Present Reflections

I can hear my footsteps. I can hear the wind, and the birds. I can hear the trees as their leaves move through the sun kissed breeze. I can feel the ground beneath each foot, as I slowly step soaking in the spacious silence of the afternoon. Surrounded by leafy roads, brick walls and tall sturdy houses. It is quiete. Their is fresh moving air all around me. I can see beyond bodies. There is space.

This is my Saturday afternoon. The metro has zoomed into the suburbs; only two stops after the bustling bursting busy Kalighat, but two stops far enough for the crowds to descend and leave a few empty spaces in the 'ladies' section of the carriages. When the doors open there is no fight to reach the platform; no battle with incoming pedestrians, but enough room to quickly stride off and through the turnstiles which never seem to need the key of the tiny card ticket. Outside of the station the Saturday afternoon is in full swing. The chat stalls a busy fishing out little crispy pieces of spicy delights from clear plastic sacks and expertly parceling them into neatly folded dishes of newspaper. No matter which day of the week, nor the time of day, hot and cold street snacks fringe the pavements, while wooden benches piled with hungry customers spill out onto the roads.

The auto rickshaws dodge between the trucks, cars and yellow battered taxis while the feet from the metro take on the oncoming traffic in a silent but calculated unity. We flow from one side of the road into the middle, where we all continue to walk in the same direction, around the invisible men at work and their wooden obstructions. Again we stop and watch the cars and cycles and then follow one another's lead, using our mass as individual protection. Arriving at our destination, the line of waiting auto rickshaws jump and rev into action, and three bodies pile in the front of each, while one sits either side of the driver. A continuous refill as each three-wheeler hurtles off, and 'we' - the incoming commuters - begin to dwindle in mass and disappear into the suburban streets.

I climb into the tin cab, swashed between a sari made with delicately decorated fine fabric, and a young man with a crisp clean white shirt and perfectly creased trousers. Hustle, chug, zoom, maneuver, moves the teenage boy behind the tiny wheel. The street moves by like a flick book of sketches. Shopping, buying, trading. We travel a few minutes only, and then the brakes screech slowing us to a gentle hubble-chug-chug and then unexpectedly bounce back into action and hurtle us to the side of the road. A calculated stop at which I climb out and hand the exact pre-counted change of four rupees to the driver. He briefly registers the coins before throwing them into the brown satchel handing from his control centre, protected by Ganesha, and a distractedly swinging garland of old plastic flowers. He has zoomed and dodged his way away before I have turned to cross the road.

The traffic has slowed. The distance between me and the centre of the market area has grown. Here it is quieter. It is less busy. I am standing in the centre of the old colonial suburban Kolkata; where old buildings still look regal and airy despite their need for renovation. Where wise trees cast their shade over the sprinkling of chai stalls. I stop at a small mountain of green coconuts, which rises like an oasis from the stale dusty pavement. I wave a ten rupee note and within seconds a machete has hacked off the top revealing a clear white cooling liquid, spilling over the sides and ready to be enjoyed. I take the turn down past the cinema, full of young guys wearing tight flared jeans and heavily gelled hair and talking in a hub-a-bub of shouts. And I sigh as my feet take me further into the space around me.

A few people wander down the street. Stopping to talk to one another, or to disappear through a door. I stop to tip the coconut back and drink what remains before throwing it into a huge pile of street garbage in the middle of the road. Two cows are meandering through the rubbish, munching on pieces of vegetable sodden paper. I follow the landmark of a tiny hindu shrine, protected by iron bars and brightly decorated before turning towards 'Regents Park' police station. A single army jeep is parked outside, as a man with a watering can tends to the shrubbery. The trademark ding ding of a bicycle rickshaw sounds the arrival of a lungi clad man who stands his way past, pushing carefully down on two solid peddles – slowly but surely moving his carriage of passengers out of sight.

Walking free from stares and curious glances I slow my gait, able to look around and to observe unselfconsciously. It is a rare luxury from a self-imposed paranoia; I am never invisible – there will always be someone studying my weird clothes, strange style, blonde hair. Similarly, it is rare that there is space to see the ground around; free from other bodies, free from cars, bikes or hustling movement. Walking down the wide lane, I breathe through the warm breeze and let myself relax.

A friend stands on the corner and greets me with a flashing smile. One of the beautifully intelligent young women who was in the Soma Home last year. She looks sophisticated and fashionable and lifts my happy heart with a warm hug. She is waiting for her driving instructor as her driving test is on Monday. I wish her well, and continue on my path with my own wide smile settling deep inside.

I am on my way to teach yoga to her prodigies; to the little girls and young women in the Soma Home which is situated just around the next corner. Ever since my first visit to the Soma Home I have had a sincere affiliation with the girls – they remind me of myself living in a boarding school year after year of my childhood. Some love yoga, acro-yoga, partner yoga. Other prefer the documentaries or perhaps just sleeping; as it is their weekend after all. They are incredible girls – incredible because they are so 'normal'. With mothers who are working in the sex trade, fathers who either support their wives work or who were their customers. With baby brothers and little sisters possibly with HIV, possibly not. Others have parents but are at risk from being sold or mistreated. But as I said, the girls are great. And as I hear the precious sound of my footsteps lead towards more smiles, laughter and far and present memories, I know they will achieve whatever their young minds can conceive.

Unacceptable Acceptance

The same old spinning confusions of frustration twinned with resources, ability and will to change. Watching – like a passive witness brought in for a few hours a week to return to a ‘safe’ bubble of relative reality. Work at the station dispensary has taught me a great deal from the practical to the philosophical. I have learned how to bandage wounds properly, clean deep infections and entertain scared children, but perhaps the most profound lesson has been the endurance of the human mind to deal with the deep and unrelenting pain of the human body. I have had the luxury to watch tremendous suffering and to sit uncomfortably with the realization that it is a consequence of the unacceptable conditions which too many of our brothers and sisters do not live with but rather have no choice but to deal with – to die with.

The majority of the patients who come to Sealdah dispensary have injuries to their lower limbs – mainly ulcers. The majority are men, but women and children come to. The kids usually live at the station and are dealing with self-inflicted injuries. A huge problem for the boys living on the streets is 'membership' of belonging to their new family; of proving their resilience. One way to 'prove' themselves is to take a razor blade and cut their forearms. Many are high on glue so seem immune to the pain, but if it becomes infected they might appear at the dispensary, backed by their curious gang, all bearing the thick pale scars on their soft young skin. Another risk for the street kids are their station games – running along the tops of the trains, or jumping into a moving train and then leaping out of the other side. These kids do not usually make it to the dispensary, but last year I met a survivor who was in rehabilitation. The boy was thirteen. He was learning to live with one less arm than his remaining friends.

