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.

Leaving

I cannot get my head around leaving India. In fact its not just my head that I cannot bring around to the reality, but the reality itself. Returning to Kolkata has been strange. The faces of the travellers and long term volunteers who I worked with six months ago have changed. Some have returned to the places they call 'home', while others are on 'holiday', making the most of the influx of the Catholic volunteers over Christmas time in order to take a break. I have not even had time to think about these experiences, but rather they are floating through my mind, randomly recreating images so incredible they could be dreams. Since returning to Kolkata I have been so busy finding old friends and laughing with Gita, that my head has been fully occupied with the present. No room for future thoughts...

I have had a crazy busy two weeks: Every morning with Gita, lunchtimes at Sealdah train station and then afternoons visiting Wonder Woman and little Pineapple Girl among a hundred others at New Light and the Soma Home. The Life that his City contains is incredible. Just a five minute walk along a familiar street flashes a hundred images and prompts a thousand thoughts. Interactions, observations, conversations. I feel as if I have lived in Kolkata; as if this has been one of my many 'homes'. The feeling of belonging is comforting and a necessary facilitator for my travlling these past three years around a strange and hybrid World. Finding 'homes' in alien places is a necessity for someone like me who dislikes the feeling of being a 'visitor' rather than part of a social community, even if for only a short period.

In the past few weeks I have paced around Kolkata, surprised at my own familiarity with the mirage of streets and feeling disconcertenly at ease. The diversity of this city seems more apparent now that I have travelled away and then returned. The photo exhibitions, the colonial architecture, the activist book shops, the smart city shops a stones throw away from the wooden shacks of the traditional craftsmen and the plastic roofs of the slum dwellers. Diversity is reflected though the triad community of Muslim, Hindus and Sikhs and is intermingled with a formidable amount of Christian tourists; the continuation of tradition, culture, history and religion played out through the daily routine of occupational castes and family fortune. Rickshaw wallahs run bare foot alongside yellow Ambassador taxi's which race chauffeur driven imported jeeps. The daily newspapers, which are published in Urdu and Bengali, plaster the billboards while the old men share spectacles inorder to read them. Around the corner young business women drink Italian cappuccinos, subconsciously slipping into English and using phrases remeniscent of Victorian England as they excitedly discuss the forthcoming weekend's party.

It is because of this diversity that Kolkata is an easy place for a foreigner to live. That is until you open your eyes; and here it is much easier for an 'insider' to stay blinded than an outsider. The destitution framing daily life is shocking and with a city that has a population larger than most European countries the combination of poverty and numerology reduces a slum dwelling, street living individual to a body – anybody, somebody, no-body. Here Poor People die unnoticed as just as their life has been invisible, they leave behind a shadow of a child, woman or man ready to fill their space squatting at the side of the road, 'living' in the limbo of the Hungry and Homeless.

The power of globalisation lifts the educated and privileged into a parallel world while simultaneously transporting the poverty tourists into a vacuum of sickness, disease and deformity which they visit each day and which exists each night but which they leave after a few months, or perhaps days. A vacation of altruism; a lesson of life; a Mission completed?

These past eight months have had a profound effect on me. Indeed my eyes have been opened. I have met a little Buddha; an incredible child who I have learned so much from, who I now feel a responsibility for and yet Helpless to Help. I have worked along side Indians and foreigners whose compassion for humanity has held a mirror up to my own inadequacies. I have dealt with the guilt of the privileged, and the depth of my powerlessness. I have spoken in anger, written in sadness and tried to pacify a mind which is continuously provoked to thoughts of frustration. I have heard My Self.

And so yes, it is hard to imagine that I need to leave this place that continues to teach me so much. That is so full of Life and all of its imperfections. Every morning I laugh with Gita I cannot even think about saying Good bye, telling myself that perhaps its for the best as she cannot understand my words, and anyway my guiding hands with be replaced by another's.

