Cricket and Climbing

Watching the boys in their playing field leaves my mouth open and my mind flying. The younger boys attack the climbing frames. They monkey themselves along the bars like junior Olympians, balancing on the very top bar of the swings and flinging their bodies backwards and upside down. They jump from bar to bar using their arms and propelling themselves with the momentum of their bodies in a way which would leave most adult climber shaking in their shoes and leaving even the most courageous and foolhardy sighted kid panting to keep up.

I was accompanied by a retinue of boys eager to show off and to have their photo taken. The majority of the boys are totally blind, but this did not stop their demands for photographic proof of their talents. Some of the boys have a degree of sight, hindered by incredibly low vision. These boys would pull my camera screen so close to their faces that it would touch their cheeks, and then a reassuring smile would appear, showing that they had recognised their image. Likewise, my dive computer was proving to be a winner with all, as the totally blind boys pressed the buttons and the sighted boys took turns in pulling my wrist to their eyes and reading the time out loud. Whenever I asked a question, they would reply with the characteristic affirmative head wobble, unique to most of India. It was mystifying how they had been taught the action so accurately; whether a teacher had taken their heads in their hands and moved it from side to side? They movement is so subtle in its precision that I still find impossible to imitate, despite having a hundred of visual renditions each day.

Meters away a group of boys were playing cricket. It was equally as incredible to witness. The cricket ball made a rattling sound and after the bowler had taken it in his hand he would confirm the location of the batter by calling 'ready?' to which a affirmative reply would echo. He would then bowl with a reverse arm loop, causing the ball to fly into the sky before rolling along the ground, rapidly rattling its way towards the listening batsman. If the ball hit the wickets a metal 'ping' would ring out and the boys would either cheer or groan. However, if the ball was hit all would listen and run in the correct direction. If the ball was hit high up into the sky, the boys would end up running around in puzzled circles listening for its non-existent rattle. Once it landed they would run alongside it stooping down to scoop it up. It was powerful to watch, and inspiring to see the courage which the boys ran around the field with, especially considering that most did so in what was for them complete darkness. They conversed about cricket as if it was a deep ingrained passion, reflecting their subconscious nationalism, as the adoration of cricket is an addiction common throughout the country. They talked excitedly about the recent India/ South Africa game, and proudly reminded me that it was their countrymen who were the victors. I guess the spoken commentary meant that they need not be able to watch the match in order to follow it, and yet for some unexplainable reason I found it amazing that they developed such a strong passion for the national sport on a par with their sighted peers.

These boys are incredible sports men – they have no fear. They follow their senses, running with a surety despite the many obstacles plaguing their paths. They relay on a finely tuned sense of balance which leaves me simultaneously amazed and naively protective as they swing and throw themselves around in a way which sighted children would not have the courage to do. Their sense of hearing is so accurate that they are constantly reorientating their bodies in accordance with the movements and motions around them. Their internal map of their school and home is deeply moulded in the minds of even the youngest of boys, as they all run confidently through the buildings and around the playground. Body contact and verbal communication is of the utmost importance, and the boys are constantly touching each other and standing incredibly close, with their low vision friends filling in any missing information which might come into focus as he shares the treasure of his own incredibly limited vision.

The boys demonstrate what is possible for blind children and young people, and how they have developed the most extra-ordinary skills. These are skills – such as increased awareness, memory of their surroundings, balance and courage - which Deepa is inclined towards. But what is currently inhibiting the fruition of this specific and deeply powerful skill set, is the lack of any mentors and expert guidance. Here in the centre of the city of Pune, 2004 kilometers from Sishu Bahvan, is a community of children and young people who are perfectly adapted to life without sight. They are visibly exploding with potential and have just the right degree of cultivated confidence and awareness that they will need to live the independent and self-sustaining lives which they are more than capable of.

