Noodle Theatre

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

Anonymous Obituary

Time has passed since you passed

Days, perhaps a week or more.

I wanted to write about you,

But you weren't important.

I didn't know you, I will never know you

But you died on my doorstep.

Invisible in Life, Invisible in Death,

The world around you continued, without a pause.

Perhaps it was minutes, or more likely hours

before a mutual friend stopped to help you.

Too late. Like this Obituary,

For life had left your eyes, your body, your invisible life.

People walking,

Rickshaws spinning,

Dogs sniffing.

Perhaps a glance, but you were nothing in life,

Why then should you be noticed in death?

Perhaps I saw you, stabbing your skin with the syringe,

Escaping your reality, your body for one final time.

But I would have glanced, perhaps pitied and then forgot.

You were one of too many.

Will anyone miss you?

Will anyone notice you have gone?

A few thoughts to wonder Who you were.

A few thoughts to wonder who you could have been?

I wonder what your childhood dreams were?

Was there a time you belonged somewhere?

With a mother or a father, a lover or a child?

Where did the short journey of life take you?

An anonymous death, killed by survival.

Street Walking

Stiff lumpy hands play awkwardly with a shimmer of steel coins. Attempts to order and to control. To pile neatly into a palm that needs to be convinced to comply. Thick fingernails eagerly 'counting' the meagre collection. Mission accomplished and the counter continues on his way, stepping forwards into the moving human stream feeding his calculations. An old man, cleanly shaved and with comb-toothed hair shelters a fresh skinned infant who watches from the ledge of a bony shoulder. Watching the purples and reds, blues and whites, browns and yellows of the passing people programmed on a predestined route of routine. A wizened white haired and stingy bearded barber holds court around a rickety wooden chair. He leans close to his subjects as the chatter bounces from one to another and back to the compare in the centre. The barber talks as he works, theatrically snipping the air to emphasis his views before freeing the blades to continue their professional mission; as invisible strands of hair are disconnected from another talking head. Amid the debate a small hand mirror is held for affirmation, reminding of the history of barber stalls – where expert eyes are yet to be replaced with reflective glass. Past and future customers sit on stools animately discussing, continuing the argument long after the initial participants have departed – hair trimmed, cheeks liberated from ancestoral clues, eyebrows plucked to order with string.

English words are shouted out as a waving arm reaches forward. It is only a brief distraction before the desired state of passivity is returned to but a reminder that the watcher is always watched.

The morning bakers have transformed into butchers as the afternoon market centres around stalls of hanging beef. Hearts and brains are nearly arranged on the table, as creamy offal hangs in a never-ending ribbon. Unidentifiable organs sit in a discarded pile, while waiting dogs watch eagerly from the gutters. Men stand up and squat down, like the keys of a human accordion, while puddles of urine collect at the edges of the road, lazily searching for the iron grids hiding under soggy lines of old news and recycled roti packets. A nimble man steps down from a tabacco stall, carefully placing the folded green leaf into his cheek, which bugles in acceptance. He jumps into the stream of shoppers, walkers and talkers, as his blue tartan lungi stretches to reveal his skinny bones. He bounces up the opposing step, straight into a conversation with the butcher boy. A chubby kid sits on the shop floor, with his legs dangling into the street; flip flops fighting gravity as they cling to his dirty toes. To his side he is playing with a string of gristle, cutting deep ridges into the meat with a small steel blade.

Identifying and dodging undesirable human waste – flesh which the dogs or crows haven't retrieved, the hacks of coughing men, the splash of dirty water as it is thrown into the road.

Another two men beging a conversation with a shout and continue with fluent signing. They are conducting their conversation across the narrow width of the street as each one remains stationed in their opposite stalls. Shop neighbors for many a afternoon. Two girls wearing identical bright pink dresses and heeled shoes play in a smooth patch of mud. The intensity of the pink screams out grabbing attention against the backdrop colour of urban decay. A soggy bicycle tyre has been hung on a permanently hibernating tree as a semi deflated ball is successful thrown up and through; street basket ball. A rubbish collector drags his cart to a pile of old ashes, fruit peels and unidentifiable decomposing waste. A packs of dogs are lazily laying over the heap, warming their bodies from above and below as the sun seeps through the smog and the ashes smoulder below. The rubbish collector thoughtfully attempts to persuade them to move before he adds fuel to the make-shift kennel. Further along a rag picker is poking through a similar pile, pulling out straggly plastic bags on the end of her metal stick.