My justifications for leaving are that I need to work. I will go and teach yoga to rich people on a paradise Island in Thailand. I will live in the nature again, and smell the salt of the sea. I will live in a bubble of tranquility. Of course I plan to return at the end of the season with enough money to work with Gita again, but my connection to Now nullifies plans for Then, inspite of the most rational of thoughts.

I was meant to leave on Sunday, but the airline cancelled my ticket. I was meant to leave on Tuesday but I contracted dysentery, I was meant to leave on Thursday but again the airline intervened and shut down its website. I was meant to leave on Saturday but my knee objected and I had to have an MRI scan. If I was supersitutious perhaps I would think the Universe was trying I tell me something. Unfortuantely, 'we' humans keep thinking that we have the power of the gods we personify. So I am leaving tomorrow.

Little Wise Babu

Little babu has the face of an old man. He looks wise. He totters around – the youngest little tot. Two years in this world. Yet he knows the score. He is as wise as he looks. He searches for Aunty. He slowly approaches her office and pokes his head around the bottom of the door frame. His eyes find her body laying on the floor. She is sleeping and he is wide awake – safe on his mission. Little babu bends down towards the floor, hands out stretched he lets his weight topple him forwards. His palms save his head and he is now in a position to crawl. Little babu crawls under the desk and his little fingers find what he is looking for. He presses the switch, looks around and then retreats. He pushes himself up and continues turning off the power. Little Conservationist. He recognises me – but I am only a familiar face. He waits for my reaction. I smile and he smiles back. He is safe. He is mischievous. He decides to put some distance between us. He totters between the racing children. Zooooom they whiz around him.

Another pair of eyes reach his line of sight. Another babu. Like a magnetic connection they are pulled together. Tottering they join forces in this whirlwind of energy. United they manoeuvre like two little unsteady robots, negotiating their way between the racing legs and the unseeing teachers. Focusing on a destination and tottering their way there– hands united. Their tininess makes them invisible as I watch them become babies again to those who see them. Little wise babu reaches for a steel cup of cold water. He wraps his little hands around it and drinks. He is collected by an older child, passively lifted and then deposited. His head turns slowly around to find his abandoned friend and once connected his body joins his eyes. They move further away from the noise and they stand together in the courtyard – watching. They look like two wise old men – watching over the youngsters, discussing the past and the future. Then something catches his attention. Little babu wanders over to the edge of the courtyard, holds onto the red bars and peers down. Quack Quack! It is the muddy family of muddy ducks. He watches the little ducks patter about obdientently following the mother duck. Quack Quack! He is silent - staring - and then lifts his head and see me - staring - out of my open barred window. He turns around. Tottering.

Little babu begins to scream. He was tripped up by a passing whirlwind and has fallen over on the concrete. His little friends is distressed and trying to help. A little pineapple girl hears the calls and her six years mother the Little babu. She picks him up and takes him by the hand. As always she is smiling as she leads the little babu with the wise old face to someone who will soothe his tears. His lip is cut and is bleeding, but all he really needs is reassurance that soon one day the world will stop pushing him over and he will be able to stand his ground. Little squeaky pineapple girl finds An Adult. The day is saved. She returns to the role of child in this space where children can just be. Little babu is quickly quietened. He is curious again. Searching around him, looking in control and ready to move on. Little wise babu. Two years in this world. Born into this beautiful world with blood that keeps trying to kill you.

