Inter-Faith New Years

A month or so ago it was Eid al-Adha. The Muslim “Festival of Sacrifice” commemorates the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son as an act of obedience to God, but instead he was able to sacrifice a ram (by God's command). Here in Kolkata, Eid al-Adha brought the Muslim population (which is estimated to be 18% of the population of the city) onto the streets. Indian Muslims swapped their blue tartan lungis for long white tunics and prayer caps. The mosques overflowed onto the streets, occupying the roads and bringing a total stand still to all traffic and morning shoppers. Walking to work involved labyrinthine skills as the maze of prayer mats had to be carefully side stepped but the uninviting drains and open gutters expertly avoided. From a vegetarians point of view the walk home was even more disturbing. Eid al-Adha has acquired the tradition of the sacrifice of domestic animals. All of the worlds Muslims celebrate by slaughtering unimaginable numbers of sheep, goats, cows and even camels. The craziness here in India is that the Holy Hindu Cow appeared to be the choice favourite.

Alimuddin Street – leading from the road housing the Missionaries of Charity to the Hindu shrines of Free School Street - became a butchers haven, as cows lined the pavements, while their family members achieved fast track enlightenment; depending of course on ones belief system. The irony of the cows predicament is that if they managed to stray just a few meters away they would be safe in cow worshipping territory. The affair reminded me of a good friend who ended up volunteering in the only pig farm in Israel and in a bout of rebellion ended up freeing the piggies from their fateful platform. By doing so the pigs unconsciously activated the law stating that as soon as a pig's trotters touches the soil of 'Israel' it is free from slaughter. However, the Holy Cows didn't seem equipped to try an similar escape attempt and soon the street was awash with fresh blood. Cow skins were picked clean by happy puppys, and I looked twice as young girls walked by with their prize of cow legs – one in each hand. Men walked around with blood stained shirts, as if coming straight from a massacre and later that evening a Muslim friend complained how tired he was after the hard work of killing over one hundred cows.

Thankfully the sacrifice is not in vain, and all of the meat and skin is used. The cow flesh is equally divided between the family, relatives, friends and neighbours and the poor. However, the question arises of the religious tensions which the festival may provoke as 'Gods' are sacrificed by the millions. This year, the Delhi based leading Islamic seminary, Dar-ul-Uloom, suggested to Muslims in the country that they should avoid slaughtering cows on Eid-ul-Azha as a mark of respect to the religious beliefs of Hindus. The appeal was supported by the All India Organisation of Imams of Mosques (AIOIM). Why then did I spend the day picking my path through cow remains? The answer is that unlike goats, sheep and chickens, the sacrifice of cows represents monetary wealth and dedication to ones faith, due to the 'price' of the sacrifice. A low breed Indian cow costs between 10,000 – 15,000 Indian rupees which is about £150 - £210; therefore the actual cost to the family over Eid is potentially enormous.

A week or so later what was intriguing was the hundreds of small drums that were appearing for sale along Alimuddin Street. The drums were made of cow skin which had been stretched over clay pots and then threaded with a string to hang over the drummers neck. Colourful children's drawings had been sketched on each drum, with the odd one sabotaged by a sketchy outline of a political party symbol. The purchase of one cost only 5 rupees (about seven pence) and came with two little sticks for beating. At the time I thought this was just a money making innovative tactic by the kids but a few days ago the city came alive with the sound of drums – all shapes and sizes – and made from the fresh cow skin of recently slaughtered cattle.

The celebration of Muharram is the festival which signifies the start of the Islamic New Year. The Muslim population of Kolkata celebrated by taking to the streets and parading in bands of drummers. The roads literally stood still while the vibrations rang out throughout the streets. Thousands of boys and young men dressed in costume and with an atmosphere of celebration banged there way through the city as the pavements were lined with spectators and beeping traffic. Gasoline was passed around as boys took turns to fill up their mouths and then blow into a torch of fire. Definitely a party atmosphere, excluding the copious amounts of alcohol more typical of New Years celebrations. The next day, the procession turned a little more sober as fake coffins and horses soaked in blood paraded down the street, with children rushing under the coffins and people queuing to touch the blood covered skin of the horse. In Sishu Bahavan the kids clambered onto the ledges of the windows, trying to peek through the iron bars to identify the source of the rhythmic beats which percolated up from the streets below, bringing cheers of 'nache nache' to the little people always eager for an opportunity to dancer. Meanwhile, trucks loaded with rice stopped to pass out food to the crowds. I watched as two little boys – rag pickers – dropped their bags to chase after the promise of a free meal, but were too slow and were left standing in the middle of the road watching the laden vehicle ride on. They turned around the retrieve their huge bags of rubbish, leaving the celebrations behind. That day was very quite at the dispensary, as patients who usually queue up wearing borrowed plastic crosses attached with pieces of string, went in search of a free meal and the rumours of clothes distribution.

Tonight the night clubs of Kolkata are advertising all night long parties to “Bollywood and Western Music” starring “foreign dancers” and DJs from Mumbai. Entrance fees are scaling the 2000 rupee mark; which at nearly £30 is a pretty exclusive price. But young men (and the occasional woman) from the surrounding Christan, Muslim and Hindu areas are strolling around in anticipation for another street party. If there was ever a place (other than Jerusalem) for the joining of faiths in a celebration of Humanity, India ia surely one. In its rich diversity and complexity of community festivals, unity through celebration is most definitely possible.