Osho's Pune

Pune, once famous for its Tigers, and now with two remaining species in the city zoo. Known by the locals as the old colonial name of Poona, and invaded by neo-colonials after the fame of Osho and Iyengar. Tourists walk the streets in a hippified daze, dressed in the uniform one piece maroon robes, some without shoes and all seeking something which whether or not they find it, costs them an incredible amount of cash. The Osho international meditation ashram was established in 1974. To enter not only requires a sustainable bank account but also an on the site HIV and hepatitis test. As for the Ramamani Iyengar Memorial Yoga Institute – I would love to study in one of the ashrams of the founders of modern day yoga. The ashram charges $450 a month and there is a 18 month waiting list.

In the city of Pune, a very different life style unfolds. One of shopping malls and designer shops. The young generation of women wear tight jeans and t-shirts, turning my head but no one else's. I feel a little freer to walk around without the eyes of all whom I pass observing me. The bookstores are incredible forts full of knowledge, and the local business industry is providing a healthy source of income to the cities college graduates.

A new outdoor climbing wall is about to be opened, after the battle between the politicians has been resolved as too who will cut the red ribbon. Young men and women spend their weekends re-bolting climbing walls in the area. At the blind school, I meet many local volunteers who come to play sports with the kids after work. Part of the city is dominated by military barracks, and huge sprawling houses are set in green well irrigated gardens. Sign painters are busy re-writing the name of recently relocated Generals and Sergent Majors on the bordering gates.

But despite the modern feel of business city life, adventure shops, sports clubs and jam-packed McDonalds, children in tatters continue to pitter patter by my side, an outstretched hand leading their way. Women with babies wrapped to their chests and a pile of belongings stacked on their heads take food from shop stalls, walking away before they are asked for the money which they do not have. Limbless lepers sit on the pavements, and mentally disabled boys begs knock on the windows of passing chauffeur driven cars. Although the poverty is not as extreme as in Kolkata, partially because the city itself is much smaller with a population of four million, the contrast between the modern and affluent India which the young generation so much want to believe in and the old generation are so proud of, is marred by the separation of the society into those that have and those that never will.

The more I look around the more I see two totally different groups of people; it is even physically obvious and not just through what I come to think of as the 'Bollywood' look of trendy clothes, fashionable hairstyles, piercings and tattoos, but through different physiques. There is a distinct separation between a young generation with a solid muscular build who are tall and athletic looking, showing their commitment to their gym memberships and with their pulse on modern fashion. Their parents are generally well dressed with designer watches and fine saris and suits. They are also generally overweight (easy to do when the food is so delicious and varied). At the other end of the scale there is an eternal generation of those with a much shorter life span, shorter statue, thinner and blacker. The women are incredibly skinny, and the middle aged men never seem to put on more than a pot belly onto their teenage boy's stick like figure. I know this is a dangerous generalisations, but the two groups are so stark that as an observer it is an easy generalisation to make, and it leaves me wondering what of those who are left straddling the two worlds – trying to make a living in modern India, while being tied to their social status and never ending burden of a dependent extended family.

Pune provides a vision of a India built on a history of successful trading and fuelled by a booming business sector, leaving in its wake a trail of Western seekers in search of a commercialised spirituality and a thick fringe of corrugated iron roofs, plastic sheetings and hungry bodies waiting for the chimera of a trickle down.

Dancing Fingers

A million little hands touch my hair gently feeling its curls and length. I have so many fingers rubbing my blue bead bracelets that I do not know who they belong to. I am pulled down onto the floor as children repeatedly ask me inMarathi what my name is, and smile wide grins as their question is repetitively answered. They have been celebrating a local festival involving a huge number of coloured paints. Although they live colourless lives, darkened by their lack of sight, or perhaps pricked by a small hole of light, they celebrate the festival with as much vigour as their young counterparts outside. Palms press my cheeks as giggles follow, and within minutes I look like a blue mermaid, dripping with vibrant colour which my little friends cannot see but can feel. A tiny lady sits at my feet, unlike the others she is not vying for my attention, although her soft floating voice has captured it all but completely. She is entertaining herself by arranging six rainbow coloured plastic rings according to their size as quickly as she can. She empties them off a plastic pole and then rushes to replace them, feeling with her fingers if the shape follows a smooth triangle or a awkward wiggle. As she plays she sings, and her voice is incredible. I want her attention even though I already have that of a dozen or more girls.