The Potter

Tonight there is a very weird light. The sky has turned orange – the colour of gold. The buildings in the distance appear as if they are houses filled with sun. The air in the stone room is still and full. I walk to find freshness, away from the spun golden sky, through the room of colours and smiles and out onto the balcony at the back of New Light. Facing away from the setting sun the sky is already dust coloured. My eyes take a little time to readjust from the strip lights of the classroom and gradually I see that the reflections from the glowing clouds on the still river creates a false silver light which is fading quickly. The air seems a little fresher as it touches my face, enters my nose, refreshes my lungs. I haven't stood here before. I could easily forget I am in the centre of Kalighat. The river, the quiet, the stillness. But then my eyes readjust some more. Small figures dance around just below me. They stop. All is quiet. Then muffled laugher. Movement. Stillness, and so it continues as the children are playing a game of tag, where every time 'It' turns around they need to freeze in time. The fresh air begins to smell of burnt perfume, and I look down to search out the source – a white pillar dirty with the days, housing a Hindu deity and coloured with dying garlands of orange flowers, is sending up signals of smoke. A strange movement catches my attention. I move my eyes to the one small building sitting at the edge of the river. It has a small roof, corner pillars made of wood and no walls.

There is a man wearing a blue checkered lungi and a white sleeveless vest sitting on a small stool. He is squatting in front of a shape which is changing, transforming in front of his hands and in front my searching eyes. The man is manipulating and expertly moving a mound of clay. He is making it grow taller and thinner. He is removing sections from the top, and setting them down on a tray by his side. I focus my eyes and gradually I begin to discern rows of tiny clay cups. His fingers return to the spinning block in front of his bent knees. Spinning, rising, falling, removing, replacing. The mound of clay seems infinite as he is able to make it grow to the same size despite continuously creating and removing small pots. Gradually the lump of spinning clay can no longer keep up with his manipulations and the original lump is almost completely transformed into rows of stationary chai cups sitting wet at his feet. The wheel stops to spin. The original lump disceted and recreated, leaving a small stationary mound. The potter reaches across to push the new pots away from him, pulling forward a empty tray waiting to be filled. He lifts up a block of untouched, virgin clay and drops it onto his wheel. He picks up a wooden stick and begins to spin. His arms transfering his energy to the edges of the horizontal wheel. The momentum building, his foot working and then he releases the stick, lays it back down by his right side and splashes water over the spinning revolving lump. Whirling with momentum the clay turns. His hands settle on the side of the lump and as if by magic the clay surges upwards. It becomes smoother, uniform, full of soft ridges. Thumbs inserted and another chai cup is created, dis-attached from the whirling lump and then laid down on the new tray. And so it continues. Mesmorising me.

Eventually my eyes can no longer adjust to the fading light and it becomes harder to follow his work. But I am left feeling calmer. The evening air is cooler. I feel a two small arms around my legs and I look down to find a Little Miss Squeeky Pineapple. I reach down and pick her up and walk back into the blue light of New Light.

The Young Ladies from the Soma Home

Urmi draws me a map. It is full of squiggles and no real reference points. I am so going to get lost. I tell her my fears and she dismisses them, telling me it is easy and if I become confused to phone one of the many mobile numbers she writes down for me. I take her squiggles and apprehensively fold it into quarters and put it in my kuta pocket. I am going to try and find Soma Girls Memorial Home. The Soma home was founded a few years ago and it is for the girls of New Light who are older or more at risk. What I mean by 'at risk' is fairly subjective but basically means they are at an age where they are more 'at risk' from attracting the attention of their mothers' clients if they stayed at the main center in Kalighat. Or it could also mean that their families are on the poverty line and they are therefore more at risk from being sold or abused. The other girls who live at the Soma Home are those who have already been abused and have now been rescued. As the girls are aged between six and eighteen there is clearly no minimum age of abuse, and the threshold between 'child' (abuse) and 'adult' (consent) remains appropriately vague.

