Cricket and Climbing

Watching the boys in their playing field leaves my mouth open and my mind flying. The younger boys attack the climbing frames. They monkey themselves along the bars like junior Olympians, balancing on the very top bar of the swings and flinging their bodies backwards and upside down. They jump from bar to bar using their arms and propelling themselves with the momentum of their bodies in a way which would leave most adult climber shaking in their shoes and leaving even the most courageous and foolhardy sighted kid panting to keep up.

I was accompanied by a retinue of boys eager to show off and to have their photo taken. The majority of the boys are totally blind, but this did not stop their demands for photographic proof of their talents. Some of the boys have a degree of sight, hindered by incredibly low vision. These boys would pull my camera screen so close to their faces that it would touch their cheeks, and then a reassuring smile would appear, showing that they had recognised their image. Likewise, my dive computer was proving to be a winner with all, as the totally blind boys pressed the buttons and the sighted boys took turns in pulling my wrist to their eyes and reading the time out loud. Whenever I asked a question, they would reply with the characteristic affirmative head wobble, unique to most of India. It was mystifying how they had been taught the action so accurately; whether a teacher had taken their heads in their hands and moved it from side to side? They movement is so subtle in its precision that I still find impossible to imitate, despite having a hundred of visual renditions each day.

Meters away a group of boys were playing cricket. It was equally as incredible to witness. The cricket ball made a rattling sound and after the bowler had taken it in his hand he would confirm the location of the batter by calling 'ready?' to which a affirmative reply would echo. He would then bowl with a reverse arm loop, causing the ball to fly into the sky before rolling along the ground, rapidly rattling its way towards the listening batsman. If the ball hit the wickets a metal 'ping' would ring out and the boys would either cheer or groan. However, if the ball was hit all would listen and run in the correct direction. If the ball was hit high up into the sky, the boys would end up running around in puzzled circles listening for its non-existent rattle. Once it landed they would run alongside it stooping down to scoop it up. It was powerful to watch, and inspiring to see the courage which the boys ran around the field with, especially considering that most did so in what was for them complete darkness. They conversed about cricket as if it was a deep ingrained passion, reflecting their subconscious nationalism, as the adoration of cricket is an addiction common throughout the country. They talked excitedly about the recent India/ South Africa game, and proudly reminded me that it was their countrymen who were the victors. I guess the spoken commentary meant that they need not be able to watch the match in order to follow it, and yet for some unexplainable reason I found it amazing that they developed such a strong passion for the national sport on a par with their sighted peers.

These boys are incredible sports men – they have no fear. They follow their senses, running with a surety despite the many obstacles plaguing their paths. They relay on a finely tuned sense of balance which leaves me simultaneously amazed and naively protective as they swing and throw themselves around in a way which sighted children would not have the courage to do. Their sense of hearing is so accurate that they are constantly reorientating their bodies in accordance with the movements and motions around them. Their internal map of their school and home is deeply moulded in the minds of even the youngest of boys, as they all run confidently through the buildings and around the playground. Body contact and verbal communication is of the utmost importance, and the boys are constantly touching each other and standing incredibly close, with their low vision friends filling in any missing information which might come into focus as he shares the treasure of his own incredibly limited vision.

The boys demonstrate what is possible for blind children and young people, and how they have developed the most extra-ordinary skills. These are skills – such as increased awareness, memory of their surroundings, balance and courage - which Deepa is inclined towards. But what is currently inhibiting the fruition of this specific and deeply powerful skill set, is the lack of any mentors and expert guidance. Here in the centre of the city of Pune, 2004 kilometers from Sishu Bahvan, is a community of children and young people who are perfectly adapted to life without sight. They are visibly exploding with potential and have just the right degree of cultivated confidence and awareness that they will need to live the independent and self-sustaining lives which they are more than capable of.

Osho's Pune

Pune, once famous for its Tigers, and now with two remaining species in the city zoo. Known by the locals as the old colonial name of Poona, and invaded by neo-colonials after the fame of Osho and Iyengar. Tourists walk the streets in a hippified daze, dressed in the uniform one piece maroon robes, some without shoes and all seeking something which whether or not they find it, costs them an incredible amount of cash. The Osho international meditation ashram was established in 1974. To enter not only requires a sustainable bank account but also an on the site HIV and hepatitis test. As for the Ramamani Iyengar Memorial Yoga Institute – I would love to study in one of the ashrams of the founders of modern day yoga. The ashram charges $450 a month and there is a 18 month waiting list.

In the city of Pune, a very different life style unfolds. One of shopping malls and designer shops. The young generation of women wear tight jeans and t-shirts, turning my head but no one else's. I feel a little freer to walk around without the eyes of all whom I pass observing me. The bookstores are incredible forts full of knowledge, and the local business industry is providing a healthy source of income to the cities college graduates.

A new outdoor climbing wall is about to be opened, after the battle between the politicians has been resolved as too who will cut the red ribbon. Young men and women spend their weekends re-bolting climbing walls in the area. At the blind school, I meet many local volunteers who come to play sports with the kids after work. Part of the city is dominated by military barracks, and huge sprawling houses are set in green well irrigated gardens. Sign painters are busy re-writing the name of recently relocated Generals and Sergent Majors on the bordering gates.

But despite the modern feel of business city life, adventure shops, sports clubs and jam-packed McDonalds, children in tatters continue to pitter patter by my side, an outstretched hand leading their way. Women with babies wrapped to their chests and a pile of belongings stacked on their heads take food from shop stalls, walking away before they are asked for the money which they do not have. Limbless lepers sit on the pavements, and mentally disabled boys begs knock on the windows of passing chauffeur driven cars. Although the poverty is not as extreme as in Kolkata, partially because the city itself is much smaller with a population of four million, the contrast between the modern and affluent India which the young generation so much want to believe in and the old generation are so proud of, is marred by the separation of the society into those that have and those that never will.

The more I look around the more I see two totally different groups of people; it is even physically obvious and not just through what I come to think of as the 'Bollywood' look of trendy clothes, fashionable hairstyles, piercings and tattoos, but through different physiques. There is a distinct separation between a young generation with a solid muscular build who are tall and athletic looking, showing their commitment to their gym memberships and with their pulse on modern fashion. Their parents are generally well dressed with designer watches and fine saris and suits. They are also generally overweight (easy to do when the food is so delicious and varied). At the other end of the scale there is an eternal generation of those with a much shorter life span, shorter statue, thinner and blacker. The women are incredibly skinny, and the middle aged men never seem to put on more than a pot belly onto their teenage boy's stick like figure. I know this is a dangerous generalisations, but the two groups are so stark that as an observer it is an easy generalisation to make, and it leaves me wondering what of those who are left straddling the two worlds – trying to make a living in modern India, while being tied to their social status and never ending burden of a dependent extended family.

Pune provides a vision of a India built on a history of successful trading and fuelled by a booming business sector, leaving in its wake a trail of Western seekers in search of a commercialised spirituality and a thick fringe of corrugated iron roofs, plastic sheetings and hungry bodies waiting for the chimera of a trickle down.