Going No Where

Frustration determination anger, going no where, nothing but words which want to be heard. A silent minority in a institution protected by the ghost of a soon-to-be-Saint. Wishing to change, to improve, progress, develop. But working within a system of values morphed by Indo-Anglican standards. “This is India! What do you expect?” Is a insult to the many reputable Indian institutions, working to fulfil the best of each child's potential. But here it seems enough that the children have been 'saved' – job done. Responsibility fulfilled. But is food, clothes and colourful curtains sufficient? Where is the watchdog, ensuring that standards are met? Where are the evaluations of how methods could be improved? Where are the rights of the children? But again, the loophole of 'India' seems to prevail, as compared to the millions of homeless kids, these are the 'lucky' ones. Reading old reports of the orphanage shows that much has improved. Not all the toys are locked up; there more than enough clothes, and the children receive regular health check ups and are usually admitted into a decent hospital when necessary. But other things have not improved, and this is unacceptable.

Children who should be learning to walk are just strapped to the wall, those who have had surgery to increase mobility, pull themselves along the ground, crawling rather than learning how to stand with the assistance of the box of prosthetic supports. Older children with minor disabilities are never taught to use the toilet, so at the age of six are still wearing cotton nappies. Volunteers with specialist skills are not filtered through, and offers to provide valuable trainings, sharing useful skills are shunned. Hanging out buckets of laundry on the roof rather than working with the children seems defeatist. Are volunteers taking local womens jobs? If they weren't hanging out the lines of hand-washed sheets would others be employed to do it? Is that 'saved' money appropriately used; and who decides what is 'appropriate'? But I am warned that we should all be 'humble' and no one is exempt from hanging out laundry – my point drying in the mid-day sun in total incomprehension.

Sharing my views with other volunteers feels almost like treason; what right to I have to question the work of God? Or question their well spent vacation? But I am the same. I have decided to attempt to change the system from the inside – to try to make the world a better place through reducing the suffering of a few children, and to do so by giving them a little power over their basic essentials – eating, toileting, walking. But it seems such a huge battle, and I am often left doubting if it is my courage which is lacking or the rigidity of the system prevailing?

Working Woman

Every day I hear a 'story' or see a few minutes of a life I want to write about. Meanwhile, I am reading an incredibly critical book about Mother Teresa, and the western media's portrayal of Kolkata. Yet what I see and hear is real – so why should it not be shared? I am not intentionally portraying a desperate view of the city but I am also not living in the new apartment blocks of Salt Lake City or Tollygange, or eating in the many European styled, or rather 'priced' restaurants. Of course these areas do exist, but they are not part of my reality right now, so instead I will continue to relay the lives of just a few of the many people who live with less than their fair share of our World's resources.

There is a beautiful woman who finds me at the same time every afternoon, as I cross over from Free School Street towards the tourist territory of Sudder Street. The beautiful woman grabs my wrist and asks for money for her baby. Unfortunately over the years I have developed a rather passive attitude towards pro-active women with babies. The rumours of 'rent a baby' reflects the use of kids to release the pennies from the pockets of the blindest of pedestrians. These women use baby sitting time to earn some extra rupees from their apparently much increased desperate situation. Judgements aside, as at least they are taking initiative while playing their own Robin Hood. The way the beautiful woman grabs my wrist is persistent and forceful – again not the characteristics of the helpless female which might earn her a few more rupees if adopted along side the additional baby. At first I am always surprised at how beautiful she is, at her dominate energy. Not characteristics of a street 'victim'. I usually walk on, ignoring her pleas while playing the familiar record in my head that perhaps I should just stop and talk to her, although her attitude suggests she would not be satisfied with words. Judgments; perspectives; reality. This is her story:

The beautiful woman lives at Sealdagh station with her husband and children. The couple have had five children, the eldest of which is already eighteen. This seems incredible, as she is still so beautiful but then I remember her energy and power and how she is clearly a fighter. It also seems incomprehensible partly because it is not assumed that the couple were married when they were children – but they were. The beautiful woman's mother died when she was eleven. This was the age I was when my own mother died. At which point life continued as 'normal', as I still had another six years of school to finish. But this was not so for the beautiful woman. Her father arranged a marriage for her and she was quickly wed to the then fifteen year old husband. Her husband worked as a rickshaw wallah, pulling people around the city in the cumbersome wooden carriage. He would earn a average of 20 rupees (50 cents) a day.

One year ago her husband became sick and could no longer work. The responsibility fell on the still young and beautiful woman. She heard that good money could be made from begging on the tourist strip of Sudder Street, so for three days a week she moved away from her family to the center of the city to pester the foreigners, touting her youngest baby for sympathy fodder. She is smart and during the past year she has learned to speak English from her persistent interactions with the tourists. She says she likes the foreigners because they are kind, even the volunteers for the Missionaries of Charity, although she holds the 'Charity' responsible for the death of her ten year old child. She recalls how the child developed a fever and became increasingly ill. Not knowing where to go for help she camped outside of Sishu Bahavan asking for medicines. Her demands were repeatedly refuted and the child died.

The woman earns between 200 and 300 rupees ($5 to $7) during these few days of begging . Although this is a very meagre sum to support her family of six, it is double the salary which her husband used to bring home from a full weeks work of hard physical labour.

I'm glad she is able to support her family. Does it really matter that she is 'earning' her money through begging, rather than receiving state benefits or from working for a foreign NGO surviving on charitable donations?

Interestingly, I continue to justify my inaction, comfortable in the knowledge that someone else will give to her and alternatively I can give a 'gift' of food to someone more 'needy'.

The power of money. The power of 'giving' the basic requirements for life. The perspective of judgements. Reason, rational, reality. Truth and the inequality which leads to deception.

City Floor

There are hundreds of multi-coloured shapes on the ground. They are have each been cemented into the floor. Interspersed are larger shapes; with the same colours. Black, a dirty white, grey, brown and various shades of green. Randomly placed. Around the edges they are encrusted in dust. A uneven edge of thick black dirt. The strip of light on the ceiling sends down beams of brightness, which are reflected by the whiter pieces; sometimes shiny. The base is a earth red, prevailing through the shapes of colour. A tiled mosaic which stores the cold and sends a chilling sensation to the bare soles who walk on top.

