A long way down

Trains in India are incredible. Firstly they are enormous. Sort of like the cruise liners of the Caribbean only without the swimming pools, casinos and cabarets. But in terms of durability and capacity they must be on a par. However, the trains in India have their permenet passengers – bunked down to see the journey through to the end, and then a whole melody of those who pass through – selling whatever it is might be need for thirty hours in slow locomotion. If this was a cruise ship, I guess this would be the equivalent of the buffet being contracted out to the local fishermen or perhaps pirates, who would jump aboard from island to island tempting passengers with their local treasures. When they came across a foreigner in the midst of the carriage they would put on even more of an impressive show to convince them to part with their money while taking the opportunity to observe what I guess they must see as a strange and alien species. In the case of the Azad Hind Express from Howrah station this has meant a continuous relay of wallahs, the most dedicated of which must certainly be the 'chaiiiiiiiiiiiiii, coffeeeeeeeeee' wallah, who patrols the carriages with his kettle in one hand and plastic cups in the other. He began at first light and several hours later he is just revving up into first gear. But he is not alone. While I have been typing this, the morning newspaper in three different languages – Bengali, Hindi and English has walked by. This was promptly followed by calls of 'veg cutlets' and 'bread omelette' and then 'pani' and 'juice.' As the hours have slowly clicked by and noon has approached, offers of “hot tomato soup” complete with 'croûtons' have drifted through, along with 'chips' and what sounds like 'egg cheese burger' but perhaps this is my own version of Hindlish.

It is hard to tell which of the wallahs spend the thirty three hours walking up and down the carriages – and considering the twenty plus carriages I passed just to find my berth, I guess that the journey from chair class (where the passengers simply have a wooden bench to perch on) all the way to 2 AC (air conditioned bunks, with two beds pinned to each berth) could be done about once an hour – many miles walked. Others just jump on until the next station or until they have sold out and then they jump off refill and wait for the next train back to continue all over again.

Inside my little carriage I have successfully traded my middle bunk with the top bunk with an elderly gentleman. I am not sure if he was being polite or didn't actually want to climb to the top bunk, either way it worked out in my favour, as he roamed the carriages as the two guys who had boarded at two in the morning slept off their previous nights partying and refused to move off the bottom bunks - our seats.

The women stare at me. The lady opposite asked if I was from Europe. She said 'Jesus', and when asked for further elaboration, reminded me that Jesus was 'my' god. This made her think of Mother Teresa, and she asked if Mother was also from Scotland, although then she remembered that 'she was Indian'. Her travelling companion – the older gentlemen and father – seemed uncomfortable with our interaction, and she hasn't spoke to me since, although she did wake up Clara (my Spanish friend) at four in the morning to tell her to pray. The younger men all speak English, as does the ticket conductor, although he is a man of very few words and seems suspicious of my questions of which route the train will take to Pune, and when the next stop will be.

A gentleman sitting on the seat adjacent to us answers his mobile phone. He is talking in English describing his travelling companions: “two from Bihar, one from Pune, one from Mumbai” he pauses and then continues “there are also two foreigners” and reassuringly adds “but don't worry they have become quite friendly”. I smiled at myself at the realisation that I was not to feel threatened as apparently I was the one who was 'threatening'.

To an outsider the dynamics of the different generations combined with different social classes is incredibly intricate. In my booth of six people, consisting of the father and daughter (of now very few word)s, the two party-ers from last night, and Clara and I. The young guys share our jokes about 'chaiiiiiiii' and they stifle laughs at hacks and burps which fill the air from the other passengers, and which I do not even notice any more. They are comfortable with us, and quickly swap between Hindi and English. The elder gentlemen studies them closely, watching as one flicked through a 'Motor' magazine and the other plays an absorbing game on his ipod. He asked the young guys where they are going and if they are studying. They politely answer, their voice full of conditioned respect, but when they have done their duty, they change to English, and the old man turns his gaze to drift at the top of my laptop, with a scowl of contemptuous boredom. As the journey progressed he allowed his curiosity to wander to the every movement which Clara and I made. He meticulously studied us as we tried to eat the thousand seeds of a bright red pomegranate, so much so that self consciousness overwhelmed me, and I ended up spilling endless seeds all over the seat and floor.

What still strikes me is how comfortable seemingly ever class is with body contact of total strangers. Passengers sit tightly together, despite the comparative space. Telephone conversations are listened to eagerly by those with no newspapers or books to read, and it reminds me again of the sense of privacy and personal space which we have managed to cultivate and consequently treat as inappropriately sacred. Paranoia of stories of stolen luggage means that both of my bags are chained under the seats/bottom bed, but thirty hours is still an eternity to remain cautious, and soon I am drifting with my day dreams which take me out the train window and into the country which chugs by.

Framed by train tracks and broken bustee brick roofs patched with tarpaulin, bright lively colours of washed saris, playing kids and grazing water buffaloes covered with drying mud. The scene is repeated hour after hour with the only difference being the back drop of mosques or temples. The duration of the day is continuously marked by the wallahs, and reminders of the stifling air in the carriages is sang out by the calls of 'ice cream'. Lunch comes on trays of walking 'roti and dhosas' followed by plastic wire baskets of 'cream biscuit, bourbon biscuit, snacks, SNACKS!'. Dinner is marked by 'cigarettes and samosas' as well as the rather ubiquitous in-train catering staff, who march the length of the train wearing their tartan uniforms and back to front caps, with the name badge, 'meals on wheels'. They are selling veg and non-veg dinner trays, creating a second of tension as the guys on our booth order 'non-veg' to which the daughter comments 'live vegetarian – eat vegetarian'.

The thirty three hour journey carries its city of passengers across the length of the country in a melody of songs and of food, where one thousand strangers break the boredom through finding commonalities and enforced unconscious intimacy.

Chaos

I move all the time. Every few months at least. But it is always traumatic. It never becomes easier. Even when I know I will be back here soon, packing up my life back into my rucksac and sorting through what is left of the tangible memories throws me into a state of chaos. I haven't seen Deepa today, because even down loading the photos from yesterday has again brought that horrible sensation of doubt to the forefront of my mind. Maybe I should stay? The doubt pecks away. Why am I really going? What do I need a break from? Do I need Deepa as much as I think she needs me? – Ow! That is tough one. Perhaps it is this city which infects my affection for it with endless exasperation, which is making me leave. The noise, the craziness, the continual intensity. The stares and exposure which goes hand in sweaty hand with over crowded bodies, absent spaces and chaotic places. But I feel tugged and tied; as if I have an incredible opportunity to work consistently and continuously with Deepa and yet I am taking break? Of course I have my reasons, my justifications, but what about my lack of commitment to my goal? Or is it because I doubt my goal: That I can help Deepa find words? That I can facilitate a space for a better future for the blind kids? I know that for the other work I do – in Sealdagh dispensary, teaching yoga in the slums, even being a clown - this is all replaceable. I am replaceable.

