Super Star Deepa

Taller and skinner, but a little more in this world. Still a fighter but with less spark; and incredibly rounded shoulders to prove it. As I walked through the disabled section I found Deepa laying on in a cot, with her feet nearly around the back of her head making indeterminable sounds. Impossible to know if she remembered me, but without a doubt that she remembered my bracelets. Fingers rolling the blue beads on each of my wrists, and then searching for the strap of my dive computer – flick flick flick. Pulling my arm closer to her ear as she enjoyed the hidden musical instruments disguised as random junk. Singing Indiana Jones to her as she used my body to pull hers up, I felt a relief that I was back where I was supposed to be. Smiling inside and laughing loudly. It was so good to see Deepa, and to see that she was ok. She has made some 'improvements'. More sounds are coming out of her mouth – sporadically and only when she wants. But it is clear that Climber Girl definitely broke down some verbal barriers. She whispers 'Deepa' into the air and between the 'la la la la la's' moves her mouth towards other sounds. She clearly knows the meaning of the English instructions, 'sit down', 'stand up' and 'step' but still decides not to make them part of her spoken vocabulary.

Leading her out of the room of screams and shouts, we walked towards the stairs. Remembering our first meeting when I would be practically dragging her across the floor, as she would stubbornly refuse to bend her knees, and then now watching as she confidently grabbed the bannister and flew up each step. She didn't need my guidance to negotiate her way around the concrete corner and take the final step up onto the orphanage roof. Striding between the hanging laundry she slowed her pace as we reached the edge, standing high above bustling A.C Bose road below. Resisting the temptation to protect her from every bump and bang, she gently hit the wall with her head but seemed to be expecting it and without a sound, began to feel for the hanging wire which she still loves to play with. Standing behind her I found myself gently allowing her to lean back onto my legs as I bent my knees into her back, trying to pull her shoulders towards me. I am not sure why she has developed this tendency to curl into herself. Protection? Not knowing any other way? Despite my careful persistence of trying to relax her shoulders, and despite her natural yogic tendency's she is not a student who I can advise and move. Besides, she is so tense, and I really hate to feel the tension she silently holds inside of her bony body. She resists my attempts, so I resort to the big bouncy ball tactic. I bounce the ball up and down and she immediately turns and reaches out, following the sounds with her hands. For a moment my mind is back in Bali, at my blindfold yoga workshop when participants sat listening to the rolling of the ball, as it was randomly rolled around the circle. But now, back to Deepa, as she allows her body to be repositioned with her back to the giant bouncy ball which I throw her over backwards. She grins widely as I lift her arms over her head, and her shoulders finally relax. She giggles and laughs and before long I am tickling her as we share a contagious energy.

I try and remember the games we used to play, and after we have row row rowed our boats across the floor, and she has fallen off our imaginary horse into the 'deep blue sea', we sit clapping and tapping and copying the others vibrations. The way she moves her hands to explore the potential sound of any unidentified object is incredibly intricate. She seems to 'drum' objects with the palm of her hand, the base of her fingers and her fingertips – simultaneously. It is a sensitivity which is incredibly difficult to duplicate, and even now I sit her hitting the keys of the laptop, wondering how she can control the flexibility of her entire hand in such a way. I disobey orders and give a gift of a bracelet of multicoloured bells. She pulls it straight up her arm and protects it with her other hand, tinging gently with each finger. There is a volunteer who is a retired music teacher. I ask her to sing Deepa a song, and she happily does so, while Deepa begins to sway from side to side. Her love for music is clearly evident. I listen as Deepa begins to copy the notes, while German Grandmother and I share a smile with our eyes. She is following the tune perfectly and although I need to be told this after, she easily reached the tricky notes. Her ability to follow rhythm and to copy tones is incredible, and I laugh at the irony of my inability to sing the same song in the same key twice.

My aunt emailed me yesterday:

I was thinking about Deepa whilst I have been ironing, I think about all sorts of things when I am ironing. I would like to send her a present, do you think that would be allowed by the orphanage. If so, what do you suggest for a little blind girl?

I replied with the words “something musical” while in my head, I wished for another music teacher, with a full set of percussion instruments, who might know the secret to bringing Deepa fully into the World. My aunts words remain on replay in my head; What do I suggest for a little blind girl? I wish someone would tell me how I can do more for her.