How many cities are there in this world? And within those cities how many beings? How many islands of nature are there remaining? Where have we not infected, colonised, dominated, destroyed?

There is a postcard on the open door of the room. It is stuck to the wooden panel with a strip of white jagged tape. It hangs unevenly as it fights the moisture of the paint. The design and colours of the card contrast with the fading ambiance of the ancient peeling room. A shape of a world drawn and coloured blue and green, circled with the words “Save the Human”; a new environmental campaign attempting to raise awareness about the self imposed threat. Overpopulation, extinction of the animal species (our own included), human made killer viruses, super-human bacterias, carbon emissions, continuing mining, drilling, producing. Drying up rivers, melting glaciers, trawling the oceans, ransacking the land, clearing the jungles. Meat farms eating up precious resources, redistribution of wealth and health. The list continues as old news under the heading of 'fading intelligence'. Conscious denial. Inaction. Actions continue, informed Blindness.

Kissmas from Kolkata

It is officially Christmas. The sun is shining with only the evenings and night time showers revealing the cloak of the winter season. There are a few shops around Sudder Street dripping in sparkling tinsel and packets of plastic bells. Giant fake Christmas trees stand to attention on the pavement, but it is the five foot tall Santa which is more effective at welcoming the Christmas cheer. Surrounded by Hindu deities and small shrines, the glitz and glitter of the festive season is neatly incorporated in the city's Holy Days, and only sporadically advertised to sell specific ideas of Christmas. Today's Times advertised an 'English Dundee Cake' along side 'An Exotic American Fruit Cake', but it is the local bakers inside of New Market which are cashing in on the seasonal fare, with mini cakes stacked high on the wooden stalls and selling for a bargain of 10 rupees each.

On Winter Solstice the Sisters decided it was time to decorate Sishu Bhavan. Luckily I arrived late so missed the morning briefing that the volunteers were requested not to play with the children and alternatively decorate the nursery, including building a huge nativity scene depicting little baby Jesus with his doting mother Mary and adopted father Joseph – a fairy tale image.

A few days ago an Indian family arrived to celebrate one of their children's birthday. They brought a huge cake filled with candels and a million presents, including the Indian version of the 'Barbie' doll – 'Betty'. After picking up some of the children and dancing them around the cake to the sounds of their cheers and the objections of the massis, the family came to play with the children. The young son was petrified of the children but managed to throw some soft balls which landed in their laps, providing something different for them to watch. Meanwhile, the kids from the active section ran around holding 'Betty's' wrapped up in plastic bags. When one eventually figured out that 'Betty' need not be contained within the packaging, the ensuing slaughter was massive. Legs and blonde Betty heads popped off all over the place, with the little Chinese Indian boy finding a hidden treasure. Attaching Betty's leg to her hip was a circle of plastic, or in the eyes of the little Chinese Indian boy - a perfect shaped 'bindi'. He grinned holding the prize close to his limited eyes, as he placed the plastic circle carefully on his own forehead. Later I commented to the Sister what a lovely gesture it was of the family to bring so many gifts and spend so much time with the kids. She replied; “they only do it so they can receive God's blessing.”

Meanwhile, the small clinic I am volunteering in is closed for Christmas. Again the priority appeared to be the building of the nativity scene, but if it is closed behind locked doors on Christmas day even that seemed a little strange. (Then again the Sisters asked some volunteers to remove the Christmas decorations at the Mother House this morning. ) I had offered to come and change the dressings of the patients who most needed treatment, but I was ordered to take a holiday. It was difficult to explain to the old man with maggots eating his upper thigh that he would have to wait until next week for the next batch of carnivores to be removed.

Behind these frustrations there are many beautiful actions, glances and glimpses of compassion which bring renewed energy. Moments where I feel glad for this festive time and for the lapses of generosity and optimism.

A couple of weeks ago children from another of the Missionaries of Charities homes, Daya Dan, performed a brilliant nativity play. They toured around the houses, acting and singing for the other children, patients, Sisters, Brothers and volunteers. Their visit to Sishu Bahavan was inspirational. The cast was composed of disabled children who were natural performers, providing an incredible energy to the audience. I brought down a gorgeous girl from the nursery, who smiles her way through severe different abilities, despite having her legs scissored together and little control over the movements of her hands. She sat on my knee, staring at the story being acted out in front of her, pausing only to turn around and she her smile.

Last night friends disguised as Christmas Angels left for the streets at midnight. They spent three hours quietly placing blankets over sleeping bodies without a whisper of their work.

This morning after bouncing down the steps of Modern Lodge to be greated by the joke of the day 'Happy Kissmas', from the Old Man and his giggling entourage, I pulled on my Santa's hat and Jingle Jangled my way into Sishu Bhavan. The pavement outside was crowded with people trying to find there way inside. Today the Sisters were giving out packages of food and supplies to many. However, 'many' is never enough and somehow only those 'selected' could enter by showing the magic card. The lady with the Incredible Eyes and her two babies were standing patiently waiting – no card in hand.


Inside the orphanage the kids had been dressed in red and gold sparkly dresses and suits. All of the active kids had made their usual pilgrimage to the Mother House for morning mass but were now busy singing songs and dancing to Christmas carols with the Sister. It was an unusual sight but one which brought copious smiles and a much needed happy vibe. Deepa was busy swaying from side to side enjoying the tunes. She was discharged from hospital a few days ago and seems much better. She is also becoming very close to me again; a feeling which brings with it a warning hesitancy as well as comfort that she once again she trusts me and feels safe to let me work and play with her.