The other kids who come to the dispensary are just keeping their mothers company – one little guy watches me from the doorway, scared to come closer but staring intently as his mother as she sits down opposite me. His nervousness softens after I hand him one of the bananas hidden in my apron, and the little piece of fruit consumes his wandering attention.

His mother is younger than I am, and she is beautiful – glowing with energy through her red sari made of cotton and washed soft. We study each other carefully and sporadically, while she tries to explain her affliction. She has just been to the government hospital and hands me her report and prescription. The report describes the “human bite on right middle finger” and the prescription is for oral and topical antibiotics – neither of which she can afford. She motions for her son to join her and he quickly walks the few paces to her side and stands as close as space allows, banana tightly clasped in his fists. I muster a tone of non-judgment and hidden curiosity, as I do not need to know who bit her in order to dress her severely infected finger, but I ask anyway. She replies with a look, then a gesture than a word, 'husband'.

Some people who come to the dispensary are healed. Others (according to the registrar) have been coming for more than ten years. But the dispensary is not a hospital, or even a clinic – we simply clean and dress wounds and where possible provide basic medication. We have a store room full of antibiotics and fancy dressings, but they remain 'stored' until they go out of date and then perhaps are thrown into the rubbish for the rag pickers to use. At the moment none of the volunteers who work there are trained medics. The Sisters who supervise our work are more paranoid about guarding the entrance from drug users and turning away anyone who comes after closing time. Over Christmas the supply of gauze and saline solution was used as a base on which to build the nativity scene, and we had to either creatively look for alternatives or surrender and pay a visit to the local chemist. At that time the dispensary closed for two days out of the three days in the week which it is open, and in protest Bruno and I opened our own little makeshift clinic outside. The Sisters never knew, but the patients gave us deep and humbling Namaste’s, providing me with a renewed sense of purpose and Bruno with a deeper sense of anger at our part in a machine which refuses to benefit those which it exists to serve.

As the months have passed I have made 'friends' with people I can hardly say two words to, but who have allowed me to try and relieve their suffering and done so with total acceptance of their situation and with no expectations. Sometimes I cry empty tears full of frustration, as the same old men and women will religiously come into the dispensary and flash a huge smile at me before rolling up their trousers or saris to show me their severely painful and infected wounds, which continue to refuse to improve. I have no other medical knowledge other than what I have learned in a first aid course and from what I have accumulated while working in India. But I am able to excuse my lack of training by knowing that even if I were a doctor, to try and administer antibiotics to patients who come some days and not the rest, or who have undiagnosed medical conditions such as HIV or TB, or who will walk outside into the filth with a clean bandage wrapped around their foot and no shoes, would be a even greater challenge. Even trying to change the attitude of the Sisters or long term volunteers requires infinite patience and determination. Theirs is a sense of defeat, or rather a dangerous acceptance that this is the reality, and it is and will remain impossible to change. I watch as some volunteers dress wounds without the blink of an eye; without discussing taking the patient to a hospital, or of paying for a diagnosis. I listen to myself feebly argue and then wallow in disappointment as not even the patients have the will to fight and it is just easier to surrender to the system.

I am left hoping that despite the refusal of the Missionaries of Charity to employ a local doctor or even to filter through a volunteer doctor, or to responsibly use the thousands of pounds worth of donated medicines, that small and continuous improvements can be made. Perhaps if the dispensary continues these small changes, such as to disinfect the tables after each patient or giving everyone some fruit to encourage them to return on the next session, then eventually larger improvements can be instigated. Larger improvements which will provide a service for those who most need it - a simple, free and effective medical treatment with the goal of alleviating the suffering of people no different from you and me. People no different from you and me but who just do not have the money or the means to pay for their health, so instead do what only they can do – accept.

Tittle Tattle

Poverty tourists, self help volunteers, roof tops filled with shadows and rising sounds of clumps, cranks, chatter, low hummms, loud beeps. The night air is thick with fragments of indiscernible communication, conversations. A mosaic of lives of peoples, of cultures, of imported domesticated animals ready for milking, breeding, eating. Areas demarcated by the howls and rough barks of street dogs and overseen by the soaring diving eagles of the rubbish. A city full of happenings. Lives hidden, exposed, believed, seen, pondered, forgotton. A moment in a blink, and our time in an eternity. Beep, brroooom, the rick a tick tang bang of the rickshaw pullers. Bare feet soundlessly pounding the wet muddy concrete. A cough, a Hack, an engine starting. Flick, tap, flick tap, patterns, repetition, routine. A flutter of a fly, sounds louder, until it passes like a speck of concrete hitting a tin. It drops to the worn white sheets to flitter into nothingness, while the light strip burns on. Reflections of a day in a life of a billion. Present distracting from the movements before. But the momentum is continuous.

Where is this leading to? Where am I? Returning to the thoughts forgotten, past, present. Possibilities. Decisions, options and choices, experiences leading to an eventuality soon to be history. Inhalation. Long deep exposed exhale. Silent sigh. Visible to no witness. External questions stored, external questions unheard. Internal conundrum. Tittile tattle, rattle rattle.

Nache

How does a baby learn to dance? Through watching? Imitating? How then to the blind babies learn? Today Netu was holding onto the cool iron bars of the cots. Never wanting to sit, and yet for so many months she has been so close to taking her first independent steps. The physiotherapist who visits the orphanage once a week told me in a unique twist of infant development, blind babies learn to walk before they learned to crawl. He explained it was because they never saw an object they wanted so did not know to try and crawl towards it, while simultaneously being scared of what might be in there way. I wondered about the power of sound and the heightened sensitivity to different noises which the blind children possess about whether this could be a stimulus for the baby crawl. I also wonder to what extent the walk before crawl phenomenon was specific to the orphanage where the babies either spend their days sitting in their chair or hanging onto the iron bars as they stand next to the cots. By having to reevaluate the development of blind children in relation to children with the gift of sight the intelligence and fortitude of the blind children, as well as their innate connection with their selves is overwhelming.

