Pavement Restaurant

Another lunch time at the train station. Just the phrase sounds so stupid! As if I am going for lunch at the train station, rather than handing out lunch to fifteen of hundreds of hungry people. Anyway, today it began a little differently. Me, Muhammad and Deepta, standing in the middle of the multiple no lane road, waiting for a lull in the zooooming buses and the army of taxis to run across to the other side when we saw Fadi. I know its only an expression, but really, my heart nearly stopped. With his sandals on his hands Fadi was crossing the road. Pulling himself across the tarmac, trailing the stump of his leg behind him, with his bundle of possessions tied around his waist. Buses stormed passed him, taxi's careered around him. He appeared like a stray dog, caught in the middle of the rush hour traffic, while we were stranded watching, wishing, hoping with a collective determination that the bus drivers will see him, that the sprinting taxis will not accelerate until they have passed him. Miraculously he makes it. I feel the collective relief from our small group. Without even saying one word to the other we turn and dodge our way over to his side of the road. Fadi looks up. Smiles. Hands in Nameste and then begins to untie his bundle to reach for his half a cup of a hollowed coconut shell. Muhammad fills it up and then pours water over his hands, while Fadi rubs the bar of soap between his palms. Deepta and I empty the small plastic bags of daal and fish out into the cardboard box. Two chapati's are placed on top and then we turn to go, leaving Fadi sitting at the side of the road. Half a meter away from one of the busiest intersections in the city. Eating his lunch – just how he lives his life - at exhaust level, surrounded by traffic, fumes and horns.

Next stop. The old couple in the car park of the train station. The (Angry) wife isn't there, but other residents of the car park point to her mute husband. We follow the pointing arms and find Harry sitting cross legged outside the northern entrance of the train station. Surrounded by moving people. He is sitting directly in the sun. The temperature today is 42 degrees. It is mid day. Deepta picks up the bottom of her sari and runs. I watch as she reaches him, bends down and lifts him to a stoop with an arm linked under his. Always smiling he greets her as she half drags half carries him across the road. His small bundle of belongs and walking stick begin to fall away from his body and are left strewn across the road. I leave Muhammad with the bags of food and like Gita, lift up my long trousers in order to be free to run over to collect them. One old wooden stick. One dirty cloth. One empty water plastic water bottle. We return Smiling Harry to his usual shady spot. He is still clutching a soggy banana. Deepta takes it from him and places in the lunch box we have just prepared for him. We leave Harry with his smiling eyes sitting in the dirt but away from the cars, the blind feet and the sweating sun.

Next stop. The three meticulously clean men always in the same place. One without legs. One with brushed hair. One with no shirt and long hair, but still so clean. How I have no idea, when even after half a day my feet are black and my kuta soaked in stale sweat. We never offer to wash their hands. They clearly don't need our soap. Instead they great us, take the boxes of unopened food and then sit down as if the pavement is their dining table. They expertly remove the elastic bands sealing the individually packed daals and prepare their own lunch. We walk away and I turn around to see a small green lime produced from a shirt pocket, followed by a razor blade and then shared between the contents of the three cardboard boxes.

Deepta walks ahead to refill our water bottles and then we face the stream of disembarking passengers. Balancing on the side of the platform, walking towards the end. We look for Ramu. Again always clean and well dressed, but today he is not where he always is. The local cucumber seller will keep his lunch for him. We walk on, step down onto the railway track and pick our way across to the other side. Water continues to seep out of my pores, covering my skin. I lift my right foot up to step back up onto the platform. Back into the shade, and sitting at the very end of the platform, as always, are Raju and Niraj. After Deepta's hair attack of last week they don't look so much like brothers, but I have thought too soon as Deepta whips out the scissors. Niraj lets us wash his hands and then begins to eat his lunch, while Raju just watches the concrete as his long locks haphazardly fall down. He plays with a twig which eventually he uses to build a mountain from discarded hair. The crowds begin to come. They seem to emerge from underground as no train has arrived. The people stand and stare, and they don't care to keep their distance, but encroach upon Raju and Niraj's space. The two men retain their same expression of nonchalance and it gives the impression that they share a unique language that only themselves can understand. Niraj is left with a head full of snips – patches of hair next to patches of scalp. Deepta is pleased. She looks up and then welds her scissors at her audience. She shouts something in Bengali. I imagine it to be something like “So whose next?”. Either way, as always there is no reaction. We leave Niraj his lunch and as we walk away he walks to the edge of the platform to brush off the strands of hair that never made it to his soft mountain. As he faces the railway track Muhammad turns and rushes back. His limp making his run look cumbersome and painful. I motion to Deepta to stop. Someone is trying to steal Niraj's food. Muhammad intercepts the food and it is returned to its rightful 'owner' and we continue.