My aunt's gift of a school recorder and teddy arrived a couple of days ago, but with so many Sisters on patrol, I felt reluctant to share it with Deepa. Instead it stayed hidden under my apron until another, quieter, day. The children are not meant to receive individual presents, but the volunteers are able to circumnavigate the rule by bringing toys and games in during the day and take them away in the evening. As for the teddy, Deepa has difficulty finding out the 'point' of a teddy. Perhaps she thinks it is just clothes or bedding and she was happy to move it to one side and continue her Christmas dancing. This worked out well for the Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile. She motioned for me to bring it to her and she reached out to hug it tight to her as she Smiled even wider. The Super Smart blind baby also loved it and began to stroke the teddy, feeling the different material and pulling it towards her. Thank You for such a kind thought.


The head of the Missionaries of Charity, German born, Sister Mary Perma then made a brief visit. She walked around placing her hands on the children and wishing them 'Happy Christmas' while the massis scurried around bending down to touch her feet. She wished the children a good Christmas lunch as they fought the massis and spoon fulls of cold Cerelac porridge.

Outside I found the lady with the Incredible Eyes and her two children sitting on the pavement. She hadn't managed to acquire a magic card. It wasn't quite the same but I had brought two loud surprises. After the mass slaughter of Holy cows for Eid, the kids on the neighbouring street had become extremely resourceful and had melted cow skins over clay pots to produce little drums. The final products have crayon drawings scribbled on them and a nylon string to attach the drum to the drummer. The clay cow drums sell for five rupees each, which is about 10 cents. I pulled the little drums out of my bag and hung them around the little kids necks. I handed the mother a bar of soap and a towel as yesterday she complained that her boys couldn't wash and as a result were filthy and covered in flies. Their reactions was so strong that I felt myself begin to gentley shake. The little boys were so surprised and shocked that the smiles took time to grow and then consumed their faces. The mother looked at me directly in the eyes, once again sharing her tremendous strength and power. I tell you this only because today my sister donated ten pounds. It will allow me to buy the lady with the Incredible Eyes and her fatherless family lunch for one month. Another Thank You.

Its been a long time since I celebrated Christmas. It had forgotten what a good excuse it is to laugh loudly, sing badly and to Share and to Smile. A reminder of how relations could be everyday of the year.

Thank you to all who continue to Share and Inspire.

Gifts to Share - a call for Christmas donations

'Tis the Season to be Jolly!' and I have had a few offers from friends overseas to pass on some Christmas Cheer to strangers in Kolkata! It is a wonderful feeling that there are some positive and beautiful gifts from a festive holiday that has so successfully been captured by mass consumerism...So a huge thank you! I plan to use the donations to distribute some blankets, fruit, soap and food to those who most need it, but of course an open to any other suggestions of toys or clothes as well. There many single mothers, young children, elderly, sick and disabled people who live on the streets, and although winter provides the dryness absent in the floods of the monsoon, the evenings are cold and there are many who are very hungry. I am currently volunteering in a extremely basic clinic at one of Kolkata's main train stations where many of the city's poor and homeless live. This means that I am in a perfect position to distribute a few items to those who would really appreciate the offers. A little can go a really really long way, so even if it is just a couple of dollars, pounds or rupiah it can be used well... here is a list of some basic commodity prices:

a single fleece blanket: 200 rupees ($4.30; 2.64 GBP)
rice and lentils: 30 rupees (65 cents; 40 pence)
one egg roll: 8 rupees (17 cents; 10 pence)
two tangerines: 10 rupees (21 cents; 13 pence)
one bar of dettol soap: 18 rupees (38 cents; 23 pence)

This means that for a total of $5.70 or 3.50 GBP we can give someone a really useful and fulfilling gift.

If you feel like contributing to this Christmas in Kolkata there is a 'Help to Help' option on this blog, which leads directly to a paypal account.

Thank you! And have a Happy Holiday where ever you are!

Much Peace

Silent Malaria

Deepa is in hospital. She has cerebral malaria, or what the mashis describe as 'brain' malaria. This explains her reoccurring fevers, when her hands become incredibly hot, and sweat beads accumulate around her hair line.

Two days ago a doctor came to Sishu Bhavan to take blood samples of some of the children. At the time, it seemed almost random that Deepa was selected but again this reflects the limitations of my baby talk Bengali. The two other chosen children were from the active section, so we were able to follow the doctor up to the roof, away from the curious eyes of the other kids. The roof was full of morning action as the mashis scrubbed clean buckets of soggy cotton nappies while others scraped the scales off a tub full of fresh fish.

The first chosen little girl was sat down next to the doctor. Apparently she used to be the daughter of (another?) rich doctor who on account of her disabilities donated her to the orphanage. The doctor extracted his tools from his brown leather satchel. He pulled up her sleeve and tied a black rubber strap around her upper arm. Immediately the little girl began to scream. With severely deformed feet, the task of running offered only a clumsy and most probably partial escape, but the little girl was strong and scared so a second mashi was called over to push her down onto the bench and close to the waiting pointed needle. A sample of blood was successfully extracted, and the tears and struggle for freedom subsided.

Next in line was a toddler who first arrived at the orphanage one year ago. At the time he seemed traumatised from the move away from whatever had been his home before. With Chinese features he appears totally different from the Indian children. Unfortunately, this puzzle has not yet led to his adoption by curious Korean volunteers, who frequently visit just to verify the rumour. He is incredibly short sighted which results in continuous frustration interspersed with moments of extreme happiness such as when he grabs a colourful object and brings it in front of his face so that the details are revealed. The same pattern was repeated with the doctor. The little Chinese Indian orphan obediently sat down wedged between the mashi and the needle. Then the rubber strap was tied tightly around his little arm and the screaming and kicking started. Meanwhile, Deepa stood silently by, listening but not reacting. Her time came to take a seat, and I felt awkward as it almost seemed as if the mashis were enjoying the kids shouts of fear. But I took hold of Deepa's hands and jangled my thin silver bracelet with its one remaining bell. The 'ting ting' was only enough to momentarily distract her senses as soon the rubber strap had been tied and the needle was posed to pierce her skin. As soon as the point punctured her arm she began to shout, crying out a empty threat to the apparent aggressor. She squirmed trying to move away from the syringe but despite having the able feet the first little girl lacked, and despite being double the size of the small Chinese boy her lack of eyes rendered her blind to possible escape routes. The required blood was extracted and Deepa and I were free to explore the sounds and texture of the roof.