'Nache nache nache' sang a massi as she walked past clapping her hands in the direction of baby Netu. 'Nache nache nache' I continued as little Netu began to wobble her body forwards and backwards, propelling her hips towards the cot and then swinging backwards. She was actually dancing to my rhythmic claps. Two dimples had popped into her baby cheeks, as she smiled outwardly, while loving the movements and managing to keep her balance. Baby Mita was by her side, also hanging onto the iron bars, although her taller height means that she flops her head and shoulders over the cot while her legs stand like motionless stilts. Mita also began to grin, and very gently began to swing her body while slowly moving towards me and my sounds. I now had two little blind babies moving towards me in a slow happy dance.

Netu is clearly very clever. Her persistence to learn, to explore toys, sounds and movement is in stark contrast to the majority of the children in the 'inactive' section. Her baby babble vocabulary is growing extensively and now each morning she greets me with a rather disconcerting 'ma ma'. Thankfully, this is indiscriminate and she is happy to 'ma ma' to any of the volunteers. This makes me wonder if 'ma ma' is just a natural progression from 'la la la' and to the extent that this is taken as a word full of meaning and recognition by hopeful mothers? Netu has also taken to the rather harder pronunciation of 'da da'; but as no men are allowed to volunteer in the orphanage, this one is devoid of sentimentality. Meanwhile, she adores 'ba ba blacksheep' and will she sporadically start to quietly 'ba ba' before 'twinkle twinkling' her way towards a 'little star'. If she is seated and unable to do her hip wiggle, alternatively she will accompany her songs by quickly kicking her legs as she moves her whole body in excitement. She has also become a fan of the ipod, and when she hears the word 'music' she will put her fingers to her ears, dimple her cheeks and kick her little legs.

Music also has an incredibly powerful effect on Raki – another little blind girl who smiles and laughs her day through autism. Raki staggers around the nursery before curling into a ball on the floor and continuing in her own private world. But often she will hear me singing and come and take hold of the strings of my apron. She will twist and twirl and turn herself around and around and around, until my apron is in a tight knot of cloth and she has to contort her body to continue to twirl under it. It is almost as if without music she disappears into her own parallel existence, which all of our attempts to play with her are on her terms and in accordance with her silent view-point. But again music is the exception, and for this she loves to share it with others, even if it is just to dance around them, or use their hands for orientation. Deepa is also a natural dancer, and again loves to share it with feet she can trust to dance upon, providing a new connection with the ground beneath her and the space around her as she will waltz foot ontop of foot, hand in hand, around the nursery.

I think back to the experiences I was exposed to in Bali. The world of sound and expression, where 'dance' took on an entirely new meaning of moving through stored emotions and experiences. Where movement stimulated such powerful releases of energy from deep within the black hole of the subconscious. I began to really feel the power of dance – to experience it first hand – rather than as a witness watching traditional dances such as in indigenous Australia or the ritual dances of Tibet. Freestyle dance has the potential to connect us to our deeper self – to the rhythms of life which travel inside of us. The liberation of dance is to allow ourselves to move spontaneously without social conditioning, but surrendering to the music as it carries us on our own journey of expression and emotion. In Bali I used to run a blindfold dance class, which had some crazy responses. People who said they had never danced in public before – or never danced sober – but with the blind fold they felt the music and allowed it to move their bodies. Screams of anger would be released through stomping, shouting, jumping, tears would silently fall, and pure joy would bring elasticity to otherwise stiff and rigid bodies. Without sight it is much easier to be present – to be fully with the sound rather than to allow the eyes to lead the mind somewhere else. In fact, the result of blindfold dance was so powerful that one man nearly danced out the window (to land in the flower bed) while others would blindly move together, building and sharing a tangible energy, while being totally inside their own momentum of life.

It is fascinating that the blind children use dance so freely as a form of expression and are confident to move their bodies so totally naturally, without copying others or being forced to move in a predefined way. Dancing seems to be such an innate reaction to rhythm and one which provides them with obvious happiness. Netu, Raki, Meta and Deepa are incredible dance teachers, and like so many aspects of our world, they have an innate understanding and ability to express, feel and step into the flow without being constrained by social conditionings. They are totally in touch with their emotions, and dance is one of the few ways they have to express themselves freely. There is much we still have to learn.

Freedom to: Sing sea-saw sing

The park was shining today. It was light and bright and breezy. Yesterday I had been teaching yoga all day to schools around the city. It is the day in the week I miss Deepa. Yesterday Deepa cried all day. One massi told me she missed me, another told me she had constipation so she was crying because she had a sore tummy and had no other way to tell anyone, another told me she was crying to go outside and eventually, when someone finally gave in and walked with her to the roof, her crying ceased. So today the park was filled with extra air, and tangible space and a freedom impossible to feel from the roof of the nursery, or to image from behind the bars of the top floor windows.

Deepa took me around. She confidently climbed up the slide stood on the top, and leaned backwards. I smiled at the memories of a year ago, when I would cheer her up the ladder as she hesitantly learned to trust her bent knees. Today she swung her body around and sat at the top, as if she were surveying her Queendom – her little park, which unless was invaded by the 'normal' kids, was hers to enjoy in relative silence. “One, two, three” I cheered as she pushed herself down, slowed by the friction of the cement but still landing in a giggling heap at the bottom. “Stand up Deepa” I whisper to her and she does. Standing and searching for my hand, and pulling herself close to my body. I ask her where she wants to go to next “the seeeeeeeeea-saaaaaaaaaw or the birds, tweet tweet tweet?” “Sssssss” she repliea. So she led me straight to the singing sea-saw, walking next to it, and tracing the angle with her hand as she followed the wooden plank to the ground. Bending down she held onto the iron bar and stepped over to sit – as she always does, back to front. Besides, she doesn't need to face the centre; there is no friend to see. In fact, back to front, makes more sense, it means she can not slide off and hit the ground as the iron handle bars act as a little back to her plank of a seat. She begins to push her feet against the ground. I follow through her action with the expected reaction, as she rises to the sky to fall again. I wait, she bends her knees and pushes up; she is in control. She knows how the sea-saw works, even if it is my hands as the counterweight to her little pushes. We can't play the 'abar' game anymore; where I stop pushing until she tells me she wants to go again. If I did not push after she tried to lift herself up, this would break the rules of the game. But this is better. It shows she is developing her problem solving skills – instead of trying to figure out how to make me push her up and down, she has realised she can do it on her own.