By my side sits a seriously deformed girl. Her head is huge, her blind eyes bulge and her mouth hangs constantly open. She has the face that would either make sighted people stare at in fascination or turn away from in disgust. She strokes the skin of my arm with her webbed fingers, and I realise what a haven she is in as her friends have little idea that she has the appearance of a monster, and so she sits happily and confidently as she should and I hope always will. In the corner there is a television which two older girls are standing on a stool to reach. One has low vision and is peering into the screen, with her nose pressed against the images. The static is pulling her hair towards the box of images, which she can only see a partial fragment of. Her friend is feeling the buttons, tracing the plastic with her fingers while turning her head towards the direction of the sound.

A little cheeky monkey is entertaining herself and joining in the festivities by spitting on her colourless hands and then searching for a body. After locating a face she wipes her hands on the unsuspecting cheeks. Due to the commotion around me, her victims have no idea of her approach nor of the source of the fluid on their faces. She finds the little lady by my feet causing the cessation of her game of shapes and sizes. The little lady vigorously rubs her cheeks, thinking that they have been coloured blue with watered hands. I tickle the trickster's tummy, and she happily laughs that her ploy has been uncovered, but quickly dodges my arms and turns to continue her game.

The evening is growing dark and the lights remain switched off as for the girls the day is as black as the night. The dance of a proud and talented girl demonstrates the children's inert ability to locate their positions relative to their surroundings. Blindfolded I would never be able to dance with the confidence and agility which she did as she performed a rendition of a classical Indian dance. The fairy like dancer was immune to disorientation, and despite her turns and twirls constantly reorientated her body in the direction of her amazed audience. Her spinning provided me with inspiration, and I decide to share one of Deepa's favourite and most simple games.

I stand up and lift one of the little girls holding onto me. I dance her around, moving her through the air like the weightless little feather she is. The combination of the encroaching dark and our movements makes it difficult for me to see her reaction and then I hear a bubbling giggle. The game is a winner but what is unexpected is the participation of a third body. A girl a little to tall to be swung instead stands in front of me and just feels the smaller girls being lifted off the floor and swung around and around. Whenever I finish she quickly feels for another younger friend and brings her towards me. She tries to follow our movements and smiles such a beautiful and pure smile of joy and I end up swinging more for her than for the dizzy bundle of giggles in my arms.

I left to the invisible waves and enthusiastic shouts of a whole school of amazing girls. Girls who demonstrate the strength of their senses other than sight, and their precious vision built on trust and confidence in their innate perception of space, movement and orientation.

Bombs and Bakeries

I am sitting in a cafe two doors down from what used to be the German Bakery in Pune (Poona), which six weeks ago I had been reading about as I ate lunch in a similarly touristic cafe in Kolkata. Six weeks ago a bomb took nine lives and injured forty five people. The denotation was well timed and the restaurant was packed full of tourists and locals. Now all that remains is a empty shell of a building, surrounded by colourful cotton sheets and metal railings. Police stay on a twenty four hour control at the corner of the road protected in what looks like a bright green hippy bus. Their constant vigil does little more than 'terrorise' passers-by, reminding them of the invisible but potential threat to their lives. The only time I actually saw the squad of police pay interest to anything other than their metal tiffen boxes filled with their lunch, was after I began to poke around the rubble, and even then all I received was a cursory second glances with a few follow up questions of where I was from, what was my favourite place in India and how old was I. Such questions I suspected, were not part of their campaign against terror, and they were equally eager to answer my own questions. They admitted that they were indeed very bored and although one of the perks of the job was to talk to the tourists, they would be stationed on the street for another two months.