The next day Deepa was admitted into the Calcutta Mercy Hospital, which publicizes that it dedicates 40% of its resources to provide free healthcare to poverty-stricken men, women, and children who could not otherwise afford medical treatment. The mashis were particularly cruel in refusing to tell me where she was, but eventually, with the help from a Sister in the baby section, I found out the diagnosis and ward number. I had heard a rumour that the Sister in charge of Deepa's section did not want her to have any visitors, but as it was just a rumour and fortunately the Sister wasn't around to verify, I went anyway.

The hospital is very good for local standards, and exceeded my expectations. It is clean and colourful with a staff of uniformed nurses who actually seemed busy administering medication. Deepa's ward contains rows of beds each with one child and a watchful mother or grandmother by the side. In the far corner Deepa was laying head to toe with an older woman, who is a mashi from Sishu Bahvan. Deepa was flicking the rubber tube of the IV drip which was dropping down into a ring of bandages securely strapped around her wrist. She would systematically lift her hand to her nose. Perhaps trying to smell the bandages or the disinfectant. It was strange to see her in such a relaxed environment and she reflected the atmosphere, looking calm.

The mashi is by Deepa's side twenty four hours a day, and the two share a small bed together. She is receiving anti-malarial treatment and an IV drip of essential nutrients. The inability to verbally communicate is incredibly frustrating. I want to ask her how she feels, I want to tell her she will be ok. But instead all I can do is play the kurimbu to her and sing Indiana Jones followed with some smile bringing tickles.

The nurse assured me that Deepa was responding well to treatment and her fever had subsided. She will need six days of treatment and then should be able to return to Sishu Bahavan. Meanwhile, she is more or less confined to the little bed, and despite having a toilet only a few meters away is still wearing a nappy; only this time a special allowance has been made and the cotton rags have been replaced with huggies disposable nappies. I feel grateful for her treatment but frustrated at the situation. She is around six years old and it is essential that she begins to glean a little independence, and mastering language is an enormous step towards that. By just trying to imagine her confusion - her version of the malaria, fevers and dreams - without explanation and living in a virtual verbal isolation, reminds me once again of why I am here.

Karimbu Magic

I have just witnessed one of the most amazing reactions ever from Amazing Deepa. Today I introduced her to a little of Indonesia. I brought in an ‘karimbu’ – an ancient instrument which is made out of half a coconut shell, with seven metal strings, which can be flicked to produce a range of truly magical sounds. Sitting on a bright blue rocking dog, with only one eye, and felt material ears, Deepa moved backwards and forwards. She was mouthing the sounds which I was saying, but her tongue remained silent. I flicked a key producing a 'ding' from a paradise far removed from the stuffy room. Deepa immediately rocked forwards and placed her feet firmly on the floor, grounding her dog. I began initiating a series of 'dings'. Her head bowed forwards and ear tipped towards my hands. Her mouth grinned with a huge smile which quickly extended down her arms and through her fingers as she searched for the origin of this new sound. I continued to play as Deepa gently placed her hands on top of the keys. The thickness of the steel sent strong vibrations down through the coconut wood and upwards towards Deepa curious touch. Amazing Deepa appeared to be totally enthralled with the music. All of her senses were directed towards the sounds as I slowly manipulated the keys 'ding ding dang ding ding dang ding dang ding ding'. I wished I was an karimbu scholar. I thought about a far away friend called Zak and wished he were here. Zak is a musician with such skills that he can expertly invite dancing fairies and jumping pixies into the room through his skillful playing of the karimbu. Alternatively I just continued to ding and dang while Deepa leaned into my lap.

I guided her hands around the instrument – across the smooth polished shell and across the coloured dots of paint depicting an image impossible to feel and at this point impossible to describe. The dots creating two twisting snakes with the colours green, red and white. I passed the karimbu into her hands as she felt its weight and flicked the tips of her fingers across the keys. I pressed her ultra bendy thumb down, leaving a soft 'ding' in its wake. Her smile seemed to consume her entire being as her fingers began to gently press the keys.

Her amazing response reaffirmed that music appears to be the key to bring her into the World and the World to Deepa. Her attention was totally embedded in each sound while the music itself seemed to have an incredibly soothing and calming effect. I am left wondering how I can bring more music into the noise filled clutter of Sishu Bhavan where shouts, cries and raspy loud music blares out from a broken speaker.

Street Fairy

Her name is Chunana. I sing it to her: 'Chu-na-na, Chua-na-na' as she strides confidently by my side, trying to keep pace with legs twice the length and twice the width of hers. The darkness is providing a thick blanket of camouflage to the figures of the day. Tonight Chunana is helping me to find the half naked lady. The woman appears from the shadows of the pile of bricks, curled into a bony ball on the ground. Chunana waits while I give leave a hot cup of chai by the side of the ball of bones and then looks up expectantly. We return to the chai wallah and stand silently while he stirs and pours and juggles the pots of water, milk, tea and sugar. Once holding the little clay pot of chai between her hands, she maneuvers it from one finger to another, as the thin edges quickly absorb the heat of the thick bubbling liquid. We sit on a cool stone step, waiting for the heat of the chai to fade enough for either her mouth to swallow or young fingers to carry. I speak clumsy words of Bangla: muk, nak, pa, pet; I mumble as she smiles widely in apparent comprehension: mouth, nose, leg, foot. Running out of common vocabulary we sit, watching the other occupants of the street – the old men, the visiting youths, the volunteers and transit tourists.

