Baby Vision

The orphanage is pretty much the same. Two children have died from phenomena while their spaces have been filled with beautiful babies from the nursery one floor below. One of them is little Meta – the little blind baby I feel in love with a year ago. As a baby she was a natural yogini – legs and arms everywhere, but the most striking characteristic was her continuous smiling and laughing. She's grown taller, but is so skinny. Her body is still bendy, but her neck seems to fall back all the time, as she hits it on her chair, and leaves it there. She cries continuously, until she is held in your arms, and then she is still; just listening to your breath. Changing her clothes is hilarious. She loves to be touched and tickled, and giggles uncontrollably as I tickle her skinny legs and little baby belly. She particularly loves having her belly button tickled, which seems incredibly sensitive; I guess it wasn't so long ago that she was still connected to the mother that she still sheds the tears for. She is incredibly gentle, and quietly sits (or softly cries) until someone cares to feed her or change her. It is incredible how the characters of each child is expressed despite their ages, inability to talk, or move. She reminds me of Deepa – and not just because she was born without eyes – but because of her passivity and quiet confusion. Seeing Deepa's stinted development is all the more reason why it is so important to find a 'solution' to find a way to assist her to learn to speak and fight her way through this world; lessons learned which may make the journey for this next little baby a little smoother. But she is not the only one.

Next to her sits Nitu. Who is adorable. Totally. But her attitude is completely different. Her lack of vision seems to mean nothing to her. She is a real fighter and super smart. She is smaller than Meta but probably the same age – around one and a half (even though their folders say they are three and two respectively). She wants to learn and if she isn't finding the stimulus she will yell until she gets it. The power of her shouts reflect her frustration. She takes a deep inhalation and then pours our a 'Ahhhhh'. Unlike Meta, it isn't a cry of misery, but for attention. And what a successful technique! Within minutes she has someone in front of her, watching the Queen of the babies, and following her orders. I am no exception, and happily follow her demands for different sounds and songs, as she quickly repeats and giggles. 'La La La' is too easy for her, and soon we are 'rrrrrrrrrr' – ing and 'zzzzzzzz ZA!'-ing. I try singing 'twinkle twinkle little star' as she lifts herself off the padded chair and bumps back down with total uncontrollable excitement. Sporadically she throws her arms out to the sides and searches for Meta's still fluffy baby hair which she yanks with all the power of her little fists. Meta just sits quietly. Unsure of what is happening or how to react. Eager to preserve the little hair Meta has managed to grow, I turn my attention to her chair and move it slightly away from her incredibly stimulated neighbour. I guess most babies have no control over their movements, as parents and carers pick them up and deposit them at will, but the lack of vision that these babies have must make it all the more frustrating. However, Meta seems pacified by my continuing rendition of 'twinkle twinkle'. I feel like I have just seen a ghost – or rather heard one. Queen Nitu is bubbling a stream of 'little stars' – now for a blind baby whose first language should be Bengali and who apparently has still yet to speak her first word, this is AMAZING. So, amazed and with a smile from ear to ear, I struggle with the simultaneous feelings of frustration as I think that four years further down the verbal development line, Deepa is still struggling with basic sounds.

Meanwhile, I am caught in a ridiculous predicament. I have as yet avoided introducing myself to the new Sister in charge. Following warnings from Climber Woman, I decided not highlight the specific attention which I am dedicating to Deepa. However, I desperately want to ask about any potential speech therapy training. I have heard from another long term volunteer that this winter has put many of the children in hospital which has been an unexpected drain on the Shishu Bhavan funds. This apparent unexpected drain has meant a re-allocation of money from the weekly speech therapy tuition to the weekly physiotherapy sessions. I am in no position to question the use of the Missionaries of Charities funds, although this cutback surprises me, as they are one of the wealthiest charities in Kolkata. I'd love to offer paying for a speech therapist, but predict that my offer will be seen as interfering.

I want these beautiful blind girls to have the opportunities to learn to speak, to learn life skills that will enable them to facilitate a future for themselves. For them to be able to feed themselves, to go to the toilet, to communicate fully with those around them, so that they can understand where they are and made sense of all the craziness – inside and outside of the orphanage. I want them to have a life – despite not having eyes. Once again, I want to know – how can I help more?

Fear

I have found something which has changed. I am now accompanied by a fear of expectation, so much so that I am petrified to return to Shishu Bhavan. In the last eleven months I have spoke continuously about Deepa. I have spent so much time trying to figure out a way to provide her with the opportunities she needs to grow into independence, and right now I am so scared that it is beyond my capabilities. I registered with the Missionaries of Charity yesterday, ready to begin work tomorrow. I listened to a volunteer warn about giving money to professional beggars, about only eating in touristic restaurants, about the dangers of catching lice, malaria and a million other indescribable infections, about how to make an appointment for confession. Trying to swallow frustrations I took my seat for registration, and felt a little of my anxiety float away, as the Sister penciled my name into the list of volunteers for Shishu Bahavan. I told her I was a yoga teacher and would be happy to provide some classes for the Sisters if they were interested? I was left smiling on the outside and in as the offer was received with deaf ears. She handed me the tiny silver Mother Teresa medal with a whisper of a blessing and then called forward the next on the volunteer conveyor belt.

A group of French flipped through the homemade Lonely Planet to the Missionaries of Charity – choosing which home to volunteer in, organising their schedules and coordinating with the available places. If it wasn't for Deepa, I would not be here The amount of willing hands is amazing. So many people wanting to experience a little of Mother Teresa's magic. But I am thankful for my self imposed responsibility to my little friend. She has given me a goal inside the enormity of poverty; but the path isn't as simple as it could be, and I am continuously trying to remain thankful to Shishu Bhavan for supporting life, while wishing they could facilitate futures. I have already received warnings that the new Sister in charge of the orphanage is battling any attempts of the children receiving individual attention. I realise that every day I will be witness to routine acts of abuse and incompetence, tempting my frustrations and giving a voice to my anger. Yet despite this, I am really scared of my own self imposed expectations. Despite how much I want to see Deepa, I don't know whether I will be able to fulfill my silent pledge to her – to help her find her life. Have I romanticised opportunity? Forgotten the rigidity of the 'system' she was more or less born into? Given myself supernatural powers to perform miracles reserved usually for only a tiny percentage of the 'normal' orphans? I start work at Shishu Bhavan tomorrow.

