Another morning in the playground and even this is becoming tedious. We go on the slide, the monkey frame, the singing sea-saw, the small swing for two and the merry-go-round swing for one. We listen to the twenty four birds as they sing for freedom in their cage full of wires, and when necessary avoid any shoves and pushes from incoming orphans from the 'normal' orphanage. Depending on Deepa's mood, she will either fly through the distractions or hang onto my arm, waiting for me to lead her rather than take the initiative. Today she was in the former mood – happy to be outside, and enjoying the swing.
Nearby there was an Italian couple, well dressed with nervous excitement spilling out of their actions. They were busy entertaining their son to be. Actions spoke louder than any of the few words they had in common and they each produced potential toys, eager to please the subject of their attention. He was an older boy – maybe around Deepa's age and without a doubt he was overwhelmed and happily followed his new parents lead, gratefully receiving the toys and expectantly hanging off their every look or action. His new father was blowing up balloons for him, which would disappear with a smile as it was quickly taken on a brief tour of the playground. The boy and ballon would then return as if scared to leave the source of such individual attention for too long. These were his parents. An expression previously unknown to him.
Without words to explain, gestures and actions had to suffice, and smiling seemed to be the common formula. Grins welcomed his return, and kind eyes calmed any insecurity. I couldn't stop thinking how terrifying it must be for both the new son and the new parents. The new son would be leaving all that was familiar to him – faces, clothes, culture, food, language and be entering an entirely new world full of different standards and perspectives. He would have to trust his new parents who he still could not speak to and learn their words fast. He would have to hope they didn't tire of him. It will take time for him to understand their triggers, their likes and dislikes, and hopefully his transformation towards their expectations will be relatively smooth. On the other-hand the new parents will have to learn to love a child they have just met. To accept any personality traits they don't like, to live with the temper tantrums, and adjustment problems that might never dissolve. As the child grows up, they will have to answer uncomfortable questions that perhaps they don't know the answers to. They will all have to stay present, let go of expectations, and enjoy the dynamics of a new family. As always, a sense of incredibly wellbeing floods through my body as I see parents meeting their children for the first time. The union brings hope, and although that I know Deepa's adoption is only a distant dream, perhaps there is a chance that someday, someone will free her.
The new son with his new balloons was encouraged to share his new toys and directed towards us. He held the balloon out in front of Deepa, who unaware of its presence stayed still, waiting to respond to my next move. I guided her hands towards the bright pink ball of plastic. She grabbed it and then cradling it like a huge teddy, gently rubbed her fingers over its surface, feeling its dry stickiness and enjoying the slight and random squeaks that her strokes would produce. The new son experiencing the joy of karmic sharing, gleefully ran back to his proud new parents. Wanting to increase the feelings of good-will the little son began to blow up more balloons – with huffs and puffs - floating spheres were released into the air. Some bubble-gum pink, some midday sky blue and some sunflower yellow; their vivid colours contrasting to the faded shades of the swings and climbing frames, lighting up the bleak and grass-less ground. The ballons bopped and bounced as they were blown across the compacted mud; carried by the slight breeze. One by one their journey was gradually curtailed; first by a net of wire protecting a stunted tree, another by the shelter of the swings and finally by a 'bang' as a leafless bush assassinated a sole survivor. The new son continued to blow and blow, producing his own production line of ballons, as the new father walked around the playground picking up the plastic remains of the once self-propelled and perfectly sealed colours of air. It was strange to see someone taking ownership of selected pieces of rubbish amidst the few discarded sweet wrappers, a broken plastic chair and a rotting ball. Here rubbish collection is someone else's job (usually the rag pickers), and dropped items are rarely retrieved. Notions of environmental responsibility appear to have grown from different standards as despite the mass of plastic bags which clog the drains and pollute the rivers, India continues to possess one of the highest rates of recycling in the world, as need prevents waste and it is the poor who picks up other peoples garbage. Perhaps it would be easier to teach a boy from the orphanage – who had previously had no personal possessions, and whose movements were always monitored - about the importance of picking up rubbish. I guess it would be a different challenge with a street kid.
The tiny school in the playground opened its bolted door and a handful of children ran out. Protectively, I took my place by Deepa's side, ready to fight off any incoming taunts but the sprinkling of colours were more of an effective magnet. The new son didn't have a chance to share his presents as the floating ballons were swept up by possessive little arms. With not enough arms satisifed, attention was then turned to Deepa, who continued to protectively cradle and stroke her bubblegum pink teddy bear of a balloon. Picking her up above the searching hands, her balloon was saved and we retreated back into the orphanage. Smiling a smile full of good luck and admiration, I nodded a goodbye to the new son and his new parents and walked back through the courtyards and up the stairs. Deepa continued to explore her new toy – an invisible centre of sound and texture. Certain that a sighted child would not remain so mystified by a balloon, Deepa again taught me a lesson in sensitivity to our senses. She was totally focused on a rubber ball of air - one which for her contained so much curiosity, full of different sounds and pressures.
Walking into the orphanage, Deep's new toy was immediately attacked by the little Chinese boy. I managed to retrieve her ballon with speedy reactions, which took both me and the little thief by surprise. Handing back the treasured balloon to Deepa, I turned to put her shoes back in the cupboard. Deepa screamed. Looking back I saw that the wide-eyed boy had stolen her prize possession; her gift from her invisible friend and which had allowed her to explore new sounds and sensations. With revenge on his mind, the little Chinese boy charged at the wide-eyed boy and 'POP' went what had been nearly one hour of entertainment for Deepa. Deepa was still waving her arms in front of her searching for her lost treasure. The screaming which commenced was impossible to stop. She wanted her toy back and she did not know where it had gone; she did not know that it no longer existed.
The Sister in charge told me she didn't want me to work with Deepa. She said this while Deepa was crying. She said I was making Deepa cry and that she 'felt so bad to see her like this'. I tried to explain that Deepa was often upset everyday – sometimes for no reason, sometimes because the nappy she shouldn't be wearing was too tight, sometimes because someone had burst her balloon, sometimes because she was hungry, most times because she didn't have a clue what was going on. But then I had a realisation. I realised I was talking to a woman who didn't seem to really care. Who simply didn't want to know about the progress that this incredible amazing girl has made. Who didn't want to know about my ideas to facilitate this progress and those of the other blind children because they didn't include the children who are not blind. Who didn't want to know about her staff's mistreatment of the children. Who didn't want to know that her predecessor had requested that I work specifically with Deepa. Who seems blinded to the reality of the children in her care.
Shaking with anger, disappointment, frustration - at the inability for reason to prevail - I took my emotions into my own hands and with no alternative, calmly walked away, leaving Deepa crying and the Sister watching.
No comments:
Post a Comment