A old woman sits against the wall of the building as she tries to wedge up her tattered sari to change into a waiting piece of cloth. Her efforts are clumsy and her movements of vanity awkward. Her stomach rolls forwards as her nipples are then covered. A man in with a moustache and woolen jumper slows to a stops He lets two shiny coins drop from his hand. The woman hurriedly leans forwards to catch the coins in her joined palms. The power of 'giving'. An older man moulds a wedge of tabacco into his palm, expertly massaging the dried plant into a cheek sized ball. Water splashes out of a doorway, bouncing off the street and appearing to stick to the wall before dribbling down into dirty puddles.

A line of teenagers walk by. The same tactic as always, as one is pushed in front observing carefully placed steps. The boy is quickly dodged as a smile is masqueraded with neutral passivity.

Two women line up outside of a tailors stall.The tailor is surrounded by an air of precision, measured by the long tape hanging over his shoulders and the watchful stares of his apprentices, who are squeezed into the tiny space behind his work table. Passing the mosque, mutterings of greetings fill the hidden silence, as 'Salaam alikum' mixes with 'Alikum Salaam' creating a mosaic of religious sounds and continuous welcomes. Men wearing clean white prayer caps, trimmed beards and crossed legs, carry with them their distorted limbs, as they perch on the window ledges, receiving passing alms, which come quickly and are received with the sending of more 'Allah's' into the thickening air.

The corner is marked with a brandnew shining sign urging witnesses of 'Power Theft' to report to the sequence of numbers it boldly advertises. Behind the sign rises a church - full of statues and slogans but without the busteling activity of its lively Isamic neighbour. Opposite sit the same collection of old men; all wearing thick rimmed glasses, with their patch of territory marked out with a square of plastic or cardboardand their bag of belongings protectively stacked by their sides. The elders wisely consult their oracles of papers from around their city, county and country. The newspapers they hold up towards the sky reflect English, Urdu and Hindi script; invisble news made literally physical in a range of tongues. These are educated, literate men, holders of history who now sit, collecting their keep from the familiarity of their slab of pavement while they wait for time to become finite.

Reaching the intersecting tram line, and dodging the speeding cars and taxi's, which accelerate at the glimpse of potential human contact. An impatient four wheel drive blows out a infinite 'beeeep' as he encroaches upon a rickshaw puller. The rickshaw puller is desperately trying to maneuver his awkward clumsy and obviously heavy wooden cart through the collection of 'brumming' stationary auto rickshaws. His passenger is a small boy, clad in a navy school blazer and surrounded by woven bags of fruit and vegetables, which bounce around following a short delay of logistical negotiation. Another rickshaw puller lurches forwards, running into his worn flip flops as two large women lean back into their open throne, distractedly observing the scenes below them as they enthusiastically share their thoughts.

The street opens up into a road where cars would be able to pass by in both directions if it were not for the lines of parked yellow taxi's waiting for their human car washer to spin through. A heavy Enfield motorbike reves past. As the driver pulls the machine through the confusion, his tiny small blue Tom and Jerry rucksac swings to the right and then to the left – managing to mirror his movements while smiling at all those who pass by. The bike and the rucksac rush past at the same time every day. One of millions of paths crossing the paradigm of parallel lives as children, men and women, Hindi, Muslim, Christian, Bengalis, Biharis, refugees, poverty tourists, historical tourists, diplomats, homeless and housed, materialistically rich and eternally poor...each moving around their patch of pavement, street, road or city surrounded by the clues of its never ending depth and superficial synchronicity.

The more I walk the more I see, the more I see the more the senses surrounding imagination delves into the dreams of reality. What an indulgence to walk the streets of this world.

Working Woman

Every day I hear a 'story' or see a few minutes of a life I want to write about. Meanwhile, I am reading an incredibly critical book about Mother Teresa, and the western media's portrayal of Kolkata. Yet what I see and hear is real – so why should it not be shared? I am not intentionally portraying a desperate view of the city but I am also not living in the new apartment blocks of Salt Lake City or Tollygange, or eating in the many European styled, or rather 'priced' restaurants. Of course these areas do exist, but they are not part of my reality right now, so instead I will continue to relay the lives of just a few of the many people who live with less than their fair share of our World's resources.

