The Child I Let Go

Deepa six years ago

One of my personal motivation to revisit Kolkata is around twelve years old.  Her name is Deepa.  She is the feature of much of this blog, named after her and her ability to open my eyes to more of the world.  Eyes which she was born without.  Over the years that I worked with Deepa, I was convinced that any signs of autism she showed were a result of her living conditions.  Deepa has spent the majority of her life in one room, filled with children with various states of physical and mental challenges.  Years ago I taught her how to walk on her own, how to feed herself and then how to speak.  This later skill was one that appeared to be deeply hidden, yet it was potentially her main ally in the world – her ability to connect when she was unable to see and at that point unable to be heard.  I had such an admiration for Deepa and connection that went beyond that of care-giver and child that I even looked into the viability of adopting her.  At that point I was told it would take minimum of three years but most likely five.   My hope had been to adopt her in order to find her a specialist school that would be able to cater to her needs and provide the conditions necessary to prevent her from moving further along the autism spectrum.  Yet three to five years was too long to wait.  She needed expert help immediately.  And with a heavy heart I whispered good bye not sure when or if I would see her again.

Today I made that return journey to Sisha Bhavan orphanage.  I walked down the familiar street, filled with butchers shops that spill out onto the invisible pavements, fruit wallahs, shoe wallahs, mosques and rickshaws.  Walking down these roads is a little like surfing.  You need to be continuously aware of what is going on all around you, predicting the trajectory and timing of people, rickshaws, bicycles, motorbikes and cars and find a way to flow between them. The impact on the senses is extreme.  The continuous noise battery my nervous system and I wonder if the whole of Kolkata does actually smell like a urinal.

 I arrived at the huge metal gate of the orphanage and banged at the door.  One of the massi’s (Indian worker)  opened it and grinned.  She has been there for years.  She motioned me to come in and said “Deepa - up” and pointed to the staircase.  Just like I do with Kolkata, I have always had a love/hate relationship with the massi’s.  Their harsh ways and words to the kids bordered on physical and verbal abuse.  And many times I couldn’t sit back and watch, and it was my persistent intervention which threatened to terminate my work at the orphanage.  

Yet in order to understand the dominant attitude of violence, its always necessary to look beneath the surface.  Just like the CEO bully’s his staff, who go home and bully their wives, who then shout at the children, who then kick the dog.  The women here who are employed to take care of the children are all from the lower castes.  They have become toughened by life and after some time of observing their own interactions, occasions of kindness were rare.  Many times I wondered to what extent kindness is something which is innate or which is learned.  Or indeed in which cases kindness can be perceived as a weakness, threatening one’s own survival.  Or perhaps what I perceived as cruelty was just an efficient way to get a very poorly paid job done.  Regardless of my relationship or view of the Indian staff, ultimately they work with the kids for life.  Foreign volunteers, like myself, come in for a few weeks or months, maybe a year and then we leave.  We can.  Therefore we do.  In the interim we either turn a blind eye to what we find uncomfortable or speak out but are unprepared to step up and do the work of these warrior women.  Women who are battling caste, gender, poverty and Kali only knows what else.

I took the stairs up to the room on the second floor.  It’s filled with small cots where the children spend a majority of their time.  Sometimes tied to the rails with cloths, other times they are laid on mats on the floor, where the massis and volunteers give massages to limber their crooked limbs.  I scanned the room.  The same kids were there.  Six years later and some hardly looked any different – almost as if they are in some kind of perverted Never Ever land.  A place where time pauses.  Deepa was in the corner.  Same pudding bowl hair cut.  She had grown taller. Clearly still not potty trained as her pants were dripping wet.  I went over and crouched next to where she stood.  She had her hands over her ears.  For such a sensitive blind child the noise of the room must at times be overwhelming.  I spoke to her and half hoped for a response.  Had she found her voice yet? But she continued as she was.  Without registering my presence.  Totally inside her own world – whatever that must look like.  I couldn’t even bring myself to reach out and touch her, or to change her clothes.  The love I have for her is so strong.  The pain at seeing her spiral deeper into autism as equally as strong.  I told her I love her.  That she is amazing.  And then moved away.

I feel on some level I was Deepa’s only chance of learning vital life skills.  On another, it is impossible to predict the extent to which her life circumstances have accentuated her condition, or what is simply playing out through her genes.  I saw other children who were babies when I last left, also born without eyes and also displaying strong signs of autism. Either way, Deepa is a light in a very dark place.  And with a heavy heart I will always be grateful for the chance to have shared the time that I did with her.  She has been an amazing teacher in how she sees and feels the world.  After going to greet the other kids, reading a story book with the girl with the most amazing smile and pulling two little boys who had rolled onto the concrete floor back onto the mat, I knew my time here has passed.  This is not my path any more. Part of me is amazed at what I did do. And I admire those who are able to be here now.  A place where there appears to be so little hope and so few rewards.  I picked up my bag, waved an invisible goodbye to Deepa, who was still standing in the corner, hands over her ears, and oblivious to all.

Later that night I messaged my sister who was eager to hear the news of Deepa. “I feel like I’ve failed” I told her.  She replied: “There is nothing you can do anymore.  Just let it go.”