The exception is with Deepa. For some reason, I feel that I know that when I am not fighting for those kids there is no one else who is. The arrogance of my assumptions has called me to closely examine my self; do I really believe that no-one else will look out for the blind kids? That no-one else will try to ensure their education, their exposure to life skills? That no-one else will give them a taste of independence. Of course I don't know the answer, but I definitely feel the pressure of the responsibility, and if I am honest, the power which comes with that – that I have the opportunity to make a difference in a city full of chaos and a world which drives me as insane as it does exhalted. Perhaps this is what fuels my connection to Deepa – the desperateness of trying to share compassion here and a potential outlet with possible success. But then when I write 'connection' the answer I am searching for it given. It is a feeling deep inside, of a common energy of subtle comprehension that I and this little seven year old have.

So yes, leaving, even just for a short time, brings confusing chaos into my mind. Motives, motivations, aims? Continuous decisions for life changing paths.

I am leaving from Howrah station at ten o'clock this evening. I will arrive at Pune in two days time. I will travel across half of the country and be very far away from everything which has given meaning to the present. I look forward to returning. I look forward to leaving.

Back in a little while

I knew it was going to be a tough day. It was my last day at Sishu Bhavan after all – well at least for a while – and digesting the day which is about to finish, I know I have made the right choice by taking some time out. I think I am near bursting point. I am super charged, with an incredible amount of energy but it is taking a huge amount of effort to continue to direct this energy in a positive way. The last few weeks have been intense, and the last few days a culmination of failed expectations and potentialities. I have visited, called and emailed Bengali speech therapists, ngos fighting for the rights of blind kids and yoga therapy centres. I have made personal visits to as any Sisters from the Missionaries of Chairty as I could, planting the seeds of hope and the vision/illusion of a support base. I have tried to share my experiences with other long term volunteers at Sishu Bhavan, hoping that they will be motivated to continue the work with Deepa while I am away. I have updated the folder I made for her last year, showing her progress so that any new volunteers will know exactly where she is at: that she can eat her own food, that she can change her clothes, that she can find her bed, chair, the park. But our connection is unique, and I know she will be lucky to find a volunteer who will be willing to fight for her as I try to, or even to find someone who will try to teach her rather than pick her up and put her down, change her nappy and feed her lunch. The easy life is to go with the flow, and at Sishu Bhavan that usually means turning a blind eye to 'uncomfortable' events, avoiding confrontation and following orders. I have not done that, and it requires much diplomacy and continuous lessons in patience and perseverance and at times unavoidable confrontations.

Ultimately what I have tried to do during these past few weeks is to dedicate as much of my energy as I could to Deepa, without creating reliance on her part. It has been tricky as the dividing line drawn between spending intense and quality time with her and facilitating more permanent and productive opportunities has become faded and the goals blurred. I have such a faith in Deepa's ability to speak precisely because of all the time we have spent together. I feel her potential. The way she sits with me, walks and dances, laughs and trusts me has brought our communication to a much deeper and more sensitive level. And when I compare it to other relationships I have with friends and family, which is often founded on words and visual responses, I realise my friendship with Deepa is totally unique.

We know each other through subtle senses, and ironically, as I am trying to open Deepa up to 'our' way of talking, she has began to communicate in a much softer and at times much more 'truthful' ways. I know she knows me, and likewise, I know her – her tempers, her anger, her love for action and activity, but also her sensitivity masked by incomprehension. And yet during all of our sessions, our games, tears and laughter, she has still to utter more than a broader range of sounds and a impressive collection of tunes – Deepa has still to talk.

Meanwhile, the other half of my focus has been to network with those more 'experienced'. With the Special Language Practitioners, with the local ngos and blind educators. Yet with every door which opens, I seem to be surprised with a deep and wide hole over which I need to leap; decisions which would seemingly not exist in a rational world are brought to question, and I have ended up witnessing intense disappointment followed by renewed and reviewed strategies for success.

Today - my last day for a while - I played the clown as the two girls with the most beautiful smiles in the world lay on the floor and jumped their bodies inches off the air in appreciation. Their screams brought a flock of curiosity from the active section, and before I knew it an improvised clowning sketch was transformed into a full blown performance, with the massis stifling giggles and sharing meaningful glances. After I searched and recovered a matching pair of shoes, rescued Deepa from one of the active older girls who has taken to kidnapping her for a run around the nursery, and retreived everything from my pockets from the little Chinese boy and his partner in crime the wide eyed boy, we made it to the stairs.

But this morning, Deepa was in a different place. My friends told me she must have known that I was leaving. I told them she was just somewhere else. But after a few steps she reached up to pull me down and then hooked her arms around my neck and jumped her legs around my waist. She wanted a hug and she would not be put down until she was reassured that I was with her...I intermittently carried her to the park, putting her down whenever a Sister approached I pacified Deepa by swinging her in circles or bending her down to throw her up towards the sun kissed sky. In the park she took me straight to the big swing-for-ten, and then swung her legs over my lap to continue her hug. Today she wanted reassurance from me, she wasn't sad, in fact she spent most of the day in outbursts of laughter, but she wanted to be very close to me.

At the end of the day I took her to the corner and sat her on one of the big yoga balls. I told her I was leaving, but that I loved her. I told her I would be thinking of her and would be back very soon. I told her that she is incredible, brave, strong and amazing. I told her to have courage, as she was not alone, and even though I wouldn't be there to guide her, tickle her or share the world with her, I would still be with her. She tipped herself towards me, rolling off the ball and leaned her head on my shoulder. She placed her hand on my throat to feel the vibrations of my words and listen with her hands. When no more words came, as my thoughts had moved to my eyes, she reached for my wrists and rolled my blue bead bracelet between her pianist fingers. I pushed the bouncey ball down so that she sprang up and she laughed her crazy, beautiful pure and present laugh.

Leaving

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Thoughts of leaving Deepa fill my body with sadness which leaks out through the meaningless tears forming tiny puddles on the bottom lids of my eyes. Again the same sentiments of last year are creeping through me. I feel like a traitor. I feel like I am abandoning her. I feel that I have not tried hard enough. I feel that I am not committed to her. I need to leave for a bit. The intensity of Kolkata has drummed through me, and I am not at my most productive. The sounds, the smells, the craziness, all that I love, also drives me insane. The inability to realise simple objectives, for rationality to prevail, makes me frustrated to the point that my words become shouts as I type. The abscess which left me unable to sit, walk or bend took too much energy, and although I feel great now, it was another challenge, which needs a little rest to recover from.

I have made the excuse to myself that I am going to see the south of India – where there seem to be many more projects for blind children. In the south there are exciting new clinics from Sight Savers International, aimed at the rehabilitation of blind children into main stream education, or at the sharing of essential life skills. In Tamil Nadu there is a famous yoga ashram for blind children. It sounds wonderful. I want to see it – I want to experience it. I want ideas of what is possible here in India, in Deepa's country of her birth. I want to add contacts to those I already have, and continue to bring fresh possibilities and potentialities to the options I am trying to help Deepa find for the dream of a future outside of the institution. But leaving Deepa even for a few days is tough – let alone for a few weeks. It will be harder to restart; she has made more progress in these past months; she has become so much more responsive to me than ever before - even in comparison to last years visit. But now I choose to abandon her, and abandon is exactly what it feels like. 