Dancing Fingers

A million little hands touch my hair gently feeling its curls and length. I have so many fingers rubbing my blue bead bracelets that I do not know who they belong to. I am pulled down onto the floor as children repeatedly ask me inMarathi what my name is, and smile wide grins as their question is repetitively answered. They have been celebrating a local festival involving a huge number of coloured paints. Although they live colourless lives, darkened by their lack of sight, or perhaps pricked by a small hole of light, they celebrate the festival with as much vigour as their young counterparts outside. Palms press my cheeks as giggles follow, and within minutes I look like a blue mermaid, dripping with vibrant colour which my little friends cannot see but can feel. A tiny lady sits at my feet, unlike the others she is not vying for my attention, although her soft floating voice has captured it all but completely. She is entertaining herself by arranging six rainbow coloured plastic rings according to their size as quickly as she can. She empties them off a plastic pole and then rushes to replace them, feeling with her fingers if the shape follows a smooth triangle or a awkward wiggle. As she plays she sings, and her voice is incredible. I want her attention even though I already have that of a dozen or more girls.

By my side sits a seriously deformed girl. Her head is huge, her blind eyes bulge and her mouth hangs constantly open. She has the face that would either make sighted people stare at in fascination or turn away from in disgust. She strokes the skin of my arm with her webbed fingers, and I realise what a haven she is in as her friends have little idea that she has the appearance of a monster, and so she sits happily and confidently as she should and I hope always will. In the corner there is a television which two older girls are standing on a stool to reach. One has low vision and is peering into the screen, with her nose pressed against the images. The static is pulling her hair towards the box of images, which she can only see a partial fragment of. Her friend is feeling the buttons, tracing the plastic with her fingers while turning her head towards the direction of the sound.

A little cheeky monkey is entertaining herself and joining in the festivities by spitting on her colourless hands and then searching for a body. After locating a face she wipes her hands on the unsuspecting cheeks. Due to the commotion around me, her victims have no idea of her approach nor of the source of the fluid on their faces. She finds the little lady by my feet causing the cessation of her game of shapes and sizes. The little lady vigorously rubs her cheeks, thinking that they have been coloured blue with watered hands. I tickle the trickster's tummy, and she happily laughs that her ploy has been uncovered, but quickly dodges my arms and turns to continue her game.

The evening is growing dark and the lights remain switched off as for the girls the day is as black as the night. The dance of a proud and talented girl demonstrates the children's inert ability to locate their positions relative to their surroundings. Blindfolded I would never be able to dance with the confidence and agility which she did as she performed a rendition of a classical Indian dance. The fairy like dancer was immune to disorientation, and despite her turns and twirls constantly reorientated her body in the direction of her amazed audience. Her spinning provided me with inspiration, and I decide to share one of Deepa's favourite and most simple games.

I stand up and lift one of the little girls holding onto me. I dance her around, moving her through the air like the weightless little feather she is. The combination of the encroaching dark and our movements makes it difficult for me to see her reaction and then I hear a bubbling giggle. The game is a winner but what is unexpected is the participation of a third body. A girl a little to tall to be swung instead stands in front of me and just feels the smaller girls being lifted off the floor and swung around and around. Whenever I finish she quickly feels for another younger friend and brings her towards me. She tries to follow our movements and smiles such a beautiful and pure smile of joy and I end up swinging more for her than for the dizzy bundle of giggles in my arms.

I left to the invisible waves and enthusiastic shouts of a whole school of amazing girls. Girls who demonstrate the strength of their senses other than sight, and their precious vision built on trust and confidence in their innate perception of space, movement and orientation.

Bombs and Bakeries

I am sitting in a cafe two doors down from what used to be the German Bakery in Pune (Poona), which six weeks ago I had been reading about as I ate lunch in a similarly touristic cafe in Kolkata. Six weeks ago a bomb took nine lives and injured forty five people. The denotation was well timed and the restaurant was packed full of tourists and locals. Now all that remains is a empty shell of a building, surrounded by colourful cotton sheets and metal railings. Police stay on a twenty four hour control at the corner of the road protected in what looks like a bright green hippy bus. Their constant vigil does little more than 'terrorise' passers-by, reminding them of the invisible but potential threat to their lives. The only time I actually saw the squad of police pay interest to anything other than their metal tiffen boxes filled with their lunch, was after I began to poke around the rubble, and even then all I received was a cursory second glances with a few follow up questions of where I was from, what was my favourite place in India and how old was I. Such questions I suspected, were not part of their campaign against terror, and they were equally eager to answer my own questions. They admitted that they were indeed very bored and although one of the perks of the job was to talk to the tourists, they would be stationed on the street for another two months.

Next door to the German Bakery is a tiny liquor shop. The three men squashed behind the counter were also there on the day of the bombing. “You were very lucky” I tell them. They all flash a smile in response and look around their huge selection of bottles, “Our shop is very lucky! Lucky shop!” I guess the sale of alcohol has now received a divine blessing in a country where sale of liquor comes under strict control. Above the shop the window frames have been blown out replaced with jagged glass and black holes. The blast even took with it an auto rickshaw which was parked outside of the.

“I was standing here” motions one of the shop keepers, moving half a meter to the side of the counter, “I heard a huge bang and the shop shook, there was dust everywhere and we couldn't see because everything was black.” I asked if he realised what had happened, that a bomb had just been denoted meters away from where he was standing, “as soon as the noise from the blast had finished, all I could hear was screaming, and then slowly the dust cleared and I saw all the blood and injured people standing on the road, then I realised it must have been a bomb”. What was interesting was that the liquor shop had received a warning three months prior to the blast, and the police had been patrolling an area one block away; next to the Israeli Chabad house, and on the corner of Osho's International Ashram. “Now there are police live outside our shop. Now it is too late.”

I asked if the German Bakery was going to reopen, and he told me that they had already received compensation from the government, “too much compensation” were his precise words. How much is too much? “Five lakh” - or around £7300. However, when I did my own research all I could find was a pledge from the government of five lakh to the family of those who had lost their lives, and this had still to be paid.

Next door to the liquor shop is 'Cafe' a chain of Italian inspired Indian coffee shops. According to the waiter there are 47 such shops in Pune alone and 880 'plus' in India. The waiter is particularly helpful, possibly because I am the only customer and on a Saturday afternoon they are staffed to deal with many more than just me and my order of one overpriced masala tea. I ask him about the blast and despite my fears that perhaps they would be tired of talking about it, he eagerly responds by telling me in the same excited tone of the shop owner that he was working during the blast, and standing in the kitchen. Unlike his neighbour, he had no idea what had happened, all he knew was that the huge glass windows fronting the Cafe had imploded, bringing with them a thick black dust.

I asked why he thought they had targeted the German Bakery and not the Cafe? He replied: “because of the foreign tourists” and was quick to add, “like you”. Killing foreigners makes for more publicity and ironically enough forces the government to take a stand; which in this instance seems to have resulted in a hefty compensation sum for the German Bakery and a semi-permanent police force camping out on the street. But the waiter is optimistic and prophesies that “all will return to normal in a few months” and the Cafe will again be a busy bustling hub for Pune's growing class of city coffee lovers.

I ask him if he is scared of working here, “life is too short to be scared” he replies. “I can die in a bomb blast today, tomorrow or in ten years, when it is my time to die I will die; it is not to be feared.” The waiter, is young and smiling and wondering if I would be so relaxed if the street of my work had been blown to smithereens because of people 'just like me', all I can manage to say is “crazy world”. He nods his head, but then corrects me, “the people are crazy, the world is not”.