The two old women, Laura and Sarah, on separate benches. No smiles. No words. Just a silent exchange. And then Ramu. Sitting on his own. Back against a steel pillar. Covered in cuts and bruises. Deepta shouts at him. But she is not really 'shouting' only trying to ask him what has happened. No response. No reaction. Muhammed takes his hands and washes them. We leave another box of food. I wonder what will happen to the one waiting with the cucumber man? It is a pointless question. There are enough hungry stomachs. Everyday one or two people are feed who weren't the day before. I wonder whose lunch we have just given away. It isn't arbitrary but it is practical. If we have a 'extra' packet within seconds we can find a receiver. We come at the same time every day and if the participants aren't there, there is little else we can do. And today it is Pugli who is left without our lunch. She was not on the station stairs, she was not lying on the ledge outside. She was not crouched next to the rubbish.

We finish our circuit by walking back to Smiling Harry. His (angry) wife is back. She is eating his food. He is sitting in the same place where we left him. He looks up at us and points to The Angry Wife. His gestures are once again supported by the bystanders who seem just to be hanging out like is passive guardian angels. We bring out the last packet, empty the contents for him and place the chapatis on top. Deja-vu.

A gust of warm wind sends a stinging layer of dust around my ankles and a brown tattered plastic bag rolls over my feet. I kick it away. Another gust and I look down to see dirt swirling over the chapatis as Smiling Harry hurriedly tries to close the lid to his cardboard packet of food.

Station Kids, Street Kids, Magic Kids

Fishing for Wishes is how some of the more resourceful children- with the help of a small magnet and a piece of string - can afford to live; both of Kolkata's main train stations, are flanked by the Hooghly River, which is a tributary to the Holy Ganges, and many travelers will toss a coin into its waters to wish for a safe journey. Add into the equation, trains littered with left over food, rich travelers disembarking from Delhi, an extensive roof, paved platforms and even a public water tap and it soon becomes obvious why train stations double as unofficial institutions for the orphans, poor, mad, sick and homeless. And the number of children – of all ages and both sexes – who sleep on its floors, scour the trains and hang out in packs is astounding, and today I visited a Center full of thirty such boys.

Now please do not misunderstand me – there are far more than only thirty homeless boys; although there is no official census on the number of homeless children, I am sure that a hundred orphanages could be filled within the hour – easily. However, the Center has reached its capacity, and until one of its older boys is able to independently support himself, or the family of a younger child contacted and rehabilitated, no new boys will be coaxed to leave the station. (There are several boys at the Center who are not 'orphans' in a traditional, but many ran away from home after a young life of hard physical labour, or after being sent to work as 'servants'.) The orphanage was opened three years ago and is funded by a Spanish NGO and staffed by local workers and full of boys found at Howrah train station. The staff would visit the train station regularly and try to establish a relationship with the boys in order to build trust and dispel suspicion; not an easy task as considering that the station is a center for trafficking and children are at risk from sexual abuse and/or being sold. But this is also a reason why it is important that aid/ relief workers have a daily public presence as well as an ear to the proverbial concrete. Of course many boys who go to Center would have problems readjusting. Many children who live on the streets quickly adapt and may have been members of some of the more established child gangs, where they have much more authority, power and 'freedom' than children at the center and the routine of going to school every day. For the older boys (the oldest in the Center is thirteen) formal education may not even be viable as they are unable to join a class with the youngest boys of five or six, so the Center also offers a more practical a vocational training scheme which may offer more chances of employment. Drug addiction and rehabilitation is also very real problem. However, what I saw today is tiny boys the age of six years old, just having fun, playing and having free access to food and water and a safe non-violent environment.

Now the point of my visit to the Center was to assist a group of Spanish volunteers who wanted to perform some Magic. We began our mission to the orphanage by taking a collection of different buses, raising many eyebrows, and eventually crossing a muddy field to be seated in a colourful room in front of thirty staring faces. A ball was passed and one by one the boys introduced themselves – name and age. Then little arms were raised as the youngest boys were eager to recite a song or poem to us and the older boys told us they were becoming ready to be 'men'. Our turn, and the Spanish Army and Bex all introduced themselves and then the preparations of Magic began. Now obviously, good old Magic Man was the center of the show, while the rest of us painted faces and blew up balloons. What was interesting though was that the responses of the children was much 'older' than the ages which they had just recited. Accusations of 'cheat' 'cheat' were regularly shouted out, while fascination of the 'turning paper into money' trick brought a stand up audience. Without trying to bow down to stereotypes, very quickly it became obvious that these boys were wiser than their years.