A dear friend wrote and to me with words which ran through my eyes, trespassing on the salty pool of my eye lids and then hugging me from inside. Her words triggered comprehension, and at the same time tried to release me from my self imposed 'guilt'. My friend wrote:

“I support you 100000% make the life beautiful for Deepa is a big challenge and you make it so well, do not forget yourself also if you want her to be happy.. and this is the hardest point to reach!! not feeling guilty by taking time for our self... gratitude and love are so important!!!”

My sponsor told me to look after myself, otherwise I would be no good to anyone, 'even to Deepa'. Their understanding and wisdom lunged deeper into my spirit. I am not living up to my own expectations. I am not living up to the expectations, that Deepa should have for me. But Deepa does not have expectations. She has never had control over anyone who comes and goes in her seven years of life. Abandoned by the parents she hardly had a chance to know. Abandoned for being blind, to grow up with the beautiful children around her who she will never see, and most of whom are unable to move or to talk, and those that can, who take her toys and fill her ears with their screams and shouts.

Volunteers come and love her and make her feel safe, and she rewards them with her trust. Volunteers come and love her and then so easily leave her.

I know I will be back soon, but I can not even tell her that. I can not tell her my plans. I can not tell her the research I have been doing on the afternoons which I have not come to work with her. I can not tell her how if she lets herself find words, her life will surely improve. I can not tell her that even though I will not be with her, playing with her and exploring with her that I will be thinking of her. Can not, can not, can not.

I feel her energy. I feel her power. I feel her beauty. I trick myself by pretending this intangible, invisible connection will mean something to her when I am not there to fight for the space for her to learn about and live in our world.

Thoughts of leaving Deepa fill my being with sadness, disappointment, frustration. Hypocritical tears.

Hippy Terrorist

I have met a hippy in a bus. Actually that is a bit of a clique. He is not a hippy, he just has a hippy-like bus and happens to be travelling around the world in it. Perhaps a better way to describe him would be as an 'environmentalist' or even an 'environmental activist'. This is because he is not just bumming around the world, opting out of society, but rather he is on a mission to try and change some attitudes. His bus runs on bio fuel and his personal mandate is "to drive around the world to discover how people are using and generating energy, and their attitudes t0wards carbon emissions."

During his round the world trip the Environmentalist is carrying out a survey "to see how likely we are to meet the 2050 emissions target of two tonnes per person", what is more is that unlike the rest of us who hop on planes without a second thought, he is trying to conduct the whole project without going beyond the ration of two tonnes of carbon emissions.

The Environmentalist drove through Europe, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan and all was going very well. That is at least until he arrived in India, and then something rather unfortunate happened. While he was sleeping in his hippy bio fuel bus in a town called Ajmer, the Rajashtan Military Intelligence burst into his little home and arrested him as a terror suspect. He was put in the local jail for seven days, and then released on bail. He was told he was not allowed to leave the country and would have to wait to be called to trial. His crime? Possessing a satellite phone. And of course being highly suspicious travelling around with a bus full of bio fuel, and did I mention he was a paraglider? Which in January was a sport which threw the Mumbai police into terror themselves at the very thought of paragliders gliding over and dropping bombs.

Meanwhile, the Rajashtan Military Intelligence were very proud of themselves and told the press they had caught a terror suspect. The Environmentalist's photo was all over the national papers, and now there was no chance of the Rajashtan Military Intelligence backtracking and admitting that the hippy bus and its driver posed no threat to their national security. That was over a month ago and since then the Rajashtan Military Intelligence called over one hundred officers to come up with some more evidence than a satellite phone which had not even been used in India. Meanwhile, the Environmentalist spent the money saved for his carbon campaign on hiring a lawyer, and so far he has paid out a whooping £6000.

The Environmentalist's trial was today. I read his facebook status this morning and it read:

By tonight either it's all over, or i'm starting a 3yr sentence, or there will be a complication & another delay. Safe money's on C.

I sent him a text message of support, feeling totally impotent and at the same time aware of the but very real threat that he might be on his way to a few years in an Indian prison.

Thankfully reason has prevailed and instead of sitting out the next few years in jail, the judge fined the Environmentalist 1000 rupees (15 Euros) and gave him back his confiscated satellite phone on condition that he does not "use, sell or destroy in India."

To the Environmentalist:

I hope you can continue your journey and carry your message far and wide. And this message is not just that the world is facing a huge carbon emissions crisis that may, but risks being consumed by words such as 'terror' and 'suspicion'. Don't give up, the message is important. There are many good people who need to be reminded to think and not to follow; just like you continue to do. Peace brother.

To read more about the Environmentalist's adventures see http://www.2tonnesofcarbon.blogspot.com/

Day Out

Something has just happened that has brought tears to my eyes. As I sit here typing a little boy from Daya Dan orphanage has just walked in. I am sitting in Raj's internet cafe which is (depending on the time of the day) a small little sanctuary tucked behind Sudder Street. I am surrounded by Spanish volunteers, life and laughter. The little boy walks around, investigating. Raj presents him with one of his delicious chocolate muffins and a cup of hot milk, but the little boy just wants to explore. Raj's puppy of a watch dog jumps out making the little boy jump behind the counter. The little boy was badly bit by a street dog when he used to live at the train station. Now the little boy lives in Daya Dan, which is another of the Missionaries of Charities orphanages for physically and mentally challenged children. But to say that the little boy lives in Daya Dan is slightly misleading.

The little boy has a 'special' room with padded walls, and the Sisters enter with a large prodding stick which they use to manoeuvre him around. The little boy is eight years old. He is severely autistic and finds it difficult to control his emotions, so he spends a great deal of his day banging his head on the floor or walls. Then a couple of months ago a Spanish volunteer who also happens to be a special needs teacher, was assigned to work with the boy. For some reason, unlike Sishu Bahavan, the Sister in charge of Daya Dan has the foresight to realise that some children can benefit from having one to one tuition with the same volunteer.

The Spanish volunteer worked hard at helping the little boy control his anger, teaching him to count to five whenever he felt like hitting himself or someone else. Then it was time for the volunteer to return to Spain, but before she did she did something which I wish I had the courage to emulate. She took the little boy out of Daya Dan for the entire day. Volunteers are not allowed to take the children out for the day, or even for an hour. Even if we have been working with them for months, and even if the children never leave the building they grow up in for months at a time. On occasion they might be ferried to the Mother House to attend mass, or perhaps a local NGO might arrange an outing for the children, or if it is the festive season, the children of Daya Dan will tour the Missionaries of Charities other homes performing their nativity play. Often I have day dreamed about taking Deepa to the water park, or to a musical performance, but considering the challenges I sometimes have just taking her to the park inside of the Sishu Bhavan my ideas remain just that - day dreams.