The Power of Kolkata

Arriving back in Kolkata! I am so excited that I am actually shaking. The train pulls into Sealdah station. The station where I worked for two months. I wish goodbye to the smartly dressed men I shared the cabin with as I pick up the plastic bag of full of food which I have collected from the journey. The latest conversation we had gives a bitter taste to my words of farewell. Intrigued about my work in Kolkata, the smartly dressed men were all quick to blame poverty on 'laziness' rather than as a feature of the society they are so proud of. I have found this defensive reaction to be common among a certain class of Indian men. Well educated, well travelled and wealthy many are eager to share their experiences of the world with me, with conversations having a distinct but subtle tone of nationalism. Whenever I am asked about my 'work' in Kolkata, I am weary about my reply, knowing that most times it will bring a change in the tone of the conversation. Back in the rush of Sealdah station, I nip over to the slum area which hugs the north entrance. I offer the bag of left over luxury train food to a half naked and severely disabled homeless man. He smiles and nods in acceptance. I untie the bag for him and lay it on the mud, at his feet. I wonder again how my travel companions can blame the thousands of cases of destitution on laziness? Meanwhile, the survival capacity of the disabled within this Street State of War amazes me.

The taxi journey back to the tourist area of Sudder Street was as quick as it was overpriced, but I was too tired and too excited to complain. The taxi pulled up in front of Hotel Modern Lodge; the hotel which is anything but 'modern' and guarded by the 'Old Man' who seems to be a more permanent fixture of the place than the building itself.

Modern Lodge is situated at the corner where The Man Outside sleeps. I smile as I see The Man Outside standing in the middle of the road, still shrouded by his blue blanket, still bowing down to touch the feet of passing tourists and still smiling through his mumblings. I shout 'Hello' to him, and he replies by stepping over to show me a picture that he has torn out of a newspaper. I think about my adventures of the past four months as I have traveled across the north of India, met hundreds of different people and lived an entire rainbow of experiences. The Man Outside has lived on Sudder Street for over ten years. As we come and go, traveling and exploring, he continues to live within his own reality. A Happy Hard place, connected through these bizarre interactions and routinised through handouts with the same road corner for a bed.

Within minutes I feel as if I have never left. I feel as if I am back 'home' in this mix of lives and energy known as 'Kolkata'. I leave my bags and walk towards my favorite road leading to Shishu Bhavan.

I pass another Old Man, who rather the guarding the entrance to a guest house, marks the same patch of pavement: waiting to collect dropped coins, be it day and night. Despite the absence of the summer sun he is still wearing his large framed sixties style sunglasses and is sitting i- like a statue - in the middle of the parked taxis. The pavement is covered in piles of mud as men wearing the uniform blue tartan lungis work to place a large black pipe under the pavement. Nevertheless, motorbikes filled with families of young men and boys continue regardless, driving over the pipe as the workers try to lift it off the ground.

The mosque in the middle of the street of butchers is busy with smartly dressed young men rushing inside and out. The atmosphere is festive, and it soon becomes clear that there is a wedding procession intermingled with the daily activities of shoppers, who are buying their fresh cuts of goat and mutton meat.

A pack of puppies hungrily tear apart a discarded animal skull, as they trample through a pile of street rubbish. Their little pattering paws stained red. Queues of men form around the chai and mithi shops, as boxes of sweets are expertly packed and shots of chai exchanged for a few rupees.

Arriving at the orphanage was strange: A place which I had thought and spoken so much about during my travels and yet a place which seemed stuck inside a time warp. The faces of the volunteers had changed, but the faces of the children and the Indian mashis were the same. My eyes searched for Gita, and found her sitting on a chair rocking backwards and forwards in time to the loud sounds of Christmas carols blaring out of the speakers.

She is taller. Her hair is longer but still as lice filled as ever. I took her hand, and she responded by standing up. I wanted to tell her it that it was Me. That I was back to play, to explore and to laugh with her again, but how to communicate when words are still a confusion of sounds? Besides, why should I be important to her within her life of confinement and twice daily constant stream of Other volunteers?

I try to fulfill my desire to be recognised by singing her favorite songs: I start with Indiana Jones and swing her around and spin her around until she cackles with laughter. I feel the eyes of the other children on me, as they sit strapped into their padded chairs, devoid of energy and entertainment. I am so emotional that I need to hide my tears in stupidity – playing 'row row row your boat' as she grabs my hands and pretends to 'row' our imaginary boat across the nursery floor. I do not know if she remembers me or not, but I know she remembers our games, and she allows me to feed her which is a relief, although also a disappointment, as I had hoped that in the months of being apart she would have learned how to eat independently. In fact, she has made only a little progress. She is certainly more confident as she is able to move around more independently and seems happier exploring without being guided. She is showing more signs of memory, as she responds to my directions of 'stand up' and 'step' and although she copies rhythms of songs her formation of sounds is still erratic and limited. Ga Ga Ga sssssssssss Ta Te Te she sings to me - or to herself.

The Sister in charge is away at the moment, which means that there is no one I can talk to about her future. I want to know if she is still insisting that Gita is mentally retarded? I want to know if there is anything which I can do to facilitate her education? I want to know if when she will be moved into the 'active' section away from the cuddles of the volunteers, nappies and forced feeding? The more time I spend with this incredible four year old, the more I recognise her potential ability and the more I admire her unbelievable courage. I realise that there are probably many volunteers who feel her energy and that I am not the only one who has been seduced by her lust for life. But I still feel this responsibility to facilitate a life for her. I still believe that if she stays in the orphanage her independence will be compromised, and although Shishu Bhavan may have saved her life it is not enough to give her a life: she needs more – she deserves more.

I will spend the next two weeks playing with her, laughing with her and trying to teach her a little more about our world. Meanwhile, her touch and her reactions provide me with an addictive energy and unique perception which makes me wish I could tell her how amazing she is. I feel like a traitor leaving her. I feel frustrated at not knowing how to connect her reality to ours. I hug her tight before she insists on being turned upside down. A free fiery spirit.

Leaving

I had a dream last night that I adopted Gita and Karma. In my dream baby Karma started to talk to me. This amazed me and hurt me as then – in my dream – I believed that if a baby blind girl could speak before a four year old blind girl then the four year old blind girl did not possess the ability to speak. The night before last I dreamt that Gita and a mentally disabled young man who hangs around at the station were on the night bus to Himacheal Pradesh with me. My dream turned into a night terror where I was trying to move and speak but was unable to do either, and yet in my - night terror – I believed that some thing awful would happen if I didn't wake myself up – by either moving or speaking. The night before that I didn't sleep because my mind would not rest. Closing my eyes made no difference as I lay in my bed with my mind whirling; throwing images and questions at me. It was working and thinking and talking to me and making me so very restless that I needed to distract myself. I opened my eyes. I watched my friend - 'The Man Outside' - turn and roll and gesture to no body and my mind continued to whirl. At some time after the night and before the morning I began to make Gita a new folder so that new volunteers would know how capable she was/is. I had printed photos of her walking around on the roof, climbing the stairs on her own, in the park on the swing, holding a glass and drinking from it, taking off her bib – I had printed all the evidence that I knew showed that she is very competent, and in many ways very able. I then wrote advice to the new volunteers – speaking as if I was Gita which I know is a very great liberty to take. However, I told them that “I like to dance, explore the roof, touch the trees in the park” that “I need to learn to eat on my own so please help me to feed myself” that “I have to learn to walk unaided” and “to learn to speak.” I reminded the new volunteers that “I need to learn about the world around me through touch and exploration, so please help me rather than doing things for me.” I couldn't sleep because I was torn between feeling guilty that I had decided to leave Kolkata and that by doing so I was forfeiting Gita's progress: that every single day she was doing something remarkable, which amazed the Mashis and the Sisters but yet she needed the space to do these things. By leaving her I was not guaranteeing her space. Yet the more that I thought about it the more certain I was that there would never be a right time to leave her.