Behind the counter the area trainer is introducing the “summer special” and as I look out of the newly replaced glass windows onto the busy road outside, I hear her shrill voice instruct her staff on how to put the finishing touches to the cold coffee, “just turn it around, and put two dots, and there you go; there is your smiley.” Life continues in its craziness. The German Bakery will be rebuilt, the liquor shop next door will continue to feel simultaneously blessed while resenting the “too much compensation” of its neighbour. Business will slowly start to drift back to the Cafe, as the fear of locals is numbed by time and the police will continue to bask in the afternoon sun safe, in the knowledge that there is little they can do apart from wait for another high alert to relocate them and their terror instilling presence.

Opportunities and Abilities

Today I visited the Poona School and Home for Blind Girls, located in the quiet and suburban area of Kothran. After visiting the boys school I had high expectations and a budding day dream, which I was apprehensive of feeding, but despite my best efforts of fighting naivety it continued to grow and grow beyond my careful control. And I ended up sitting in front of the head teacher asking about their admissions, and if they accepted girls from other states or with multiple disabilities. The answer was affirmative to both and accommodation, food, education and clothing is all provided free of charge.

The girls school is home to 150 girls from the ages of six to eighteen. Like the boys school the younger girls attend school within the centre, before they graduate into the mainstream secondary education of the nearby government school. The girls school also provides vocational training to its young women, equipping them with as many skills as possible to survive in a world unfairly weighted against them. The social worker who showed me around, shared with me that it was very difficult for the young women to find work, but they were all able to live independently, and as their prospects of marriage is incredibly slight, this independence is vital. The vocational training centre provides classes in cooking, hand-loom, sewing, dress making, massage and candle making. The school already have a contract with a local firm for making 5,000 squares of material per month, while their selection of handi-crafts is on sale for visitors. The school have their own braille machine, an extensive braille library equipped with a telescope for low vision students and computer software that reads books. The computer keyboards are all equipped with braille and tactile landmarks are placed around the building to help the students with their orientation. The musical instruments comprise of a full orchestra and the girls regularly perform classical concerts for the public during local festivals. The classrooms are arranged in such a way that the teacher is in arms reach of all of the students, so that within one touch she has their specific attention. There is also a fantastic room designed to develop motor skills and coordination. The fantastic room includes all kinds of climbing frames, balancing balls and swings. I did not even have to try to image Deepa exploring the equipment – the room was perfect for her, and a far cry from the play ground at Sishu Bhavan.

The actual cost of sponsoring a child is 18,000 rupees or about £260 per year. Considering that I am paying (with the committed help of donors) 48,000 (£705) rupees for a year of weekly speech therapy classes for three blind girls, this shows what can be achieved with minimal resources and expert commitment. The figure also casts a shadow over the use of funds by the Missionaries of Charities. Visiting the school and seeing the facilities available to help the children develop to their fullest potential and watching as the girls ran around, totally free and independent, has given a renewed burst of energy to my fight for Deepa. There is no reason other than the lack of will by the Missionaries of Charity that Deepa and the other blind girls in Sishu Bahavan should not be receiving the same education.

Before I left Kolkata, I was sitting talking with a special needs teacher from Sweden. In fact it was his Tibetan singing bowls which had so mesmerized Deepa and provided such unusual stimulation for the children. During our many conversations I had been trying to glean as much advice and information of how best I could use my time with Deepa to encourage her use of language. Then he went to Sikkim for two weeks and came back smiling his way through praises of a eighty four year old Buddhist monk. The monk had responded to need and was building an orphanage for children with special needs. The orphanage was situated at the foothills of the Himalayas, and although it was still under construction, he already had several orphans under his care. What had so impressed my Swedish friend was the vision of the elderly monk. He wanted to provide a space for the children to learn the necessary skills to live in a society which had little provisions to teach them. Meanwhile, the monk recognised the unique potential of the children and was determined to establish connections with local and international special needs teachers who would be able to guide the children towards their fullest potentials.

Then my friend looked directly into my eyes and said simple and wise words of warning. As he spoke, I listened, and as I listened I felt a resonance deep inside. My friend said “they are not just denying Deepa her power, they are denying a huge source of power, of intelligence to the world.”

Imagining Deepa here; seeing the opportunities that the blind girls and young women here have to develop their skills and foster the necessary courage to enter a society which is not yet totally prepared for them, draws a stark contrast to the denial of Sishu Bahavan to facilitate Deepa's education or even to teach her simple life skills. Of the 150 girls at the school, none are wearing nappies, all know how to wash themselves, feed themselves and all are learning how to live their lives as differently-abled rather than as 'dis'-abled.

The Poona School for the Blind

Today I visited The Poona School and Home for Blinds Trust. It is located just five minutes from the room I am staying in, and it welcomes volunteers and visitors. Last year I visited a government blind school in Kolkata and was feeling totally disappointed. I had been looking for options for Deepa, and instead just felt thoroughly disheartened that even if I did manage to achieve the miracle I was fighting for, and facilitate an education for her, the school was incredibly anarchic and offered no special help for children with learning difficulties. In fact, the school even refused entry to any blind child showing evidence of a second disability. With this in mind, here in Pune, I went to speak directly to the administration officer and fired my round of automated questions on their selection process and funding.

The Poona School and Home for Blinds Trust was established in 1934 by Dr. Shankar Rao Machva and currently houses and educates 170 boys and 150 girls. The children of primary school age (six to eleven) are educated by specially employed teachers, many of whom are themselves blind. The children and young people who are older attend the normal government schools located outside of the home. This is a brilliant strategy of mainstreaming blind children into the public system. The centre also provides vocational training for young men and women for three to four years after they have finished their formal studies. Sixty percent of the centre's funding comes from the government and the other forty percent comes from donations and supporting national and international ngos. The centre has won various awards and is constantly in the paper for the ventures to facilitate independent lives for their students, while integrating them into society. They are even in the Guinness Book of records for performing a play with the greatest number of blind actors in their annual school play (49 boys, 37 girls and two visually impaired teachers). Their students have been parasailing, perform concerts for the public during all of the major festivals and have held their own fashion show, walking down the cat walk for the cameras.

Walking through the school, the first class room I found was full of music students. The kids were all sitting on the floor and each had a different instrument in their hands. The sound of tablas, accordions, tambourines, cymbals and drums reverberated around the room. Caught in the bind between interrupting and being an uninvited and invisible guest I approached the music teacher and introduced myself. He told the children to stop playing while he described each of their instruments and invited me to look around. He told me he was new to the school and had been working there for three months. He was still adapting, but enjoying the work. The teacher then returned to his students and began singing a rhythm asking the children to follow his lead. When any of the students were having difficulties copying, he would approach them and move their hands to demonstrate how they should play. Watching him teach immediately revealed the gaps between myself and Deepa, he was so sensitive to their needs, and ways to communicate. After I said goodbye, I stood at the door and watched as the class and teacher all remained seemingly unaware of my presence and continued to interact as individuals exploring the musical sounds of a group.