There is a beautiful woman who finds me at the same time every afternoon, as I cross over from Free School Street towards the tourist territory of Sudder Street. The beautiful woman grabs my wrist and asks for money for her baby. Unfortunately over the years I have developed a rather passive attitude towards pro-active women with babies. The rumours of 'rent a baby' reflects the use of kids to release the pennies from the pockets of the blindest of pedestrians. These women use baby sitting time to earn some extra rupees from their apparently much increased desperate situation. Judgements aside, as at least they are taking initiative while playing their own Robin Hood. The way the beautiful woman grabs my wrist is persistent and forceful – again not the characteristics of the helpless female which might earn her a few more rupees if adopted along side the additional baby. At first I am always surprised at how beautiful she is, at her dominate energy. Not characteristics of a street 'victim'. I usually walk on, ignoring her pleas while playing the familiar record in my head that perhaps I should just stop and talk to her, although her attitude suggests she would not be satisfied with words. Judgments; perspectives; reality. This is her story:

The beautiful woman lives at Sealdagh station with her husband and children. The couple have had five children, the eldest of which is already eighteen. This seems incredible, as she is still so beautiful but then I remember her energy and power and how she is clearly a fighter. It also seems incomprehensible partly because it is not assumed that the couple were married when they were children – but they were. The beautiful woman's mother died when she was eleven. This was the age I was when my own mother died. At which point life continued as 'normal', as I still had another six years of school to finish. But this was not so for the beautiful woman. Her father arranged a marriage for her and she was quickly wed to the then fifteen year old husband. Her husband worked as a rickshaw wallah, pulling people around the city in the cumbersome wooden carriage. He would earn a average of 20 rupees (50 cents) a day.

One year ago her husband became sick and could no longer work. The responsibility fell on the still young and beautiful woman. She heard that good money could be made from begging on the tourist strip of Sudder Street, so for three days a week she moved away from her family to the center of the city to pester the foreigners, touting her youngest baby for sympathy fodder. She is smart and during the past year she has learned to speak English from her persistent interactions with the tourists. She says she likes the foreigners because they are kind, even the volunteers for the Missionaries of Charity, although she holds the 'Charity' responsible for the death of her ten year old child. She recalls how the child developed a fever and became increasingly ill. Not knowing where to go for help she camped outside of Sishu Bahavan asking for medicines. Her demands were repeatedly refuted and the child died.

The woman earns between 200 and 300 rupees ($5 to $7) during these few days of begging . Although this is a very meagre sum to support her family of six, it is double the salary which her husband used to bring home from a full weeks work of hard physical labour.

I'm glad she is able to support her family. Does it really matter that she is 'earning' her money through begging, rather than receiving state benefits or from working for a foreign NGO surviving on charitable donations?

Interestingly, I continue to justify my inaction, comfortable in the knowledge that someone else will give to her and alternatively I can give a 'gift' of food to someone more 'needy'.

The power of money. The power of 'giving' the basic requirements for life. The perspective of judgements. Reason, rational, reality. Truth and the inequality which leads to deception.

Street Fairy

Her name is Chunana. I sing it to her: 'Chu-na-na, Chua-na-na' as she strides confidently by my side, trying to keep pace with legs twice the length and twice the width of hers. The darkness is providing a thick blanket of camouflage to the figures of the day. Tonight Chunana is helping me to find the half naked lady. The woman appears from the shadows of the pile of bricks, curled into a bony ball on the ground. Chunana waits while I give leave a hot cup of chai by the side of the ball of bones and then looks up expectantly. We return to the chai wallah and stand silently while he stirs and pours and juggles the pots of water, milk, tea and sugar. Once holding the little clay pot of chai between her hands, she maneuvers it from one finger to another, as the thin edges quickly absorb the heat of the thick bubbling liquid. We sit on a cool stone step, waiting for the heat of the chai to fade enough for either her mouth to swallow or young fingers to carry. I speak clumsy words of Bangla: muk, nak, pa, pet; I mumble as she smiles widely in apparent comprehension: mouth, nose, leg, foot. Running out of common vocabulary we sit, watching the other occupants of the street – the old men, the visiting youths, the volunteers and transit tourists.