The Soma Home was named such in memory of one of the girls who died an untimely death due to the absence of proper medical care. The Soma Home is situated in the South of Kolkata, near an area called Tollygunge which is known as the more 'upmarket' part of town. One metro ride later, followed by one autorickshaw and a ten minute walk through a uniquely suburban area and I have arrived at a wide paved avenue. The avenue is lined with trees and the foot rickshaws have been upgraded with cycles. Urmi's squiggles have miraculously done the job and I am left facing a large peach coloured building and a varnished black gate. I ring the bell and a women emmerges. Her English matches my Bengali which means that it is only through a combination of hand signals and smiles that we are able to communicate. I am let into the Home and follow the noise of girls voices up the staircase. Immediately I am impressed by the decor. Seriously nice! Pastel colours mixed by inset Hindu shrines. The House Mother greets me. An older Bengali women, who politely smiles but who lets the girls do the entertaining. There are another three women there. Two young teachers, who are fashinably dressed, speak fantastic English and clearly part of Urmi's plan to provide suitable role models for the girls. They later tell me that they love working at the Soma Home and often come during their time off just to socialise with the girls. There is also another lady with the girls – one who has a remarkable presence. I later find out that she is a social worker. It soon becomes clear that New Light is doing everything in its power to prevent the girl's past from inhibiting their future.

The Soma Home has a powerful effect on me. For those of you who don't know – between the ages of eight and seventeen I lived in an insitution. It was a socially acceptable institution. Not an orphanage in the traditional sense, as it included children with parents, just those who for a variety of reason, decided that it was preferable for their children to grow up away from home. My school was the first and the last all girls boadring school in Scotland, and at the time extremely strict. I remember the early years as being particulaly 'cold.' The dorms were big, filled with beds, limited space for personal belongings and with no carpets underfoot or unncessary decorations. Food was controlled, freedom outside of the school grounds forbidden, every hour accounted for, living space shared with girls from a range of ages, and holidays during term time limited to one weekend once a month. I remember my first day, walking down the central staircase holding on to my mothers hand and looking at the approaching door, knowing that very soon I would be forced to let go and watch her disappear back into the outside world. The feeling of dread building up in me until I could no longer control it and tears spilling out of my young eyes. And then very soon, I became hardened to the routine. At the age of ten I would chastice the 'new' girls who still cried. By seventeen I was so 'independent' my father was confused about how to exercise the parental control he has unwittenly released nine years before. In contrast the girls at Soma Home seemed genuninely happy. The environment was relaxed and very comfortable and 'warm'. We laughed so much. The relations between the young and old girls seemed genuinely caring with many being sisters and the rest being freinds. What struck me the most was the confidence of the girls. They were polite and yet inquistive, and there was absolutely no sign of their background, but only a bursting of dreams to be realised. Girls told me of their boxing classes, Kathak dancing classes, English conversation classes and college applications. I asked if I could see some Kathak dancing and within minutes a space was cleared and five of the 'older' girls began with the opening prayer. The prayer was physical as well as verbal and the aim of which was to give thanks to their teacher, Guruji Pandit Chitresh Das who is a famous classical Indian dancer. Gurji teaches the girls whenever he is visiting from his Califonian home, but the girls continue to practice every day. The dancing is impressive, and with front row seats I sit there grinning as the girls coordinate their moves, stepping in time and speaking the impressive kathak chant which quickly pulls me into another world. The younger girls sit crossed legged next to me, necks bent backwards, eyes pointed up and whispering the sounds, clearly waiting to follow in their expert foot steps.

I am given a tour of the building by a group of girls who surround me like my own aura. Holding tightly onto my hands, and when one lets go another hand quickly moves to take its place. The dorm rooms each contain two bunk beds and a large wardrobe. I am shown the 'babies' bathroom with its tiny shower, knee high toilet and sink. I am shown the computer room, where the lights are turned off to reveal a ceiling full of glowing 'stars'. I am shown the beautifully decorated guest room, invited to jump on the bed, and then invited to stay. "Not tonight" I reply, but in reality I feel scared to stay. I am not sure what emotions and memories this place can evoke.

I leave happy, with shouts of "Good bye Aunty" chasing after me, and little hands refusing to let go and begging promises to return soon. "Turn left Aunty!" they shout through the veranda which they have all piled out onto. I retrace my steps, and smile at my lack of direction. I wave another goodbye and a Thank you. I will return. And next time I will bring some Magic to share with the Magic already shared...

