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?