Minutes later the school bell was rung and within seconds the children were running to the door while sliding on their shoes and exploding into the corridors. They ran around the corners and into their dorms or outside, while others sat down with friends. When together, the children would hold hands or had their arms around each other. I found myself trying to quickly dodge out of their way to avoid an inevitable collision as my presence was not in their mental map of their home. As this tactic began to fail, as the children were too quick and too numerous for me, I changed my plan and began to talk. Within seconds a crowd of boys had gathered around me, asking me my name and telling me theirs. Suddenly I was faced with a load of blind boys, many of whom were around Deepa's age, and all of whom were moving as if they had sight and talking fluently and eloquently. Gently touching the boys forearms every time I was answering one of the simultaneously directed questions, I managed to communicate with the group around me. In a change from most other interactions in India, here the barrier between the sexes was left outside. The boys and young men held my hands, playing with my bracelets and feeling my clothes. The boys were incredibly polite and so friendly. Through the help of English skills of one of the older boys who was in his final year of school, they told me about favourite subjects (Maths and Music being the most enthusiastically discussed) while asking me about my life. What was my country? What was my job? Did I play cricket? Then came the hilarious guess-timation of my age. The common agreement seemed to be “nineteen”. When I replied with “thirty” there were smiling sighs of amazement and I tinge of disappointment, although one of the older boys hastened to explain that my “voice was so sweet and soft like a young woman.”

The boys and young men were great, and the school seems a perfect place for them to learn the life skills necessary to go out into the world and pursue their dreams to the best of their abilities. In the words of the school principle, the aim of the school is exactly that: “to provide their students with the skill sets to enable them to live their lives in the sighted world.” I will try and spend as much time as I can with them over the next few days, as I already know they have much to teach and experiences to share. Meanwhile, their counterpart girls school is fifteen kilometers away. I will visit tomorrow.

A long way down

Trains in India are incredible. Firstly they are enormous. Sort of like the cruise liners of the Caribbean only without the swimming pools, casinos and cabarets. But in terms of durability and capacity they must be on a par. However, the trains in India have their permenet passengers – bunked down to see the journey through to the end, and then a whole melody of those who pass through – selling whatever it is might be need for thirty hours in slow locomotion. If this was a cruise ship, I guess this would be the equivalent of the buffet being contracted out to the local fishermen or perhaps pirates, who would jump aboard from island to island tempting passengers with their local treasures. When they came across a foreigner in the midst of the carriage they would put on even more of an impressive show to convince them to part with their money while taking the opportunity to observe what I guess they must see as a strange and alien species. In the case of the Azad Hind Express from Howrah station this has meant a continuous relay of wallahs, the most dedicated of which must certainly be the 'chaiiiiiiiiiiiiii, coffeeeeeeeeee' wallah, who patrols the carriages with his kettle in one hand and plastic cups in the other. He began at first light and several hours later he is just revving up into first gear. But he is not alone. While I have been typing this, the morning newspaper in three different languages – Bengali, Hindi and English has walked by. This was promptly followed by calls of 'veg cutlets' and 'bread omelette' and then 'pani' and 'juice.' As the hours have slowly clicked by and noon has approached, offers of “hot tomato soup” complete with 'croûtons' have drifted through, along with 'chips' and what sounds like 'egg cheese burger' but perhaps this is my own version of Hindlish.

It is hard to tell which of the wallahs spend the thirty three hours walking up and down the carriages – and considering the twenty plus carriages I passed just to find my berth, I guess that the journey from chair class (where the passengers simply have a wooden bench to perch on) all the way to 2 AC (air conditioned bunks, with two beds pinned to each berth) could be done about once an hour – many miles walked. Others just jump on until the next station or until they have sold out and then they jump off refill and wait for the next train back to continue all over again.

Inside my little carriage I have successfully traded my middle bunk with the top bunk with an elderly gentleman. I am not sure if he was being polite or didn't actually want to climb to the top bunk, either way it worked out in my favour, as he roamed the carriages as the two guys who had boarded at two in the morning slept off their previous nights partying and refused to move off the bottom bunks - our seats.

The women stare at me. The lady opposite asked if I was from Europe. She said 'Jesus', and when asked for further elaboration, reminded me that Jesus was 'my' god. This made her think of Mother Teresa, and she asked if Mother was also from Scotland, although then she remembered that 'she was Indian'. Her travelling companion – the older gentlemen and father – seemed uncomfortable with our interaction, and she hasn't spoke to me since, although she did wake up Clara (my Spanish friend) at four in the morning to tell her to pray. The younger men all speak English, as does the ticket conductor, although he is a man of very few words and seems suspicious of my questions of which route the train will take to Pune, and when the next stop will be.

A gentleman sitting on the seat adjacent to us answers his mobile phone. He is talking in English describing his travelling companions: “two from Bihar, one from Pune, one from Mumbai” he pauses and then continues “there are also two foreigners” and reassuringly adds “but don't worry they have become quite friendly”. I smiled at myself at the realisation that I was not to feel threatened as apparently I was the one who was 'threatening'.

To an outsider the dynamics of the different generations combined with different social classes is incredibly intricate. In my booth of six people, consisting of the father and daughter (of now very few word)s, the two party-ers from last night, and Clara and I. The young guys share our jokes about 'chaiiiiiiii' and they stifle laughs at hacks and burps which fill the air from the other passengers, and which I do not even notice any more. They are comfortable with us, and quickly swap between Hindi and English. The elder gentlemen studies them closely, watching as one flicked through a 'Motor' magazine and the other plays an absorbing game on his ipod. He asked the young guys where they are going and if they are studying. They politely answer, their voice full of conditioned respect, but when they have done their duty, they change to English, and the old man turns his gaze to drift at the top of my laptop, with a scowl of contemptuous boredom. As the journey progressed he allowed his curiosity to wander to the every movement which Clara and I made. He meticulously studied us as we tried to eat the thousand seeds of a bright red pomegranate, so much so that self consciousness overwhelmed me, and I ended up spilling endless seeds all over the seat and floor.

What still strikes me is how comfortable seemingly ever class is with body contact of total strangers. Passengers sit tightly together, despite the comparative space. Telephone conversations are listened to eagerly by those with no newspapers or books to read, and it reminds me again of the sense of privacy and personal space which we have managed to cultivate and consequently treat as inappropriately sacred. Paranoia of stories of stolen luggage means that both of my bags are chained under the seats/bottom bed, but thirty hours is still an eternity to remain cautious, and soon I am drifting with my day dreams which take me out the train window and into the country which chugs by.

Framed by train tracks and broken bustee brick roofs patched with tarpaulin, bright lively colours of washed saris, playing kids and grazing water buffaloes covered with drying mud. The scene is repeated hour after hour with the only difference being the back drop of mosques or temples. The duration of the day is continuously marked by the wallahs, and reminders of the stifling air in the carriages is sang out by the calls of 'ice cream'. Lunch comes on trays of walking 'roti and dhosas' followed by plastic wire baskets of 'cream biscuit, bourbon biscuit, snacks, SNACKS!'. Dinner is marked by 'cigarettes and samosas' as well as the rather ubiquitous in-train catering staff, who march the length of the train wearing their tartan uniforms and back to front caps, with the name badge, 'meals on wheels'. They are selling veg and non-veg dinner trays, creating a second of tension as the guys on our booth order 'non-veg' to which the daughter comments 'live vegetarian – eat vegetarian'.