Happiness

I search the running faces. I can't see the pineapple. I search the shaved heads. I look for the blue and white dress. There are several – but they are not her. I realise that I am disappointed. My heart sinks more than it already has today. She was the small happiness which I was selfishly searching. I begin to wonder where she is? Perhaps she just hasn't seen me? Perhaps she has forgotten me – maybe ten day is too long for a six year old trained to forget? Perhaps she has left New Light? But surely she would not have gone home unless her mother has returned from hospital? And what of the abuse she has already had to suffer once? The running feet whizz around me. I feel sad which makes me feel bad. I smile at the smiling faces staring up at me. Vying for my attention but I know the smiles I return are only shallow. Hands search for mine and small fingers play with my watch. Pressing the buttons but too weakly for any mechanical reaction. Their eyes remain focused. Loud little voices rise to me ears and I try to return the energy which they so freely give to me. Slowly I pull the fingers away and turn my back. The cries follow the disappointment I leave behind.

I lean on the balcony and search the running heads on the path below. I search for a small squeaky pineapple. But there I can't find one. Defeated I sit. A tray appears in front of me. It presents four small thick glasses of steaming chai; thick brown liquid wobbling beneath a shade of condensation. The woman who has made the chai and who is holding the tray does not use any words to communicate with me but only extends her arm. I reply by carefully extracting a glass, fingers wrapped painfully around the rim. She turns around and limps away, back into New Light. In my silence I sip the sweetened darkened milk. I stare onto the streets below. Children playing, women waiting, men joking. I feel guilty that two little girls have captured my attention – one without sight – one with too much history – both abandoned. I feel fortunate to have what I consider to be a real privilege to work with them. I know they give me far more happiness than the giggles which I can give them. But with one not here I am left missing. As I think these thoughts a “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” travels through the classroom! A Pat Pat Pat Pat Pat Pat at full speed! The smile accompanying our Crush is as large as the collision. I look down at the little shaved head clinging to my legs and bend down to greet the two eyes beneath it. We smile so much at each other. No words are exchanged as both know the miscomprehension which they will bring but the connection between our eyes and the happiness they communicate is much more effective than any “Hello! I have missed you!” I tickle her and she collapses even more as her arms wrap around my neck demanding to be lifted up and hugged. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuug. So tightly. I kola walk her over to the swivel chair and point to her to remove the blue beaded bracelet around my wrist. Her small fingers quickly twist open the clasp and its rings fall away from my wrist. I wrap it around hers. One. Two. Three. Four. Five times it goes. Her smile is so wide that it travels around the room. She is torn between shouting for everyone to look and hiding it under our hands – just in case presents from Aunty are not allowed. She is playing it safe and as one of the tutors walks by the clever Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple folds forwards and presses her shaved head against my barbie hair. The tutor walks past and I tighten the clasp. I bring my right wrist next her hers. Snap! We match. Little and Large. Rings of blue beads around both of our wrists. She is smiling so much and it is a pleasure to see.

The bracelet had been for Gita as she always loves to feel the beads on my wrist and hear their invisible sounds as she rolls them against my skin. But as always she refused to hold her arms still for long enough for me to wrap it around her wrist and picked it up and threw it as far as she had the patience to. I feel happiness as unlike Gita, Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple shows me her smile. She lifts her head back and points it towards me and then sends her happiness and energy through her shining eyes. A bell rings and I begin the challenge of depositing her back in the class room. She has clearly become much more confident with the other children. She lets me place her down on the floor and she finds the little lady who had been so determined to work my watch. She shoves her newly decorated wrist in front of her and then grabs mine and pulls it towards her. Another pair of eyes search up to me. I don't have another to give I try to explain by showing my empty hands. The another pair of eyes doesn't understand. She wants one. I squeeze off the pink skinny bangle and pop it over her hand. It is so big for the another pair of eyes that it could reach all the way up to her shoulder. She is appeased but not satisfied. Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple sends a pair of hands up towards me. Arms outreached. Smile beaming. I mimic her as my hands reach up to the ceiling fan. She laughs and jumps. I bend and lift. We smile.