After they had all been armed with blow up swords, and a orchestra of 'popping' began and finished, we tied a box full of sweets and balloons to the ceiling, and blind folded and armed with a cricket bat the children had to one by one try to hit the box open. After much effort, the box came crashing to the ground, and colours of gold and silver, and tiny balloons fell from the sky and burst all over the children. Within seconds the glittering sweets had all disappeared. The speed of picking up the sweets from the floor and depositing them in pockets was really extraordinary. Later at dinner I saw the same technique, with food collected but then stored in pockets for extra safe keeping. What was unexpected though, was after a mini war for far too many sweets, small boys would later come up to me and insist on sharing their loot. I think the best experiences of the day was watching when the smallest and undoubtedly cutest boy 'found' the small pile of sweets I had hidden in his pockets - in order to ensure his survival through the 'c/rush'. He felt the lumps in his pockets, dug his little hands inside and pulled out shiny parcels of toffee. His eyes gleamed with amazement, fingers explored, more packets of sweetness found and waves of smiles spread across his cheeks – Magic!

The rest of the afternoon was spent either in the fields playing football (with a real football, rather than the usual empty water bottle or ball of tape) or on the breezy roof. I spent nearly an hour with a boy who had found himself in possession of one of Magic Mans 'flying' wheeeeeeeeeeing balloons – after a lot of puff the piece of plastic extends into a magnificent oblong shape and if held up and released zooms around the room, bouncing of walls and squeaking all the way. Shouts of 'Mama Mia!' followed it around from below. The shouting smiling face was covered in scars, which ran down his arms and had taken one of his fingers. He was completely mesmorised, and never tired, puffing and zooming until POP!

The roof a beautiful place to spend the rest of the day – as small black kite made of sheets of plastic and string was sent up into the sky. Kites make me think of Freedom. They remind me of one of the forms of 'resistance' children in the Occupied Palestinian Territories would use, flying them from the refugee camps when they themselves weren't able to move. I sat on the roof watching while being tugged to play a board game which I was no good at, but another super happy boy was determined to teach me, and failing that, he was determined that at least I should win! The game involved flicking a circular counter into a pile of other counters and trying to get one of them into one of the four holes. I ended up with a very sore finger, and even though hardly any of my counters ended up in the correct holes...I won.

As the day wore on it really became obvious how independent the children were – there was very little need for the staff to become involved, and the boys just played. The exception was one boy who remained sad all day (apart from when he was asked to assist Magic Man) but according to the staff there was very little which seemed to make him smile. Before we left there was a Spanish Army, one Magic Man and Me all holding onto arms and turning, sending feet flying and ripples of laughing. Balancing tricks were also performed as boys climbed on top of legs and held arms after receiving some expert tuition of Halvero – their 26 year old Spainish Mentor who shares his time between the center and a mirror project in Brazil, and there would be endless possibilities for recreational projects, outdoor pursuits and camps with the children, which has left me day dreaming of possibilities.

As soon as the light left, candles were lit and we were escorted to the small road, leaving shouts of 'Goodbye Auntie! Good bye Uncle!' Amidst a trail of glittering sweet wrappers and burst balloons. We waited at the side of the road for a bus back to central Kolkata. The winds were really picking up and dusk was been blown into our eyes and then blowing us over. I could imagine the little kite flier manipulating his sheet of plastic, pulling the strings backwards and forwards, running across the concrete roof, feet jumping and landing. Running, jumping and landing. Jumping, flying. Far far away...

Hospitals to Die For

It is sometimes argued that the difference between being 'happy' or being 'sad' is really a physical difference and not physiological. If we are too hot, or too thirsty, or too cold, or too hungry, or sick, or with an injury, it is our 'physical body' which is suffering. Undoubtedly strength of mind can help minimise the extent to which we feel the pain, but if we are in good health then our sufferings are drastically minimized.