My last few days at Shishu Bahavan provoked some of the strongest emotions. Now I know many of the children and more importantly they know me. I began to provoke smiles by just throwing some around. I realised that I felt completely at ease in a room full of 37 disabled children – knowing how to act – which was normal; and 'normal' for me is playing – it is laughing and smiling and tickling and picking little people up and throwing them around, as for some this is the most stimulation they will receive all day. For others they are unable to even take a few steps on their own and will just sit strapped into their wooden chairs or lay on the mats, curled up - passively watching and passively waiting. As for Gita; now she totally trusts me. My last day working with her really showed me how much she has accepted my presence, and I was really left feeling privileged. On my last day she was exceptionally happy. In fact both breakfast and lunch left me feeling so amazed at her and so scared for myself. For the first time she began to eat on her own – by this I mean that rather than fighting each spoonful she allowed me to wrap her hand around the tea spoon and guide it to her mouth. Admittedly this took some preparation with the spoon being used as a pre-lunch instrument to 'drum' the steel bowl with; and her aim of where her mouth is was drastically off the mark – leaving equal amounts of food on her face and bib then in her mouth. There were also the spontaneous dropping of the spoon in the bowl of mush – spreading a generous amount over my head and shoulders. However, seeing her begin to become independent left me on an incredible high – but as I am trying to explain also caught in a limbo where I know she now feels comfortable with me to learn and to explore and more to the point my presence givers her the space to explore: to play with her food (touching is the only way she can see it after all) and make noise and basically to have the freedom to live outside of herself.

On my last day she climbed the stairs at record speed only taking my hand when she wanted me to lift her and to swing her. We explored the roof but she wanted to explore her voice more; which makes me think that very soon she is going to begin to speak. She would pull on my shoulders to make me sit down and then blindly lean back and trust that my body was waiting for her to break her fall. She would fit herself into my crossed legs and reach for my hands and then begin baaaaaaaing laaaaaaing and maaaaaing. I have started to repeat her sounds to try to make her realise that this is one way in which we can communicate. And whenever I would chant 'Ommmmmm' she would join in and like a test for free diving we would continue to see who could last the longest. But really what had the strongest effect on me was when she sat down in her usual position and then turned herself around so that she was facing me, her legs over my hips. She then leaned forward and placed her head against my chest. She was listening to my heart beat. Quietly she sat as I sat, just breathing and wondering how it was possible to become so connected to a little person who cannot even see me, or who doesn't know my name and who I have never spoken to?

I said goodbye to Gita as she was sitting on the potty – sliding herself around the wet bathroom floor and continuing to make random no sense words. Every now and then she would lift her wrist to her ears to listen to the jingle jangle of the bell bracelet which matched the ones I wear so she can find me and which I gave her and which I know she will randomly discard. I said goodbye feeling that I was betraying her and feeling so thankful to her for trusting me.

The Sister in charge assured me that she would continue to monitor Gita's progress. I tried to tell her again of the potential I see within her. I told her of how grateful I am to Gita for how much she has taught me; how she has helped me to see the world and how she has helped me to communicate in more than just words. The Sister gave me another icon of the Virgin Mary (but this time in gold) and a collection of prayers and Mother Teresa memorabilia. Strange as these small tokens really meant a great deal to me; as I watched her search a small plastic box looking for gifts to give me. She takes her work at Sishu Bahavan seriously and genuinely cares for and loves the children. She said good bye to me, thanking me again and reminding me to pray for the children. And I will pray – I will pray in my way, which is with a focus of mind that I still hope will somehow help the impossible become possible. I will pray that she will see Gita's potential and help her to finally realise it, and I will pray as maybe this is the only 'language' which she understands – blind faith.

On my part, I could not stay in Kolkata indefinitely. I would love to continue the social work there, but to do so I would need a way to fund it and at the moment I simply don't have the resources just to volunteer. And at the same time it seems ridiculous to expect payment when the people we are working with have absolutely nothing – many times including the naked infected and diseased bodies. In stead I am now on my way to McLeod Ganj – the temporary permanent home of the Dalia Lama where I am hoping to do a yoga teaching training course with the aim of one day working within a different medium with disadvantaged children and maybe even blind children; although more immediately it will probably just be a way to fund some more stints of use/less/full 'social' 'work'. I am still researching organisations which may be able to help Gita; but I still feel that adoption is her only really hope of having a life outside of a room, and inside of a living moving changing talking beautiful world. And yes – as my nightly dreams tell me my sub-conscious clearly won't let go of her and it is this connection which reassures me that Gita will continue to be a part of my life; even if it is just for a few months each year.

Three months ago I chose a name for my blog. I wanted a name which made people remember that there was always more than what our lifestyle choices necessarily allows us to see. Even though many times it is easier to keep our eyes 'closed' the reality does not change with blindness. And once we are aware of the reality, sometimes it is too much – making us feel powerless, overwhelmed. Personally, all I feel I can do in such circumstances is to write. A small act of freeing my mind and of trying to share information to those who are physically or mentally in a different place.

Three months ago I chose a name for my blog – before my life took me towards Gita's.

Help Wanted

I want you to meet Karma. I have just met her. I went to visit the tiny babies and ended up with a Karma to feed. But she was easy. So quiet. No fighting the food – for she has yet to be scared of it and she is also natural yogi – with feet permanently in her mouth whenever the spoon wasn't. Scruffy fluffy hair like a mohican. She is a mirror image of Gita, but just so tiny. A few months old. Born without eyes, born to be given away. To grow up like Gita – isolated from a family and from the world.

I am becoming so frustrated with circumstances and with myself. I know the blind girls at Sishu Bhavan are lucky – they have food and a bed, toys to play with, a constant stream of volunteers and a happy environment. They could have been left on the street, they could be without food or care. But I am not satisfied. I am left feeling frustrated because I feel their power. They are so full of potential and I have absolutely no idea about how it is going to be realised.

I asked the Sister in charge of Sishu Bhavan if Gita could have a re evaluation to see if she really does have any other challenges apart from not having eyes... “There is no need” I was told “She is retarded” Full Stop. I asked the Sister what the future would be for Gita and her reply “I cannot think about her future. I can only think about her present.” I asked what I could do? “Prayer” was the her first answer and “find her a family” the second. Prayer to me means power of the mind – and trust me I am thinking powerfully about this one. And find a family? How? Place an add in the paper?

