Searching for Dreams

I have never been as ill as I am when in India. It is incredible. In Bali I was teaching yoga every day, practising a million times, farming, flying, full of life, and yet after a couple of months in India I have been plagued with an onslaught of debilitating viruses and infections. Even though I have been nursing headaches which feel as if they are hacking away my brain from its bony housing, while tissues and muscles ache as they battle bacteria trying to invade and conquer, the irony is that it is impossible to complain. I have even surprised myself at my silence, and despite the constant fear that this time I am an actually really ill, and the very last place I want to go for help is the local hospital, at least I still have access to medical care. I also have a bed, which is in a quiet room, with windows that might not close but a down sleeping bag which certainly provides a cosy cocoon. I also have as much food as I need to recover, and I have even finally waged war on to the freezing icicles pouring out of my inside water tap. I have invested in a low tech water heater (although this did short-circuit the entire top floor of 'Modern Lodge' while melting two home made adapters) and eventually it worked and professionally heats a entire plastic bucket of water within half an hour. However, I know that the people who enter the dispensary have no expectations. Many have been walking around with severe infections, eating their bodies from the inside and out, for not days, weeks or months – but according to the registrar – for years. Few complain or even wince when pus filled wounds are scooped clean, and all give a thankful 'namaste' with both palms to their head in gratitude, for what is barely a solution but the closest they can get to real medical attention. Often I think we are providing false hope – dressing wounds and thereby delaying the search for emergency treatment, but then again, it is incredibly difficult for homeless, street-bedded patients to be admitted into a hospital and receive treatment.

The latest set back has come back to haunt me after several years. An old cycling injury became infected causing a abscess bigger than a ducks egg and far more aggressive. Thankfully my body has learned a few lessons in self-healing, and with debilitating pain and much patience the 'egg' finally cracked and the infection released. Unfortunately this has meant staying immobile for most of the week, but again one week is nothing compared to a year or more. One of the main reasons my patience has lasted and my complaints have been mere murmurs is because I knew I would be ok. But what of those one the streets? How much fear must they have? Many who I treat, seem comparatively (and impossibly) fearless. And how incredibly high their tolerance must be as they break super human pain levels? Does it gradually feel normal to have huge infected ulcers in the leg? Or is this one of the reasons why the homeless drug users line the streets in the evening and the day time; it is not uncommon to pass a dead man – overdosed and finally free from suffering. Ironically, it is often extremely hard for the homeless drug addicted or drunk to receive medical treatment. (The Sisters at the dispensary are adamant that they don't receive treatment.)

Delirious dreams led me to Deepa, and after reading a book about Cherokee Indians, I fall asleep imagining her running in a vast open expanse, full of flowers of every shape and size. She runs through them as they brush her legs and tickle her face, she runs past still glisenting lakes, magical mountain trees and under rainbows which melt their colours into the sky, turning it into a rich melody of fantastical colours. Behind her rise huge snow-capped mountains, which shelter her with a protective aura. She feels and hears everything and life rushes through her. Every texture, every breeze, every sound. She is completely part of the nature which in reality she has never known. The sun is shining all around her, lighting up the colours in the sky and she continues to run and run. She isn't running from anything, but she is running with everything; with the fresh air around her, dancing with the vibe of nature, every step full of life leading her towards a huge leap taking her high into the blue sky. She flies up into the clouds, higher and higher and higher, her face transforming into a pure smile, before 'splash' she falls into the ocean. A shoal of a million fish of all shapes and colours surround. She is laughing and singing to them and they start to sing back through air bubbles full of songs and sounds. They guide her safely to the shore. She lands on a sandy golden beach. She cautiously touches the sand, rubbing the grains between her finger tips, catching hand fulls of it and holding the heat between her palms. She lifts up hand fulls into the air allowing it to fall through her fingers and over her head. Then she begins to dig, and she digs and digs and digs until she totally disappears. Suddenly I am there, but I can't find her, and her hole begins to fill up with sand as if it is an up-turned egg timer. I watch as the sand follows her down into the ground and then covers up, as if she had never been there. I shout for help but all I hear is a continuous echo, which instead of fading grows louder and then silence. It is as if she had never existed. There is no trace of her. No record of her life.

Awake and my dreams are of her freedoms and independence. But unable to leave my room, my thoughts begins to be consumed by sensations of apprehension. Reading a stack of 'Philosophers Notes' leaves me worrying about my worrying...why do I worry? After all Deepa has been on her own for the majority of her life? Well I guess because over the past months she has made definite progress and feels comfortable and confident to do this by my side. The friend who have visited her in my absence remarked that she has recoiled back into her corner – next to the plastic buckets and 'ting ting' lever of the window frame. One morning my friend gave her a broken toy keyboard to play with and when another friend went to visit over six hours later, she was still sitting banging and flicking the tuneless plastic keys. It takes time to build Deepa's trust, and these periods of absence my set back our work and her progress. Moreover, I have been worried that if I am not there she will be force fed again – unable to be allowed to feed herself. Again, friends stepped in to cover her lunch and I know that she has been supported to continue to enjoy this freedom.

All of this has not only been a test of patience, but a reminder of the need for a more permanent solution to Deepa's progress. I have emailed speech therapists, special needs teachers, international and local organisations working with blind children and charities proclaiming that they fight to provide equal opportunities to blind children in developing countries. The few replies I have received have been empty apologies. So what is the solution? What am I searching for?
I am searching for a way to provide Deepa and the other blind children at Sishu Bhavan with a means to learn life skills, develop and progress until they have fulfilled their potential. The future of the children who are unable to look after themselves will be transferal to another of the Missionaries of Charities homes; many without the intervention and distractions of the volunteers. At the very least, I am searching for a way for them to be able to express themselves and to continue to explore life, even if it is from the confines of institutionalisation.