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.