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.

Noodle Theatre

Continuous refill of noodles. Oodles. Never ending noodles. Handfuls of salt and fistfuls of spices. A gush of oil, spreading its glistening oiliness over the growing, jumping, moving tangles of noodles. Above shines an accidental street light. Accidentally shining down on the tactically placed wooden stall. The bright beam of light reveals the black bottle cylinder of kerosene - pump pump - and greasy coat of the glass bottles, showing their assortment of coloured sauces. Street light – stage light. The centre of attention on the little run-away street. The pot-bellied chef loving his show, playing with his noodles, juggling his sauces, dramatically seasoning and decorating. The spill-over from the neighboring chai stall mingles with his waiting customers, swelling the audience and adding to the ambiance as the last sips of chai are sounded by the delicate smashing of the left over clay cups. Smash, sizzle, shouts, spicy steaming trails moving silently towards the light and dispersing a hint of burnt chili into the evening air. Hungry eyes step forward, taking center stage. A star for a minute as a plate piled high with shining slippery noodles is traded for a flimsy worn piece-of-paper note. The noodles walk away fading from the lime light, only to be replaced, randomly. Continuously. Never ending pot-pan frying flying supply of noodles.

Universal Language

Sound, consciousness and connection equals communication, but exactly what does 'communication' mean? Every day's musical adventure with Deepa, makes me even more determined to try to develop her exposure to different sounds and in particular to European and Indian classical music. I have placed adverts for old pianos, and for teachers willing to volunteer a little of their time. It would be incredible to present Sishu Bhavan with a huge piano, where the children could go and bang away, exploring sounds as well as actions and reactions. I am practising a lesson of intention and of not putting any negative energy into my ideas, but I also have the little voice in my head, cynically laughing at the thought of Deepa actually receiving music lessons and having some expert guidance. But I know that after experimenting with music, Deepa and we have begun to communicate on a ,much more productive and personal level reaffirming the ancient phrase that “music is a universal language that transcends boundaries and bonds people.” It has inspired me to begin doing a little more research into the power of music, including its different effects on the brain. It is fascinating, and again suggestive that Deepa is definately talking with us, even if it is not through her voice.

It is debated that there is a universal recognition of human emotional facial expression (namely happiness, sadness and fear) and emotional prosody (which refers to the rhythm, stress, and intonation of connected speech.) So are there also common responses to music? Can meanings be relayed without words, body language, facial expressions? In fact can music go even further than words, and express meanings deeper than those imbued by verbal language? If so then Deepa is already expressing herself and she is dedicating a tremendous amount of focus to listening to the music of others. When talking to her, Deepa will continue to flick or tap whatever she is already doing, but when listening to music, she has three main responses: Dancing, frowning and smiling.

The evolution of music in relation to thought and language is still under debate. In his book The Singing Neanderthals, Steven Mitin explores whether music is the universal language – if we beat a common evolutionary drum, which extends not just across cultures but also across ancestral time? Darwin suggested that language came first, and then music, but the alternative theory is that language is the more complex form of music, and ancient musical instruments have been dated back to 36,000 years. Unlike language, music followed a similar pattern around the world. It is made up of seven main notes. It is also used to mark certain ceremonies (weddings, funerals, parties) reflecting its social role. The function of music is also similar as cultures all around the world use music as a way to soothe children, to intimidate (such as the Maori Haka) to induce feeling of adrenaline or rage (such as the heavy metal played into the personal stereos of US troops before battle in Iraq) and to express deep and complex emotions.

The significance of music therapy (such as what I am attempting with Deepa) is also becoming more firmly grounded in science. Music lessons have been shown to improve children's performance in school. After eight months of keyboard lessons, preschoolers tested showed a 46% boost in their spatial IQ. If Deepa has a learning disability, then it goes to follow, that music may be just the stimulus she needs, especially seeing as it is what she responds so strongly to. The National Commission on Music Education has uncovered a correlation between the study of music on factors such as self-esteem, self discipline, the ability to work in groups and higher cognitive and analytical skill. Research by Rauscher also suggests that complex music may 'prime' the brain for mathematics or other analytical work because it triggers the same brain activity. Human neurology also examines the effects of music in relation to language on the brain. Music is perceived in the left hemisphere of the brain (in the angular and supramarginal gyrus area). This is also area of the perception of amorphous language area, which is concerned with comprehension and verbal thought. It therefore follows that perhaps music is therefore represented cerebrally as a form of language.

Often I wonder what Deepa thinks – if she thinks in colours and in shapes, or if everything just a dark empty black. Perhaps she thinks in textures, temperature, or perhaps even in sounds. What I know for sure is that simply because she is not using our most valued form of communication – language – need not mean that she is mentally disabled; at the moment she is just on a different track, and in the words of Einstein:

"If I were not a physicist, I would probably be a musician. I often think in music. I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music .... I get most joy in life out of music."

Present Reflections

I can hear my footsteps. I can hear the wind, and the birds. I can hear the trees as their leaves move through the sun kissed breeze. I can feel the ground beneath each foot, as I slowly step soaking in the spacious silence of the afternoon. Surrounded by leafy roads, brick walls and tall sturdy houses. It is quiete. Their is fresh moving air all around me. I can see beyond bodies. There is space.