Her world is long and narrow; beginning with the chai stalls, ending with the families cardboard homes and stolen bricks, interspersed with hostels from a golden age long since faded. Little Chunana finds her own entertainment. She follows the vendors filling the lane with relics of an India far removed from the reality. A man of flutes spins his selection from a musical bamboo tree towering above her head – a multistory dimension for little Chunana. 'India Game' stands with his plywood board of semi-deflated balloons and melted candle, as he half-heartedly tries to coax tourists for a 'one rupee a shot' but ends up with a crowd of jean clad, gelled haired skinny Indian boys.

Forever jumping and skipping and running and smiling, she has one pair of red faded shorts, a red and white sleeveless shirt and a blue and white checked school dress, without a zip, and a filthy thin navy jumper. Recently she has acquired a pair of pink flip flops, which have a piece of threat coaxing the plastic thong through the plastic sole. During the night she wears all of her wardrobe simultaneously, and her change of outfits suggests a place where her clothes are kept and perhaps even a mother-figure who rotates the clothes. Safely snuggled into her family – or someone else's – among the crowd of hardened women and their collective brood of skinhead children.

Chunana knows everyone who lives here; for this is her home; in the magical mystical land of Sudder Street. Where boys sniff glue behind yellow Ambassador taxis' and older brothers and uncles congregate next to a corner gutter, injecting potions into their legs. Where Nigerian footballers walk four a breast down the street, calling out to waiting waiters and galloping past skinny chai wallah's and the cotton clad skeletons of rickshaw pullers. But to little Chunana, Sudder Street is a fairy tale world of colourful strangers forever influx: Arriving and departing, coming and going with the pulsating beat of life of travelers. An informal congregation of the new-age lonely planet explorers and the next generation of undisclosed missionaries with an audience of determined street mothers and local amputees. The audience gathers to glean a note or just some coins from the colourful creatures dressed in western clothes – neo-Indian style. For Chunana these strangers seem to be imported to create her school of the street, bringing her knowledge of far away lands and cultures. Words of Spanish, French and English pass through her curling ears, while she is continuously searching for new faces to play with, or just two long monkey arms from which to swing. She only asks for food when she has sat on your lap or hugged your legs at least once before, and when she does usually no words but just points.

Most evenings she just darts through the feet searching out the friendly or familiar faces. Grabbing hands with her tiny fingers and swinging the giant arms above her shaved head. She brings her gift of her presence which leaves her holding bites of egg rolls, or a handful of noodles: tit-bits of 'treats' which foreigners think she may like. Always alone, apart from a brief interaction with a family member or adult who will walk by and snatch whatever 'treat' she holds. When given a whole roti or parantha, she will surreptitiously pick at it, pretending to be eating, but actually saving. Many evenings of quiet observation have still left me unsure of whether this is her duty to her three brothers and sisters, or her protection to save her from a beating from others who are older, wiser and more desperate than little Chunana.

Tonight Chunana skipped past me, wearing a reindeer hat. Bringing a grin to my face as she sent her arms flapping by her sides, skimming through the air. To the inexperienced eye, so free and so full of silent giggles. She was too preoccupied to care to spot me and hopped onto the cracked and crooked pavement spontaneously squatting to pee. Pulling down her shorts to reveal her hidden prize of a shiny red pomegranate which she held between her two hands, as if she were holding the secret to Never Neverland.

Sick and Homeless

I have a cold. No big deal, but all I want to do is sleep. I feel totally exhausted, feeling muscles I didn't realise I had, as my body is busy aching. Each cough seems to rattle my lungs inside my ribcage, and I am left gasping for air. This morning I was caught in a limbo between wanting to go to the orphanage and yet feeling horrid, while knowing that the despite wanting to make the children laugh and giggle, walk and talk, perhaps its better to let them sit rather than catch a cold. So I lay under my sleeping bag, listening to the beeps of the horns and jangle of the rickshaw wallahs from the road below. Every half an hour the church bells rang and at increasing frequency the muzzem call sings out from the mosque tower. A city alive with sounds and smells which peculate through the broken jagged glass of my open windows and wooden shutters which refuse to shut. A friend brings me a liter of freshly squeezed orange juice and it tastes totally divine. I drink the whole bottle within minutes. It costs the price of food for a child for two weeks. Two dollars. As the light fades, and zooms of the motor bikes and taxis increase, my headache catches each of my thoughts. Full of fever I take a few steps to the stone bathroom and watch the cold water full up the rusty bucket before pouring it over my body. I actually enjoy the chill of the tap water, and the privacy of the bathroom, as the bare light-bulb shines a soft and gentle beam providing an effective yet misleading glow of warmth.

I try to imagine how it would be to live on the street. With only a pavement for a bed, and a street pump for a shower. Full of fresh air filtered through the passing exhausts leaving each nostril coated in muck. Try to imagine – Ha! Try to image as I return to the comfort of my sleeping bag. A life of luxury. Total and complete privilege. What an unfair world, and how hypocritically grateful I am for my share of it.