As the sea-saw sings, she shuffles backwards, towards the centre of the squeaking. She reaches one hand back and feels the vibrations of the plank as it pivots upwards and downwards “Oto” and “Namo”. Its hard for her to reach the ground as she has shifted so far back, but she has chosen to be closer to the squeaking and the creaking than to the highs and the lows. After many minutes of otos and namos I asked her if she wanted to move. “What about the 'swiiiiiiiiiiiing' Deepa?” She slid herself back down to the ground, and stopped pushing her feet against the ground. “Do you want to go to the swiiiiiiiiiing Deepa?” She was still. Thinking? Thinking. Yes. She did. She moved her hands out in front of her, searching for my waiting arms. She pulled herself up and took me directly to the swing. Feeling for the iron rope she sat down and began to dribble her feet across the mud. For some reason, it had not occurred to me not to swing her before. But the other day, I was watching another volunteer who picked up another child and began pushing. It was as if the child was a toy, or part of the swing; of the volunteer was a toy, or part of the swing. “Oto pa Deepa” Legs Up. She continued to take little steps with her feet, moving but not swinging. “Oto pa” I repeated as I bent to lift her legs straight as she swung forwards. “Namo pa Deepa” as I pushed her legs backwards, bending her stubborn knees. “Oto pa – namo pa – oto pa – namo pa” Legs up – legs down – legs up - legs down. She loved the sounds, following the rythmn, not with words but with her unique Deepa sounds. I let go of her legs. “Oto paaaaa – namo paaaaa – oto paaaaa – namo paaaa”. Huge smiles. As I stood grinning at her as she followed my sounds with her own confident voice and allowed her body to explore the possibilities. She lifted her legs from the ground and began to move oto and namo and sure enough allowing the momentum to follow. She had figured out how to swing herself.

After many duets of otos and namos I asked her if she wanted to “go to listen to the birds tweeeeet tweeeeeet.” She stopped, and thought and stood and took my hand and began walking towards the tweeeeting. Then she turned to me, pulled me around and walked straight back to the swing, and sat back down, and began again – legs up; legs down.

As the sun shone down her, I thought back to Lao Lang – the tiny tranquil paradise island I had been fortunate to find myself living on last year after leaving Kolkata. I thought back to how I would sit on the beach swing, which was constructed from drift wood and rope and facing the infinite seamless sea. I would swing myself so high in the sky that sometimes I would brush my hair against the bark of the coconut tree from which it was hanging. Forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, thinking of Deepa, and how I wished she could be free to feel the sand, the sea, the freedom of swinging high in the vastness of the sky.

I am proud of her for realising these small freedoms. For making these small choices – of where she wants to go, and that she has the power to play in the way she wants and how she wants. Small freedoms for ninety minutes a day. I am proud of her for developing her communication skills. For listening to my voice, and acting accordingly. She is communicating with me; through her body and through her moods. I know when she is happy, sad, angry and frustrated. And she also knows when I am happy, sad, angry and frustrated. Today when she threw the Tibetan singing bowl on the ground and I scolded her, as I bent to pick it up, she dived her head into my lap, and hugged my waist. She was saying sorry. Perhaps we are finding our own way to talk, to share, to experience the little piece of the world we are able to feel. Together.

City Chicken

I found a city chicken today. It was a little lost, even though it was in the city I think it was looking for its field of mud and grass. People walked by, stepping over the old chicken. Rickshaws spun past, covering the chicken with even more dust from the road. Taxis brooomed and auto rickshaws beeeeped. Hand human rickshaws rinnnnged and hand pulled carts 'yaaaahed'. The lost chicken was scared. Beeeep, Brooom, Rinnnng, Yaaaah, Swush, Swish, Step Ta Ta. The lost chicken was flustered as it pecked and scratched in the concrete of the pavement. Exhaust fumes and stove smoke whirled around her, as if giving a smell to the continuous commotion. The madness of the moving street. But the pavement seemed to have a little compassion for the lost chicken. The pavement silently called to the chicken. The chicken fluttered and scratched and clucked and clacked clumsily over to a patch of broken, jagged stones. The pavement was a border for the traffic (although the road was not a boundary for pedestrians) but it was also broken and holey, rubble and stones, dirt and brick.

The compassionate broken pavement invited the chicken to keep digging, to keep pecking, and the old lost chicken did just that. Scratching, and pecking, and digging and flicking aside tiny fragments of concrete. Dig, peck, scratch, scratch, peck, dig. Frantically and furiously, the chicken was searching for familiarity. For protection. In the middle of the pavement, in the middle of the feet, in the middle of the city, in the middle of the day, the chicken was successfully digging herself a home. Despite her fear, and the noise and the chaos, and no other live chickens anywhere near her, the lost chicken made her nest in the broken concrete of the pavement and fluttered down to cluck some more.

Free to Eat

Deepa didn't want to eat lunch today. An hour before she had drank a cup of chocolate milk and eaten a huge Bengali sweet. Even tyeing her bib on was impossible; immediately she would find the string, pull and throw. I gave up and put over her legs in anticipation of the chaos to come. Next came the spoon game. As a way to tell her its lunch time, we usually play with the spoon before. Its a good way to fill the time, and Deepa has become much less threatened by the instrument of toddler torture. After only seconds of making it balance on her nose she picked it up and 'Ding!' dropped it on the floor – again and again and again – although she would alternate in which direction she would drop it, so there were close misses with her neighbour Netu's head, and the water nymph. It seemed particularly ironic that neither of her victims could do anything about the continuous bombardment. Baby Netu can not see the flying spoon coming, and the water nymph is tied to her chair, every moment of every day. In fact the water nymph is tied so tight that the rope marks her tiny stomach and ensures that she can not escape or dodge out of the way of shooting kitchen utensils.

Lunch arrived and Deepa reclaimed her tea spoon and successfully fed herself several small spoons full. Her food is still liquidised. I do not know why. When I asked the Sister she told me that it was not liquidised. I think she was confused with the pureed food which the severely disabled kids are (force) fed. Anyway, the liquidised food makes it even more of a challenge for her to keep the meal of (liquidized) rice, daal and some veggies (the same combo most days) on the little spoon.

Liquid dribbled down her mouth which she tried to wipe away with the back of her hand and then promptly spread all over her clothes, her hair and me. Add the fact that today she simply was not interested meant that the games quickly began.

Deepa was amusing herself by picking up the spoon and then slamming it down in the bowl. I guess a baby game she missed out on, and one which was bringing grins to her face and sticky yellow stuff all over my trousers. I tried to sing encouragement to her, but she just wanted to sing, so would again throw the spoon down in to the puddle of mush and tip her head to one side to listen a little closer. When I manged to convince her that picking up the spoon again was a good idea, she would put it carefully in her mouth and then gently bite down before quickly pulling it out, releasing left over food into a jet spray all around her (us) while simultaneously exploring the pressure of the metal against her teeth and then against her lips.