Unable to accept the Sisters fatalism I went to visit a blind boarding school which teaches the national curriculum but in braille. I went to see for myself what the chances of Gita being accepted were. The teacher I spoke with was adamant “we only accept normal blind children”. Again that word - 'normal'. And with the sisters convinced that Gita is a 'retard' this is not the answer which I wanted to hear.

But the blind school also confused me. The day I visited it was a holiday in respect of the schools one hundred year anniversary. In fact I still felt as if it were 1908 rather than 2008. Big empty rooms. Indeed it was a beautiful space. But devoid of life – of entertainment or of stimulus. Outside were a group of boys of eight years of age. Exploring a van. They were all crowded around it, touching and feeling the metal warmed by the afternoon sun, the dusty plastic of the bumpers, the glass of the windows, the wing mirrors. Eyes tightly closed – or open and unseeing. It was powerful to see. I felt drawn towards them, and I went. I began to speak – hoping that my English words made sense. Breaking all Indian conventions I reached my hand out to touch theirs. Walking down the path were another group of young men. Hands on shoulders – shoulders walking in a line. Again I spoke and touched. I wished I could ask their advice about Gita; I wished they could talk to her to explain to her. I wished I could tell them how without even knowing them I admired them. They walked on. I began to think – is this what I am fighting for? For Gita to live here. With no more stimulation than she already has? With only a handful of carers? And to learn brail and then what? How to support herself? How many jobs are there in India for young blind women?

I am frustrated because I want her to be able to learn the world – not only to learn to walk on her own, to learn to communicate, to wash herself, feed herself, but to be able to walk outside and to live outside of an institution; to live according to her own choices– but is this realisitic? Is this possible in this country at this time? Maybe for Jamie – but for a Woman? For Gita? For baby Karma who lies in a cot like a 'normal' baby – about to follow in the dark footsteps of four year old Gita?

And the alternative scares me – it would be as the Sister says – for her to be adopted; and it would take either a very rich Indian family or a foreign one. And this causes me to feel disappointed in myself as I believe in indigenous adoption – that the adoption of a child should be with as limited trauma as possible – that the child be given the opportunity to learn their native language, to learn their culture and be close to what they are familiar with. But in Gita's case this would not be enough. She needs specialised care in order to become independent and once she is, she needs the opportunities to live what my 'Western' mind believes to be a full Life.

Feeling very on my own about Gita I have contacted as many organisation working with blind children that I could find. Only the ones outside of India replied and most of these told me that they only worked inside their respective 'developed' countries. The exception was one: The Blind Children's Fund. My new friend at the BFC has within only a few exchanges of emails given me so much support. Thank you. She has reassured me that Gita's development is indeed 'normal' for a child in her circumstances. She is sending me a box of information of how work with blind children and help them to achieve their potential. She has also sent me a List. It is a List of adoption agencies in America and in the UK which specialises in looking for families for blind children. And now what? I try and 'sell' Gita – try and show how amazing she is? How she deserves a family? And what of the new parents? Do they even exist? And if they are there am I stealing them from another orphan? Is this the best for Gita? I guess I am going to try. It would be easy to give up after only one week of trying. Or would it? Because now I feel that this is my part of our friendship. She has let me know her. She has shown me her energy. I guess I now have a responsibility which I can't really turn away from by tricking myself by saying that this is not my responsibility. So now I will try: “New parents wanted for an amazing little girl – currently living in an orphanage in India – without eyes - and for the moment 'retarded'.”

Any help welcome.

Blind Childrens Fund

Invisible Birthday

The month of July is the birthday month in the orphanage – well at least this year any way. Every Saturday there is going to be a birthday party for 2 or 3 of the children at a time. What is fantastic about this is that it means Gita has a birthday which had been forgotten. Only three weeks late is ok; after all for her every day is the same and she is so closed to the meaning of events that it means every Saturday she will experience something a little 'different' even if she has no idea that she is the star for one of them.

I walk into the nursery and see Gita all dressed up – she is wearing a bright yellow sari over her red sesame street t-shirt. She also has a golden tiara perched on top of her hair which I am amazed about and almost as if she can read my thoughts she reaches up and throws it into the crowd of children seated at her feet. Queen Gita has cast of her crown while her Clever Clogs King (the cohort of Monkey Boy) whose birthday it also is/was, is about to slide off his chair in excitement. Next to them is patiently seated Little Bow Peep who has gone 'Indian Style' and rather than wearing one of her usual fluffy frilly pink dresses, she is also wearing a matching yellow and red sairee. This Saturday we also had a special guest which was one of the Sisters from the floor below. Special Guest Sister was presented with a caterpillar card from a confused child, who thought perhaps the caterpillar card was for herself rather than for the Sister. Meanwhile, I remained convinced that the Sister in charge of the nursery was going to present her friend with a new toy – a tiny plastic cow which could be pulled along by an invisible thread so that it looked like it moved. However, the Trotting Toy Cow Sister disappointed me by only giving her (and about 37 watching children) a very precise demonstration of the magical toy....the real Magic however was hanging near by....Mr Magic Man had been tricked into coming to sharing his animals disguised as ballons and furry things disguised as animals.

The start of the party began with the presentation of the birthday cakes. Now usually a cake is only given if it is provided by the volunteers and due to some mis communication by either myself or the Trotting Toy Cow Sister the Royal Party ended up with two – I should have known that Queen Gita would have had a previous consort leave her cake money! Trotting Toy Cow Sister lit the candels and presented it to the Royal Party. Very quickly I realised why the candels I bought were 10 rupees more than their competitors. No matter how much Clever Clogs King tried to blow out the candles, and despite the best efforts of Little Bow Peep or even the sneaky whoooo from a Monkey Mouth my birthday candles would only fade for a second before jumping back to life. As for Queen Gita – I remained completely at a lost for how I should explain to her that she needs to blow air from her mouth to extinguish the hot flames from a sticky cake which is being held near her and which don't extinguish unless fully submerged in water? Next appeared magic foam, which covered the babies and sent The Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the World into a craze of mad jumping – which as she was strapped into her chair was alarming for the days new volunteers. Meanwhile, the rest of the 'inactive' children - also strapped into their chairs – just sat as they were passively covered in white bubbly stuff. Clever Clogs King also became completely covered in the white bubbly stuff, and wandered around for the next few minutes blind – looking through a mist of white foamy glasses, which gradually dissolved to dribble down his happy regal face.

Magic Man began his show. He entered the nursery Whisteling and Watching and was greated with a bouncing chair and waving arms from the corner of the room: The Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the World remembered him from a pervious visit and so her jumps for joy continued. Meanwhile 34 pairs of eyes were fixed on his multi coloured red-yellow-green coat, tall patchwork hat and wiggling wogglying eye balls as he peered from face to face building up anticipation. Even Lipstick Girl was intrigued and the only visible exceptions were Ana, who had slid off her slide chair to sleep some more on the floor, and of course Birthday Girl Queen Gita who leaned forward into her sari and began to Clap to herself:

Clap – a – Clap – Clap in the middle of the noise: singing and dancing, and musical whirl of invisible laughing and shouting seeing voices Clap – a – Clap in to my world where I try to ignore the RAMA-HA-HA-LA-GGGITAHAHA of the darkness outside of my light.