It's wonderful to see her again.

Tea and Bread

Familiarity. A routine waiting to be picked up and re-experienced. The chilly morning my only companion along Alimudden Street. Wrapping my shawl tightly around my shoulders for extra protection. My apprehension was nothing more than a release of nerves. The street was otherwise entertained. Yellow taxi's and lean men covered in soap suds, as vehicles, bodies and undressed clothes are washed together. Sounds of 'mooing' escaping from behind closed doors, betraying the notion that city houses are only reserved for city 'people'. Fat fried breakfast roti's lining up on top of gas cylinder stoves. Young boys dashing between others strides, bringing home the hot delivery parceled in yesterday's grease stained paper. Today's news plastered to the brick wall, as a row of men stand silently squinting. I remember my old conundrum of if two papers are pasted for public reading, or is only one side read? My body jumps slightly as it reacts to the ground next to my feet moving. A bundle of a body has just woken up.

The Mother House welcomes me through her cold and stony entrance and ushers me towards the lively sounds of the volunteers meeting room. Team Korea were diligently pouring chai from the industrial steel kettle, which was standing to attention in thick plastic cups. At their side, a nun was filling the next step in the breakfast production line and fervently slices doorsteps of white bread. The bread was only momentarily suppressed from the machete like kitchen knife, before bouncing back to a nearly 'normal' position. Volunteers lined up grabbing hot tea to which they could suffocate and dye the bread. Despite the breakfast rush, Team Korea plus Sister were totally committed to their mission. The scene seemed to perfectly explain the roots of the term 'missionaries'.

Hot chai in hand, and bread sunk and floating, abandoned or perhaps just waiting to be sucked up with the grains of sugary tea. I loitered around listening to the melody of languages jumping into my ears behind the visual backdrop of a huge world map. Spanish mingling with French, American English, Spanish English, the excited laughs of a group of Portugese women. One-day volunteers queued up in front of a Sister with a rather depressing name – 'Mercy' – waiting to register for their day of Charity. When she had handed out the last paper square, with her ordained scribble of permission, she opened the prayer. Turning to read the familiar words, I thought how awkward Catholics must feel in yoga classes – chanting mantras and humming 'oms'. But then again its all social conditioning. Now I was just feeling like I was at school. Perhaps it was the previous thoughts of Team Korea, but the memories of school assembly began to transform into the low rumble of a war dance. The collective energies being gathered and directed towards the 'mission'.

I stood with words silently passing through my consciousness as those around me mumbled through the daily prayer. Words of gratitude for the privilege of working with the poor, wishes for singleness of purpose and strength for the day ahead. The mission? In my mind, facing poverty, seeing suffering, not just crossing the road or reading what 'fate' might lay in wait for those we wouldn't feel comfortable touching. Despite my reluctance to move my lips and despite the groups clearly very different motivations, the importance of a common goal felt reassuring. 'Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!' jumped out, as controlled claps followed the rhythms of gratitude directed to those leaving and continuing their journeys – home or onwards.

I found what I was looking for. Two committed smiling Spanish women who were long term volunteers in Shishu Bhavan. I needed moral support to walk into the orphanage, and the women's chit chat about the kids and their experiences, providing just the right amount of comfort.

Breakfast was worth it. Its good to be back. Its good to be part of a collective of energies working towards compassion – despite the religious camouflage and culture confusions.

Fear

I have found something which has changed. I am now accompanied by a fear of expectation, so much so that I am petrified to return to Shishu Bhavan. In the last eleven months I have spoke continuously about Deepa. I have spent so much time trying to figure out a way to provide her with the opportunities she needs to grow into independence, and right now I am so scared that it is beyond my capabilities. I registered with the Missionaries of Charity yesterday, ready to begin work tomorrow. I listened to a volunteer warn about giving money to professional beggars, about only eating in touristic restaurants, about the dangers of catching lice, malaria and a million other indescribable infections, about how to make an appointment for confession. Trying to swallow frustrations I took my seat for registration, and felt a little of my anxiety float away, as the Sister penciled my name into the list of volunteers for Shishu Bahavan. I told her I was a yoga teacher and would be happy to provide some classes for the Sisters if they were interested? I was left smiling on the outside and in as the offer was received with deaf ears. She handed me the tiny silver Mother Teresa medal with a whisper of a blessing and then called forward the next on the volunteer conveyor belt.