Deepa lazily stretched her legs into my stomach as I held the bowl in front of her, as she enjoyed the pressure of my body against her straightened legs. Continuously winded I tried to ask her to stop, while balancing her bowl in my hand. I still have to hold the bowl for her, as she is not yet allowed to eat at the table with the 'active' kids. Even if she was, the table is too low for her and the distance between the bowl and her mouth would equal an 'unacceptable' mess. So she continued to avoid lunch and instead leaned her head down towards the bowl. A clever tactic; forcing me to move it to the side while she would then search for my hands to try and make me clap her a tune. Both as stubborn as each other I would try and lift her back up into her little seat and wrap her hand back around the tea-spoon, but the same charade would continue and considerably more food was on me than in her tummy.

A million 'visitors' came in. It is always disconcerting when a large group of visitors appear. They usually stare at the children, are more interested in asking about where I am from or how long I have been here than about the children, or whip out their cameras – for what I am not entirely sure; nor do I want to know. The visitors today were French, they watched as Deepa covered me with food. I commented to one who seemed particularly fixated that she can feed herself, but today she just doesn't want to. He looked sceptical with pitiful eyes. It was the look I needed to say a 'sorry' to Deepa for trying to make her eat when she didn't want to. I picked up the glass of water and told her 'pani'. She reached her arms out and took it, gulping down the liquid. She doesn't drink enough. Her lips are always cracked. But without words she will only drink when and what she is given.

I take her bowl back to the massis and say she isn't hungry – “too many sweets before lunch” I tell them. The reply? “Bring her here”. Not more than five minutes later I am called back to look at Deepa's empty plate. She had been fed her lunch. The massi stared at me expectantly, waiting for a congratulatory look, which didn't come.

The point was not that she could not eat – the point was that she did not want to. Everyday I have worked so hard to give her the confidence to overcome the trauma of years of force feeding by allowing her the freedom to put the spoon in her own mouth. Speaking from experience of years of set meals, at set times and school restrictions, I know how destructive control over food can be. The power to feed yourself is symbolic of so many more liberties. Yes it might be messy, yes it takes patience, and yes it is a freedom that apparently still needs to be fought for daily.

Anonymous Obituary

Time has passed since you passed

Days, perhaps a week or more.

I wanted to write about you,

But you weren't important.

I didn't know you, I will never know you

But you died on my doorstep.

Invisible in Life, Invisible in Death,

The world around you continued, without a pause.

Perhaps it was minutes, or more likely hours

before a mutual friend stopped to help you.

Too late. Like this Obituary,

For life had left your eyes, your body, your invisible life.

People walking,

Rickshaws spinning,

Dogs sniffing.

Perhaps a glance, but you were nothing in life,

Why then should you be noticed in death?

Perhaps I saw you, stabbing your skin with the syringe,

Escaping your reality, your body for one final time.

But I would have glanced, perhaps pitied and then forgot.

You were one of too many.

Will anyone miss you?

Will anyone notice you have gone?

A few thoughts to wonder Who you were.

A few thoughts to wonder who you could have been?

I wonder what your childhood dreams were?

Was there a time you belonged somewhere?

With a mother or a father, a lover or a child?

Where did the short journey of life take you?

An anonymous death, killed by survival.

The Wonders of Music

The wonders of an ipod. I can't imagine how impossible it would have been sharing the universal world of music before the digital age. Even with the cd player in the orphanage, the music which Deepa is exposed to consisted of crackling church songs, old Hindi tunes or children's rhymes on a continuous loop. There is little possibility for melodies to be examined or pitch explored. Instead, the music crackles from the speakers and Deepa will usually find a space to dance, and if she has a pair of hands to hold onto all the better. But the ipod contains hundreds of songs from every genre; world music from classical to hip hop at a touch of an (invisible) button. Witnessing Deepa's reaction is incredible, especially as she hasn't made the connection between the ipod and the music, but rather has been woed by the mysteries of the headphones.

The first challenge is finding a place out of the grabbing curiosity of the other kids and the suspicious eyes of the massis, so our rudimentary 'music therapy' has been incorporated into our park visits. We do the usual routine where I try and encourage Deepa to take the lead; from the squeaking sea-saw to the fluttering birds and back to the singing merry-go-round swing. We then sit on the big swing for four people (or a dozen kids if it is Sunday playtime). As soon as she feels the plastic wires of the headphones she will quickly try and stuff them into her ears, immediately relating the object with the sound but unsure of exactly which part the music comes from. I try and pry her fingers away from the wires and her hands from her head, as she buckles into herself to guard against potential sabotage. If I am tricky I am able to maneuver the ear piece towards her ears, and then she will let go of the wire and instead place her palms flat against the sides of her face, securing the ear-piece to ear connection.

Sometimes she has grabbed the headphones before I have selected a song. As soon as the relevant piece is in the correct place and all she hears is silence, she will throw the headphones down as if she has been purposefully deceived. I will then have to coax her to try again by turning up the volume so she can be reassured that it is playing, and then she will allow me to reconnect her. As I do so, she remains incredibly quiet. Her eyebrows knit into a frown, as she protects the headphones with one hand over each of her ears. She concentrates incredibly intensely, and does so with all of her attention as I sit by her side diligently preparing her play list, to take her on a musical adventure across time and space.

Her musical repertoire now includes the Beatles, the Beach Boys, the Monkees, the best of David Bowee, REM, Queen, the Cookie Monster (a real winner), Blasted Mechanism Empire, Manu Chau, Flamenco, Salsa and Ray Charles. However, her strongest reactions have been to Bach and 'The Pianist' by Janusz Olejnicza. The first time she heard Bach her stillness was broken as she opened up her body towards the sky, straightening her spine, tipping her head back and grinning. This initiated a series of crazy rocking movements as her whole body followed the rhythm of the music.

When I fade out the last song, Deepa will wait, fingers still securely protecting the headphones and her ears. Eventually, she will remove her hands and let them fall down. She looks as if she is abandoning them for not keeping their side of their bargain and sharing their wonderful sounds with her. If I try a poor attempt of singing a melody that she is familiar with more or less immediately, she will join me. She doesn't necessarily make the same sounds as me, but she will follow the rhythm and the tone.