A ping pong ball is swallowed. Gulp! Eyebrows are raised while others stare. Another! And then Another! Magic Magic Magic Man! Show us how you can? A rope is cut and then made whole? How can this be? To fix the broken without even a scar? Magic Man show us your hands? How can this be? A Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee into Queen Gita's world Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee it goes. She reaches forward to the fluffy fluffy fluff. The tickles continue as her fingers explore. A fluffy feather is whipped out “Happy Birthday Amazing Queen” - pop! A red rose appears from the feathery middle. She reaches for the feathers, tracing them from Magic Mans fingers to her own, bringing with it a pure smile as her happiness overflows outwards. Then it is hid from all as she tilts her head forwards, unaware of facial expressions as a means to communicate:

What is this – new soft fluffy feel? Tickling my arms? Another hand from an invisible body. Music and shouts and screams and whistles and all the time GGGGGITAHAHA? The soft fluffy feel goes back to my Clap – a – Clap Clap. Whaaaaaaaao. A push back. Moving things all around me. Onto the floor. I sit and think – think in what? Not in words but in sounds and emotions. AHHHHHHHHHHRHHHHHHHGGG! Loud. Hands to block out the Loud. Head down. Hiding where I know.

Magic Man takes out his furry animal. The children start to scream. They believe it is real. Even the Sisters take a step back. "The difference between the sane and the insane is knowing the difference between reality and imagination". The furry animal wants to explore the nursey. It is still attached to Magic Man who controls it but it keeps trying to escape. It tries to crawl over the children it looks at The Girl with the Most Amazing Smile in the World and she jumps in her chair in reply:

Over here! Come to me! I cannot come to you – but I want to! I want to stroke you to play with you. To share my thoughts which are trapped in this body which sees and understands and Smiles and laughs but which cannot speak but moves without control. Over Here! Just let me know you!

Magic Man manages to calm his imagined animal. But just before he puts it into a trance and before he hides it back under his hat, it manages to take a peek at Birthday Girl Queen Gita:

Who is this quiet Queen? With a head full of thoughts and hands which never stay still? Touching and moving, clapping and drumming? Why does she hang her head so low? Why does she have no friends? Why doesn't she hide from me like all the other children?

The imagined magical animal quickly rushes over Queen Gita's moving hands and she comes back into our world. She stops her clapping and her hands move to follow the new feel. She strokes and touches. And then nothing. Stillness. The furry fur has vanished from her touch.

But Magic Man knows how to find the pure smile from Queen Gita. He pulls out a small plastic box. He places it near her searching hands. She touches and takes it and pushes it to her ear. She flicks her fingers over the bumps and lumps on the outside, totally unaware of what hides inside, waiting to be heard. Magic Man manages to open up his magical box from between her feeling hands, and by doing so he reveals the inside: two tiny wobbling birds. One is yellow and one is green and both begin to Chrip Chrip Chrip!

So high these sounds. So loud into my head. What do they mean? Where are they from? Will anything ever answer all my questions which I cannot even ask but only feel?

Queen Gita throws the magical box. It lands on the floor and slides. Rattle Rattley Chrip Chrip. Ana turns around. Her one working ear following this new sound within her room. She is so much more closed to the world than Queen Gita but this Chrip Chrip has awakened both her and her curiousity. A Japanese woman who speaks so few words in English but manages to communicate so well with silent Ana helps her to find it. She picks it up and Ana follows the Chirps. She lumps up from the floor and onto her lap. Legs wrapped around her waist. An extraordinary reaction. Ana listening and touching – another person. Beautiful to see. To feel.

Monkey Boy finds Magic Man "Aunty Aunty" he shouts to him. Monkey Boy knows no men for his world is full of female volunteers speaking to him in so many strange accents and languages, full of novice Sisters drapped in white and then the shouting dragging 'working' Bengali Mashis. Aunty Aunty balloon balloon!

Magic Man has started to turn his bag of 1000 balloons into 1000 animals. Woofing dogs, wobbling flowers, oinking piggy wig wigs, swords of yellow steel and a red heart filled with two white birds of Peace.

POP! POP! POP! AHAHAH. "Eyes and Ears and Fingers and Toes" Aunty Aunty! Crasssssh! POP! Balloon! Mashi! AHAH. GITTAAHA! GITTAAHA!

Magic Man finds the searching hands. The searching hands take what they cannot see. Fingers touch and hands lift, ear to plastic – squeeeeak squeeeeak! A long bouncing soft squeeeeaky feel.

A small child bumps into Queen Gita. She falls over her. POP! Queen Gita sways back to sitting. Her hands search....

Where did the new long bounding soft squeeeaky feel go? Away? Away into where?

Clap – a – Clap her head bends forward and she begins to hit the floor.

Finally the excited energy of those around her has reached Queen Gita. She now wants to dance – it is her party after all. She stands and starts to walk but a sari isn't the most birthday suit to young blind child, so she stumbles and sits. I take it off to reveal her glowing red T-shirt and shorts. Much better. We join hands and sway to side – to- side. I test her trust and push her forwards and backwards as she leans on me:

Be Ba De Da Be Ba whaaaaaoooo to one side whaaaooo to the other whaaaooo forwards whaaaoooo backwards. Feeling these hands bigger than mine, following to the arms bigger than mine. Pushing down like a lever....waiting....waiting.....head near the ground.....eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Wheeeeeeeeee! Spinning Spinnning. Fuzziness and Happinesss. Be Ba De Da.

The parties and the watchers are sat on the benches or wheeled and carried back to their respective sides of the room. The steel bowls are handed out to the volunteers to begin to feed a late breakfast of birthday cake and warm milk. Queen Gita wants to keep dancing. She is too excited now. She wants to sway from side to side and be swung. But no – now she must eat her birthday cake.

GITHHAAA AH! Thud! Sitting? A chair. Not my usual. Hand on my head. AH! Cold metal spoon into my mouth. Wet Mushy Soggy stuff. AHHHH! I try to push it away but it keeps coming back. Away! It comes back. I open my mouth and swallow as fast as the cold metal keeps coming.

The Mashi's are insistent and as she screams and cries and pushes away the spoon her birthday cake flies around her plastic chair. Hand on her head, head pushed back. Spoon between the crying lips. Queen Gita needs to learn to feed herself. She does not need to be traumatised by an uninvited metal spoon.

I move. More and more her unseeing eyes brings water to mine. I make the water disappear by seeing the sharing of magical eyes with watching stationary bodies.

What are all these colours moving in front of us? Where did his magic furry friend go? Who is he? Where did he come from?

The Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the World jis still jumping from within her wooden cushioned chair. I look at her and she Smiles. She points to Queen Gita.