A group of French flipped through the homemade Lonely Planet to the Missionaries of Charity – choosing which home to volunteer in, organising their schedules and coordinating with the available places. If it wasn't for Deepa, I would not be here The amount of willing hands is amazing. So many people wanting to experience a little of Mother Teresa's magic. But I am thankful for my self imposed responsibility to my little friend. She has given me a goal inside the enormity of poverty; but the path isn't as simple as it could be, and I am continuously trying to remain thankful to Shishu Bhavan for supporting life, while wishing they could facilitate futures. I have already received warnings that the new Sister in charge of the orphanage is battling any attempts of the children receiving individual attention. I realise that every day I will be witness to routine acts of abuse and incompetence, tempting my frustrations and giving a voice to my anger. Yet despite this, I am really scared of my own self imposed expectations. Despite how much I want to see Deepa, I don't know whether I will be able to fulfill my silent pledge to her – to help her find her life. Have I romanticised opportunity? Forgotten the rigidity of the 'system' she was more or less born into? Given myself supernatural powers to perform miracles reserved usually for only a tiny percentage of the 'normal' orphans? I start work at Shishu Bhavan tomorrow.

Back to Kolkata

“Its never the same the second time”. Apparently. It has been eleven months since I reluctantly left; during a time when I was sentimentally attached to every moment, and totally attached to life in the middle of an Indian city. In the time lapse between I have been living a completely different reality: Next to the sea, on paradise islands, in the middle of lush rice paddies...always surrounded by fresh clean air, nature, hot water showers and normalised luxury. It is good to be back and in a strange way it is comforting that not much has changed. The yellow ambassador taxis are still beeping and surging and hustling the human pulled rickshaws, the piles of rotting rubbish are still drifting under feet, sticking to shoes and successfully reproducing trails of filth. The street chai is still loaded with sugar and evaporating from boiling kettles sending a sweet sticky vapour to join the melody of scents The gangs of women are still shouting in my ear “no money just milk” as I try to buy water from a lungi-clad man crouching on top of his stall of a shop.

There is however, something refreshing about being back in Kolkata, which is perhaps why the lack of change is reassuring: Away from the mask of careers, consumerism, advertising and future plans. Life in Kolkata seems so much more Present. Adapting has still been unexpectedly tough. Even though the dirt, smells, metallic fumes and crowds of pressing bodies are so familiar, my senses haven't just adjusted and are still too sensitive. My pedestrian skills are rusty, and my curious eyes betray my previous experience. Walking back up the stairs to my new room on the roof of Modern Lodge, I felt the skin tickling sensation of deja-vu; as if I have never really left and as if time has just stood still. The rattle of the tap filling up the rusty bucket with ice cold water sounds so familiar and yet strangely exciting – a reminder that I am back. The hotel's resident 'old man' still spends every day and night camped on a broken bed at the entrance, collecting 100 rupee bills and monitoring every event as his remaining energy migrates to his incredibly lively eyes. The manager still refuses to give a discount for long term stays and smiles at his obvious victory as despite his vicious bedbugs and bubbling walls of mould, his rooms are still competitive with the rest of the run-down infested hostels. The man who washes the floor with old rags, jumps up to offer his hand, and squeezes it as a sly reminder that if I want an electric plug in my room, he is only to happy to silently oblige.

Most of the Sudder street beggars are the same. The lady who is covered with acid burns; the matriarchal families camping on the pavement; the crazy Man Outside is still wandering the lanes, bowing down to touch the passing feet of volunteers, and bringing a contagious smile to all around as he grins and mutters and waves his hands. The 'India Game' man continues to try to sell a shot of pooping his board of small balloons. But his energy seems a little dimished, his cries no longer echo down the street, and more often then not he if crouching rather than standing – too many years of 'India Games'.

So what has changed? The chai wallah has gone home, and the two boys in the Sikh restaurant have shocked me by apparently turning into men. One has grown whiskers and one has grown nearly half a meter and seems to be trying to flirt with me; perhaps child labour isn't as prevalent as appearances might suggest. I still haven't ventured to the train station or to the slums, but I am well aware that the effects of the global financial crisis are beginning to filter into the city. The dollar plummeting has more than doubled the real price of food and accommodation, and as I worry about how my money will last, I also wonder how the crisis, that was only a feature of the international news one year ago, is now affecting the city's homeless?