Ladies Only

After a day in Kolkata I felt like I had been here for a month. After a month I now feel perfectly at home. 'Home' in the sense that I no longer feel like a stranger, that sights and smells are no longer new. 'Home' in that I see the same faces at the same time every day, and people no longer 'see' me quite so much. In fact for a 170cm tall blonde woman I feel relatively 'invisible'. Living in Kolkata is much easier than I had envisaged. People may be incredibly curious, but that is not because I am a foreigner. As the food program reminds me, curiosity is more part of Kolkata's 'culture' than anything to do with me. In regards to 'me' people are incredibly helpful. Traveling on my own is easier than most other places I have been. Although the streets are full with many more men than women, the majority are all incredibly polite. On all public buses and the Metro, instead of designated seating areas for the elderly or disabled, there are designated seating areas for 'Ladies Only'. In fact the Metro (which Kolkata is very proud of) is always quite a pleasant experience. Walking down the steps, buying a four rupee ticket, walking through the 'metal detector' door frame which beeps and flashes regardless of what passes under it, through the turn stiles, and onto the platform. Trains to South Kolkata (Tollygunge) on the first platform and to the North (Dum Dum) on the opposite side. A cool breeze flows through the station combining the underground air conditioning with the vacuum left by departing trains. Hindi music rings out as (usually) the latest Kolkata Knights cricket match is played on one of the TV screens. There are a scattering of sari clad women and then the spacious gaps are filled by shirt wearing men, standing in backless polished shoes (but "no shoe shines in the Metro"- please...) and synthetic lap top cases. A train arrives, rattttling along the tracks. And then rush. Everyone converges towards the opening sliding doors and piles in. Hot bodies pressing forward. Arms reaching towards the stainless steel bars. We women squeeze towards our 'relief' – the middle section of every carriage is 'our' space. I usually stand although some times one woman will insist on becoming my personal traffic warden, using her native authority to shuffle up all the other women to reveal a small gap for me to squeeze into. Otherwise I hold onto the cool railings and look, and my looks are reciprocated.

My own curiosity is reserved only for women and children. Although I feel completely at ease wandering around Kolkata, I also know that staring with a strange face to a strange face is not always the most sensible option. But in the confines of the 'Ladies Only' we all observe the 'strangers'. I am self conscious of my comparatively scruffy appearance: my straw hair loosely tied back and wrapped up this way and any way, with strands escaping creating a fuzzy hairy aura around me. Meanwhile I look at the rows of scrapped back silky black plaits or neat low ponytails hanging obediently down backs. Lines of red marking the parting of the married women's hair line, reflecting the third eye de-marked by red, black or jeweled bindis. My earrings mis matching, my necklaces made of string, my clumpy dive computer and my beaded bracelet look awkward and childish next to the gold droplets handing off every ear lobe, detailed delicate chains, and wrists full of jinglingly jangling colours. My kuta faded from its nightly washes, and still with the faint line left by the wire it was dried upon. Marks of sweat where my cotton bag is pressing against my body. I look at the seats full of colours. Of fresh cotton saris, some studded with gems, all bright and each telling their own story. Meters of printed material wrapping around and over and flowing graciously to the floor, to reveal polished nails sitting daintily in strapped heeled sandals. I hitch up my fishermans trousers from under my kuta, readjusting the two lengths of material which hold it approximately around my waist. I look down at my dirty feet, at my black rubber Flip Flops.