The thirty three hour journey carries its city of passengers across the length of the country in a melody of songs and of food, where one thousand strangers break the boredom through finding commonalities and enforced unconscious intimacy.

Chaos

I move all the time. Every few months at least. But it is always traumatic. It never becomes easier. Even when I know I will be back here soon, packing up my life back into my rucksac and sorting through what is left of the tangible memories throws me into a state of chaos. I haven't seen Deepa today, because even down loading the photos from yesterday has again brought that horrible sensation of doubt to the forefront of my mind. Maybe I should stay? The doubt pecks away. Why am I really going? What do I need a break from? Do I need Deepa as much as I think she needs me? – Ow! That is tough one. Perhaps it is this city which infects my affection for it with endless exasperation, which is making me leave. The noise, the craziness, the continual intensity. The stares and exposure which goes hand in sweaty hand with over crowded bodies, absent spaces and chaotic places. But I feel tugged and tied; as if I have an incredible opportunity to work consistently and continuously with Deepa and yet I am taking break? Of course I have my reasons, my justifications, but what about my lack of commitment to my goal? Or is it because I doubt my goal: That I can help Deepa find words? That I can facilitate a space for a better future for the blind kids? I know that for the other work I do – in Sealdagh dispensary, teaching yoga in the slums, even being a clown - this is all replaceable. I am replaceable.

The exception is with Deepa. For some reason, I feel that I know that when I am not fighting for those kids there is no one else who is. The arrogance of my assumptions has called me to closely examine my self; do I really believe that no-one else will look out for the blind kids? That no-one else will try to ensure their education, their exposure to life skills? That no-one else will give them a taste of independence. Of course I don't know the answer, but I definitely feel the pressure of the responsibility, and if I am honest, the power which comes with that – that I have the opportunity to make a difference in a city full of chaos and a world which drives me as insane as it does exhalted. Perhaps this is what fuels my connection to Deepa – the desperateness of trying to share compassion here and a potential outlet with possible success. But then when I write 'connection' the answer I am searching for it given. It is a feeling deep inside, of a common energy of subtle comprehension that I and this little seven year old have.

So yes, leaving, even just for a short time, brings confusing chaos into my mind. Motives, motivations, aims? Continuous decisions for life changing paths.

I am leaving from Howrah station at ten o'clock this evening. I will arrive at Pune in two days time. I will travel across half of the country and be very far away from everything which has given meaning to the present. I look forward to returning. I look forward to leaving.

Back in a little while

I knew it was going to be a tough day. It was my last day at Sishu Bhavan after all – well at least for a while – and digesting the day which is about to finish, I know I have made the right choice by taking some time out. I think I am near bursting point. I am super charged, with an incredible amount of energy but it is taking a huge amount of effort to continue to direct this energy in a positive way. The last few weeks have been intense, and the last few days a culmination of failed expectations and potentialities. I have visited, called and emailed Bengali speech therapists, ngos fighting for the rights of blind kids and yoga therapy centres. I have made personal visits to as any Sisters from the Missionaries of Chairty as I could, planting the seeds of hope and the vision/illusion of a support base. I have tried to share my experiences with other long term volunteers at Sishu Bhavan, hoping that they will be motivated to continue the work with Deepa while I am away. I have updated the folder I made for her last year, showing her progress so that any new volunteers will know exactly where she is at: that she can eat her own food, that she can change her clothes, that she can find her bed, chair, the park. But our connection is unique, and I know she will be lucky to find a volunteer who will be willing to fight for her as I try to, or even to find someone who will try to teach her rather than pick her up and put her down, change her nappy and feed her lunch. The easy life is to go with the flow, and at Sishu Bhavan that usually means turning a blind eye to 'uncomfortable' events, avoiding confrontation and following orders. I have not done that, and it requires much diplomacy and continuous lessons in patience and perseverance and at times unavoidable confrontations.

Ultimately what I have tried to do during these past few weeks is to dedicate as much of my energy as I could to Deepa, without creating reliance on her part. It has been tricky as the dividing line drawn between spending intense and quality time with her and facilitating more permanent and productive opportunities has become faded and the goals blurred. I have such a faith in Deepa's ability to speak precisely because of all the time we have spent together. I feel her potential. The way she sits with me, walks and dances, laughs and trusts me has brought our communication to a much deeper and more sensitive level. And when I compare it to other relationships I have with friends and family, which is often founded on words and visual responses, I realise my friendship with Deepa is totally unique.

We know each other through subtle senses, and ironically, as I am trying to open Deepa up to 'our' way of talking, she has began to communicate in a much softer and at times much more 'truthful' ways. I know she knows me, and likewise, I know her – her tempers, her anger, her love for action and activity, but also her sensitivity masked by incomprehension. And yet during all of our sessions, our games, tears and laughter, she has still to utter more than a broader range of sounds and a impressive collection of tunes – Deepa has still to talk.

Meanwhile, the other half of my focus has been to network with those more 'experienced'. With the Special Language Practitioners, with the local ngos and blind educators. Yet with every door which opens, I seem to be surprised with a deep and wide hole over which I need to leap; decisions which would seemingly not exist in a rational world are brought to question, and I have ended up witnessing intense disappointment followed by renewed and reviewed strategies for success.

Today - my last day for a while - I played the clown as the two girls with the most beautiful smiles in the world lay on the floor and jumped their bodies inches off the air in appreciation. Their screams brought a flock of curiosity from the active section, and before I knew it an improvised clowning sketch was transformed into a full blown performance, with the massis stifling giggles and sharing meaningful glances. After I searched and recovered a matching pair of shoes, rescued Deepa from one of the active older girls who has taken to kidnapping her for a run around the nursery, and retreived everything from my pockets from the little Chinese boy and his partner in crime the wide eyed boy, we made it to the stairs.

But this morning, Deepa was in a different place. My friends told me she must have known that I was leaving. I told them she was just somewhere else. But after a few steps she reached up to pull me down and then hooked her arms around my neck and jumped her legs around my waist. She wanted a hug and she would not be put down until she was reassured that I was with her...I intermittently carried her to the park, putting her down whenever a Sister approached I pacified Deepa by swinging her in circles or bending her down to throw her up towards the sun kissed sky. In the park she took me straight to the big swing-for-ten, and then swung her legs over my lap to continue her hug. Today she wanted reassurance from me, she wasn't sad, in fact she spent most of the day in outbursts of laughter, but she wanted to be very close to me.

At the end of the day I took her to the corner and sat her on one of the big yoga balls. I told her I was leaving, but that I loved her. I told her I would be thinking of her and would be back very soon. I told her that she is incredible, brave, strong and amazing. I told her to have courage, as she was not alone, and even though I wouldn't be there to guide her, tickle her or share the world with her, I would still be with her. She tipped herself towards me, rolling off the ball and leaned her head on my shoulder. She placed her hand on my throat to feel the vibrations of my words and listen with her hands. When no more words came, as my thoughts had moved to my eyes, she reached for my wrists and rolled my blue bead bracelet between her pianist fingers. I pushed the bouncey ball down so that she sprang up and she laughed her crazy, beautiful pure and present laugh.

