the strangers in the room and her excitement in able to touch them – Whack Whack Whack – as I tried to support her standing body weight while at the same time controlling her arms.

Then it was our turn to join the line. We climbed our way over – one locked leg at a time, arms swinging and mouth grinning and eventually arrived in front of the Priest. The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World pulled her hands together and in a combined Prayer/Nameste and then placed a large drooling kiss on the large silver cross held in front before bowing her head to touch it. I was so shocked and amazed and disappointed at myself for not really seeing what level of understanding my silent swinging eleven year old friend had. I knew she loved babies as she always tried to Hug them from the confines of her wooden cushioned chair in The Room, and during the Mass she showed me that she loves strangers. However, that she is really aware of her surroundings and can follow and remember instructions was something of a revelation to me. We turned around and I asked her if she enjoyed the mass? She moved her arms to bring her hands sort of together and the Most Beautiful Smile in the World was certainly there. Then I had to deposit her back in the bus to be shipped back to The Room. At this point we briefly thought that Monkey Boy had gone on one of his adventures and had been swallowed up in the massive Mother House. Un/fortunately for Monkey Bot in reality he had just been walked back to Sishu Bhavan by a brave volunteer.

The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World had a medical assessment yesterday. One of the recommendation for her Care Givers was to “make her stop swinging her arms around when becoming excited.” I wondered how else The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World - trapped inside a body which cannot talk or coordinate - was going to be able to show her emotions? Can her Smile become any more Beautiful?

Bijoy

To the Volunteers who have worked at Shishu Bhavan;

Bijoy left the World this morning. The Sister visited him yesterday and said he was neither living nor dying. In her words she prayed for God to take him to stop his pain. For those of you who knew him his death should bring a relief.

Bijoy's exact age was not known; but he had been at Sishu Bhavan since he was a baby. He Lived with Cerebral Palsy and died with Hepatitis B. He smiled a lot.

Peace.

Humanity

Another day and another reminder that despite two months of working with Gita that I still need to listen more. I don't hear the 'blank' in Humanity's voice when I ask how his day was. Or maybe I do hear it, but maybe I don't know how to give it meaning. Eventually Humanity finds the space to fill the blank. Eventually Humanity tells me of the third dead man he 'meets' in just over a week. His blankness is a silence which shows Humanity is still 'affected' and it is because he is still affected by the passing of the living to the body of the dead that he finds his day difficult. To me this shows that for Humanity death still has to be normalised and I am relieved, because I cannot really imagine what strength it must take to do his work every day.

Today Humanity found a group of street children jumping for biscuits. Then they jumped to the Dead Man – an old dead man, dirty and destitute and covered in flies. With flies flying out of his mouth and eating him from the inside out. With flies showing that he must have been laying on the platform for more than a day and for more than a night. With flies warning that the dead man was newly diseased from dying. And yet the dead 'flying' man was still surrounded by the life of the day. The porters laying by his side – sleeping or chatting or drinking chai. Of the street children pointing and then playing. Of the passengers walking around him because he smelt to much to walk over. Of the police who never came to move him, but who surely knew him.

Humanity was still trying to understand the attitudes of those around him. As for myself; all I can think of is that this is a city where the border between the dead and the living is too blurred. Where the fight for life is too widespread to spread to fight for the dignity of the dead. And I guess I am writing this because I want you to realise that for the destitute who live and who die here their suffering would be enough to kill 'us' within days. The destitute who walk with worms eating them; who live with diseases that should have killed them. That survive with disabilities so severe it seems impossible to live 'alone'. And they don't complain of pain because there is no point. They don't seek help because they don't think it will be given. They don't respect the dead because they die every day – in the streets where they live. And because as they are known as the living lower castes or the untouchables and even when they are alive they are not always familiar with what 'respect' should be. And there should be no them and no us but just a much much more humane way to Live.

Humanity protect your strength. Those who are still trying to live need it. You work to save lives - everyday. But please be careful. Everything can be taken.

Minds 2 Open

I looked inside Gita's folder. One black and white line jumped out. It read “Birthday: 11^thJune 2004”. I had missed it – in fact everyone had missed it, but I felt particularly guilty since I am the one person who after working with her every morning for two months should have known. Apparently she is now four years old. I am simultaneously surprised and relieved. Surprised because she looks too tall for a four year old Indian child and relieved because this means that her 'slow' development is not quite as slow as it would be if she were five or six. Her development has really made me start asking questions: she is the first blind person I have ever become close to and I have absolutely no idea if her behavior is 'normal'. Normally I would argue that 'normality' is a pointless reference. Everyone is different, and comparing a child practically born into an orphanage with one born 'outside' in what I think of as the 'open World' is already difficult. Throw into that mix a child born without eyes and finding out what should be 'normal' seems not so useful. However, this is a definition which neither Gita nor I can afford to ignore. Her future depends on her 'normality'.

Hare (my Krishna Christian friend) suggested that she might be autistic; which he said may be why she becomes so stressed at meal times and although we dad dad dd da da da d and ssssssssss shs sh ssssssss everyday maybe this is why her speech has yet to come? In my rational mind my explanation is firstly she is feed far to much food: surely hunger is a natural perquisite for wanting to eat? And secondly she is force fed what she cannot see or even touch. In regards to her speech – she has grown up surrounded by noise – there are 37 children in the nursery. Although the 'inactive' children in Gita's section are all mute apart from the occasional tears, the children from the 'active' section are in the same room screaming and shouting and generally just being 'children'. Then there are the foreign voices of the volunteers speaking in varying languages including English, Spanish, Japanese, Korean and French. Then there are the Bengali voices of the Mashis and then the English, Bengali, Hindi or Nepali words from the Sisters, all of which is against the backdrop of the sound system which definitely creates a happy atmosphere playing all variations of 'Hallelujah' to Hindi tunes (which Peter loves) to 'Men in Black' (which the Princesses seem to enjoy). Now just try to imagine yourself as a blind child: A four year old in the dark who is yet to distinguish words, let along languages. It must be like looking for the library and then ending up at a Rave – blindfolded. And yet when we reach the quiet of the roof Gita will quietly start to explore her own voice. Playing with no sense sounds, which to my trained ears I also need to explore – trying to give her new verbal replies which are not in my own blahhhing vocabulary. The Mashis also complain that she makes sounds all night – which again is the only time that the nursery is quiet.