But today, the Spanish volunteer stood up for the little boy, and left the Sister a note and assumed total ignorance, as if she did not know that the child was not a loud to leave his cell or even the prison of the orphanage. Instead she took the little boy to the circus where he saw an elephant, and tight rope walkers and ate pop corn. She allowed the little boy to be free, and to take responsibility for his actions and at the end of the day, she brought him to Raj's for cake and milk, and to show everyone what an incredibly good boy the “very bad and very dangerous boy” could be - when allowed.

The courageous volunteer filmed his behaviour with a video camera and soon when she returns the little boy back to Daya Dan she will show the Sister in charge how 'normal' the little boy can be.

The Power of Hugs

The blind children love touch. Mita giggles whenever I tickle her face, and Netu dimples her cheeks and kicks her legs when I tickle her tummy. They both love to be picked up and when I do they place their heads on my chest and listen to my silent heart beat.

Thankfully, child massage is pretty big in India, and as a result the massi's massage most of the physically challenged kids every day. However, it is not allowed to pick up the children, and even though I also agree the children who are able to need to learn to walk and not to be carried, when it comes to the blind babies, touch is essential. There is a fine line between comforting a blind baby and letting them know your presence and being scared to touch them for breaking the rules.

Deepa is also incredibly tactile and is becoming more so as our relationship grows. Her need for touch led me to a book entitled "The Power of Touch." Throughout the book the author (Phyllis Davis) refers to scientific studies supporting the importance of the human touch, and in particular its importance to children. She refers to scientific studies showing that inadequate touch not only leads to mental retardation, but is also a prime factor in marasmus (wasting away) which used to be the main cause of death of babies in orphanages. Davis refers to research showing that sensory stimulation actually increases a child's general alertness and responsiveness to learning: "Touch and tactile stimulation can increase a child's intelligence and learning ability". This seems incredibly relevant to Deepa, who is not only working to overcome delayed learning but who has also received very little tactile stimulation after growing up in the orphanage. Touch (along with hearing) is the principle way which Deepa is able to see and to experience our world.

I find myself in a rather stupid position as Deepa wants lots of hugs but I am not meant to reciprocate. Thankfully this does not stop her from trying and today as we were playing in the park, she gave me a beautiful hug, which I simply could not refuse.

I want to share this huge hug with you, as even from the photos it is clear how natural and innate Deepa's need for a hug was, and indeed her touch (as always) was incredibly powerful. However, the Sister who appeared on the roof was immune to Deepa's hugging energy, and shouted down to me to stop hugging her, so instead I turned her upside down and tickled her :-)

Karma Yoga

Perhaps I have a romantic view of yoga in India. One of wise guru's patiently handing down knowledge from centuries past. Of incredible mentors possessing healing energies and keys of enlightened practise, and uncorrupted by modern day materialism and monetary gain.

I am sitting at the World Yoga Society (WOYOSO) 'chamber' in Golpa Park in Kolkata, it feels as if I am in a doctors waiting room; and a private exclusive one at that. The waiting room is tiny and full of plastic chairs, all of which are occupied. Here 'yoga' takes on a different meaning to the 'asana' based practises of western yoga studies. But I am careful not to say 'more commercialised' yoga studios, as here in Kolkata, WOYOSO has branded its own medicines and is doing a soaring trade in the homeopathic remedies. The remedies include rilopain "for aching muscles" (perhaps useful after too many or too few yoga asanas), vigotine "for strengthening vital energy and nervous ability'", diofem "to prevent all kinds of female diseases". And sneezocold "against all kinds of maladies!"

The patients are waiting to be cured; to be given a diagnosis, a prescription and most likely repeat appointments. I am curious about both the treatments, success and the root of its popularity. Perhaps homeopathy is so successful as it appeals to the elements of traditional Ayurvedic knowledge that many local people still practice? But the 'yoga' connection is also interesting – is it a marketing ploy to appeal to people's ideas of healthy body and healthy mind, or is it a genuine medical treatment? My cause of doubt is confusing as the 'yogis' and 'yoginis' in front of me do not exactly fit into any preconceived (Western) stereotype. They are clearly from the wealthier social class and in what seems to be a mark of prosperity, they are all a little over weight. Some are elderly and all are very well dressed suggesting that they are indeed not here for asana practice; one is even wearing a neck brace.

The waiting room houses a small book case of dusty fabric covered record books which look hundreds of years old. But founded by Dr Das in 1970 perhaps the aged look is more to do with dust then with authenticity. It is the founder who I am waiting to see and whose enlarged framed photograph draws the patients eyes; or at least mine. The photo looks (from the once stylish pudding bowl haircuts) to have been taken in the seventies, but the ancient appearance of the timelessly old figure of Mother Teresa makes the date difficult to verify. Mother Teresa stands between Dr Das and Dr Das (Dr Das's 'older' brother). She is receiving a certificate from the WOYOSO. This pricks my curiosity as to the nature of the award; pure publicity or was Mother a closet yogi?

I first met Dr Das a couple of months ago. I was walking back from Sealdah dispensary when I noticed a huge banner advertising a 'World Yoga Competition'. After a few seconds of lingering curiosity I was invited inside and given front row seats next to the chairman himself. The competition was brilliant. It was held over the duration of three days and although it might not have been as universal as the title had suggested, it was certainly national. Children and young women and men from all over the country were there to compete. I witnessed asanas I had never seen, or even read about in books before. The participants effortlessly bent themselves backwards and forwards and inside out, with feet next to ears and ribs inflated to counter pose triple jointed hips. Flexibility was the central theme, and I suddenly felt very self-conscious of teaching my weekend yoga classes to kids around the city, when they might all embody this incredible potential.

On the third day of the competition Dr Das invited me to the award ceremony held at the Science City auditorium, and feeling privileged to be the receipatant of such an offer I went. The auditorium was huge with a stage full of cups and medals. The winners from the junior boy and girls and senior men and women were presented not once or twice but with a continuous stream of awards – all donated by different people, and after nearly two hours of awards it began to feel as if the ceremony was more of a name dropping social event than a celebration of yoga. As always the unexpected happened, and I was ushered out of the audience and to the backstage. Before I had a chance to protest I was donned with a mortar board and university gown and joined a line of equally random 'yogis and yoginis'. We were marched on stage and I was presented with a huge certificate and accompanying cup for 'best foreign practitioner'. The chairman tipped his hat to me in recognition, as I smiled at the irony of receiving an award for doing nothing but being one the only foreign yoga practitioner in the audience. At the yoga competition he had presented me with six or seven of his name cards at different intervals, insisting that I come to visit him and learn more about the many yoga and holistic healing courses of WOYOSO.