It is moments such as these that I really feel I am communicating in a very direct way with her. The other times, it is so difficult for those not familiar with her facial expressions and body language to realise that Deepa is finding her own way to talk – perhaps it is not the most valued way (as we all use body language, but tend to reply more on verbal communication) but she is definately very adept at using her body and facial expressions to say what she wants. The challenge now is trying to help her to tune into speech – to realise that what she says does matter and that eventually words will have a meaning for her because those around her will respond to them. Perhaps it is because she does not trust words; because even her actions of trying to fight off food she does not like makes no difference, or her attempts to explore the objects around her are controlled and their function left unexplained, or because the languages surrounding her are random and actually have no meaning, as “la la la” and “ba ba's” fill her head, along with random baby noises. She also has to filter through the direct and (usually) indirect languages of the volunteers' Spanish, French, German, Japanese, Korean and English, the Massis' Bengali and the Sisters' Hindi. A melody of sounds with little relevance.

I often try and image what it would be like to understand the world from Deepa's perspective. To never have seen the source of sounds, and often restricted from exploring them through touch. To have a very different measure of 'normality' as her peers are mostly physically or mentally disabled, and her carers are continuously changing.

Just try – think of how you learned about the meaning of objects (through show and tell), the function of objects (through watching the cause and effect), how our verbal communication only represents a tiny percentage of our actions, attitudes and experiences. Just think of all of the gaps that are left blank if you cannot see our world, if there is no one to explain it to you, and if you have yet to fully tune into the common perception of reality.

Hug

This evening many people have been asking me how my day was. Perhaps they do this everyday and it is so routine that I just give an automatic reply. But today, the question seemed to stick to me, sinking further into the journey of my memory and raising one stubborn image which was partly a figment of imagination and partly a recent reality.

This morning I arrived at the orphanage and began to find Deepa some shoes and a woolly hat. She was immediately reactive and and began to stroke my wrists to confirm my identify, before playing with the toys of my watch strap and retired hair-bands. The shoes today were imposters into the 'everyday' cupboard, and belonged to the 'special occasion' cupboard. The special occasion cupboard contains all the shiny white trainers and polished leather shoes, as well a pair of white Clarks shoes, with a buckle Deepa likes to flick and a little pink flower which she carefully traces with her fingers. Deciding that everyday should be a special occasion, and that shoes were made to be worn, Deepa balanced her hands on my head while I bent down to tap each of her feet to let her know which to pick up so that she could be fitted out with the white flowered special shoes. They fitted perfectly.

As we maneuvered our way out of the orphanage I was distracted a million times; leaving Deepa standing, outstretched arms searching. Firstly the girl with the most beautiful smile in the world was signing for her recorder, which thankfully I had remembered. She received it was arms outstretched as she stood strapped to the wall. Then after I gave it to her little bow peep with her head of curly hair, grabbed it out of her hands, and stepped back out of the girl with the most beautiful smile in the world's reach. I went to retrive the recorder and in my sternest voice possible (which isn't very stern, especially when facing a extra cute and smiley little bow peep) in order to safeguard the girl with the most beautiful smile in the world's morning entertainment. My reprimand was to backfire as I glanced back to see the girl with the most beautiful smile in the world taking her revenge by battering little bow peep with her musical weapon.

Once out of the room and on the stairs the water nymph who is always tied to the chair had miraculously escaped. The massis say the little girl is 'pugli' as they motion to their heads....'pugli' means 'mad', and as a result she spends her days and nights tied to either a high chair or the bars of her cot. The real reason is that the water nymph has a fascination with water, and whenever she can she will run to the nearest tap and pour water over her entire body. The massis will find her dripping from head to toe, and as a result she is 'controlled' in the prison of her high chair. With an escaped convict (even if it is one unfairly judged and receiving disproportion punishment) in my midst I again had to abandon Deepa pleading with her to hold onto the bannister while I caught the little girl and deposited her back in the orphanage (although no where near her prison chair).

When I return to Deepa she was angry. She pushed me away and then searched for my hands and pulled me back to her. Then she began to cry, in fact she began to scream. Nothing I could say, sing or clap was able to calm her down. She found the wall and pushed her body against it, again and again, refusing to walk with me. The frustration inside of her and her anger was bursting out – uncontrollable and all consuming. Tears poured out of her closed eyelids, leaving their glistening trails behind them as evidence of Deepa's rising emotions. Frustrated at what? At not knowing what is happening around her? Of beginning the routine of going to the park but being left without a word searching the darkness for guidance? Frustrated at not being able to do what she wants when she wants? Or perhaps the nappy she shouldn't be wearing was too tight; the shoes uncomfortable; perhaps she was hungry, tired, thirsty, feeling unwell...whatever the reason, the result was clear. Deepa was ANGRY and would scream and kick about it for as long as it took. Aware of the danger her screams would activate from curious massis and Sisters, I did something I rarely do and that was to pick Deepa up so that I could quickly carry her down the stairs and into the park.

I bent down to pick her up, and held her close to me in case she began to fight. Immediately she stopped screaming. Pure Silence. Shocked at her response, I held her tightly as she placed her head on my chest and allowed me to carry her down the stone stairs. Hoping that no-one would see me (as carrying the children is forbidden) I watched as the anger inside Deepa evaporated, replaced with a calm peacefullness.

Entering the park I went directly to the swing and sat with her as my legs dragged along the ground in one direction and hers sat in the sky in the other. She moved her head closer to the centre of my chest – perhaps listening to my heart beat like she used to do last year, but I sat with my arms around her, feeling incredibly privileged to have her trust while aware of the calming and soothing effect our friendship was having – on us both.

When I think back about my day today; I think of the hug which I witnessed from above, and which I felt with all of my body. When I think about my day today, I realise that Deepa feels safe with me and I feel a fear of betraying her.

City of Colours: the diversity of reality

Part of the financial success of Mother Teresa's charity, depends on depicting Kolkata as nothing but cholera infested slums ravaged with teeming millions of beggars. Aroup Chatterjee, who published a extensive study of Mother Teresa's works, estimated that Kolkata has lost a total revenue of $2.4 billion through lack of tourism, as her vivid images of the hordes of destitute camouflaged the rest of the city. The millions living below poverty do exist, and the living conditions for many are totally unacceptable, but it is also important to open our eyes to the beautiful aspects of this historical city, of what was once the jewel of the British empire. Kolkata is proud of its cultural history; home to the first Asian Nobel Prize winner, Rabindranath Tagore, and the highly acclaimed, Oscar winner for life, Satyajit Ray, Kolkata, as well as the progressive and highly influential social economist, Amartya Sen. The city has a vibrant cultural scene, reflecting its love to pick and choose from Western influences and create a truly unique centre for learning through entertaining...