Her world is long and narrow; beginning with the chai stalls, ending with the families cardboard homes and stolen bricks, interspersed with hostels from a golden age long since faded. Little Chunana finds her own entertainment. She follows the vendors filling the lane with relics of an India far removed from the reality. A man of flutes spins his selection from a musical bamboo tree towering above her head – a multistory dimension for little Chunana. 'India Game' stands with his plywood board of semi-deflated balloons and melted candle, as he half-heartedly tries to coax tourists for a 'one rupee a shot' but ends up with a crowd of jean clad, gelled haired skinny Indian boys.

Forever jumping and skipping and running and smiling, she has one pair of red faded shorts, a red and white sleeveless shirt and a blue and white checked school dress, without a zip, and a filthy thin navy jumper. Recently she has acquired a pair of pink flip flops, which have a piece of threat coaxing the plastic thong through the plastic sole. During the night she wears all of her wardrobe simultaneously, and her change of outfits suggests a place where her clothes are kept and perhaps even a mother-figure who rotates the clothes. Safely snuggled into her family – or someone else's – among the crowd of hardened women and their collective brood of skinhead children.

Chunana knows everyone who lives here; for this is her home; in the magical mystical land of Sudder Street. Where boys sniff glue behind yellow Ambassador taxis' and older brothers and uncles congregate next to a corner gutter, injecting potions into their legs. Where Nigerian footballers walk four a breast down the street, calling out to waiting waiters and galloping past skinny chai wallah's and the cotton clad skeletons of rickshaw pullers. But to little Chunana, Sudder Street is a fairy tale world of colourful strangers forever influx: Arriving and departing, coming and going with the pulsating beat of life of travelers. An informal congregation of the new-age lonely planet explorers and the next generation of undisclosed missionaries with an audience of determined street mothers and local amputees. The audience gathers to glean a note or just some coins from the colourful creatures dressed in western clothes – neo-Indian style. For Chunana these strangers seem to be imported to create her school of the street, bringing her knowledge of far away lands and cultures. Words of Spanish, French and English pass through her curling ears, while she is continuously searching for new faces to play with, or just two long monkey arms from which to swing. She only asks for food when she has sat on your lap or hugged your legs at least once before, and when she does usually no words but just points.

Most evenings she just darts through the feet searching out the friendly or familiar faces. Grabbing hands with her tiny fingers and swinging the giant arms above her shaved head. She brings her gift of her presence which leaves her holding bites of egg rolls, or a handful of noodles: tit-bits of 'treats' which foreigners think she may like. Always alone, apart from a brief interaction with a family member or adult who will walk by and snatch whatever 'treat' she holds. When given a whole roti or parantha, she will surreptitiously pick at it, pretending to be eating, but actually saving. Many evenings of quiet observation have still left me unsure of whether this is her duty to her three brothers and sisters, or her protection to save her from a beating from others who are older, wiser and more desperate than little Chunana.

Tonight Chunana skipped past me, wearing a reindeer hat. Bringing a grin to my face as she sent her arms flapping by her sides, skimming through the air. To the inexperienced eye, so free and so full of silent giggles. She was too preoccupied to care to spot me and hopped onto the cracked and crooked pavement spontaneously squatting to pee. Pulling down her shorts to reveal her hidden prize of a shiny red pomegranate which she held between her two hands, as if she were holding the secret to Never Neverland.

Guilty

I am not sure why, but I am feeling a great deal of pain during these past few days. Rather than becoming de-sensitised the reverse seems to be happening. I watch the old anglo-Indian man hang out in a local restaurant. He is desperately trying to speak his Queen's English to tourists who would rather be left alone. I feel guilty – responsible for not taking away his anxiety. I feel the pain of what appears to be his dependence on those who hardly notice him. There is an old lady who prowls the street for a gift of a cup of chai. She wears her cotton sari pulled tightly around her neck hiding her acid burns, which she only reveals when the chai or coins are not forthcoming. She takes my hand and asks how I am. I want to hug her. She stroke my kasmir shawl, inspecting its warmth. Guilty of not sharing, I walk home to my bed.

When I eat in the Taj Continental – the greasy spoon of Sudder Street - where food for two comes to $1.20, I feel full of shame as the Pinocchio nosed waiter shrugs and immediately questions my measly tip. I have just pulled the notes of my change out of the tray and let the one ruppe coin fall into the bed of fennel seeds. “One rupee?” He shakes his head in disbelief. I walk onto the street and already feel the presence of the half naked woman. Despite having bought her another shirt, I have learned to let her be. Feeling hypocritical, as I have become one of the many I have seen shake their head at her and walk on, unsure how to help. Perhaps it is my inability to understand her, or to see her skinny breasts exposed, in what is such a conservative society, which fills me with pain. Tonight she sat with her knees bent to her chest and her only piece of clothing – a skimpy t-shirt – stretched over her protruding ribs and bony legs. Again, I wonder how she ended up here – naked and in a different dimension. She must still feel the cold. She must still feel hungry. My guilty thoughts of inaction impotent against her suffering.