Why do you leave her when you are always with her? Gita who has no eyes? Who never sees me but only feels me? She needs yours? I want to hug her and love her and play with her. But instead – I sit and watch and wave and Smile.

I blow her a kiss and she catches it and pulls it to her. I find the magical box on the floor. The little birds have flown away. The battery case is empty. The Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the World uses her smile to pull me towards her. I follow her command. She flings an arm in front of her and it points to my hands. I pass her the magical musical box. She Smiles The Most Beautiful Smile in the World. She opens it and looks at the two empty spaces. She pulls it to her ear to listen. She waits.

Hour Out

Once a month the some of the children from Shishu Bhavan have the opportunity to go to an evening Children's Mass at the Mother House. I figured that any opportunity for the children to leave the room must be justifiable. All the children from the 'active' section were to attend along with a select 'active' if assisted 'inactive' children. The children were dressed in their matching outfits, hair/ lice tied back and shoes fitted. I was in charge of carrying one of the two Princesses who was given a green fridge magnet in the shape of a letter G as backup entertainment. I carried her downstairs which was an adventure in itself as she usually just totters around the room. We paused outside the perfect babies so Princess Josephine could give a wave of solidarity. One American volunteer asked if we were going in a bus. I responded with a laugh - after all the Mother House was not even a five minute walk from Sishu Bhavan and all of the children could walk unaided apart from a handful who just required some extra patience and assistance. It was only a short walk – but enough to feel the street and to see other people walk by, and the buses and cars and maybe even a crow or a wandering cow. Within seconds a big Missionaries of Charities van reversed and the children were piled in.

There was an exception. A small princess who was so silent that it was not noticed that she was sitting in my arms. I felt privileged to show her the world from on the street rather than from above it. She sat on my arm as if it were a little throne and rotated her head this way and that – an outside table full of cooked potatoes and a small naked baby, chickens hanging upside from from a bicycle which wheels by as a taxi slows to a stop. A pitter patter of bare feet preempted the running rickshaw man. Lull lull goes his warning bell to clear the road for his VIPs. A bunch of spick and span white shiny school uniforms; faces munching down on tiffin. So noisy, so smelly – no matter how many lives can be piled into one room there will always be so much more life on this street.

We arrive at the Mother House and walk into the room which extends out around the Mother Teresa's tomb. I always think it is a very large tomb for such a small lady but as time seems to be turning her into a Saint perhaps not. The children are all arranged in front of the alter. Cross legged and seated on the floor. Apart from Lipstick Girl who manages to procure a chair and the Sisters who are kneeling in a appropriately subservient and Christian way. Princess Josephine is still silent, that is of course apart from the rotation of her head which won't stop swiveling around. The room fills up – with people standing along the walls and in the doorway.

Something started in regards to the service, perhaps a prayer or a hymn, I am not sure but I know that from then on I really began to see the masked intelligence of an eleven year old girl from Shisa Bhavan. The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World was sitting on the floor – unattended but Watching and Enjoying. And then everyone around her stood up. She was left on the floor – flapping her arms and tilting her neck back -so desperately wanting to be part of the standing congregation. I quickly deposited the Princess with eagerly awaiting arms and went to The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World. Now The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World wears calipus – these are material and metal straps wound tightly around her legs and which lead down to her surgically adapted shoes. Ultimately it is really quite hard to push her from sitting to standing – especially if she is perched on top of you. So I levered her up and down and up again throughout the Service – each time become increasingly paranoid that I was somehow offending the congregation by my disruption to the proceedings and at the same time becoming increasingly frustrated at the lack of Christian help. It appeared that eyes were the only proactive part of the watching bodies. Eventually I managed to work out a system whereby I wedged her between me and the Mother's Tomb and used it to help me lift her up. I figured the use of the tomb was not disrespectful but perfect opportunity for the extra small dead Mother in the extra large box to help us both out.

The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World seemed to agree and took her new position in the center of the room as an opportunity to flash one of her most beautiful smiles in the world at all the new faces who were drawn to her. I watched as the New Faces would either pretend they hadn't seen or awkwardly grin back . As the Service went on The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World became increasingly desperate to make the most of her time outside of The Room. She began to fling her arms around, hitting whatever and whoever was between them. The 'Receiver' would initially look horrified but then their eyes would lead them to the most beautiful smile in the world and their mouth could not help but try to imitate. The greatest challenge however was when Communion was offered. I rapidly began to understand why one of the Sisters had been madly motioning to me – we were seated in the popular path right next to the Mother's Tomb, between the congregation and the alter. This meant that as I tried to nudge The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World away from the traffic she was positioned with the prime opportunity to show her Love to all the strangers in the room and her excitement in able to touch them – Whack Whack Whack – as I tried to support her standing body weight while at the same time controlling her arms.

Then it was our turn to join the line. We climbed our way over – one locked leg at a time, arms swinging and mouth grinning and eventually arrived in front of the Priest. The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World pulled her hands together and in a combined Prayer/Nameste and then placed a large drooling kiss on the large silver cross held in front before bowing her head to touch it. I was so shocked and amazed and disappointed at myself for not really seeing what level of understanding my silent swinging eleven year old friend had. I knew she loved babies as she always tried to Hug them from the confines of her wooden cushioned chair in The Room, and during the Mass she showed me that she loves strangers. However, that she is really aware of her surroundings and can follow and remember instructions was something of a revelation to me. We turned around and I asked her if she enjoyed the mass? She moved her arms to bring her hands sort of together and the Most Beautiful Smile in the World was certainly there. Then I had to deposit her back in the bus to be shipped back to The Room. At this point we briefly thought that Monkey Boy had gone on one of his adventures and had been swallowed up in the massive Mother House. Un/fortunately for Monkey Bot in reality he had just been walked back to Sishu Bhavan by a brave volunteer.

The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World had a medical assessment yesterday. One of the recommendation for her Care Givers was to “make her stop swinging her arms around when becoming excited.” I wondered how else The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World - trapped inside a body which cannot talk or coordinate - was going to be able to show her emotions? Can her Smile become any more Beautiful?

Bijoy

To the Volunteers who have worked at Shishu Bhavan;

Bijoy left the World this morning. The Sister visited him yesterday and said he was neither living nor dying. In her words she prayed for God to take him to stop his pain. For those of you who knew him his death should bring a relief.

Bijoy's exact age was not known; but he had been at Sishu Bhavan since he was a baby. He Lived with Cerebral Palsy and died with Hepatitis B. He smiled a lot.

Peace.