A young boy living with down syndrome is ushered out of the doctor's room. He sits on a chair next to me and wraps his legs underneath him. He looks up and grins at me. Then he laughs; I beam back and feel a sense of gratitude for the wealth and dedication of his family. My parallel thoughts take me to Peter – the little boy with down syndrome who used to live in Sishu Bahavan before he was prematurely moved to another of the Missionaries of Charities homes for disabled men. Memories of Peter link back my thoughts to the therapeutic effects of yoga for physically challenged kids; those who sit in the same room day after day. But I am not here to ask Dr Das to renew his affiliation with the Missionaries of Charities, but rather to ask if he has any eager students who would be interested in gaining some experience by taking over my weekly yoga classes at Tala Park School. After seeing his organisations commitment to spreading yoga through the younger generations, while being the leading school in educating new teachers, I had been growing excited about the idea of WOYOSO sharing their knowledge and expertise with the budding yogi's and yoginis at Tala Park.

After the waiting room had emptied of all of its patients, including those who arrived several hours after me, I was finally ushered into Dr Das's office. The blank look on his face triggered a warning signal, but after quickly reminding him of my new status of 'best foreign practitioner' he warmed and shone his trademark smile. Dr Das told me he had been eagerly awaiting my visit and I happily shared my idea of a karma yoga weekend class, whereby his student teachers might be able to extend their experience while at the same time provide the slum kids from Tala Park school with a totally novel and otherwise inaccessible class. I told him of the irony I felt of teaching a yoga class to Indian kids as well as the obvious language barrier. I told him how the school was run totally on donations, while simultaneously supporting medical clinics, leprosy centres and a women's training centre. He replied by saying the fee would be 100 rupees per 45 minute class. This is the price of two weeks worth of lunch for a child. Then without wasting any more time Dr Das began to bombard me with details of the many yoga teacher training courses he offered. He enthusiastically explained that for 10,000 rupees (the price of five months of formal mainstream schooling for one of the Tala Park kids) I could walk away with an authentic certificate after only one week, guaranteeing my abilities as a yoga practitioner and foreign teacher.

I walked away after buying a children's yoga book and poster which I intended to give to the teachers at Tala Park school. It will be a small gesture in the hope they may be inspired to try their hand at a little informal karma yoga. As I said, perhaps I have naive belief in the philosophy behind the business of yoga.

Solutions

It is a fine line between accepting what you cannot change and passivity. Demotivated by my own inability to implement simple improvements, I decided to be try a new approach and seek external support. I emailed as many local and international organisations working with blind children as I could find on the net, as well as Indian, Canadian and American speech therapists and special needs teachers. After a cyber silence and feeling utterly isolated I began to receive some incredibly helpful and suggestive replies, which have once again kick started me into a more pro-active stance.

One of the hardest challenges to tackle is that the Sister in charge of the disabled children at Sishu Bhavan, does not want any of the children to receive special help. After several months of watching her work and handle the complaints of the volunteers about the treatment of the children I realise that she is quite the diplomat, that is until she feels volunteers are acting on their own initiative. When Climber Woman was here last year, attempting to use her training as a speech therapist to work with Deepa, her greatest fight was not against Deepa's silence but against the Sister's reluctance that she should be receiving 'special treatment'. This provided an added challenge to try and circumnavigate and I began by asking the Sister what she thought Sishu Bhavan needed in terms of practical assistance. Her initial reply was 'disposable nappies' (for when the children are admitted to hospital, so it is no longer appropriate to use the material subsitutes) and 'orthotic shoes' (for the many children who have distorted limbs).

When I enquired about whether another speech therapist would be useful, she agreed that the current cost of the weekly session provided by the Bengali Speech and Hearing Chamber, was an extortionate one thousand rupess (£14/ $22). I asked if it would be useful for her if I managed to raise money for another weekly session, and if so whether this could mean that Deepa and the other blind children would finally have access to what is for them an essential service. After she agreed and with a timely donation from a friend from Bali, I was able to give her enough money for four months of additional speech therapy lessons.

For safe measure I went to visit the Bengali Speech and Hearing Chamber, and met with the speech therpaist who works at Sishu Bhavan. He told me that he had briefly began to work with Deepa and the blind children. However, they required much longer sessions than the sighted children, so a decision was taken to exclude them from the therapy. He confirmed that the Sister had now asked for a second weekly session, and assured me that he will begin to work with the blind children.

Other aventues I have been exploring stem from a email reply from Sight Savers International (SSI). Perhaps their reply was due to our mutual origins of Scotland, but either way they provided an essential life line - the address of their branch in Kolkata. In the past weeks I have visited SSI-Kolkata several times, and they have been unbelievably helpful. They have ladened me with stacks of reading materials in English, Bengali and Hindi, as well as summaries of their world wide projects to share with Sishu Bhavan and Daya Dan (another of the Missionaries of Charities homes with blind children in their care). SSI have a mandate which includes the prevention of the unnecessary loss of sight, the education of blind and low vision children, as well as the social inclusion of individuals affected by blindness. In West Bengal SSI run the first centre for blind children with multiple disabilities, and immediately offered to accomodate Deepa and the other of the blind children. Knowing the Missionaries of Charities reluctance to let go of the kids in its care, it is an offer full of potential but devoid of any relevance. However, SSI also run two week long trainings for caregivers of blind children. They offered to pay for the Sisters and massis from both Sishu Bhavan and Daya Dan to attend their next training in April. The training will be held in Bengali. This is perfect for the massis, who have limited Hindi and no English, and it would be a step in the right direction to changing their attitudes towards the blind children, from one of 'disabled' victims to children with incredible talents, creative vision and limitless potential.

SSI also offered to provide low vision aids such as telescopes and walking sticks free of cost; this would be brilliant for the little Chinese boy. They also invited me to visit their many centres across India and were genuinely very eager to assist me in my search for the provision of life skills and basic education for the blind children at Sishu Bhavan.

After every visit to SSI I left feeling a little less lonely in my battle to open unnecessary closed doors for Deepa and the blind babies. However, approaching the Sister has been a little harder (or actually impossible) as she has been hidden away on a religious retreat for what feels like an eternity. I mentioned my visits to another of the Sisters, but despite her enthusiasm she is not the one which calls the shots, but perhaps it did a little to build up my imaginary support base. I did however visit Daya Dan to talk with the Sister about SSI's offers. Her immediate response for the free training was the dubious claim that her workers were already 'trained', although she had no objections to receiving some free low vision aids.

As always, the way is not clear from obstacles, but I will continue to raise money for the speech therapy lessons which I wish the Missionaries of Charity had the foresight to provide, and continue to try and build a relationship with a potentially powerful organisation with the skills and training urgently needed at Sishu Bhavan.