The Dover Lane Music Conference started at eight in the evening and went on all through the night. Bands of classical musicians proudly took the centre stage in front of a huge stadium which had the potential to seat 3,500 people, until seven in the morning. I do not know of many cities in the world where all-nighters involve listening to vocal and instrumental Hindustani and Carnatic music. The festival was followed by the Odissi Dancers' Forum performing a expressive mix of classical and modern Indian dance; including a traditional dance to Mozart. The Attakkalari Centre for Movement Arts from Bangalore also put on an incredible performance of contemporary dance, set in the grounds of a beautiful old manor house in the middle of Kolkata. The dance troop literally danced through the house, taking the audience with them, ending in the flower fringed garden. The second floor occupants of the house looked down from above, as atmospheric sounds were dispersed through speakers suspended from the trees. The dancing was wild, free, expressive and expertly choreographed in homage to the German dancer Pina Bausch. Later this week a three day dance competition is being held aimed at revealing and supporting the up and coming 'Stars of Tomorrow'. Entrance to the venue to free and the programme centres around Kathak – where the rhythm is spoken by the dancers and is done so with incredible precision. The beats are simultaneously accompanied by the jangles of the globular bells worn around the dancers ankles, and accentuated by the accompanying orchestra.

Other regular events include alternative film showings by the Goethe-Insitut / Max MuellerBhavan and activist gatherings at the Earth Care Book centre. Exhibitions by local, national and international photographers are held at the Seagull Arts and Media Resource Centre. But an annual highlight is Kolkata's international book fair; the 34^th of which has just ended. The book fair is the fifth largest global gathering of literary lovers and was held for a duration of twelve days. The book fair covered a huge area – 25,000 sq meters including over 500 different book stalls which had been constructed out of plywood specifically for the event. Despite local criticism of power failures, inadequate fire safety and garbage removal, the tickets were a only five rupees (10 cents). This reflects the drastically reduced price of books in India – just a quick walk down College Street (the book market of Kolkata) reveals every possible title and every possible text book for as little as one fifth of the price in Europe. (I even know medical students who fly to India just to buy their course books.) Indian publishing is huge -there are over 16,000 publishers, and the numbers continue to increase. One of the reasons for the growth of the market is the rise in the literacy rate. At the time of Independence it was estimated that the national literacy rate was around 30 percent, but now it is almost 65 percent. This is reflected by the estimated 2.5 million visitors which this years book fair attracted, from the young and old, and from a fairly wide spectrum of economic classes.

Another of the city's cultural centres is the Ramakrishna Mission Institute Of Culture. Founded by Sri Ramakrishna's chief apostle, Swami Vivekanda, committed to the motto Atmano mokshartham jagad hitaya cha -“For one’s own salvation and for the welfare of the world”. The Institute runs the largest orphange in Kolkata as well as being dedicated to disaster relief during floods and famine. Apart from its philanthropic mandate it is committed to developing educational and cultural activities based on the Vendanta philosophy of the unity of human life. The institute has a beautiful public library, and through the access to information, presses for intercultural appreciation and understanding. Philosophical lectures and talks on Vedanta are regularly in both Bengali and English.This commitment to such a broad spectrum social welfare is a stark contrast to the Missionaries of Charity.

Basically, there is loads going on in Kolkata, much of which is easy to miss if you keep you eyes turned down to the pavements rather than to the events which they lead to. Many times it is more comfortable to pick one of the extremes – social work verses cultural exploration – as a foot in both camps highlights the inconsistencies. I often have the rather uncomfortable thought that some volunteers simply do not want to see the beautiful (well funded, well educated and definitely not in need of picking up and praying for) aspects of the city. Yet at the other side of the coin, I have read reports from foreign business men, who have flew in and out of Kolkata, taking with them nothing other than its fancy hotels, luxurious restaurants and rich cultural history. I am aware of my own role in portraying an 'image' of Kolkata as close to the reality as possible, but then again it all depends on ones particular reality, which is why I am enjoying broadening my experiences, despite the crazy contrasts of spending the afternoon bandaging the wounds of men with nothing but the clothes they wear, and then sitting next to stunning sari clad women, dripping with jewels and shimmering with gold.

Perhaps if more tourists were to visit then the government would be encouraged to become more committed to solving rather than ignoring the poverty. Kolkata could proudly show off her love for the arts, science and literature and become the diverse, cultural and secular city it used to be, and for a small percentage of the population, continues to be.

The more you look, the more you see, the more you see, the less you understand...especially when you are looking with foreign eyes. And often it is easier to see through the shaded veneer of sun glasses, but reality is never black and white. Reality is a ever changing mosaic of contrasting, merging, fading and exploding colours. This city makes me smile and cry - laugh and scream; often simultaneously. Perhaps that is why, when I am not complaining about the insidious pollution, or the continuous noise, or the perpetually staring eyes, I find this city continuously fascinating.

Inside the Singing Bowl

The air feels thick with sound. Invisible vibrations waving and spiraling, pulsing as they diffuse and consume. Deepa delicately places her hands around the cool thick brass. The dented vibrations run through her fingers. I place her hands under the bowl and together we carefully lift it off her legs. I gently tap the rim and watch as she soaks up the sounds as they transform and grow and then fade all around her. She straightens her back and tips back her neck, lifting her head up towards the sky. It is the reverse action she does to when she feels threatens and curls into herself. Instead, she opens herself up to the world around her, only when she feels confidence, excitement or joy. Her lips pull back into a strained grin and then she exhales her self back down towards the source of the sounds. The same tone but different waves, playing with her ears as she turns her head slowly in differing directions. She is exploring. I ding again (although a 'ding' bares no reality to the melting echo of the song).

I hold the wooden stick close to the sides of the bowl and then slowly move it around and around and around. Pressing as hard as I can without pushing the bowl off of Deepa's hands. The sound transforms into a sonic hum. It grows through the air, drowning the silence with a quiet shrill.I placed my hand under hers and lift the bowl up, sending a new wave of vibrations down over her head. A frown buried between her eyebrows. Total concentration. The initial smiles replaced by a dedicated commitment to absorbing. The shrill was now a warble of colours, only visible with closed eyes and complete concentration. Not only audible but absorbable. I remove the wooden stick and allow the sound to return the silence to the air. I wait. Deepa continues to listen. I am studying her reactions as she studies the texture of the air. I am in no doubt she can still hear what I can no longer. Meditation, being present. Being conscious of every sound and distracted by no other thought. She was still listening. She was still hearing. She crouched even further down, as if trying to hide herself inside of the source; inside of the bowl of colours, vibrations, waves and spirals, of endless songs, silent and thick, powerful and free.