Guilty

I am not sure why, but I am feeling a great deal of pain during these past few days. Rather than becoming de-sensitised the reverse seems to be happening. I watch the old anglo-Indian man hang out in a local restaurant. He is desperately trying to speak his Queen's English to tourists who would rather be left alone. I feel guilty – responsible for not taking away his anxiety. I feel the pain of what appears to be his dependence on those who hardly notice him. There is an old lady who prowls the street for a gift of a cup of chai. She wears her cotton sari pulled tightly around her neck hiding her acid burns, which she only reveals when the chai or coins are not forthcoming. She takes my hand and asks how I am. I want to hug her. She stroke my kasmir shawl, inspecting its warmth. Guilty of not sharing, I walk home to my bed.

When I eat in the Taj Continental – the greasy spoon of Sudder Street - where food for two comes to $1.20, I feel full of shame as the Pinocchio nosed waiter shrugs and immediately questions my measly tip. I have just pulled the notes of my change out of the tray and let the one ruppe coin fall into the bed of fennel seeds. “One rupee?” He shakes his head in disbelief. I walk onto the street and already feel the presence of the half naked woman. Despite having bought her another shirt, I have learned to let her be. Feeling hypocritical, as I have become one of the many I have seen shake their head at her and walk on, unsure how to help. Perhaps it is my inability to understand her, or to see her skinny breasts exposed, in what is such a conservative society, which fills me with pain. Tonight she sat with her knees bent to her chest and her only piece of clothing – a skimpy t-shirt – stretched over her protruding ribs and bony legs. Again, I wonder how she ended up here – naked and in a different dimension. She must still feel the cold. She must still feel hungry. My guilty thoughts of inaction impotent against her suffering.

There is another woman whose eyes appeared in my dream scattered sleep. She lives on the pavement close to Shishu Bahvan with her two small children. The boys (or perhaps they are girls) have their heads shaved and are as dirty as most kids to play in the gutters should be. When I walk to work in the morning they are still all wrapped up in a bundle under one cloth. As I leave in the evening, the kids are playing in the trash, as The Mother sits hand held out to passing knees. She looks up at me, revealing the most incredible clear sea-blue eyes. I am so stunned by the colour I am unable to even smile my helpless stupid smile. The boys look happy; she looks desperate. Last night I saw two nuns stop as one placed her hand on The Mother's head. Their white saris in stark contrast to the street colour brown of her clothes. They walked on, leaving me to fill the void. Embarrassed I caught her eye as the nuns happy chatter faded into the hum drum of the traffic. I witnessed her disappointment, and I hid my eyes in the cracks of the pavement as she sat 'blessed' and still hungry.

A few meters further down the pavement, another woman reached out towards me. I touched my forehead in simultaneous respect and apology. She lurched forward and began hitting my legs. Her pain and frustration briefly vibrating up my body. The response different from the leper who sits on Park Street, waving his handless limbs frantically at any foriegner who passes. The jerks of his body lifting his cart unevenly off the ground, before clashing back down. If I ever pause to drop a coin in his begging bowl, he claps his stubby arms together bringing them to the centre of his forehead in a humbling gesture of gratitude – far beyond what my coin deserves.

The consuming feelings of helplessness continues during my work. Yesterday I did something I am ashamed of and the pain is just growing in guilty realisation. I had been playing with one of the little girls who is severely mentally and physically disabled. I say playing, but really I was just sitting in front of her, talking and singing and blowing her kisses and just trying to make her smile. The feat itself was accomplished by Wide Eyed Boy – a new little toddler in the 'active' section who appears to be totally lost and overwhelmed at the room which is now his life. Wide Eyed Boy didn't seem to be scared by my little friend, but rather enjoyed the task of entertaining her. He began by blowing raspberries on her arm and then hiding behind me and jumping out to surprise her. He was a star and my little friend was smiling widely in a way I haven't seen for a long time. Then it was 'Tiffin Time' – time for hot milk. I was handed her bottle and bib and went about trying to convince her to drink. But eager to continue exploring her new sensation of similes she didn't want the bottle anywhere near her, but rather sat with her eyes spinning – searching for Wide Eyed Boy. I tried to dive the bottle between her arms and into her mouth for so long that the milk turned cold. Feeling no alternative, I turned and asked one of the massis if she could feed her. Knowing what would come next I stood to leave, wanting no part in what I had just initiated, but a hand came down on my shoulder as the massi instructed me to hold her hands still. Painfully, I did so as I watched her force the bottle into her mouth while pinching her nose to force her to swallow. One of the main dangers with spastic children is that it is very easy for food and liquids to bypass their stomach and end up in their lungs. This is particularly so if they are force fed, or fed at a awkward angle. My little friend (can I still call her 'friend' even after my betrayal?) was quietly struggling, but wedged into her chair and with straps on her arms, was no match for me and the massi. I stroked her fingers as if her hands held the Genie, who may find the solution to her suffering. I didn't play with her today. Guilty.

I wish I could feel something more proactive – I wish I had a plan to replace suffering with joy – I wish I could be more effective. But I am not, and because of that I have spent the last few days feeling this bitter sentiment of Guilt. Are we all Victims? Are we all potential Challengers? Are our lives really so irrelevant in this human pool of suffering?

Naked

How do you end up living on the street as a young women? Crazy, wearing only a large sweater, and with only one arm? A hard stare that looks straight through my eyes, and a feeling I detest of being in a position of 'power'. Showing a pair of Indian trousers bought in the nearest 'tourist' shop and hoping that she understands my wish to be invisible, to not share her shame, but rather to talk to her in a language I still don't know, and to ask her simply if she is ok? Instead she shakes the trousers and throws them onto the pavement, picking them up and repeating the action. Guiding her naked skinny bony legs into the flimsy cotton, she returns the favour by taking of her sweater, allowing her ribcage to protrude and spine to stick painfully into the cold evening air. Our brief interaction has only lasted for few minutes, and yet as is the norm for any street in Kolkata, we now have an audience of curious men. Silently begging her forgiveness of creating all of this unwanted attention, I walk away. Trying to resist the temptation to look back.