There are many new faces among the volunteers. Only a couple of friends remain. In a way, the fresh influx gives me confidence. It is ok to leave. There will always be others to fill the space. While the absence of the most committed and inspirational friends from one year ago, reassures me of the importance of a life in 'balance'. Living more than several years in this intensity of human poverty has to come at a cost. Now I am realising why I left – to grow stronger and be ready to return with a much more sustainable attitude. The 'guilty' sensations of my own random 'privilege' doesn't appear to be hanging over me. Perhaps its just waiting around the corner, ready to pull me back into the suffocating grips of self-reproach. But right now I am finally feeling the freedom of choosing to be here. I want to be exposed to the harshness of exploitation in order to learn, to change, to improve; but this is a massive system of injustice, which can be tackled at any place in the world. Continuously thankful for change providing the gift of opportunity for me to live around the world, to explore the diversity of life – its paradises and it tragedies.

Kuala Lumpur Limbo

The Coffe Bean, Starbucks, Big Apple 'the food that angels eat' donuts, laptops as skinny as mobiles and as technical as Big Brothers, persistent adverts gatecrashing my apparently inferior computer screen – I am being programmed: You need to buy this car, you must book this holiday, now go to watch the latest movie release. I am in a supersized digital Kuala Lumpur limbo. Waiting with crossed fingers for my Indian visa to be processed. Five working days – mumpkim.

I left postcard green and luscious Bali six days ago. A whirlwind goodbye. Too few malas for too many special friends. Six months previously I had arrived with minus money and day dreams of teaching yoga amidst the most beautiful and inspiring teachers. Intention. Determination. A belief that if I continued to follow my heart the only outcome could be a positive one. In retrospect all I feel is disbelief. Realisation. Lessons learned which I could not have anticipated. I began to tune into a new frequency. One which is less judging and more accepting. At times totally alien, intangible and incomprehensible, but still audible. Welcoming strangers. Wonderful friends.

Exposed to the liberating and uniting power of song, the exploratory journey of dance, the new depth of old characteristics and the seeds of awakening potential. I am so grateful for the gifts of opportunities and the magical realisation of day dreams. I have left with so many gifts of friendship, wisdom and support for the months ahead. Thankful for this limbo to process and to prepare. But accompanied by a disconcerting apprehension.

Thinking back to the intense culture shock I felt when flying out of Kolkata airport and into Bangkok. Interesting how after only eleven months it is relatively easy it is to sink back into this perversely normalised culture of consumerism. Hi-tech, fast-paced, working, spending, rushing, building – rising upwards, outwards, palm-trees twenty stories up and shops twenty meters below the ground. Grass and dirt replaced with a human made alternatives. Progress? (D) Evolution. Excess through a urban jungle mirroring the capitals of so many countries. Curiosity. Contradictions. Beautiful people hidden amongst the walls. Smiling faces on every cement corner.

What is my role in this globalised sphere? How will it feel taking my first steps along the manic streets of a predominately homeless Kolkata? Will I need to re-adjust yet again? Enjoying the privilege of choice, and safe in the knowledge of alternative destinations. How will it be to see Deepa? Have I created impossible goals? Ignored the dangerous reality of what could too easily be her -I deteste this word – 'fate'? What reflections will be shone for me to choose to face? What will the future hold?

Staying present vis-a-vis the juxtaposition of mental preparation to soften the blow and ultimately be more effective (-ly present). Perhaps. Parallel lives. Suspended in a limbo between self exploration and universal responsibility.

I collect my visa tonight. I fly tomorrow.

Inner Vision

The weekend before I left Bali I conducted my second blind fold yoga workshop. A bean of a idea which had grown from the surrounding depth of yoga knowledge, which had left me feeling uprooted. What could I contribute to the richness of the expertise around me? Throughout my time in Bali the niggle of guilt had been tingling in my belly. In a spiritual haven, surrounded by novel opportunities for self exploration and examination of tricky egos, I fought to examine my need to pursue social work, while feeling isolated from the 'real' world of suffering which I choose to submerge myself in for so many other months of the year. Surely, it need not be a choice? Surely we all have a part to play in alleviating suffering? And not just in perfecting our own internal thought patterns? I reprimanded myself countless times for 'judging' the internal journeys of those around, while finding clues to the obstacles which prevented me from following the same path. Pressing 'pause' on such confusing judgements I still couldn't deny that I felt pulled to Kolkata. My yogi friends would reassure me that this was the path which the universe had laid out for me, friends from university would argue it was my political training and dedication to a philosophy of a universal humanity. My father would most probably say that it is my 'nature'. Different or one united explanation? Either way, I wanted to try to bring the reality of too many people in Kolkata to friends in Paradise.