Birthday Presence: Tigers and Butterflies

A perfect day for the beginning of a new decade. After years of trying to avoid my birthday, my thirtieth was definitely worth the recognition – besides I think somewhere deep inside I had never expected to reach what had previously seemed to be such a huge age. But time comes and goes in a seamless ribbon of events, rippling from one to another as we ride the short length of the stream of infinity. Time carries us along with each breath, until age has worn the body, and experience battles with the forgetfulness of the mind.

I had tried to remember each year of my past birthdays; Thailand, Oxford, Palestine, Nepal.....but the memories are not clear and recollections of celebrations have become clouded with the criss-crossing of events and friends. My memories are faded with only certain smiles remaining: The smiles of snowboarding for my twenty first; or dancing in the streets of Darwin for my eighteenth, a friends parents taking me out for dinner on my sixteenth, the three flavours of ice-cream that I would have to choose to share with my boarding house as friends would line up with their mugs at the ready. I remember when I turned six, and it felt like I had reached a milestone of childhood – waiting for my little friends to arrive for cupcakes and pin the tail on the donkey games as well as the overwhelming stacks of presents which preceded them. The first birthday I think I can remember, although I can't remember how old I was, definitely involved a magician...magic birthdays...

My first Indian birthday involved copious amounts of music, noise and dancing – all at the orphanage. Even the walk to Shishu Bahavan involved an escort by a brass band, the members of whom where wearing bright pink shirts and joking with the crowd as they danced into waiting pedestrians amused at the cause of their delay. Behind them chugged an old van, filled with people and smiling children. On the front there was a polystyrene heart proclaiming the marriage of two veiled faces. I stopped to collect the one hundred misthi which I had ordered from a sweet stall tucked between the butchers of Alimuddien street. The Bengali sweets consist of mouth sized balls of soft deliciousness soaked in syrup which effortless melts in the mouth as escaping liquid needs to be rapidly licked up. The workers joked with us as we took photos of them peeking out of the roof and then proudly standing next to their collection of multi-coloured freshly made trays of sweet treats. Free samples were distributed, and I found my new favourite – a warm mixture of sweet thick curd served on a crispy brown leaf, shaped into a bowl with the help of a tooth pick.

In Sishu Bahvan I handed the clay pot full of misthi to a massi who swiftly removed them for later consumption – which I hope won't be too late. Meanwhile, a friend from Modern Lodge - a Swedish sitar player – tuned his hand crafted instrument in the stair well, while I tried to coax the active kids into the inactive section, so all would be able to listen. The Swedish musician with his Indian sitar sat on the floor as the kids began to edge around him. He began to pluck the delicate strings with his taped fingers (a sure sign of his commitment to mastering this beautiful instrument). The temptation was too much for the children and as soon as the Wide Eyed Boy had broken the imaginary barrier between performer and audience, little hands were every where. The children were drawn to the sitar like bees to honey. The Swede and his sitar began to retreat backwards in a slow bum shuffle, and eventually the concert had moved across the entire floor of the orphanage. Trying my hardest to protect the sitar and fight for enough space for the Swede to actually move his arms, but it was like trying to pry super strength magnets from super charged steel. The Little Chinese Boy with his low vision eyes even climbed on his lap hugging his arms around the sitar. The closer he was the more the source of the sound was revealed. Eventually the brave Swede surrendered and sitar was hidden. The replacement calvary included the blasting beats of popular hindi songs which crackled out of the speakers. Armed with a packet of face paints we began to decorate the faces of the kids, who soon were piling on top of us, in front of us and rolling over our backs, pointing to particular colours and body parts which they demanded should be painted. Protecting the paints required immense concentration as fingers appeared from no-where trying to take ownership of the treasures. The Little Chinese Boy crept up and blew some of his famous raspberries on my arm – a sure sign of appreciation.

Meanwhile, the sitar-less Swede was dancing with Racki – a little autistic blind girl who I think must believe that all volunteers are toys for her amusement. She was holding the Swede's hand and twirling and turning around and around and around as he stood next to her like a needle from a record player. Bruno was sitting face to face with Deepa cradling a baby 'Gibtone' guitar. Deepa was tapping out the tunes onto the guitar while Bruno strummed – two pairs of hands on one instrument. I watched as she leaned closer and closer until eventually she had placed her lips on the strings...delicately feeling each vibration as the sounds flowed through the surrounding air.

A group of kids had gathered in front of class room door. The door is 'protected' with a large plastic sheet. The kids were dancing so that they could watch their reflections and more specifically their newly decorated faces – as they pointed to their moving shadows temporarily disguised as tigers, cats and butterfly's. Giving me inspiration I picked up the Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world and took her over to the mirror. She clapped her hands together and flipped her body forwards and backwards as her face spread even further across her face.

The Sister in charge was surprisingly miffed that I hadn't told her it was my birthday, and insisted on adding to the celebrations by decorating me with a pink plastic garland and then presenting me with an enormous stuffed tiger. Meanwhile, the massis and active kids sang Happy Birthday followed by an enthusiastic rendition of 'God Bless You', sang in both Bangla and English. The Little Chinese Boy came to grab the birthday tiger, but was shooed away by the Sister who insisted he would rip it...but I have a suspicion that a Tigers den will soon be lurking under the cots. Deepa won the packaging – a plastic bag which she crunched and crushed, twisting it as she listened to the sounds and felt the slippery texture.

I left feeling incredibly elated, full of childish energy, and happy that I had an excuse to have a party with the kids. Walking back down the street with my face painted with a green foliage and two '30's one on each cheek, while a tiger peaked out of my bag. On the way home The Man Outside found me, and when presented with the Gibtone began to play a tune – always full of surprises – just like the time when handed the keys to a bicycle he jumped on and peddled off, leaving no trace of his belief that he was kidnapped from London and brought to Kolkata by a helicopter. We went for dinner in the Taj Continental. The waiters discussed whether the tiger was Bengali or African. The Man Outside watched warily as the waiters insisted on posing for photos with what was eventually decided to be a foreign tiger. As I walked home the taxi drivers contagiously sang 'Om Namah Shivaya' – presumably mistaking the '30's for sideways 'OM's but unwittingly singing the mantra of Anusara yoga. I walked home stepping into the flow of the currents of Grace – the beautiful ribbon of life which time accompanies us through year after seamless year., brushing over the past with faded memories and reminding us of the importance of living fully in the present.