Since I have arrived in Kolkata every day produces more questions. My visits to Topsia Clinic was no exception. Likewise, when I walk through Sealdah train station to distribute 15 people lunch, I pass over bodies. Some mutilated with disease, others just mentally mutilated from a life of being 'Just Another Poor Man', or Woman, or Girl, or Boy, or Babu. Sealdah train station rose particular questions for me because it is right next to Nilratan Sarkar Medical College and Hospital; a state hospital. Yet people remained slumbered outside. And if medics or volunteers find someone near to death, they are transported to the Mother House rather than a few meters to the hospital. There are even cases where volunteers find patients in situations of severe neglect inside of the hospital and have had little choice but to carry them out and take them to Kalighat House where at least they are washed, feed and watered. Strange?

And what of the Mother House dispensary at the entrance to the train station which provides basic first aid and bandaging to the poor when the poverty stricken should receive medical care at radically reduced rates from the state government? And what of food rations available for those unable to provide for themselves? And what of free hospital beds for those who need operations? And why the need for Topsia Clinic if there are locals doctor? The State of West Bengal has after all been governed by the Communist Party of India for the past thirty years and one would think that there would be some sort of social safety net for the ill, injured, disabled, single mothers, child mothers, refugees or those still chastised by the remnants of the caste system? The answers my friend? Complicated.

I quizzed the Nurse. I received irate replies. The Nurse spoke passionately and with conviction and left me with little doubt that he is filling a gap out of necessity rather than charity. The doctors he replied are expensive. For the anonymous poor, destitute, refugees, mentally challenged or orphaned, finding the correct paperwork to receive their Right to medical care is not always an option. Without either papers or payment patients are refused treatment. And if they are able to find the papers, bribes might be necessary or waiting lists longer than remaining life energy. Besides, health care is still not free. In the government hospitals there is a ration of free beds, but a diagnosis and operation still needs to be paid for – even if at a radically reduced rate. For the poor, this means that they often wait until they are severely sick before trying to borrow or beg the required money. A blood test costs 30 rupees, which is the equivalent of about 35 British pence, 44 Euro cents, or 70 US cents. 30 rupees could easily feed a poor person for a day.

In regards to the local doctors, the Nurse argued that diagnosis's are given at a distance, and hands-on care is rare. Although many of the doctors have received their full medical training they haven't been able to pay for the final exam. Ironically this is a blessing for the poor who can't afford to go private, as once certified many Indian doctors are either working in private hospitals or overseas, where the conditions are much less challenging. The 'brain drain' is flowing quicker than the education system can refill. As for the hospitals, “corrupt and inefficient” seems to be the general reply when I ask the opinions of locals or medics working here. Patients are often turned away, or must bribe there way in and then once there, although the operations themselves are viewed as sound, there are long waiting lists, piles of paperwork to negotiate your way through, and a shocking lack of basic sanitary care.

Today I accompanied a long term volunteer on a visit two hospitals. This volunteer gave me a blessed icon of 'The Other Mother', is training to be a priest and streaked through the Mother House after Mass the day before yesterday. He is 200 percent committed, equally spontaneous and entirely unconventional. With such a combination he achieves some formidable results. Like the French volunteer I was lucky enough to meet on my first day, it was a privilege to walk next to him. Today helped me to answer many of my practical questions which were still left unanswered. He spoke of carrying a dying man into hospitals to be told the correct paperwork was missing. His response was to find a random stamp, provide a signature and with the appropriate amount the self-confidence return the 'completed' paperwork and have the patient admitted just in time to have save his life. Today I saw that food and drinking water is not provided. Washing sheets, clothes and patients is the role of the family. So what if the patient's family is poor, or far away or does not exist? It should not be presumed that the nurses will clean and dress wounds, and today I saw a young man cleaning his crushed leg with a bottle of savlon. I changed the bedsheets of a man with no family, and Mr Unconventional distributed food and a little money to the select individuals he had helped to help by finding/ buying them a 'free' bed and sponsoring their treatment.

Visiting the hospitals today helped me to understand the demand for free alternatives, and how ventures such as Topsia Clinic are essential for helping the local community to maintain a basic threshold of health care. The denial of essential aftercare and hygiene explained the massive number of post-operation infections which these clinics have to deal with, and which could easily cause repeat infection, amputation or fatality. Once again the conundrum is – how can the health care system be improved if there are non-state ran “free” alternatives, which are preferential in that at least they provide 'care' if not 'medical' care?

More information on the conditions of government hospitals in Kolkata has been complied by the Bengali Human Rights Group People for Better Treatment Prepare to be shocked.