Leaving

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Thoughts of leaving Deepa fill my body with sadness which leaks out through the meaningless tears forming tiny puddles on the bottom lids of my eyes. Again the same sentiments of last year are creeping through me. I feel like a traitor. I feel like I am abandoning her. I feel that I have not tried hard enough. I feel that I am not committed to her. I need to leave for a bit. The intensity of Kolkata has drummed through me, and I am not at my most productive. The sounds, the smells, the craziness, all that I love, also drives me insane. The inability to realise simple objectives, for rationality to prevail, makes me frustrated to the point that my words become shouts as I type. The abscess which left me unable to sit, walk or bend took too much energy, and although I feel great now, it was another challenge, which needs a little rest to recover from.

I have made the excuse to myself that I am going to see the south of India – where there seem to be many more projects for blind children. In the south there are exciting new clinics from Sight Savers International, aimed at the rehabilitation of blind children into main stream education, or at the sharing of essential life skills. In Tamil Nadu there is a famous yoga ashram for blind children. It sounds wonderful. I want to see it – I want to experience it. I want ideas of what is possible here in India, in Deepa's country of her birth. I want to add contacts to those I already have, and continue to bring fresh possibilities and potentialities to the options I am trying to help Deepa find for the dream of a future outside of the institution. But leaving Deepa even for a few days is tough – let alone for a few weeks. It will be harder to restart; she has made more progress in these past months; she has become so much more responsive to me than ever before - even in comparison to last years visit. But now I choose to abandon her, and abandon is exactly what it feels like. 

A dear friend wrote and to me with words which ran through my eyes, trespassing on the salty pool of my eye lids and then hugging me from inside. Her words triggered comprehension, and at the same time tried to release me from my self imposed 'guilt'. My friend wrote:

“I support you 100000% make the life beautiful for Deepa is a big challenge and you make it so well, do not forget yourself also if you want her to be happy.. and this is the hardest point to reach!! not feeling guilty by taking time for our self... gratitude and love are so important!!!”

My sponsor told me to look after myself, otherwise I would be no good to anyone, 'even to Deepa'. Their understanding and wisdom lunged deeper into my spirit. I am not living up to my own expectations. I am not living up to the expectations, that Deepa should have for me. But Deepa does not have expectations. She has never had control over anyone who comes and goes in her seven years of life. Abandoned by the parents she hardly had a chance to know. Abandoned for being blind, to grow up with the beautiful children around her who she will never see, and most of whom are unable to move or to talk, and those that can, who take her toys and fill her ears with their screams and shouts.

Volunteers come and love her and make her feel safe, and she rewards them with her trust. Volunteers come and love her and then so easily leave her.

I know I will be back soon, but I can not even tell her that. I can not tell her my plans. I can not tell her the research I have been doing on the afternoons which I have not come to work with her. I can not tell her how if she lets herself find words, her life will surely improve. I can not tell her that even though I will not be with her, playing with her and exploring with her that I will be thinking of her. Can not, can not, can not.

I feel her energy. I feel her power. I feel her beauty. I trick myself by pretending this intangible, invisible connection will mean something to her when I am not there to fight for the space for her to learn about and live in our world.

Thoughts of leaving Deepa fill my being with sadness, disappointment, frustration. Hypocritical tears.

Hippy Terrorist

I have met a hippy in a bus. Actually that is a bit of a clique. He is not a hippy, he just has a hippy-like bus and happens to be travelling around the world in it. Perhaps a better way to describe him would be as an 'environmentalist' or even an 'environmental activist'. This is because he is not just bumming around the world, opting out of society, but rather he is on a mission to try and change some attitudes. His bus runs on bio fuel and his personal mandate is "to drive around the world to discover how people are using and generating energy, and their attitudes t0wards carbon emissions."

During his round the world trip the Environmentalist is carrying out a survey "to see how likely we are to meet the 2050 emissions target of two tonnes per person", what is more is that unlike the rest of us who hop on planes without a second thought, he is trying to conduct the whole project without going beyond the ration of two tonnes of carbon emissions.

The Environmentalist drove through Europe, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan and all was going very well. That is at least until he arrived in India, and then something rather unfortunate happened. While he was sleeping in his hippy bio fuel bus in a town called Ajmer, the Rajashtan Military Intelligence burst into his little home and arrested him as a terror suspect. He was put in the local jail for seven days, and then released on bail. He was told he was not allowed to leave the country and would have to wait to be called to trial. His crime? Possessing a satellite phone. And of course being highly suspicious travelling around with a bus full of bio fuel, and did I mention he was a paraglider? Which in January was a sport which threw the Mumbai police into terror themselves at the very thought of paragliders gliding over and dropping bombs.

Meanwhile, the Rajashtan Military Intelligence were very proud of themselves and told the press they had caught a terror suspect. The Environmentalist's photo was all over the national papers, and now there was no chance of the Rajashtan Military Intelligence backtracking and admitting that the hippy bus and its driver posed no threat to their national security. That was over a month ago and since then the Rajashtan Military Intelligence called over one hundred officers to come up with some more evidence than a satellite phone which had not even been used in India. Meanwhile, the Environmentalist spent the money saved for his carbon campaign on hiring a lawyer, and so far he has paid out a whooping £6000.

The Environmentalist's trial was today. I read his facebook status this morning and it read:

By tonight either it's all over, or i'm starting a 3yr sentence, or there will be a complication & another delay. Safe money's on C.

I sent him a text message of support, feeling totally impotent and at the same time aware of the but very real threat that he might be on his way to a few years in an Indian prison.

Thankfully reason has prevailed and instead of sitting out the next few years in jail, the judge fined the Environmentalist 1000 rupees (15 Euros) and gave him back his confiscated satellite phone on condition that he does not "use, sell or destroy in India."

To the Environmentalist:

I hope you can continue your journey and carry your message far and wide. And this message is not just that the world is facing a huge carbon emissions crisis that may, but risks being consumed by words such as 'terror' and 'suspicion'. Don't give up, the message is important. There are many good people who need to be reminded to think and not to follow; just like you continue to do. Peace brother.

To read more about the Environmentalist's adventures see http://www.2tonnesofcarbon.blogspot.com/

Day Out

Something has just happened that has brought tears to my eyes. As I sit here typing a little boy from Daya Dan orphanage has just walked in. I am sitting in Raj's internet cafe which is (depending on the time of the day) a small little sanctuary tucked behind Sudder Street. I am surrounded by Spanish volunteers, life and laughter. The little boy walks around, investigating. Raj presents him with one of his delicious chocolate muffins and a cup of hot milk, but the little boy just wants to explore. Raj's puppy of a watch dog jumps out making the little boy jump behind the counter. The little boy was badly bit by a street dog when he used to live at the train station. Now the little boy lives in Daya Dan, which is another of the Missionaries of Charities orphanages for physically and mentally challenged children. But to say that the little boy lives in Daya Dan is slightly misleading.

The little boy has a 'special' room with padded walls, and the Sisters enter with a large prodding stick which they use to manoeuvre him around. The little boy is eight years old. He is severely autistic and finds it difficult to control his emotions, so he spends a great deal of his day banging his head on the floor or walls. Then a couple of months ago a Spanish volunteer who also happens to be a special needs teacher, was assigned to work with the boy. For some reason, unlike Sishu Bahavan, the Sister in charge of Daya Dan has the foresight to realise that some children can benefit from having one to one tuition with the same volunteer.

