Kids Play

Everyday I am trying to take Deepa to the orphanage park. After nearly two months of constant battles with the massis, my tactics have improved and success rates soared. I no longer ask for permission to take her the two minutes down the stairs but instead try and find a Sister and tell her we are going. If possible, I will also try and free a couple of the other kids from the matrix of the walls which encase them, and ask some volunteers for assistance. Without the daily visit to the park the kids stay in the room all day and all night – every day and every night. During the past few weeks there have been many memorable incidences, and perhaps it is the escape from the nursery - the noise, the screams, the shouting – which provides a different perspective and the space to reflect.

Last week, a sixteen year old volunteer from New Zealand came with me guiding another of the blind girls from the orphanage. She was speaking to her as if she was a baby, so I mentioned that her new friend was twelve years old. “Only four years younger than me” she kept repeating in disbelief. Perhaps her shock was that her new friend still had not been taught how to use the toilet, that she still sucks her thumb and she has yet to develop any communication skills. The extremely shy and quiet girl warns me of what may lay ahead of Deepa if she does not find the space to learn and to develop.

When I walked into the orphanage yesterday morning, the girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world grinned at me. She brought her fingers to play an imaginary musical instrument in front of her mouth. She was signing for the musical recorder which my aunt had donated and which I have to take home every night. Searching my bag I witnessed her disappointment as we both realised that I had forgotten her favourite toy. The girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world is unable to walk, and spends her days either sitting in a high chair, laying on the floor or strapped to the wall with a faded purple bed sheet. For this reason she is never usually taken to the park, but I figured this would be a fitting apology for my inexcusable absent mindedness. Finding two willing volunteers to help to carry her down the stairs, the girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the World went on her first visit to the park in what I guess has been an indefinite amount of time. The short journey was incredibly long, as the girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world wanted to walk to her new adventure. Every second step would send her sandal flying as the angle of her foot combined with the ageing velcro strap refused to stay put. But upon the arrival of the coloured gate, unlike Deepa, the girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world could see the fun which lay waiting for her and we were all rewarded with the appearance of the most beautiful smile in the whole entire universe.

Meanwhile, Deepa expertly guided me to the park, despite the friendly enemy hands which would appear from nowhere to pat her head or to pull her cheeks before any verbal warning. At times I wish there was some way of forbidding any thoughtless attempts to lift her head for confirmation of her blindness. I can't imagine the frustration of continuously been prodded and poked – but worse, without have any idea who the prodders or pokers are. Watching as Deepa carefully activated the correct steps to maneuver herself down the stairs, through a corridor and across two courtyards is always humbling. I have walked the route hundreds of times, but I would not be confident doing it with my eyes closed. Once inside the park we follow the same circuit as Deepa first leads me to the huge concreate slide, which depending on her daily mood, she will either scale with the agility of a orangutan, or just hang out on by climbing on the first step and then just surveying the playground for interesting sounds from her new platform. After the slide comes one of Deepa's favourite past-times – the squeaking sea-saw. She will usually walk straight into it and either sit down directly or push her weight on top of the plank bringing it down into the hard packed mud at her feet. The sea-saw is too small for me; I have tried and failed. Instead I usually stand and push it down as she rises towards the sunshine she loves to feel, and then back down to the hard mud below.

Yesterday, without her knowledge, she was joined by the girl with the girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world who unlike Deepa gains more enjoyment from sharing a toy or a game then or the actual experience. Today was a little different. Today, about twenty children from the main orphanage were in the park. They were all toddlers and enjoying swinging the swings 360 degrees, and moving the broken plastic chairs and tables underneath the monkey bars to make a chaotic but designer den. The games changed as soon as the whispers spread that a blind kid was in the park and within minutes one brave little girl had already made the approach and darted towards Deepa to push her to the ground. The oncoming onslaught was unbelievable, with Deepa having no idea of the direction of her attackers or the reason for their malice just stood silently as I attempted to push them all back while remaining calm. After individually picking up each of the children and taking them over to a supervising massi, Deepa appeared to be 'safe'.

This was the playground. What would the streets be like? How will she manage living a life independently? Or maybe I should be asking when will she be living her life independently. Confined to a routine of nappies being changed, being dressed, being undressed, picked up, put down, force fed and put to bed. A routine fixed in rigidity, without the flexibility to allow the space to learn life skills; without the ability to be warned of danger, or the ability to respond accordingly. Perhaps the daily mission to the playground is a perfect training ground; despite the hidden dangers and invisible challenges. Deepa is Amazing.