Trusts Me

What can I say. I love Deepa. For a child of no relation, for a child who cannot see me, who cannot talk to me, who cannot understand most of what I say, I love her. She is incredible, inspirational, amazing and brave. Every morning, as I walk into Sishu Bhavan, I'll quickly search for her and usually find her standing behind the cots next to the window, or in the corner, banging on the plastic bin which hides the orthopedic shoes. I go over to her and say good morning. A smile will come across her face, and she will turn and look for my hands. She will flick my watch strap to make sure it is me, and she will roll her fingers over my blue bead bracelets, as if she is confirming my identity, that I am not a dream, that her day has began and I am here to explore it with her.

Lately Deepa has began to pull herself closer to me, hanging from my arm, and resting her head on my stomach as we walk to find her shoes to the park. She will hum a tune we sing together – the words of which go:

“Deepa is amazing, yes she is, la la la la laa la la la laaa la la la la la. We love Deepa, yes we do la la la la laa la la la laaa la la la la la.”

She trusts me totally, allowing me to guide her even when I do not notice a fold in the carpet and she trips, or when I walk directly to the massis for her daily dose of vitamins stepping over the kids who lay on the floor all morning, forcing Deepa to either walk on them or fall on them. Or when I hold her hand as we walk next to one of the Missionaries of Charities buses and she taps the tinny metal and then finds the door open and curiosity leads her to lean inside as I keep walking, causing her to bang her head on the door. Despite all of these stupid mistakes, she still trusts me. When we are playing with the Tibetan singing bowl, and the little Chinese boy comes and tries to place his lips on the rim, feeling the vibrations, but simultaneously stopping the sound, Deepa will become confused and frustrated. I will try and control the little Chinese boy, but more children will come and climb on top of me, and push Deepa out of the way. As I try and hold onto the Tibetan bowl and the wooden stick, the little Chinese boy will become angry at the lack of vibrating sound and he will lean over to the closest person – to Deepa – and plunge his teeth into her hand. It takes me seconds to react, but by that time Deepa already has teeth marks dug deeply into her skin which will gradually fade into a lasting bruise. Despite this she still trusts me.

When I do not come to work one day, because I am teaching yoga, or because I am ill, I can not tell her. I can not explain to her why I am not there. That day I know she will not leave the room. She will be walking around the chaos on her own. Grabbed by the active kids, moved around by the massis, walking like a little cowgirl as she hates the feel of her wet nappy. She will not be allowed to feed herself lunch, and instead will be fed. Forcefully. She will not learn, she will not sing apart from to shout to herself, she will not explore any new sounds, or be encouraged to reach her arms out to protect herself. She will not go to the roof, or to the singing sea-saw in the park, or the swirling merry-go-around, or climb to the top of her little Queendom by scaling the heights of the concrete slide. She will not listen to the too many tweeting birds in a cage too small, or feel for the stubby leaves of the bushes. But the next day, when I go and find her, she will reach for me, and smile, and lean on me, and trust me.

I feel like I know Deepa. I feel her energy, her moods, her fears and courage. I feel her power and despite my urge to protect her, I feel her strength to struggle through. I want to give her everything I cannot. I want to give her a future, love, knowledge, experience of our beautiful world. But I cannot even teach her to use the toilet or to find the words to express herself.

Yes I love Deepa, and I wish I had the courage and fortitude to even try to adopt her. I do not.

Songs from Kalighat

Two years ago this May I visited Nirmal Hriday. It was Mother Teresa's first of many homes, and known as her 'home for the dying and destitute' in Kalighat . What I remember of those first days as a volunteer was seeing a mirror for the first time of a reality which I could not handle. I saw the sheltered aspects of what I had arrogantly presumed to be a worldly life. The suffering of the patients; their pain paired with a defeat born from acting out their roles that came with their free cot, filled my mind with confusing justifications. I was forced to question what I was doing and why I could not do it. I lasted only a few days at Nirmal Hriday, and event though at the time I felt defeated and humbled, it was ultimately intelligence which made me leave. I left and moved to Sishu Bhavan where I uncovered another secret – a skill set which I had not realised that I possessed, and of course I met one of my most powerful life mentors - Deepa.

But thanks to Kolkata, in the past two years many gaps have been filled. My naivety has been dulled, and although important questions may not have been answered, at least they have been asked. And as life has a habit of doing, the very reason why I ever stopped in Kolkata is now working by my side.

Two years ago while I was living one of my many lives, my friend – an Angel diguised as a mermaid - and I were working under the sea with the ultra rich and a lifestyle which I had the privilege choosing. She told me about her previous work in Kolkata and told me to visit. It just so happened that the cheap flights from Bangkok to India were to Kolkata, and it just so happened that the first volunteer I spoke to once I arrived was a friend of the Angel's, who took me to register at the Missionaries of Charity. Now our paths have crossed again, and the Angel is volunteering at Nirmal Hriday and has asked my advice for how to work with the blind women confined to their beds. Using this as an opportunity to face a previous trauma I went back to revisit what I had once walked away from in nauseous tears.

Now I walked into Kalighat and saw a very different picture. I saw rows of women who had forcibly had their heads shaved. I saw rows of women who did have families, but for whatever reason were separated from them while no effort was being made to soothe that wound nor rectify that deep and raw separation. I no longer saw helpless victims or "bags of bones"; instead I saw very weak and sick ladies, sucked of energy by the asphyxiating atmosphere and devoid of options by a failing society. All of the volunteers, with the exception of the Angel, were drinking their afternoon chai on the roof, which even if the patients had the strength to climb the stairs, they are forbidden to. The Angel was beaming out her contagious energy; a natural nurse with an innate comforting presence. She led me through the rows of beds to a very old women who is living with cataracts. One of her eyes was totally glazed over with a thick milky layer, while the other was fighting the invading and unwelcome skin. She was almost totally blind. I introduced myself and she motioned for me to sit on remaining space left in her little cot. She was one of the ladies who astound me with their grasp of the English language, providing a key to a past lifetime away from their deserted and poverty driven reality. I asked her if she liked music, as I had come armed with my karimbu, but she was not interested in being entertained. Instead she quickly found out we had a favourite poet in common, and she began to recite songs by Rabindranath Tagore. She sang beautiful melodies in her native Bengali before translating them into English, moving her hand from side to side as she conducted her own renditions. Her voice was incredible, perfect, and her songs blacked out the rest of the ward, killing the discomfort and occasional moans of the women laying all around us.

The singing blind lady had actually studied at Santiniketan – Tagore's world renouwn school and unverisity. She recollected the concerts which her and her freinds would perform, allowing a smile to capture her face and take her back to a colourful happy time safe under the guard of her memory. I left her humming to herself as the Angel motioned me over to another cot, on which lay a much younger women – a women only twenty years old, but also living without sight.

The woman had been picked up at the station after being severely weak and malnourished. After a short stay in Kalighat she was much stronger and the Sister's are searching for somewhere else for her to go. The options are few – she can either return to live at Howrah train station, begging in her darkness, or perhaps the Sister's will move her to Shanti Dan.

