The taxi journey back to the tourist area of Sudder Street was as quick as it was overpriced, but I was too tired and too excited to complain. The taxi pulled up in front of Hotel Modern Lodge; the hotel which is anything but 'modern' and guarded by the 'Old Man' who seems to be a more permanent fixture of the place than the building itself.
Modern Lodge is situated at the corner where The Man Outside sleeps. I smile as I see The Man Outside standing in the middle of the road, still shrouded by his blue blanket, still bowing down to touch the feet of passing tourists and still smiling through his mumblings. I shout 'Hello' to him, and he replies by stepping over to show me a picture that he has torn out of a newspaper. I think about my adventures of the past four months as I have traveled across the north of India, met hundreds of different people and lived an entire rainbow of experiences. The Man Outside has lived on Sudder Street for over ten years. As we come and go, traveling and exploring, he continues to live within his own reality. A Happy Hard place, connected through these bizarre interactions and routinised through handouts with the same road corner for a bed.
Within minutes I feel as if I have never left. I feel as if I am back 'home' in this mix of lives and energy known as 'Kolkata'. I leave my bags and walk towards my favorite road leading to Shishu Bhavan.
I pass another Old Man, who rather the guarding the entrance to a guest house, marks the same patch of pavement: waiting to collect dropped coins, be it day and night. Despite the absence of the summer sun he is still wearing his large framed sixties style sunglasses and is sitting i- like a statue - in the middle of the parked taxis. The pavement is covered in piles of mud as men wearing the uniform blue tartan lungis work to place a large black pipe under the pavement. Nevertheless, motorbikes filled with families of young men and boys continue regardless, driving over the pipe as the workers try to lift it off the ground.
The mosque in the middle of the street of butchers is busy with smartly dressed young men rushing inside and out. The atmosphere is festive, and it soon becomes clear that there is a wedding procession intermingled with the daily activities of shoppers, who are buying their fresh cuts of goat and mutton meat.
A pack of puppies hungrily tear apart a discarded animal skull, as they trample through a pile of street rubbish. Their little pattering paws stained red. Queues of men form around the chai and mithi shops, as boxes of sweets are expertly packed and shots of chai exchanged for a few rupees.
Arriving at the orphanage was strange: A place which I had thought and spoken so much about during my travels and yet a place which seemed stuck inside a time warp. The faces of the volunteers had changed, but the faces of the children and the Indian mashis were the same. My eyes searched for Gita, and found her sitting on a chair rocking backwards and forwards in time to the loud sounds of Christmas carols blaring out of the speakers.
She is taller. Her hair is longer but still as lice filled as ever. I took her hand, and she responded by standing up. I wanted to tell her it that it was Me. That I was back to play, to explore and to laugh with her again, but how to communicate when words are still a confusion of sounds? Besides, why should I be important to her within her life of confinement and twice daily constant stream of Other volunteers?
I try to fulfill my desire to be recognised by singing her favorite songs: I start with Indiana Jones and swing her around and spin her around until she cackles with laughter. I feel the eyes of the other children on me, as they sit strapped into their padded chairs, devoid of energy and entertainment. I am so emotional that I need to hide my tears in stupidity – playing 'row row row your boat' as she grabs my hands and pretends to 'row' our imaginary boat across the nursery floor. I do not know if she remembers me or not, but I know she remembers our games, and she allows me to feed her which is a relief, although also a disappointment, as I had hoped that in the months of being apart she would have learned how to eat independently. In fact, she has made only a little progress. She is certainly more confident as she is able to move around more independently and seems happier exploring without being guided. She is showing more signs of memory, as she responds to my directions of 'stand up' and 'step' and although she copies rhythms of songs her formation of sounds is still erratic and limited. Ga Ga Ga sssssssssss Ta Te Te she sings to me - or to herself.
The Sister in charge is away at the moment, which means that there is no one I can talk to about her future. I want to know if she is still insisting that Gita is mentally retarded? I want to know if there is anything which I can do to facilitate her education? I want to know if when she will be moved into the 'active' section away from the cuddles of the volunteers, nappies and forced feeding? The more time I spend with this incredible four year old, the more I recognise her potential ability and the more I admire her unbelievable courage. I realise that there are probably many volunteers who feel her energy and that I am not the only one who has been seduced by her lust for life. But I still feel this responsibility to facilitate a life for her. I still believe that if she stays in the orphanage her independence will be compromised, and although Shishu Bhavan may have saved her life it is not enough to give her a life: she needs more – she deserves more.
I will spend the next two weeks playing with her, laughing with her and trying to teach her a little more about our world. Meanwhile, her touch and her reactions provide me with an addictive energy and unique perception which makes me wish I could tell her how amazing she is. I feel like a traitor leaving her. I feel frustrated at not knowing how to connect her reality to ours. I hug her tight before she insists on being turned upside down. A free fiery spirit.
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