This is my Saturday afternoon. The metro has zoomed into the suburbs; only two stops after the bustling bursting busy Kalighat, but two stops far enough for the crowds to descend and leave a few empty spaces in the 'ladies' section of the carriages. When the doors open there is no fight to reach the platform; no battle with incoming pedestrians, but enough room to quickly stride off and through the turnstiles which never seem to need the key of the tiny card ticket. Outside of the station the Saturday afternoon is in full swing. The chat stalls a busy fishing out little crispy pieces of spicy delights from clear plastic sacks and expertly parceling them into neatly folded dishes of newspaper. No matter which day of the week, nor the time of day, hot and cold street snacks fringe the pavements, while wooden benches piled with hungry customers spill out onto the roads.

The auto rickshaws dodge between the trucks, cars and yellow battered taxis while the feet from the metro take on the oncoming traffic in a silent but calculated unity. We flow from one side of the road into the middle, where we all continue to walk in the same direction, around the invisible men at work and their wooden obstructions. Again we stop and watch the cars and cycles and then follow one another's lead, using our mass as individual protection. Arriving at our destination, the line of waiting auto rickshaws jump and rev into action, and three bodies pile in the front of each, while one sits either side of the driver. A continuous refill as each three-wheeler hurtles off, and 'we' - the incoming commuters - begin to dwindle in mass and disappear into the suburban streets.

I climb into the tin cab, swashed between a sari made with delicately decorated fine fabric, and a young man with a crisp clean white shirt and perfectly creased trousers. Hustle, chug, zoom, maneuver, moves the teenage boy behind the tiny wheel. The street moves by like a flick book of sketches. Shopping, buying, trading. We travel a few minutes only, and then the brakes screech slowing us to a gentle hubble-chug-chug and then unexpectedly bounce back into action and hurtle us to the side of the road. A calculated stop at which I climb out and hand the exact pre-counted change of four rupees to the driver. He briefly registers the coins before throwing them into the brown satchel handing from his control centre, protected by Ganesha, and a distractedly swinging garland of old plastic flowers. He has zoomed and dodged his way away before I have turned to cross the road.

The traffic has slowed. The distance between me and the centre of the market area has grown. Here it is quieter. It is less busy. I am standing in the centre of the old colonial suburban Kolkata; where old buildings still look regal and airy despite their need for renovation. Where wise trees cast their shade over the sprinkling of chai stalls. I stop at a small mountain of green coconuts, which rises like an oasis from the stale dusty pavement. I wave a ten rupee note and within seconds a machete has hacked off the top revealing a clear white cooling liquid, spilling over the sides and ready to be enjoyed. I take the turn down past the cinema, full of young guys wearing tight flared jeans and heavily gelled hair and talking in a hub-a-bub of shouts. And I sigh as my feet take me further into the space around me.

A few people wander down the street. Stopping to talk to one another, or to disappear through a door. I stop to tip the coconut back and drink what remains before throwing it into a huge pile of street garbage in the middle of the road. Two cows are meandering through the rubbish, munching on pieces of vegetable sodden paper. I follow the landmark of a tiny hindu shrine, protected by iron bars and brightly decorated before turning towards 'Regents Park' police station. A single army jeep is parked outside, as a man with a watering can tends to the shrubbery. The trademark ding ding of a bicycle rickshaw sounds the arrival of a lungi clad man who stands his way past, pushing carefully down on two solid peddles – slowly but surely moving his carriage of passengers out of sight.

Walking free from stares and curious glances I slow my gait, able to look around and to observe unselfconsciously. It is a rare luxury from a self-imposed paranoia; I am never invisible – there will always be someone studying my weird clothes, strange style, blonde hair. Similarly, it is rare that there is space to see the ground around; free from other bodies, free from cars, bikes or hustling movement. Walking down the wide lane, I breathe through the warm breeze and let myself relax.

A friend stands on the corner and greets me with a flashing smile. One of the beautifully intelligent young women who was in the Soma Home last year. She looks sophisticated and fashionable and lifts my happy heart with a warm hug. She is waiting for her driving instructor as her driving test is on Monday. I wish her well, and continue on my path with my own wide smile settling deep inside.

I am on my way to teach yoga to her prodigies; to the little girls and young women in the Soma Home which is situated just around the next corner. Ever since my first visit to the Soma Home I have had a sincere affiliation with the girls – they remind me of myself living in a boarding school year after year of my childhood. Some love yoga, acro-yoga, partner yoga. Other prefer the documentaries or perhaps just sleeping; as it is their weekend after all. They are incredible girls – incredible because they are so 'normal'. With mothers who are working in the sex trade, fathers who either support their wives work or who were their customers. With baby brothers and little sisters possibly with HIV, possibly not. Others have parents but are at risk from being sold or mistreated. But as I said, the girls are great. And as I hear the precious sound of my footsteps lead towards more smiles, laughter and far and present memories, I know they will achieve whatever their young minds can conceive.