Bbbbbbb beautiful Ssssss sounds

Today we are sitting on the floor. We are waiting for lunch. All the other children are strapped into their chairs, each individually being fed. Apart from Ana who is on the floor, curled up, eye lids tightly shut. I am entertaining Gita by banging on the table. “Boom Boom” I sing to her “Boom Ba Ba Ba.” The Tap Tap Thud of our hands on the plastic. Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! I sing to her. Ba ba ba ba ba. AAAAAaaaaah. She replies. I feel a release inside me. A new energy coming from her. Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! I repeat as I Tap and Thud. She has removed her hands from mine and is stroking her face, moving her lips and her Baaaaaaaaaa turns to Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I open my mouth and put my hand over it “AhAhAhAhAh.” She lets me open her palm and place it over her own mouth soon she is also softly producing AhAhAhAhs. And she continues to Br and Ba and Ah. I am laughing through my efforts of encouragement; Ahhhhhhh Baaaaa, Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! She starts to join my laughing. I start to tickle her and shake her so that her laugher vibrates through her own body. She keeps laughing to hear it continue. I pull her onto my lap, her legs outstretched on top of mine, but only reaching my knees. I open my legs and she falls through to the floor. Laughing so contagiously that even a smile breaks over the face of Little Princess Josephine, who rarely does anything but cry. I pull my feet together and she reaches forward for my anklet, feeling the rounded beads and then pulling her own feet together in a mirror image which she cannot see but only feel. I push her forward with my body - “Brrooooooooooooooooom” I growl, and then swing her to the right and backwards and then forwards, with sounds and shouts and taps and bangs and vibrations and laughter sending ripples of smiles around the watching faces of the other children. Brooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom and then screeeach back again. She is laughing.

I am handed a bib and a bowl of mush. I sing Indiana Jones to her (I saw it at the cinema last night) in between tap tap ta ta tap on her table. Her hands reach down to press on mine and I am able to wrap the bib around her neck before she has a chance to object. Next comes the hard part. “Gita Gita!” I begin. I scoop up a tea spoon of mush and while holding her neck slightly back with one hand shake off the contents into her open mouth. Immediately she begins to shake her head. Side-to-Side-to- Side-to-Side. “Gita Gita!” I sing to her. “Gita Gita! I Love You!” I keep singing, letting her know I am there, mixing English words with No-Sense words, which to Gita's Bengali ears and eyes that are filled with darkness, the meaning has little relevance, its only the rhythm which matters. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! My syllables getting louder and louder as the spoon arrives at her lips faster and faster. Her hands are still shaking and head still moving, but she still has an open mouth and the food is still disappearing. “Na Na Na”. She says to me. “Gita Gita I Love You!” I sing back to her. “Na na-n-n-na” she says before I manage to deposit the next load of mush. She does well today. She finishes her lunch and there is only one time were her movements quicker than my reactions as her little arm ended up in her bowl.

I pass her a cup of water. She competently holds it to her lips and tips back the cup. If only she could eat so confidently. “Brrrrrrrr.” She tells me. I realise she is blowing bubbles into the remainder of her water. As always we fight for re-possession of the empty cup. I wash her face with a damp cloth and then pull her up “One Two Three.” Her legs follow the demands which I made of her arms. We walk over to her cot and I begin another small routine which I have replaced from the usual 'lifting and depositing' of 'dis-abled' children. I pull down the bars and place her hands on the bed. Next I reach down and place both of her feet on the bottom bar of the cot so that she is now about 10cm from the ground. I lift up her knee and place it on her mattress. As if on auto-pilot she grabs the mattress and pulls herself up into her bed.

Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! The bell rings. “Auntie Auntie” a mashi quickly motions for me to leave. I whisper a Good Bye to Gita. I turn away – I turn back. Gita is sitting facing me. Hand brushing over her lips “brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr” I am not sure if she has yet sensed my distance. I Wave another Good Bye. I smile. A stupid wave. I walk away, hands by my side, ears wide open.

There is a new sound which Gita helped me to find today. It was a sound which I heard for the very first time; it was the sound of Gita's Voice.

Open Ears

Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA!

Exploring sounds. Walking around with my eyes closed. Trying to imagine never to have known sight. Trying to imagin the intensity of her other five sense; the power of touch, of textures, of temperature, of vibrations and of movement. Her strength of smell as she pulls my fingers towards her nose if I have washed my hands with soap and disinfectant before feeding her. Trying to imagine how intimidating it must be to have taste put into your mouth and how those tastes taste. Trying to imagine how to make sounds, how to talk, how to learn what 'things' are and 'who' people are when they remain invisibile. Trying to Listen. To hear my own voice. My own laugh. The whirl of life around me. Trying to imagine the courage which she has to explore this world.

Today, during her daily exercise regime, we explored the roof. Gita and the other children are brought up to the roof (for as long as the rain holds out) every evening for sunset. Usually she is left to play with the toys, ride a bike or is swung around, but always surrounded by action and activity. After successfully side-steping the mashis we began our daily exercise regime and began our Climb to the Sun again. We were rewarded by our determination by finding a 'quiet' roof, ready for us to explore.

With Gita's hand in mine I guided her over to the wall, and placed her other hand next to the hot brick. We walked around the outside, our bare feet - Pat pat Pat pat - on the hot and uneven concrete. I looked down onto the streets below. I don't need to lift Gita up to be able to 'see' as the muffled noises of the yellow taxis, the rickshaws, the fruit sellers rises up to us. Despite this it still seemed silent. Wind finding our faces. But the air still felt still. We walked under the lines of washing, the sheets brushing against our skin. I move her hand to hold the wire line. She moves it slowly backwards and forwards then faster and faster and faster. I kneel down to her level and listen very carefully. Ding Ding Ding Ding. Such an incredibly soft sound. Then her attention is moved. Her hand follows the line and she finds what she is looking for. A plastic clothes clip, spinning 360 degrees with the movement of the thin wire line. Rattle Rattle Rattle it spins. Rattle Rattle Ding Ding Rattle Rattle Ding.

Pat pat Pat pat. We walk slowly on. Her right palm reached out. Waiting. Two large plastic barrels. Turned upside down. Warmed Hot with the Heat from the sun. She strokes the side but then her hand remains still. Tap Tap Thud Thud Da Da Da d d d d. I randomly create different sounds from the outside to the edges. She doesn't tap herself but instead she moves her hand on top of mine and pushes. Faster and faster she makes me bang. Both of us listening. And then I stop. Silence.

Pat pat Pat pat. We walk on. A soft drip. Her hands feel around the top of a red bin filled up with water. I wait in anticipation. Her hands become wet. Without even a moments hesitation she leans forward. Arms right down, head following, legs trying to lift. I am smiling so much, but I pull her out. I want to let her jump in and splash and explore the Wet. But for now I unwillingly try to restrain her. I have to. We are meant to be downstairs in the 'nursery' and not exploring the amazing sounds of the mundane roof. I have already ignored the protests of one mashi, which was easy as it was in Bengali, and my replies of revolution in English. But I don't want to jeopardise any of our future morning adventures by bringing down a soaking (smiling) wet Gita. With a reluctance equal to Gita's determination, I hold her back. She pushes her body onto my arm and learns forward. Her arms submerged. I close my eyes and let her splashes touch my skin. It is warm, moist, refreshing, and very 'different'. The wind touches and combines to produce cool, stinging sensations. But Gita is still trying to climb into the bucket and the only way I have to stop her is to do what I know will always work. I tickle her and tickle her until she is laying on the floor with her contagious laugh, laughing so loudly that I am also laughing. Almost as if there was CCTV a mashi appears bringing with her what I can only imagine to be shouts of objection as she takes Gita from in front of me, lifts her up, and carries her down the stairs. I feel annoyed as I wanted Gita to practice walking down the stairs on her own. But really there is little I can do apart from follow. Pat Pat.

