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.