Baby Vision

The orphanage is pretty much the same. Two children have died from phenomena while their spaces have been filled with beautiful babies from the nursery one floor below. One of them is little Meta – the little blind baby I feel in love with a year ago. As a baby she was a natural yogini – legs and arms everywhere, but the most striking characteristic was her continuous smiling and laughing. She's grown taller, but is so skinny. Her body is still bendy, but her neck seems to fall back all the time, as she hits it on her chair, and leaves it there. She cries continuously, until she is held in your arms, and then she is still; just listening to your breath. Changing her clothes is hilarious. She loves to be touched and tickled, and giggles uncontrollably as I tickle her skinny legs and little baby belly. She particularly loves having her belly button tickled, which seems incredibly sensitive; I guess it wasn't so long ago that she was still connected to the mother that she still sheds the tears for. She is incredibly gentle, and quietly sits (or softly cries) until someone cares to feed her or change her. It is incredible how the characters of each child is expressed despite their ages, inability to talk, or move. She reminds me of Deepa – and not just because she was born without eyes – but because of her passivity and quiet confusion. Seeing Deepa's stinted development is all the more reason why it is so important to find a 'solution' to find a way to assist her to learn to speak and fight her way through this world; lessons learned which may make the journey for this next little baby a little smoother. But she is not the only one.

Next to her sits Nitu. Who is adorable. Totally. But her attitude is completely different. Her lack of vision seems to mean nothing to her. She is a real fighter and super smart. She is smaller than Meta but probably the same age – around one and a half (even though their folders say they are three and two respectively). She wants to learn and if she isn't finding the stimulus she will yell until she gets it. The power of her shouts reflect her frustration. She takes a deep inhalation and then pours our a 'Ahhhhh'. Unlike Meta, it isn't a cry of misery, but for attention. And what a successful technique! Within minutes she has someone in front of her, watching the Queen of the babies, and following her orders. I am no exception, and happily follow her demands for different sounds and songs, as she quickly repeats and giggles. 'La La La' is too easy for her, and soon we are 'rrrrrrrrrr' – ing and 'zzzzzzzz ZA!'-ing. I try singing 'twinkle twinkle little star' as she lifts herself off the padded chair and bumps back down with total uncontrollable excitement. Sporadically she throws her arms out to the sides and searches for Meta's still fluffy baby hair which she yanks with all the power of her little fists. Meta just sits quietly. Unsure of what is happening or how to react. Eager to preserve the little hair Meta has managed to grow, I turn my attention to her chair and move it slightly away from her incredibly stimulated neighbour. I guess most babies have no control over their movements, as parents and carers pick them up and deposit them at will, but the lack of vision that these babies have must make it all the more frustrating. However, Meta seems pacified by my continuing rendition of 'twinkle twinkle'. I feel like I have just seen a ghost – or rather heard one. Queen Nitu is bubbling a stream of 'little stars' – now for a blind baby whose first language should be Bengali and who apparently has still yet to speak her first word, this is AMAZING. So, amazed and with a smile from ear to ear, I struggle with the simultaneous feelings of frustration as I think that four years further down the verbal development line, Deepa is still struggling with basic sounds.

Meanwhile, I am caught in a ridiculous predicament. I have as yet avoided introducing myself to the new Sister in charge. Following warnings from Climber Woman, I decided not highlight the specific attention which I am dedicating to Deepa. However, I desperately want to ask about any potential speech therapy training. I have heard from another long term volunteer that this winter has put many of the children in hospital which has been an unexpected drain on the Shishu Bhavan funds. This apparent unexpected drain has meant a re-allocation of money from the weekly speech therapy tuition to the weekly physiotherapy sessions. I am in no position to question the use of the Missionaries of Charities funds, although this cutback surprises me, as they are one of the wealthiest charities in Kolkata. I'd love to offer paying for a speech therapist, but predict that my offer will be seen as interfering.

I want these beautiful blind girls to have the opportunities to learn to speak, to learn life skills that will enable them to facilitate a future for themselves. For them to be able to feed themselves, to go to the toilet, to communicate fully with those around them, so that they can understand where they are and made sense of all the craziness – inside and outside of the orphanage. I want them to have a life – despite not having eyes. Once again, I want to know – how can I help more?

Fire

Twenty one years old and laying in a hospital bed, without skin. Charred black, and leaving ash on all she tries to hug. Naked but disguised by the lack of flesh. Ninety five percent burns and a funeral to attend some day this week – Doctors orders. I don't know her, I have only heard. What I heard is a common story, but the reality is that this is no 'tale' but the short life of one beautiful woman, born in Bangladesh and to die in Kolkata. Two nights ago she covered herself in three litres of petroleum. She threw a match on her body and burned herself to nearly dead. Her husband was arrested but later released. Her friends said he hit her – hard – but not on the face; that wouldn't be good for business.

Her story – her life - is Consuming.

As a young girl she arrived in Kolkata; pretty, tall and fair. Before long she was working the streets of Kalighat. Where the younger girls can earn more per ten minutes, then the older or darker women. The going rate is between 30 and 50 rupees per ten minutes (around 10 cents). At the age of sixteen she met her husband – a client. They decided to marry and move to his village away from the city. But soon her savings ran out, and she was expecting her only child. She ended up back in Kalighat, but this time working to support not just herself but her husband and new baby boy. Then two nights ago Fire must have seen like a solution to burn away her pain. Her little son trying to reach her, singeing his fingers. Her husband reeling in guilty tears.

But the fire wasn't as effective as it should have been. She is fully conscious. She can see – her body. She can move around in her filthy death bed. Crying out for water which she is not allowed to drink, and laying naked with only one bandage wrapping the IV drip to her wrist.

Just to reiterate. This isn't a story. This is reality. Now.