The Spanish volunteer worked hard at helping the little boy control his anger, teaching him to count to five whenever he felt like hitting himself or someone else. Then it was time for the volunteer to return to Spain, but before she did she did something which I wish I had the courage to emulate. She took the little boy out of Daya Dan for the entire day. Volunteers are not allowed to take the children out for the day, or even for an hour. Even if we have been working with them for months, and even if the children never leave the building they grow up in for months at a time. On occasion they might be ferried to the Mother House to attend mass, or perhaps a local NGO might arrange an outing for the children, or if it is the festive season, the children of Daya Dan will tour the Missionaries of Charities other homes performing their nativity play. Often I have day dreamed about taking Deepa to the water park, or to a musical performance, but considering the challenges I sometimes have just taking her to the park inside of the Sishu Bhavan my ideas remain just that - day dreams.

But today, the Spanish volunteer stood up for the little boy, and left the Sister a note and assumed total ignorance, as if she did not know that the child was not a loud to leave his cell or even the prison of the orphanage. Instead she took the little boy to the circus where he saw an elephant, and tight rope walkers and ate pop corn. She allowed the little boy to be free, and to take responsibility for his actions and at the end of the day, she brought him to Raj's for cake and milk, and to show everyone what an incredibly good boy the “very bad and very dangerous boy” could be - when allowed.

The courageous volunteer filmed his behaviour with a video camera and soon when she returns the little boy back to Daya Dan she will show the Sister in charge how 'normal' the little boy can be.

The Power of Hugs

The blind children love touch. Mita giggles whenever I tickle her face, and Netu dimples her cheeks and kicks her legs when I tickle her tummy. They both love to be picked up and when I do they place their heads on my chest and listen to my silent heart beat.

Thankfully, child massage is pretty big in India, and as a result the massi's massage most of the physically challenged kids every day. However, it is not allowed to pick up the children, and even though I also agree the children who are able to need to learn to walk and not to be carried, when it comes to the blind babies, touch is essential. There is a fine line between comforting a blind baby and letting them know your presence and being scared to touch them for breaking the rules.

Deepa is also incredibly tactile and is becoming more so as our relationship grows. Her need for touch led me to a book entitled "The Power of Touch." Throughout the book the author (Phyllis Davis) refers to scientific studies supporting the importance of the human touch, and in particular its importance to children. She refers to scientific studies showing that inadequate touch not only leads to mental retardation, but is also a prime factor in marasmus (wasting away) which used to be the main cause of death of babies in orphanages. Davis refers to research showing that sensory stimulation actually increases a child's general alertness and responsiveness to learning: "Touch and tactile stimulation can increase a child's intelligence and learning ability". This seems incredibly relevant to Deepa, who is not only working to overcome delayed learning but who has also received very little tactile stimulation after growing up in the orphanage. Touch (along with hearing) is the principle way which Deepa is able to see and to experience our world.

I find myself in a rather stupid position as Deepa wants lots of hugs but I am not meant to reciprocate. Thankfully this does not stop her from trying and today as we were playing in the park, she gave me a beautiful hug, which I simply could not refuse.

I want to share this huge hug with you, as even from the photos it is clear how natural and innate Deepa's need for a hug was, and indeed her touch (as always) was incredibly powerful. However, the Sister who appeared on the roof was immune to Deepa's hugging energy, and shouted down to me to stop hugging her, so instead I turned her upside down and tickled her :-)

Karma Yoga

Perhaps I have a romantic view of yoga in India. One of wise guru's patiently handing down knowledge from centuries past. Of incredible mentors possessing healing energies and keys of enlightened practise, and uncorrupted by modern day materialism and monetary gain.

I am sitting at the World Yoga Society (WOYOSO) 'chamber' in Golpa Park in Kolkata, it feels as if I am in a doctors waiting room; and a private exclusive one at that. The waiting room is tiny and full of plastic chairs, all of which are occupied. Here 'yoga' takes on a different meaning to the 'asana' based practises of western yoga studies. But I am careful not to say 'more commercialised' yoga studios, as here in Kolkata, WOYOSO has branded its own medicines and is doing a soaring trade in the homeopathic remedies. The remedies include rilopain "for aching muscles" (perhaps useful after too many or too few yoga asanas), vigotine "for strengthening vital energy and nervous ability'", diofem "to prevent all kinds of female diseases". And sneezocold "against all kinds of maladies!"

The patients are waiting to be cured; to be given a diagnosis, a prescription and most likely repeat appointments. I am curious about both the treatments, success and the root of its popularity. Perhaps homeopathy is so successful as it appeals to the elements of traditional Ayurvedic knowledge that many local people still practice? But the 'yoga' connection is also interesting – is it a marketing ploy to appeal to people's ideas of healthy body and healthy mind, or is it a genuine medical treatment? My cause of doubt is confusing as the 'yogis' and 'yoginis' in front of me do not exactly fit into any preconceived (Western) stereotype. They are clearly from the wealthier social class and in what seems to be a mark of prosperity, they are all a little over weight. Some are elderly and all are very well dressed suggesting that they are indeed not here for asana practice; one is even wearing a neck brace.

The waiting room houses a small book case of dusty fabric covered record books which look hundreds of years old. But founded by Dr Das in 1970 perhaps the aged look is more to do with dust then with authenticity. It is the founder who I am waiting to see and whose enlarged framed photograph draws the patients eyes; or at least mine. The photo looks (from the once stylish pudding bowl haircuts) to have been taken in the seventies, but the ancient appearance of the timelessly old figure of Mother Teresa makes the date difficult to verify. Mother Teresa stands between Dr Das and Dr Das (Dr Das's 'older' brother). She is receiving a certificate from the WOYOSO. This pricks my curiosity as to the nature of the award; pure publicity or was Mother a closet yogi?

I first met Dr Das a couple of months ago. I was walking back from Sealdah dispensary when I noticed a huge banner advertising a 'World Yoga Competition'. After a few seconds of lingering curiosity I was invited inside and given front row seats next to the chairman himself. The competition was brilliant. It was held over the duration of three days and although it might not have been as universal as the title had suggested, it was certainly national. Children and young women and men from all over the country were there to compete. I witnessed asanas I had never seen, or even read about in books before. The participants effortlessly bent themselves backwards and forwards and inside out, with feet next to ears and ribs inflated to counter pose triple jointed hips. Flexibility was the central theme, and I suddenly felt very self-conscious of teaching my weekend yoga classes to kids around the city, when they might all embody this incredible potential.