Shanti Dan is one of the Missionaries of Charities homes for mentally disabled women. I have never visited, but I have heard several accounts of the ancient treatments used on the women. I know a volunteer nurse who was asked to leave after she began protesting about the use of electric shock treatment, including on epileptic patients. I stayed for only a few minutes by the side of the young women who I did not know. She lay still, with her legs curled into her chest under her uniform night dress. She remained rightly uninterested in my presence and besides all I could do was listen to the alarm bells ringing inside my head.

It will not be long before Deepa will be a young woman still under the care of the Missionaries of Charity. This is my motivation; for a different future for Deepa other than the one which is already laid out.

City Palanquin

Most mornings as I walk to Sishu Bhavan, I pass a hand cart puller. On his hand cart sits a very old lady. The very old lady seems disinterested in her journey, as if she has made it many times before; perhaps for many years before. Sometimes, the hand cart is filled with sacks of something. But even then, the very old lady will sit perched on top; like a queen being pulled through her kingdom. The hand cart puller seems not to notice her; as her weight amounts to little more than one of his many sacks. Despite the honking horns, smoking exhausts, rushing and pushing, the very old lady remains seeminly oblivious to her journey; as if she is already in a distant place far far away.

Every day our lives pass briefly; everyday I day dream about her life. Meaningless thoughts far removed from her reality, as she travels barefoot on top of a hand pulled cart and I stop to take a photograph.

Life

It doesn't have much to do with India. Or perhaps it does; as we are all part of one world, and life should be valued equally where ever we are, and whether or not we know those who have left this world - as we all will eventually.

I have just read a few moments ago, that the whole family of my friend and colleagues from the Alternative Information Centre was killed on Sunday, during a car crash in Southern Israel. His daughter (Noam), new born son (Ya'ari), wife (Efrat) and mother in-law (Ester).

How life can just change in a day.

Bryan, I am sending you so much love, thoughts, power and strength. I wish there was something more useful that I could say.

As always - In Solidarity.

Little Yogis

On Saturday I morph from social worker to yoga teacher. In the morning I teach yoga at a school for kids from the slums, and in the afternoon I teach the wonderful young women at the Soma home. This is four classes in total, and the two different locations are at entirely opposite ends of the city. Thanks to Kolkata's metro (which for many years caused total mayhem during its construction) all this means is short quick journeys squashed into a moving sardine tin, and then a couple of beautiful walks through two totally different areas. During my morning walk I pass a small market over spilling from the pavement and into the traffic of the road, leading towards a huge playing field rimmed by equally huge pipes. The pipes suggest a recent move to upgrade Kolkata's sewage system from one constructed by the British at the turn of the century to serve a population of 600,000. Today the same pipes are being used and the population is bordering on fifteen million. The new pipes have been waiting to be laid for months, and in the meantime, a few resourceful individuals have taken to living inside them, with bedding piled high, and portable stoves at the entrance. Inside the playing field lives many families, who during the winter months can enjoy dry days and nights, free from the darkness of the plastic tarpaulin rigged against the monsoon rains. All across the fields are boys and young men, showing their loyalty to the national game of cricket, as their sons and younger brothers cheer them on, or improvise their own mini versions on the parallel streets through the aid of rolled up plastic bags as a makeshift ball and broken branches as bats.

Tala Park school is situated next to the playing field and educates many of the children who live in its bustees. The school is ran by Calcutta Rescue, which despite its unfortunate name is an internationally funded organisation committed to reducing the health and social costs of poverty. Unlike many other of Kolkata's NGOs, Calcutta Rescue does not depend on foreign volunteers or function solely through providing free hands outs. The few volunteers who do work there have a mandate to share their professional skills by training the organisations staff and implementing improvements where possible. For example, their Austrian chemist oversees the stocktaking and distribution of medication. There is a teacher from Poland who trains the local teachers on innovative methods including how to control the children without resorting to physical abuse. There is a special needs social worker from the USA who works alongside the local team of doctors and counselors to share new knowledge and techniques.

Calcutta Rescue provide education to over 500 children from the slum areas. The children are given two meals a day to try and discourage truancy and improve levels of concentration. There are mobile clinics, outreach programs and a clinic specifically for TB patients and a general clinic which includes a section for Mother and Child providing lessons on nutrition and hygiene. All patients receive reimbursement for their transport costs and a bag of dry food including lentils and rice. Any medicine is provided free of charge. Calcutta Rescue also operate a leprosy clinic, which consists of a large canvas tent that is erected and dismantled every day, due to the community fear of creating a permanent leper colony. The clinic provides the patients with government funded medicine, the full course of which can stem the progression of the disease, preventing further physical mutation and protecting family and friends from contamination. They run an arsenic mitigation program and a vocational training centre, where unemployed men and women (including widows and different-abled people) make a selection of handicrafts for sale at a weekly event held by volunteers in Sudder Street.

When I returned to Kolkata in November, I was invited to teach yoga to the children at the Tala Park school. The teachers were desperate for the kids to have some physical activity but employing a yoga teacher was beyond their already stringent budget. I have taught yoga to kids all over the place – in fields, in gardens, museums and occasionally in the more orthodox yoga studios, but at Tala Park one of the major challenges was the restriction of space. The school has two class rooms which are both equally tiny. Although I was offered a class of sixty children, it was logistically impossible for the children even to have enough space to turn around, so instead we divided the class into two. Now perhaps for sitting on the floor and studying this is plenty of room for thirty little bodies, but when it comes to stretching out and jumping into downward dogs all chaos breaks lose as hands and feet intermingle and individual bodies become disguised in a mass of limbs.

Although my students are young (around five and six years old) they are incredibly eager, and their happiness is contagious. Even during the times I feel I should be working with Deepa or am exhausted by the prospect of four classes to teach, after moments of being with the kids I am smiling and laughing and unaware of the flying time. The most appropriate word to describe the classes is 'hilarious'. The little yogis and yoginis have total concentration and they all try really hard to follow the poses. Our audience is the school's cooks and cleaners who peer through the iron bars of the windows, studying our movements, smiling widely and occasionally trying to imitate. Although the children cannot speak more than one word of English ('Hello'), and my Bangla is restricted (namo pa, oto pa, namo haat, oto haat – leg up, leg down, hand up, hand down) thanks to the committed translation of their class teacher, they all end up copying some version of the required asana. What is particularly amusing is that the kids loyally follow every move I make. So if I turn around to show them what the pose looks like from behind, all thirty kids will turn around. Meanwhile, the teacher has given me total control, and will translate only what I tell her to, meaning that if I have not noticed that the kids and me are now sitting back to back, that is how they will remain until I turn around again.