Next door to the German Bakery is a tiny liquor shop. The three men squashed behind the counter were also there on the day of the bombing. “You were very lucky” I tell them. They all flash a smile in response and look around their huge selection of bottles, “Our shop is very lucky! Lucky shop!” I guess the sale of alcohol has now received a divine blessing in a country where sale of liquor comes under strict control. Above the shop the window frames have been blown out replaced with jagged glass and black holes. The blast even took with it an auto rickshaw which was parked outside of the.

“I was standing here” motions one of the shop keepers, moving half a meter to the side of the counter, “I heard a huge bang and the shop shook, there was dust everywhere and we couldn't see because everything was black.” I asked if he realised what had happened, that a bomb had just been denoted meters away from where he was standing, “as soon as the noise from the blast had finished, all I could hear was screaming, and then slowly the dust cleared and I saw all the blood and injured people standing on the road, then I realised it must have been a bomb”. What was interesting was that the liquor shop had received a warning three months prior to the blast, and the police had been patrolling an area one block away; next to the Israeli Chabad house, and on the corner of Osho's International Ashram. “Now there are police live outside our shop. Now it is too late.”

I asked if the German Bakery was going to reopen, and he told me that they had already received compensation from the government, “too much compensation” were his precise words. How much is too much? “Five lakh” - or around £7300. However, when I did my own research all I could find was a pledge from the government of five lakh to the family of those who had lost their lives, and this had still to be paid.

Next door to the liquor shop is 'Cafe' a chain of Italian inspired Indian coffee shops. According to the waiter there are 47 such shops in Pune alone and 880 'plus' in India. The waiter is particularly helpful, possibly because I am the only customer and on a Saturday afternoon they are staffed to deal with many more than just me and my order of one overpriced masala tea. I ask him about the blast and despite my fears that perhaps they would be tired of talking about it, he eagerly responds by telling me in the same excited tone of the shop owner that he was working during the blast, and standing in the kitchen. Unlike his neighbour, he had no idea what had happened, all he knew was that the huge glass windows fronting the Cafe had imploded, bringing with them a thick black dust.

I asked why he thought they had targeted the German Bakery and not the Cafe? He replied: “because of the foreign tourists” and was quick to add, “like you”. Killing foreigners makes for more publicity and ironically enough forces the government to take a stand; which in this instance seems to have resulted in a hefty compensation sum for the German Bakery and a semi-permanent police force camping out on the street. But the waiter is optimistic and prophesies that “all will return to normal in a few months” and the Cafe will again be a busy bustling hub for Pune's growing class of city coffee lovers.

I ask him if he is scared of working here, “life is too short to be scared” he replies. “I can die in a bomb blast today, tomorrow or in ten years, when it is my time to die I will die; it is not to be feared.” The waiter, is young and smiling and wondering if I would be so relaxed if the street of my work had been blown to smithereens because of people 'just like me', all I can manage to say is “crazy world”. He nods his head, but then corrects me, “the people are crazy, the world is not”.

Behind the counter the area trainer is introducing the “summer special” and as I look out of the newly replaced glass windows onto the busy road outside, I hear her shrill voice instruct her staff on how to put the finishing touches to the cold coffee, “just turn it around, and put two dots, and there you go; there is your smiley.” Life continues in its craziness. The German Bakery will be rebuilt, the liquor shop next door will continue to feel simultaneously blessed while resenting the “too much compensation” of its neighbour. Business will slowly start to drift back to the Cafe, as the fear of locals is numbed by time and the police will continue to bask in the afternoon sun safe, in the knowledge that there is little they can do apart from wait for another high alert to relocate them and their terror instilling presence.

Opportunities and Abilities

Today I visited the Poona School and Home for Blind Girls, located in the quiet and suburban area of Kothran. After visiting the boys school I had high expectations and a budding day dream, which I was apprehensive of feeding, but despite my best efforts of fighting naivety it continued to grow and grow beyond my careful control. And I ended up sitting in front of the head teacher asking about their admissions, and if they accepted girls from other states or with multiple disabilities. The answer was affirmative to both and accommodation, food, education and clothing is all provided free of charge.

