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.
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.
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