There is another woman whose eyes appeared in my dream scattered sleep. She lives on the pavement close to Shishu Bahvan with her two small children. The boys (or perhaps they are girls) have their heads shaved and are as dirty as most kids to play in the gutters should be. When I walk to work in the morning they are still all wrapped up in a bundle under one cloth. As I leave in the evening, the kids are playing in the trash, as The Mother sits hand held out to passing knees. She looks up at me, revealing the most incredible clear sea-blue eyes. I am so stunned by the colour I am unable to even smile my helpless stupid smile. The boys look happy; she looks desperate. Last night I saw two nuns stop as one placed her hand on The Mother's head. Their white saris in stark contrast to the street colour brown of her clothes. They walked on, leaving me to fill the void. Embarrassed I caught her eye as the nuns happy chatter faded into the hum drum of the traffic. I witnessed her disappointment, and I hid my eyes in the cracks of the pavement as she sat 'blessed' and still hungry.

A few meters further down the pavement, another woman reached out towards me. I touched my forehead in simultaneous respect and apology. She lurched forward and began hitting my legs. Her pain and frustration briefly vibrating up my body. The response different from the leper who sits on Park Street, waving his handless limbs frantically at any foriegner who passes. The jerks of his body lifting his cart unevenly off the ground, before clashing back down. If I ever pause to drop a coin in his begging bowl, he claps his stubby arms together bringing them to the centre of his forehead in a humbling gesture of gratitude – far beyond what my coin deserves.

The consuming feelings of helplessness continues during my work. Yesterday I did something I am ashamed of and the pain is just growing in guilty realisation. I had been playing with one of the little girls who is severely mentally and physically disabled. I say playing, but really I was just sitting in front of her, talking and singing and blowing her kisses and just trying to make her smile. The feat itself was accomplished by Wide Eyed Boy – a new little toddler in the 'active' section who appears to be totally lost and overwhelmed at the room which is now his life. Wide Eyed Boy didn't seem to be scared by my little friend, but rather enjoyed the task of entertaining her. He began by blowing raspberries on her arm and then hiding behind me and jumping out to surprise her. He was a star and my little friend was smiling widely in a way I haven't seen for a long time. Then it was 'Tiffin Time' – time for hot milk. I was handed her bottle and bib and went about trying to convince her to drink. But eager to continue exploring her new sensation of similes she didn't want the bottle anywhere near her, but rather sat with her eyes spinning – searching for Wide Eyed Boy. I tried to dive the bottle between her arms and into her mouth for so long that the milk turned cold. Feeling no alternative, I turned and asked one of the massis if she could feed her. Knowing what would come next I stood to leave, wanting no part in what I had just initiated, but a hand came down on my shoulder as the massi instructed me to hold her hands still. Painfully, I did so as I watched her force the bottle into her mouth while pinching her nose to force her to swallow. One of the main dangers with spastic children is that it is very easy for food and liquids to bypass their stomach and end up in their lungs. This is particularly so if they are force fed, or fed at a awkward angle. My little friend (can I still call her 'friend' even after my betrayal?) was quietly struggling, but wedged into her chair and with straps on her arms, was no match for me and the massi. I stroked her fingers as if her hands held the Genie, who may find the solution to her suffering. I didn't play with her today. Guilty.

I wish I could feel something more proactive – I wish I had a plan to replace suffering with joy – I wish I could be more effective. But I am not, and because of that I have spent the last few days feeling this bitter sentiment of Guilt. Are we all Victims? Are we all potential Challengers? Are our lives really so irrelevant in this human pool of suffering?