A recording is playing following our journey. Familiar words can just be made out from underneath the rattle of the train: Maidan left side, Rabindra Sadan left side, Netaji Bose left side, J S Park street right side. As I hear my exit I move to the door, towards the men. A space is made for me and as the doors slide open I join the 'exchange' and hop out through through the bottle neck, into the opposing movement crushing into the confined. Back onto the cool platform and the rush is over and the pace is slow. Ticket in the machine, pressing my body against the turnstile, until it resists, releases and spits me out. Left following the sign to the 'Kalighat Temple'. Two small steps at a time up to the busy, dusty, beeping road and a first left.

"Rickshaw Madame?" A foot rickshaw driver smiles. "Rickshaw to the Metro?" He jokes. He sees me every day and tells me "walking walking everyday walking." And everyday I repeat his words back to him as I walk on, and he stands waiting to find someone to walk – or run. “Kalighat Temple This Way!” A distressed woman shouts to me. Waving me back with her entire arm. I continue along my chosen path. A few weeks ago and her advice would have confused me, but now I am walking with faith in my recently installed automatic pilot, and confident that my programmed legs will take me the right way. I walk the length of the quiet small road. Past a few parked taxis. Past the cart full of bamboo, the open door on the corner revealing a tiny room crammed full of leather bound books. Past the seated women with the fluffy black dog. The daily connection by our eyes, followed by two instant smiles. The miti shop, with a glass window full of round, square, diamond, white, brown, yellow sweets. All different, but all with a common taste. A faded painting on a wall advertising the 'World Cup 2006' next to red graffiti scrawls of the Communist Party India - Marxists (CPI-M) symbolised by the hammer, sickle and star.

Across the junction and past the men sitting on the pavement, all of whom are absorbed in a card game, neatly laid out on a sheet of newspaper. One hand resting on the pavement, the other holding the symbols, and one cradling a small clay pot. Weight shifting as he scoops its creamy sweet contents into his mouth with a small wooden slip of a spoon. I can almost feel the coldness of the clay in his hands. It is misti doi, a delicious desert “unique to Bengal”, tasting like a rich thick yogurt. A lull lull crescendos behind me and I step between two parked taxi's to let the barefeet of the rickshaw run past before I reclaim the concrete. I turn left straight onto the puga stall street, which also leads to the Kali Temple. I walk confidently, and can now see 'differences' between this street and the ones parallel and intersecting. It has taken many long diversions to reach this decisiveness, and I no longer have to wonder around looking for tell tale signs.

The street is busier, smellier and louder. Raised voices. Zooming. Little people, old people. The colourful women are squatting in their usual place. Its too early to stand. The women look bored. Some are more confident than others and have no hesitation to look into the faces of those who walk past them, holding the stares of the men and boys. I keep trying to figure out their position in the community; whether they are 'visible' to those who live here. To me, they just look at 'home', talking, buying food from the stalls, sitting eating. But as always I am apprehensive of drawing conclusions from these briefest of observations.

Two women are distractedly playing a board game with yellow and red counters. It reminds me of Connect Four, but its laying on the ground and the counters make no 'click click' sound when they are moved by the two hands of gleaming red nails. I take my sun glasses off and drop them in my bag to see what more 'connections' are there for me to take. I am very conscious of the glasses as they work to exclude much more than light. Sometimes a welcome barrier, other times reflecting an image not always wished to be reflected. A women who looks more Chinese than Indian, lips also gleaming red, is wearing a black sari made of delicate material and lined with tiny shining beads. She looks at my face and offers me one smile. I take it and as I walk past them into the stone alley way my eyes return to the muddy floor just in time to see her pedicured polished red toe nails. My eyes move back to my feet. Filthy. I squeeze past men in their lungi's and white vests, a small boy carrying a tray of glass chai cups. I dodge a muddy puddle and step into the courtyard guarded the body of an old man, curled up on the floor finding relief from the afternoon heat. Flip Flop Flip Flop Flip Flop up the small stone stairs. New Light. A blue colour pours down from the blue infusion created from the sun and the blue corrugated plastic roof. Fresh Air blows over the terrace and I walk into the Blue, fans spinning above my head, a line of children sleeping on wicker mats. I shake off my Flip Flops and leave them at the door. I walk into the class room, my eyes tracing those the sleeping children's head, the softness of which is broken by the one shaved one. Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple is fast asleep, wedged between two equally dream-a-tosed children. Today I will have a little more time before the 'EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE'. I wait.

