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.
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.
2 comments:
After reading the stories on Gita it will so hard for you to leave her. You are spending so much quality time with her. Keep up the good work!
Today I rode my bike in the rain. Each cool drop made my smile bigger.
Through your work with Gita, I am learning more about the sensuality of existence. With eyes, we dismiss in a glance things that can bring us so much.
Is there anything I can do to help you find a family for Gita?
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