The balancing poses also require a great deal of creativity, otherwise all of the children will automatically lean out to their neighbor creating a domino effect of falling giggling bodies. The one culprit tends to be one little boy whose trouser zip is always broken, so in order to preserve his young modesty he insists on trying to do the tree pose with this trousers half way down his bum, preventing him from fully lifting his leg and instead toppling to the side and taking his little swaying friends with him. Now I try to preempt the collapse and ferry them over to the walls. Once one has achieved the pose I will be called over to verify and congratulate, bringing with it a stream of demands from every child in the room, as each one wants me to personally affirm their postures. Another winner is the 'lion pose', where the children have to kneel down and lean forwards, sticking out their tongues and roaring like a lion. This leads to sincere and dedicated 'RAHs' from the children but leaves the class teacher in total confusion as to why I would risk such potential anarchy. Watching the kids jump into full lotus reflects their experience in squatting and a life time of sitting on the floor rather than in more restrictive chairs.

Even the most shy of the children are able to contort their bodies into whatever pose I imagine, creating smiles and pride where perhaps there has been a previous drought. The class teacher commented how yoga 'evened' out her pupils. The more disruptive were calmed down by their determination to do the harder poses, while the kids who struggled academically glowed through their yogic successes. We end the class with a series of finishing poses including sitting in full lotus and humming 'om'. The children all close their eyes, with their hands aptly turned into chin mudra, while 'omming' with the most peaceful and genuine sincerity, leaving me with one eye searching for the giggles which never come. Afterwards they surround me to take my hand and bring it to their forehead as a very formal sign of respect and thanks.

Despite the irony of teaching yoga to Indian children, all of whom seem to have an innate flexibility which I can only dream of; it is an absolute privilege to share my Saturday morning's with such beaming and bright little people.

Durga the Survivor

There is an very old woman who comes to Sealdah dispensary and she has been coming for a very long time. She has a large hole in her leg, but it is improving, sort of. She is known by the long term station volunteers as 'Durga'. I know this is not her real name, as I have asked her many times. The problem is that her real name is so complicated that no matter how many times I ask her, I forget, so even I have reluctantly ended up calling her 'Durga'. It is bizarre that by giving a name I feel as if our relationship is a little more personal – even if it is a fake name. In return 'Durga' calls me 'my friend', and her reciprocal naming is loaded with much more affection than the name of a Hindu Goddess famous for dispelling fear and destruction as well as creation.

What is unusual about 'Durga' is that her English is perfect. Most of the patients who come to the dispensary come because they have no alternative. In monetary and health terms they are incredibly poor. They usually have little education, and as a result their grasp of English is very rudimentary. But Durga speaks what I would call 'the queen's English'. She uses ancient and antiquated words which make me sound comparatively ignorant and rude when talking with her. She has refined manners and scolds the mentally challenged men, who clean the dispensary, for splashing her belongings of a large plastic bag. She asks me many questions about my life and my dreams. Her sari is filthy and she never washes. It is still too cold for her to take a street bath she tells me, but I also know that she is very modest and with no change of clothes or underwear washing herself and her sari is something of a logistical problem. I have hidden bars of soap and washing powder in her bag; just in case, and I argued her case to the Sisters when they were distributing second hand sari's at Christmas. The new sari came and within a week it seemed as dirty as the old one and the old one was no where in sight.

The first time I met Durga she was sitting outside of the dispensary. She was not 'allowed' to come in because her infection was so severe that it had to be washed and dressed on the step outside as bandages were passed through the window. On this first occasion the large ulcerated hole in her leg was full of worms and had to be soaked in a liquid – the name of which I never know but which I know smells very strong and takes at least twenty minutes to kill the worms. This first time Durga was particularly upset that she had 'animals' in her leg. She was in excruciating pain, which described as making her 'senseless.' Although she must have been dealing with for weeks before, she could not help but try to move away from whenever the dead worms were carefully picked out with a pair of surgical tweezers. We changed tactics and worked in pairs, with Bruno cleaning and me holding both of her hands and desperately trying to distract her with irrelevant chitter chatter. It was during these conversations that I learned a little about Durga and how she came to be living at Sealdah train station.

Durga was from a high caste and rich family. Her father worked in the British administration and Druga herself had a love for the English language which she went on to study at university. She had an arranged marriage immediately after her studies finished and was wedded to “a wealthy gentlemen.” The couple had three children; two daughters and one son. Then her husband died. Now to be a widow in India is considered by many to be worse than dying itself; it is seen as a curse and in the past widows were encouraged or even forced to commit ‘sati’, jumping onto of their dead husband's funeral pyres and burning to ashes. The widows were (and in many areas still are) seen as a burden by the rest of the family. Traditionally it was unacceptable for the women to remarry and high caste women were forced to have their heads shaved and wear a white sari.

In Durga's case, she went to live with a relative of her husband but her life became very hard. The lady of her new household resented Durga's presence and began to look for reasons to put Durga on the street. What happened next is covered in shadows. Durga clearly does not like to talk about it, and she is likewise very vague when I ask her about the whereabout of her three children. However, Durga says she must have been living on the streets for over ten years and as far as I can tell it is on the streets that her long life of contrasts will most likely end. Durga is proud of the fact that never begs or eats out of the garbage, but instead she will patiently wait for food to come her way. She works hard at collecting plastics and rag materials which she will take to be recycled and receive a few rupees in return. In fact the huge plastic bag which she protectively guards is full of nothing other than carefully selected rubbish weighing around twelve or fourteen kilograms.

I do not know how her pseudo-name was chosen for her but I do know a little about the Goddess Durga as she is the Hindu equivalent of the patron saint of Kolkata. Durga – or Kali as she is also known - is accredited with being the Mother Goddess or the creator, preserver and destroyer of all of the universe. In Sanskrit Durga means "she who is incomprehensible or difficult to reach" and for her namesake this explains her continuous lapses in treatment where she will disappear for days at a time and come back with her white bandage black and green gangrenous pus oozing out of her wound. We will all lecture her, frustrated at her lack of commitment to healing her leg and our parallel inability to help to relieve her pain.

There is another translation to Durga which adds an even more curious twist to the description so far. It means "the one who eliminates sufferings." So it is Durga who protects her devotees from the evils of the world and at the same time removes their miseries. The Goddess has eight or ten arms and three eyes. She holds a bow and arrow, a thunderbolt, a sword and a trident. She stands on the top of a lion to symbolise the conquering of fear. The Goddess Durga is said to be gorgeously dressed in royal red cloth, jewels and ornaments. Her hair is dressed up in a crown (karandamukuta) which then flows out in long luxuriant tresses that are darkly luminous and soothing to the eye. Hindu myth believes that Goddess Durga exists eternally.

But now there is another image which stays with me whenever I think of Durga. I think of how I lift up her plastic bag for her to stick her skinny bony arm through and then she will lean to me as I bend down to be level with her, and she will say in her most eloquent and precise English accent, “I am happy I have such lovely friends who are helping me to get better.” She will then proudly but slowly walk through the little gate which I hold open for her and then once I have turned around she will bow her hands to her head and then to her heart in a symbol of gratitude, before disappearing into the crowd of chaotic lives around her. For me Durga is and will remain an incredibly powerful ancient and wise woman, who symbolises the juxtaposition of old and modern Inida; of the filthy rich and the barely surviving poor.