The girls school is home to 150 girls from the ages of six to eighteen. Like the boys school the younger girls attend school within the centre, before they graduate into the mainstream secondary education of the nearby government school. The girls school also provides vocational training to its young women, equipping them with as many skills as possible to survive in a world unfairly weighted against them. The social worker who showed me around, shared with me that it was very difficult for the young women to find work, but they were all able to live independently, and as their prospects of marriage is incredibly slight, this independence is vital. The vocational training centre provides classes in cooking, hand-loom, sewing, dress making, massage and candle making. The school already have a contract with a local firm for making 5,000 squares of material per month, while their selection of handi-crafts is on sale for visitors. The school have their own braille machine, an extensive braille library equipped with a telescope for low vision students and computer software that reads books. The computer keyboards are all equipped with braille and tactile landmarks are placed around the building to help the students with their orientation. The musical instruments comprise of a full orchestra and the girls regularly perform classical concerts for the public during local festivals. The classrooms are arranged in such a way that the teacher is in arms reach of all of the students, so that within one touch she has their specific attention. There is also a fantastic room designed to develop motor skills and coordination. The fantastic room includes all kinds of climbing frames, balancing balls and swings. I did not even have to try to image Deepa exploring the equipment – the room was perfect for her, and a far cry from the play ground at Sishu Bhavan.

The actual cost of sponsoring a child is 18,000 rupees or about £260 per year. Considering that I am paying (with the committed help of donors) 48,000 (£705) rupees for a year of weekly speech therapy classes for three blind girls, this shows what can be achieved with minimal resources and expert commitment. The figure also casts a shadow over the use of funds by the Missionaries of Charities. Visiting the school and seeing the facilities available to help the children develop to their fullest potential and watching as the girls ran around, totally free and independent, has given a renewed burst of energy to my fight for Deepa. There is no reason other than the lack of will by the Missionaries of Charity that Deepa and the other blind girls in Sishu Bahavan should not be receiving the same education.

Before I left Kolkata, I was sitting talking with a special needs teacher from Sweden. In fact it was his Tibetan singing bowls which had so mesmerized Deepa and provided such unusual stimulation for the children. During our many conversations I had been trying to glean as much advice and information of how best I could use my time with Deepa to encourage her use of language. Then he went to Sikkim for two weeks and came back smiling his way through praises of a eighty four year old Buddhist monk. The monk had responded to need and was building an orphanage for children with special needs. The orphanage was situated at the foothills of the Himalayas, and although it was still under construction, he already had several orphans under his care. What had so impressed my Swedish friend was the vision of the elderly monk. He wanted to provide a space for the children to learn the necessary skills to live in a society which had little provisions to teach them. Meanwhile, the monk recognised the unique potential of the children and was determined to establish connections with local and international special needs teachers who would be able to guide the children towards their fullest potentials.

Then my friend looked directly into my eyes and said simple and wise words of warning. As he spoke, I listened, and as I listened I felt a resonance deep inside. My friend said “they are not just denying Deepa her power, they are denying a huge source of power, of intelligence to the world.”

Imagining Deepa here; seeing the opportunities that the blind girls and young women here have to develop their skills and foster the necessary courage to enter a society which is not yet totally prepared for them, draws a stark contrast to the denial of Sishu Bahavan to facilitate Deepa's education or even to teach her simple life skills. Of the 150 girls at the school, none are wearing nappies, all know how to wash themselves, feed themselves and all are learning how to live their lives as differently-abled rather than as 'dis'-abled.

The Poona School for the Blind

Today I visited The Poona School and Home for Blinds Trust. It is located just five minutes from the room I am staying in, and it welcomes volunteers and visitors. Last year I visited a government blind school in Kolkata and was feeling totally disappointed. I had been looking for options for Deepa, and instead just felt thoroughly disheartened that even if I did manage to achieve the miracle I was fighting for, and facilitate an education for her, the school was incredibly anarchic and offered no special help for children with learning difficulties. In fact, the school even refused entry to any blind child showing evidence of a second disability. With this in mind, here in Pune, I went to speak directly to the administration officer and fired my round of automated questions on their selection process and funding.