However, if she is autistic there are several routes to explore: Firstly it seems most likely that autism would be a response to her environment: where she is picked up and placed down, or if she is moving she moves 'unseen' quietly finding her way around the room to be pushed or knocked over. Her environment where she grows from a baby to a toddler without knowing a mother. Her environment where she does not know love apart from that of the Indian workers whose job it is to feed her and wash her, or the volunteers who stay for a day or a month or like me love her and then will leave her, or the Sisters, who care but who have a Faith which totters on passivity leaving her development to kindness and prayer. Secondly if she is autistic then in the past two months she has made incredible progress, which suggests that she can improve – or even over come it? Already without knowing words she communicates with me: if she wants me to sit down she will pull on my kurta until she finds my shoulders and then push. If she wants me to pick her up she will push down on my arms so that I will lift her and swing her. And she recognises me. If I find her searching for the massive yoga balls squeezed between the beds and the wall and I call to her, she will start to crawl over the beds, once she finds my hand she feels for my dive computer and my rolling tat tat tat beads wrapped around my wrist. She explores her world with increasing confidence: climbing and touching – seeing with her hands and her feet.

After spending two months with her I also know that she is very aware of her surroundings. She can fit herself into her little table and chair (although her yogi legs will always remain on top of the table), she knows that there are two sets of ten steps to the roof and that the floor of the bathroom is slippery. To me: this is all amazing within the noisy hectic impersonal life of the orphanage's nursery.

Lately we have also been exploring outside of the nursery. After attaining the correct permission from the Sister in charge of Sishu Bhavan we have been going on an adventure to the park outside for the active and 'normal' children. The first challenge was finding her shoes which fitted from the communal pile. She surprised me as I was expecting her to kick them off, but she picked up her feet and let me put them on her. Down the stairs, through the stone corridor, past the active 'abled' children and then to the mud park. First stop was the gate which she clung to, playing with the 'ting' of the padlock on the handle. Next stop was a bush which brushed against her. Feeling the leaves in her hand and pushing them so that they would bounce back to her. We stepped over a small broken brick and she let me lead her to a swing. She felt the rusty chain with her fingers, flicking the rough surface. I held it steady for her and she pulled herself up. I placed my hands around hers on the chain and told her in a stern a voice as I could to 'hold on tight'. Then I began to push – she leaned back. Head facing to the sky, smile revealing all of her teeth, breeze pushing past her cheeks and then she began to feel the momentum. Her body began to lean forward and then backwards and before long I was not needed. She quietly swung herself – a silent weeeeeee wheeeeeeeeee weeeeeee wheeeeeeeeee weeeeeeeeee wheeeeeeeeee. And then she took her hands from the chain and placed them over her ears. Quickly my stern voice reappeared and somehow she understood. But I wonder what she must have felt – to be swinging free with her hands over her ears – blocking out all sound but just feeling the momentum? I feel so happy watching her pleasure but eventually I stop the swing. She takes my hands and lowers herself to the ground.

Next stop is a concrete slide. I show her the ladder. I tell her 'One Step' She amazes me by lifting one leg and finding the first rung. This must be so scary. A foot which can slip off. But she continues and while leaning back on my body lifts the second to join her first. 'Two Step' I tell her and very slowly the process is repeated. But this is as far as she dares to go as she is already the same height has me. She swings her body around and puts her hands around my neck. I realise that she is becoming much more affection with me than she used to me. She is accepting my presence. I pick her up and swing her. Again her hands go to her ears and her smile extends even further. I slow to let her feet touch the grass. I let go and she continues to bend down and feel the earth beneath her feet. She touches the mud and then brings her hand to her nose – a new smell. Seeing her 'meet' nature is powerful and I wish I could take her to the mountains – to feel real natural energy and not this urban construct. We walk over to a tap fixed on the wall. Already she hears the drip and starts to feel for it. Gita loves water. She finds it and I turn the tap to a trickle. She holds her hands under it and then begins to lower her head under it. I allow her a few seconds and wish we could just play in the water and the mud all morning, but as always I have accepted the restrictions to her freedoms. I try to image what it is she loves about the water – the coolness, the texture, the liquidity?

To me Gita is not 'normal'; she is amazing. And I tell her every day and when I do she smiles in unknowing agreement. She has such courage to explore her surroundings which are not 'blind' friendly but which are busy and noisy. She has responded by becoming the most independent four year old I have had the pleasure to meet – and perhaps this is why I admire her so much. Because she does not ask for attention but just explores her instinct – following sounds and feeling around her – blind to the affection of strangers or workers. Lately I have been thinking more and more about what will happen to her once she grows out of the nursery. The next step in the Mother Teresa Homes is to Daya Dan; for older children and then from there to the home for mentally disabled women (the majority of whom have been taken from the prisons by the Sisters). With this progression as motivation I have started hassling the Sister in charge of the nursery about Gita's future education. To me it seems that if she is able to develop the appropriate life skills there is no reason why she needs to spend her life institutionalised. The reply I was given was that unlike Jamie, Gita will not attend any specialised school for the blind – she is 'retarded'.