I am still smiling so much from Gita's laughter. It is still rippling through me.

Climbing to the Sun

I have become far too attached and I have no idea what to do about it. My solution today was not to go to the orphanage and use the time to write instead. I have been going every morning and I am totally addicted. I have found such an energy with Gita and I look forward too much to seeing her everyday. By the evening I am still singing stupid tunes or tapping random sounds out. I think of her and think of her life and her options and how beautiful she is and it makes me happy and sad. I hear sounds – so many more sounds than I have been conscious of before, and this is not just because Kolkata is a noisy noisy place, but because she makes me Listen.

Yesterday was a particularly powerful day. As usual I found her sleeping on her plastic rocking chair/ dining table. I used to wonder if it was because her and Ana had been given too much medication, which is why they are the only kids (and usually the most active 'disabled' ones) who find it so difficult to wake up in the mornings. But apparently the only medication that they receive is a vitamin complex syrup. Perhaps seeing no light makes the little bodies harder to adapt from night to day...

I try to tickle her awake and tap on her table and eventually she reaches for my hands, places hers on the outside of mine and begins to push them together. Clap Clap Clap.

Their breakfast appears. All of the 'disabled' children eat food which has been turned into mush, but Gita is one of the only children (along with Pete, a lovely boy who also happens to have Downs Syndrome) who eats the same food as the active children – but again only after it has been 'mushed'. I tie a bib around her neck, which isn't easy as she lifts up her hands to try and find mine. Today she is wearing a particularly fancy dress, which means that breakfast is likely to be a particularly messy affair.

Gita and Ana are always wearing matching outfits, both of which are shiny and bright. A new volunteer asks me if they are sisters, which I guess is an improvement from my first day when I thought they were brothers. Regardless of this unconventional uniform, new volunteers often subconsciously pair off children with the same disability, same haircut and same sex, as siblings. But I guess its because these children often share the same traits. Gita and Ana both sway from side to side, or kick their legs, while both of the baby Princesses (Sharma and Josephine) are both so light, with floppy arms and legs and matching white leather 'adapted' shoes. I guess its tough for these little people to create their identity when none can talk, choose their clothes, have any personal belongings and are seen first as a diagnosis and then second as a child.

I take a steel bowl containing two plain biscuits, pour in warm milk from a bottle and then 'mush'. The first spoonful is always the hardest and then once she has tasted the food on her lips the next spoonfuls are easier to deposit. I shout “Gita” to her followed by “Kana”. Biscuit mush is now on her lips and her arms have began to wave around her ears. I have to be careful to keep the bowl out of firing range while at the same time keep it posed ready to catch any rejected mush if she decides to lock her jaw shut. This morning I have it easy and Gita doesn't need so much persuading, and after one month I have learned that the key is continuous interaction.

“Give me a G - G!” I shout at her and bring the tea spoon to her half open mouth.

“Give me a I - I!” and so it continues until I have spealt her name tens of times and the milky mushy biscuit bowl is now shared between her tummy, her face and the table.

“Hurrah! Wonderful! Hurrah!”. I pour the remaining milk into a plastic cup and I put her hands around it. She takes it and brings it to her mouth. Finishing all the contents but leaving the edge of the cup pressed against her lips. I try to pull it down but she resists and presses her face against its rim. She needs to learn how to feed herself, but first she needs more confidence with food. I have no idea why blind children find it hard to eat – in fact maybe they don't – but Gita and Ana certainly do. I guess it must be very strange putting something you can't see into your mouth. I have been trying to help her to use the spoon herself, but whenever I pass it to her she just throws it down on the floor, preempting the ding by quickly placing her hands over her ears. I am hoping that once she is able to eat on her own perhaps she will be moved over to the 'active' section. At the moment she is surrounded by children and babies who can hardly move, when her only 'disability' is the absence of sight.

In the past month I have been trying to make her more independent. When I first came she would walk by shifting her weight from one foot to the other, meaning that she wouldn't go forward just side to side unless she was pulled. Now she will happily totter slightly behind me as we hold hands and whenever she lifts up her second hand to join her first hand I take it away and direct it to her side. Slowly she is gaining the confidence to walk forwards and occasionally if I stand in front of her and clap and call her name she will take the steps on her own. Today however, she did something amazing. We were walking up and down the stairs. Her 'exercise' which after making myself her personal trainer, I decided was a necessity. This required determination from both of us, as the mashi's aren't always so impressed with my training routine, but thankfully they are often too busy to notice me innocently walking out of the door and up and down the steps to the roof.

“One step; Two step; Three step..” her left hand is still within mine and her right reaches up to touch the cool banister. The steps must be enormous for her. It would be the equivalent of me climbing up a pile of chairs. I am always one step ahead with tension in my arm so she knows to keep moving up. She places so much weight on my hand which I keep trying to transfer to the banister. “Four step; Five step. Six step” At this point we are joined by tiny Monkey Boy from the active section. He races under my feet causing Gita to collapse into me. But as always she makes no sound and just pushes herself back up. The word 'Resilience' doesn't even come close to describe Gita's determination. Tiny Monkey Boy is trying to pull down a large piece of plywood from the stone landing. I manage to reach up and hold the plywood with my right hand disabling Tiny Monkey Boy. Tiny Monkey Boy throws his weight towards the plywood. I tell Tiny Monkey Boy to stop which he replies to with a big toothy grin. I grab his arm and pluck him into the air and turn around to realise that I have let go of Gita. She has reached around to join her left hand with her right on the banister. She has one left foot raised above the step reaches forward and then deposits it safely and securely. She leans into the banister and pulls up her other leg. I am left standing mesmerized, with a Tiny Monkey Boy dangling in my hand. "Seven step, Eighth step” I shout trying not to let my hysteria distract her “Nine step, Ten step.” I am close to tears. I deposit Monkey Boy (who immediately returns to his own personal mission of attack and destroy) and grab Gita: “Gita!!!! Well Done! Gita! You are AMAZING! Well done!!” I am so happy. This shows she can easily walk on her own. I am so so so proud of her. I lead her onto the roof pick her up and swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing her around. Feet lifted off the ground and dress floating outwards like a flying ball of sun.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee round and round we go. The sun shines down on us, reflecting off the tiny silver pieces on her orange dress and stinging my eyes. She is glowing. She is laughing and laughing and laughing until I no longer have the power to turn her as I am laughing and laughing and laughing.