On the third day of the competition Dr Das invited me to the award ceremony held at the Science City auditorium, and feeling privileged to be the receipatant of such an offer I went. The auditorium was huge with a stage full of cups and medals. The winners from the junior boy and girls and senior men and women were presented not once or twice but with a continuous stream of awards – all donated by different people, and after nearly two hours of awards it began to feel as if the ceremony was more of a name dropping social event than a celebration of yoga. As always the unexpected happened, and I was ushered out of the audience and to the backstage. Before I had a chance to protest I was donned with a mortar board and university gown and joined a line of equally random 'yogis and yoginis'. We were marched on stage and I was presented with a huge certificate and accompanying cup for 'best foreign practitioner'. The chairman tipped his hat to me in recognition, as I smiled at the irony of receiving an award for doing nothing but being one the only foreign yoga practitioner in the audience. At the yoga competition he had presented me with six or seven of his name cards at different intervals, insisting that I come to visit him and learn more about the many yoga and holistic healing courses of WOYOSO.

A young boy living with down syndrome is ushered out of the doctor's room. He sits on a chair next to me and wraps his legs underneath him. He looks up and grins at me. Then he laughs; I beam back and feel a sense of gratitude for the wealth and dedication of his family. My parallel thoughts take me to Peter – the little boy with down syndrome who used to live in Sishu Bahavan before he was prematurely moved to another of the Missionaries of Charities homes for disabled men. Memories of Peter link back my thoughts to the therapeutic effects of yoga for physically challenged kids; those who sit in the same room day after day. But I am not here to ask Dr Das to renew his affiliation with the Missionaries of Charities, but rather to ask if he has any eager students who would be interested in gaining some experience by taking over my weekly yoga classes at Tala Park School. After seeing his organisations commitment to spreading yoga through the younger generations, while being the leading school in educating new teachers, I had been growing excited about the idea of WOYOSO sharing their knowledge and expertise with the budding yogi's and yoginis at Tala Park.

After the waiting room had emptied of all of its patients, including those who arrived several hours after me, I was finally ushered into Dr Das's office. The blank look on his face triggered a warning signal, but after quickly reminding him of my new status of 'best foreign practitioner' he warmed and shone his trademark smile. Dr Das told me he had been eagerly awaiting my visit and I happily shared my idea of a karma yoga weekend class, whereby his student teachers might be able to extend their experience while at the same time provide the slum kids from Tala Park school with a totally novel and otherwise inaccessible class. I told him of the irony I felt of teaching a yoga class to Indian kids as well as the obvious language barrier. I told him how the school was run totally on donations, while simultaneously supporting medical clinics, leprosy centres and a women's training centre. He replied by saying the fee would be 100 rupees per 45 minute class. This is the price of two weeks worth of lunch for a child. Then without wasting any more time Dr Das began to bombard me with details of the many yoga teacher training courses he offered. He enthusiastically explained that for 10,000 rupees (the price of five months of formal mainstream schooling for one of the Tala Park kids) I could walk away with an authentic certificate after only one week, guaranteeing my abilities as a yoga practitioner and foreign teacher.

I walked away after buying a children's yoga book and poster which I intended to give to the teachers at Tala Park school. It will be a small gesture in the hope they may be inspired to try their hand at a little informal karma yoga. As I said, perhaps I have naive belief in the philosophy behind the business of yoga.

Solutions

It is a fine line between accepting what you cannot change and passivity. Demotivated by my own inability to implement simple improvements, I decided to be try a new approach and seek external support. I emailed as many local and international organisations working with blind children as I could find on the net, as well as Indian, Canadian and American speech therapists and special needs teachers. After a cyber silence and feeling utterly isolated I began to receive some incredibly helpful and suggestive replies, which have once again kick started me into a more pro-active stance.

One of the hardest challenges to tackle is that the Sister in charge of the disabled children at Sishu Bhavan, does not want any of the children to receive special help. After several months of watching her work and handle the complaints of the volunteers about the treatment of the children I realise that she is quite the diplomat, that is until she feels volunteers are acting on their own initiative. When Climber Woman was here last year, attempting to use her training as a speech therapist to work with Deepa, her greatest fight was not against Deepa's silence but against the Sister's reluctance that she should be receiving 'special treatment'. This provided an added challenge to try and circumnavigate and I began by asking the Sister what she thought Sishu Bhavan needed in terms of practical assistance. Her initial reply was 'disposable nappies' (for when the children are admitted to hospital, so it is no longer appropriate to use the material subsitutes) and 'orthotic shoes' (for the many children who have distorted limbs).

When I enquired about whether another speech therapist would be useful, she agreed that the current cost of the weekly session provided by the Bengali Speech and Hearing Chamber, was an extortionate one thousand rupess (£14/ $22). I asked if it would be useful for her if I managed to raise money for another weekly session, and if so whether this could mean that Deepa and the other blind children would finally have access to what is for them an essential service. After she agreed and with a timely donation from a friend from Bali, I was able to give her enough money for four months of additional speech therapy lessons.

For safe measure I went to visit the Bengali Speech and Hearing Chamber, and met with the speech therpaist who works at Sishu Bhavan. He told me that he had briefly began to work with Deepa and the blind children. However, they required much longer sessions than the sighted children, so a decision was taken to exclude them from the therapy. He confirmed that the Sister had now asked for a second weekly session, and assured me that he will begin to work with the blind children.

Other aventues I have been exploring stem from a email reply from Sight Savers International (SSI). Perhaps their reply was due to our mutual origins of Scotland, but either way they provided an essential life line - the address of their branch in Kolkata. In the past weeks I have visited SSI-Kolkata several times, and they have been unbelievably helpful. They have ladened me with stacks of reading materials in English, Bengali and Hindi, as well as summaries of their world wide projects to share with Sishu Bhavan and Daya Dan (another of the Missionaries of Charities homes with blind children in their care). SSI have a mandate which includes the prevention of the unnecessary loss of sight, the education of blind and low vision children, as well as the social inclusion of individuals affected by blindness. In West Bengal SSI run the first centre for blind children with multiple disabilities, and immediately offered to accomodate Deepa and the other of the blind children. Knowing the Missionaries of Charities reluctance to let go of the kids in its care, it is an offer full of potential but devoid of any relevance. However, SSI also run two week long trainings for caregivers of blind children. They offered to pay for the Sisters and massis from both Sishu Bhavan and Daya Dan to attend their next training in April. The training will be held in Bengali. This is perfect for the massis, who have limited Hindi and no English, and it would be a step in the right direction to changing their attitudes towards the blind children, from one of 'disabled' victims to children with incredible talents, creative vision and limitless potential.

SSI also offered to provide low vision aids such as telescopes and walking sticks free of cost; this would be brilliant for the little Chinese boy. They also invited me to visit their many centres across India and were genuinely very eager to assist me in my search for the provision of life skills and basic education for the blind children at Sishu Bhavan.

After every visit to SSI I left feeling a little less lonely in my battle to open unnecessary closed doors for Deepa and the blind babies. However, approaching the Sister has been a little harder (or actually impossible) as she has been hidden away on a religious retreat for what feels like an eternity. I mentioned my visits to another of the Sisters, but despite her enthusiasm she is not the one which calls the shots, but perhaps it did a little to build up my imaginary support base. I did however visit Daya Dan to talk with the Sister about SSI's offers. Her immediate response for the free training was the dubious claim that her workers were already 'trained', although she had no objections to receiving some free low vision aids.

As always, the way is not clear from obstacles, but I will continue to raise money for the speech therapy lessons which I wish the Missionaries of Charity had the foresight to provide, and continue to try and build a relationship with a potentially powerful organisation with the skills and training urgently needed at Sishu Bhavan.