The “Inner Sense” blindfold workshop was an attempt to try and share a little of what Deepa taught me. An opportunity for yoga practitioners to explore a novel style of yoga – yoga without eyes. Remembering the incredible lessons of trying to see the world through Deepa's incredibly sensitised hearing and touch, I advertised the workshop as “the practice of yoga with a different set of senses and courage.” The aim was to provide a space for practitioners to explore movement without visual stimulation. Our innate inner senses such as our natural orientation and kinesthetic sense often lays dormant, overridden in our very 'visual' world. By removing sight one is forced to be completely present. There is no space for day dreaming. Every sound is magnified, and every movement seems like an enormous brush against a unknown limitless surrounding spaciousness. During both of the workshops, it was a challenge to create a stimulating experience without falling into a emotional recollection of Deepa's fight. A hard balance but one which appeared to be surprisingly well received.

I began with some sound games. Listen. No talking. Just hearing. Repeating. Copying. Confusion? Perhaps. Then came the challenge of stepping off the yoga mat. Exploring the familiar space of the studio, but this time being guided only by outstretched hands and the sounds of other soft footsteps. Amazed by those who immediately jumped into the unknown, while trying to entice the fearful to take a few more unsure steps. Introducing the energy of some African beats seemed to stir up the levels of courage, and before long tentative strides transformed into jumps, sways and finally dancing. Developing senses. Feeling...“Sharks utilise their electro-magnetic field which enables them to sense other life forms around”. Experiencing a new freedom in the familiar; feeling a new dynamism in the spaces around and ultimately allowing a new sensitivity to the other energies sharing that space.

Next came Trust. Pairing up of participants as when blinded even good friends became strangers. Alienated from sight and unable to communicate identities but surrendering to blindly follow verbal instructions. George MacDonald wisely suggested that “to be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.” Indeed it was interesting watching as participants supported one another through my spoken instructions. Leaning back into space while holding hands to defy gravity. “The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand, nor the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship; it is the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when you discover that someone else believes in you and is willing to trust you.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson). Laughter softening the feelings of loneliness which were to come during the solo asanas, where people struggled to follow potentially confusing instructions, and fought frustrations of failure. Afterall, there is no wrong way to move, rather just listen to what your body needs. “The biggest barrier to living a creative life is the fear of being wrong.” But preconceived 'rights' and 'wrongs' still created an article level of judgement. Invisible competition.

The flow of sun salutations. “Thank for the sun – which Deepa occasionally feels”. The variability of rhythm hiding the synchronization of steps and stretches. An awareness of our kinesthetic sense; the sense which provides the brain with information on the relative positions of the parts of the body. Allowing us to 'know' where hands and feet are moved – even though we can't see the movement. Breath increasing during the balancing exercises, as those adept with their eyes opened felt the debilitating sensations of locating their internal sense of orientation. Deepa didn't lean to walk until she was four.

Intense gratitude for the talents of Others – to Uma for her vividly visually stimulating 'yoga nidra' – guiding the practitioners safely into their own imaginations. To Daphne, for her beautiful and emotive Kirtan. Whose vision and support has been eerily pre-empted by her previous dedications to Mother Teresa and dreams of filming in Kolkata. Her voice broke the verbal fast through call and response singing, providing a space for those otherwise hesitant to join the confident pitches of other singers; no room for self-consciousness underneath a blindfold, only for the liberating rise of connecting harmonies. Hoping - Deepa will learn to speak this year.

The unveiling in front of a small display of old photos – soon to be renewed. Pictures speak a thousand words. Relief, tears, smiles. An incredible gratitude to those who facilitated the workshops, to those who allowed their sight to be restricted for two and a half hours, and for those who have given me so much power and encouragement. “Long may our eyes See the Sun!”