The Poona School and Home for Blinds Trust was established in 1934 by Dr. Shankar Rao Machva and currently houses and educates 170 boys and 150 girls. The children of primary school age (six to eleven) are educated by specially employed teachers, many of whom are themselves blind. The children and young people who are older attend the normal government schools located outside of the home. This is a brilliant strategy of mainstreaming blind children into the public system. The centre also provides vocational training for young men and women for three to four years after they have finished their formal studies. Sixty percent of the centre's funding comes from the government and the other forty percent comes from donations and supporting national and international ngos. The centre has won various awards and is constantly in the paper for the ventures to facilitate independent lives for their students, while integrating them into society. They are even in the Guinness Book of records for performing a play with the greatest number of blind actors in their annual school play (49 boys, 37 girls and two visually impaired teachers). Their students have been parasailing, perform concerts for the public during all of the major festivals and have held their own fashion show, walking down the cat walk for the cameras.

Walking through the school, the first class room I found was full of music students. The kids were all sitting on the floor and each had a different instrument in their hands. The sound of tablas, accordions, tambourines, cymbals and drums reverberated around the room. Caught in the bind between interrupting and being an uninvited and invisible guest I approached the music teacher and introduced myself. He told the children to stop playing while he described each of their instruments and invited me to look around. He told me he was new to the school and had been working there for three months. He was still adapting, but enjoying the work. The teacher then returned to his students and began singing a rhythm asking the children to follow his lead. When any of the students were having difficulties copying, he would approach them and move their hands to demonstrate how they should play. Watching him teach immediately revealed the gaps between myself and Deepa, he was so sensitive to their needs, and ways to communicate. After I said goodbye, I stood at the door and watched as the class and teacher all remained seemingly unaware of my presence and continued to interact as individuals exploring the musical sounds of a group.

Minutes later the school bell was rung and within seconds the children were running to the door while sliding on their shoes and exploding into the corridors. They ran around the corners and into their dorms or outside, while others sat down with friends. When together, the children would hold hands or had their arms around each other. I found myself trying to quickly dodge out of their way to avoid an inevitable collision as my presence was not in their mental map of their home. As this tactic began to fail, as the children were too quick and too numerous for me, I changed my plan and began to talk. Within seconds a crowd of boys had gathered around me, asking me my name and telling me theirs. Suddenly I was faced with a load of blind boys, many of whom were around Deepa's age, and all of whom were moving as if they had sight and talking fluently and eloquently. Gently touching the boys forearms every time I was answering one of the simultaneously directed questions, I managed to communicate with the group around me. In a change from most other interactions in India, here the barrier between the sexes was left outside. The boys and young men held my hands, playing with my bracelets and feeling my clothes. The boys were incredibly polite and so friendly. Through the help of English skills of one of the older boys who was in his final year of school, they told me about favourite subjects (Maths and Music being the most enthusiastically discussed) while asking me about my life. What was my country? What was my job? Did I play cricket? Then came the hilarious guess-timation of my age. The common agreement seemed to be “nineteen”. When I replied with “thirty” there were smiling sighs of amazement and I tinge of disappointment, although one of the older boys hastened to explain that my “voice was so sweet and soft like a young woman.”

The boys and young men were great, and the school seems a perfect place for them to learn the life skills necessary to go out into the world and pursue their dreams to the best of their abilities. In the words of the school principle, the aim of the school is exactly that: “to provide their students with the skill sets to enable them to live their lives in the sighted world.” I will try and spend as much time as I can with them over the next few days, as I already know they have much to teach and experiences to share. Meanwhile, their counterpart girls school is fifteen kilometers away. I will visit tomorrow.