Naked

How do you end up living on the street as a young women? Crazy, wearing only a large sweater, and with only one arm? A hard stare that looks straight through my eyes, and a feeling I detest of being in a position of 'power'. Showing a pair of Indian trousers bought in the nearest 'tourist' shop and hoping that she understands my wish to be invisible, to not share her shame, but rather to talk to her in a language I still don't know, and to ask her simply if she is ok? Instead she shakes the trousers and throws them onto the pavement, picking them up and repeating the action. Guiding her naked skinny bony legs into the flimsy cotton, she returns the favour by taking of her sweater, allowing her ribcage to protrude and spine to stick painfully into the cold evening air. Our brief interaction has only lasted for few minutes, and yet as is the norm for any street in Kolkata, we now have an audience of curious men. Silently begging her forgiveness of creating all of this unwanted attention, I walk away. Trying to resist the temptation to look back.

Back to Kolkata

“Its never the same the second time”. Apparently. It has been eleven months since I reluctantly left; during a time when I was sentimentally attached to every moment, and totally attached to life in the middle of an Indian city. In the time lapse between I have been living a completely different reality: Next to the sea, on paradise islands, in the middle of lush rice paddies...always surrounded by fresh clean air, nature, hot water showers and normalised luxury. It is good to be back and in a strange way it is comforting that not much has changed. The yellow ambassador taxis are still beeping and surging and hustling the human pulled rickshaws, the piles of rotting rubbish are still drifting under feet, sticking to shoes and successfully reproducing trails of filth. The street chai is still loaded with sugar and evaporating from boiling kettles sending a sweet sticky vapour to join the melody of scents The gangs of women are still shouting in my ear “no money just milk” as I try to buy water from a lungi-clad man crouching on top of his stall of a shop.

There is however, something refreshing about being back in Kolkata, which is perhaps why the lack of change is reassuring: Away from the mask of careers, consumerism, advertising and future plans. Life in Kolkata seems so much more Present. Adapting has still been unexpectedly tough. Even though the dirt, smells, metallic fumes and crowds of pressing bodies are so familiar, my senses haven't just adjusted and are still too sensitive. My pedestrian skills are rusty, and my curious eyes betray my previous experience. Walking back up the stairs to my new room on the roof of Modern Lodge, I felt the skin tickling sensation of deja-vu; as if I have never really left and as if time has just stood still. The rattle of the tap filling up the rusty bucket with ice cold water sounds so familiar and yet strangely exciting – a reminder that I am back. The hotel's resident 'old man' still spends every day and night camped on a broken bed at the entrance, collecting 100 rupee bills and monitoring every event as his remaining energy migrates to his incredibly lively eyes. The manager still refuses to give a discount for long term stays and smiles at his obvious victory as despite his vicious bedbugs and bubbling walls of mould, his rooms are still competitive with the rest of the run-down infested hostels. The man who washes the floor with old rags, jumps up to offer his hand, and squeezes it as a sly reminder that if I want an electric plug in my room, he is only to happy to silently oblige.

Most of the Sudder street beggars are the same. The lady who is covered with acid burns; the matriarchal families camping on the pavement; the crazy Man Outside is still wandering the lanes, bowing down to touch the passing feet of volunteers, and bringing a contagious smile to all around as he grins and mutters and waves his hands. The 'India Game' man continues to try to sell a shot of pooping his board of small balloons. But his energy seems a little dimished, his cries no longer echo down the street, and more often then not he if crouching rather than standing – too many years of 'India Games'.

So what has changed? The chai wallah has gone home, and the two boys in the Sikh restaurant have shocked me by apparently turning into men. One has grown whiskers and one has grown nearly half a meter and seems to be trying to flirt with me; perhaps child labour isn't as prevalent as appearances might suggest. I still haven't ventured to the train station or to the slums, but I am well aware that the effects of the global financial crisis are beginning to filter into the city. The dollar plummeting has more than doubled the real price of food and accommodation, and as I worry about how my money will last, I also wonder how the crisis, that was only a feature of the international news one year ago, is now affecting the city's homeless?

There are many new faces among the volunteers. Only a couple of friends remain. In a way, the fresh influx gives me confidence. It is ok to leave. There will always be others to fill the space. While the absence of the most committed and inspirational friends from one year ago, reassures me of the importance of a life in 'balance'. Living more than several years in this intensity of human poverty has to come at a cost. Now I am realising why I left – to grow stronger and be ready to return with a much more sustainable attitude. The 'guilty' sensations of my own random 'privilege' doesn't appear to be hanging over me. Perhaps its just waiting around the corner, ready to pull me back into the suffocating grips of self-reproach. But right now I am finally feeling the freedom of choosing to be here. I want to be exposed to the harshness of exploitation in order to learn, to change, to improve; but this is a massive system of injustice, which can be tackled at any place in the world. Continuously thankful for change providing the gift of opportunity for me to live around the world, to explore the diversity of life – its paradises and it tragedies.