Unacceptable Acceptance

The same old spinning confusions of frustration twinned with resources, ability and will to change. Watching – like a passive witness brought in for a few hours a week to return to a ‘safe’ bubble of relative reality. Work at the station dispensary has taught me a great deal from the practical to the philosophical. I have learned how to bandage wounds properly, clean deep infections and entertain scared children, but perhaps the most profound lesson has been the endurance of the human mind to deal with the deep and unrelenting pain of the human body. I have had the luxury to watch tremendous suffering and to sit uncomfortably with the realization that it is a consequence of the unacceptable conditions which too many of our brothers and sisters do not live with but rather have no choice but to deal with – to die with.

The majority of the patients who come to Sealdah dispensary have injuries to their lower limbs – mainly ulcers. The majority are men, but women and children come to. The kids usually live at the station and are dealing with self-inflicted injuries. A huge problem for the boys living on the streets is 'membership' of belonging to their new family; of proving their resilience. One way to 'prove' themselves is to take a razor blade and cut their forearms. Many are high on glue so seem immune to the pain, but if it becomes infected they might appear at the dispensary, backed by their curious gang, all bearing the thick pale scars on their soft young skin. Another risk for the street kids are their station games – running along the tops of the trains, or jumping into a moving train and then leaping out of the other side. These kids do not usually make it to the dispensary, but last year I met a survivor who was in rehabilitation. The boy was thirteen. He was learning to live with one less arm than his remaining friends.

The other kids who come to the dispensary are just keeping their mothers company – one little guy watches me from the doorway, scared to come closer but staring intently as his mother as she sits down opposite me. His nervousness softens after I hand him one of the bananas hidden in my apron, and the little piece of fruit consumes his wandering attention.

His mother is younger than I am, and she is beautiful – glowing with energy through her red sari made of cotton and washed soft. We study each other carefully and sporadically, while she tries to explain her affliction. She has just been to the government hospital and hands me her report and prescription. The report describes the “human bite on right middle finger” and the prescription is for oral and topical antibiotics – neither of which she can afford. She motions for her son to join her and he quickly walks the few paces to her side and stands as close as space allows, banana tightly clasped in his fists. I muster a tone of non-judgment and hidden curiosity, as I do not need to know who bit her in order to dress her severely infected finger, but I ask anyway. She replies with a look, then a gesture than a word, 'husband'.

Some people who come to the dispensary are healed. Others (according to the registrar) have been coming for more than ten years. But the dispensary is not a hospital, or even a clinic – we simply clean and dress wounds and where possible provide basic medication. We have a store room full of antibiotics and fancy dressings, but they remain 'stored' until they go out of date and then perhaps are thrown into the rubbish for the rag pickers to use. At the moment none of the volunteers who work there are trained medics. The Sisters who supervise our work are more paranoid about guarding the entrance from drug users and turning away anyone who comes after closing time. Over Christmas the supply of gauze and saline solution was used as a base on which to build the nativity scene, and we had to either creatively look for alternatives or surrender and pay a visit to the local chemist. At that time the dispensary closed for two days out of the three days in the week which it is open, and in protest Bruno and I opened our own little makeshift clinic outside. The Sisters never knew, but the patients gave us deep and humbling Namaste’s, providing me with a renewed sense of purpose and Bruno with a deeper sense of anger at our part in a machine which refuses to benefit those which it exists to serve.

As the months have passed I have made 'friends' with people I can hardly say two words to, but who have allowed me to try and relieve their suffering and done so with total acceptance of their situation and with no expectations. Sometimes I cry empty tears full of frustration, as the same old men and women will religiously come into the dispensary and flash a huge smile at me before rolling up their trousers or saris to show me their severely painful and infected wounds, which continue to refuse to improve. I have no other medical knowledge other than what I have learned in a first aid course and from what I have accumulated while working in India. But I am able to excuse my lack of training by knowing that even if I were a doctor, to try and administer antibiotics to patients who come some days and not the rest, or who have undiagnosed medical conditions such as HIV or TB, or who will walk outside into the filth with a clean bandage wrapped around their foot and no shoes, would be a even greater challenge. Even trying to change the attitude of the Sisters or long term volunteers requires infinite patience and determination. Theirs is a sense of defeat, or rather a dangerous acceptance that this is the reality, and it is and will remain impossible to change. I watch as some volunteers dress wounds without the blink of an eye; without discussing taking the patient to a hospital, or of paying for a diagnosis. I listen to myself feebly argue and then wallow in disappointment as not even the patients have the will to fight and it is just easier to surrender to the system.

I am left hoping that despite the refusal of the Missionaries of Charity to employ a local doctor or even to filter through a volunteer doctor, or to responsibly use the thousands of pounds worth of donated medicines, that small and continuous improvements can be made. Perhaps if the dispensary continues these small changes, such as to disinfect the tables after each patient or giving everyone some fruit to encourage them to return on the next session, then eventually larger improvements can be instigated. Larger improvements which will provide a service for those who most need it - a simple, free and effective medical treatment with the goal of alleviating the suffering of people no different from you and me. People no different from you and me but who just do not have the money or the means to pay for their health, so instead do what only they can do – accept.