Pineapple Girl

She is so adorable. How could anyone harm her? Six years old and already lived sexual abuse that I don't even have the strength to listen to. Six years old and full of so much light, that spills out of her as she smiles. And after spending her first day at New Light underneath the desk which I was writing on top of Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple seems to have grown quite an attachment to me. Now every day that I come into the center it doesn't take her long to find me. The pattern goes something like this...a little scream from behind, the pattering of running naked feet on top of the stone floor, and then ...Attack! A collision later and she has grabbed hold of me, jumps up if I am standing or simply hugs my waist so tightly if I am sitting. Today was no exception:

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” At which point I already turn around knowing what to expect.

Pat Pat Pat Pat Pat Pat as the feet come rushing towards me. Crush! Grab and Swing, as the swivel chair has to unexpectedly deal with a small tsunami.

And now we both sit here smiling. She has a shaved head today. Infected lumps of something, which meant that the hair had to go. She still looks beautiful. Short, Long or No Hair and Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple will still continue to shine and smile and giggle and laugh and want me to hug and hold her.

I will try and let her type:

hhhhmatmmadg

No she hasn't quite got the hang of it yet and her little hand just keeps resting on the mouse pad bringing up all sort of unwanted options. Now she just wants to touch the screen. Never mind, I will try and ask her to write to you some other time, however, its pretty hard considering that the little six year old can barely speak English – although she can smile SO much.

A little later and Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple has been collected and carted off by the teacher so many times I am beginning to think I should just save her the hassle and move into the classroom. We managed to have a small photo show before she was found the first time (after the failed typing experiment) and she went crazy, kicking her feet and jumping around on my knee, saying words to me which I have no idea what they mean, but which I repeated all the same between interjections of “Whale Shark! Manta Ray! Clown Fish (I won't say 'Nemo' as I am sure the film has no relevance what so ever for her) Lion Fish” as they flashed up before her amazed eyes. “Giant Moray Eel” – this one produced a reaction of even more kicks and squeals followed by a rather brave attempt to try and touch the screen. However, some quick thinking preemptive tickling and she was overcome by a fit of giggles. Next came some photos of me – hair down, bikini on, and my youngest scuba diver sitting at my side – eleven year old Akezjiah. Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple became extra excited at this photo. She touched my blue beaded bracelet on my wrist and then traced it on the screen, she pulled at my string necklace and then like a 'spot the difference game' tried to find my cowrie shell by peering down my kuta, only to find the silver charm from Mother Teresa via Mr Unconventional. She points to Akezjiah. “Ke?” She asks “Ke?” She points to the Me trapped in time and then returns to hit my face. She points to Akezjiah and then hits her own chest, little feet swinging and smile never ending. I reach over to click to the next photo and she pulls my arm back, she wants it around her and I am left trying to maneuver my left hand free from hers to show her move of this fantasy life under the sea but she stops me. She is fixated by the photo. Mesmorised. Staring deep inside. And then Slap! Two little hands on my cheeks followed by a Big Smiling Kiss.

The activity in the class room is growing more audible. As if reading my mind a stern voice shouts her name and she giggles into my kuta. Not wanting to betray her, but knowing our private movie showing of the Blue can't continue for much longer. I stand up. She holds on. Arms jump up to wrap around my neck and I walk like a clumsy overgrown kola into the class room. I try and put her down, but just like Gita she lifts up her feet in refusal. I turn around and sit her on a tactically placed bench. She climbs up and grins. I am left with the dilemma of how to break her fall but deposit her in class. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee. And she Wins. I am back with a Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple hanging around my neck.