Eyes still Opening

I hardly sleep. I have packed my sleeping bag and the Indian Winter which claims each night is cold; even in my bed, my own room, its still cold. Someone is playing a guitar badly on the roof top of the hotel opposite. The happiness of the singing is annoying me. I am sad. Every time I feel the sting of the salt in my eyes I chastise myself. Grow up! I tell myself. You will be back. You are going because you booked the ticket so accept responsibility for your decisions! But my advice does little to soothe my self. The voice of my father echoes in my ears. 'So why are you going if you are happy there?' So simple. So true.

In the morning the communal alarm clock wakes me from a crazy dream. Faces of India appeared to say good bye to me. The most bizarre of all was Vijay who poked his head around the door wearing his yoga shorts and sports cap, looked uncomfortable and confused and then turned around unable to wish me farewell. The echo of the muezzin call fades into vibrations mixing with the disappearing creations of my subconscious. My eyes open and I contemplate a hundred thoughts at once: The height of the ceiling, what I still need to pack, that today has arrived and today I will leave India. I debate a final cold water bucket shower, and despite the luxury of 24 hour running water I am not in the mood for its icy fingers to kiss my skin and numb my bones.

Instead I fight my dive gear back into my rucksack, pay the Old Man his tip of fifteen rupees and wake The Man Outside.

Fortunately, The Man Outside is laying in his usual sleeping spot but I was still reluctant to take him from what I know to be a sleep scattered with car headlights and the ache of rock hard concrete. But on my last morning I wanted to give The Man Outside a gift of my Clouds in the Sky Yoga Mat. I knelt down besides his mummified body – a donated sleeping bag engulfing him with the added security of his blue blanket sealing his head from The World. He peeked through the edge of his covers. Like an undercover agent I passed through the rolled up mat. Long fingers extended and lifted the corner of the mat to inspect the Rainbows and the Clouds it contained and then slowly continued to pull it into the safety of his bundle of sleeping possessions. I handed in another bag of unwanted trivialities: An apple (to keep the doctor away), batteries (so I didn't have to throw them away), socks (to fit snuggly under sandals), candles (in case the street light pops) and an assortment of papers and magazines (to provide a mornings entertainment, stimulation and recollection.) I said a 'Good Bye' but I did so quietly, aware of how intrusive I have already been walking into someone's bedroom uninvited, and at the same time surrendering to my innate aversion to farewells.

A new friend appeared. Her smiling eyes absorbing a little of the sinking feeling flooding my body. She took a bag from my collection and together we woke up a taxi driver who was sleeping in the back of his shiny yellow Ambassador. For the privilege (or rather luck) of being the first customer of the new day, only seconds of bargaining were required to ensure the use of the meter, and my dive gear and yoga books were deposited. And then finally - for the final chai – a staple of my time in India, a tribute to the friends I had shared a chai with, friendships which had even been secured over a chai; to all the early mornings at the Mother House where I would pour a triple serving of chai and try to tempt my eyes wide open; to the incredible morning chais at Sishu Bhavan where I would leave Gita for twenty minutes and actually meet those who I was working alongside – the doctors, the students, the mothers, the social workers, the poverty tourists; the utopic, the committed, the shocked, the brave and the naive. In memory of the night buses which would screech to a halt in the middle of nowhere-chai heaven; and to all the chai wallahs and their boy servants across the country, who I have watched as they expertly boiled tea leaves, added just the right amount of sugar and then a whole heap more, and then who pour a hot sweet comforting cup of chai with a taste which was always totally and utterly unique. As I sipped my last chai on Sudder Street, and rolled the clay pot between my palms, feeling the chalky residue and then tasting it between my lips, I heard the depth of my breath as my senses pulled within; a self protection to the tears which would undoubtedly fall if the mind kept thinking as much as the eyes kept seeing and the ears listened. I spoke distractedly with my new friend of her planned work with children in Kathmandu, and I felt the echo of my own indecisions reverberate through my thoughts. A ting ting ting snapped me back to the present as I stared into the face of a sadhu. I smiled in response and he reached up to paint my forehead with a red dash adorned with a white dot. A dash to symbolise the so-called 'third eye'; the eye to see deeper then everything which is superficial. A dash invisible to me but which will accompany me across the ocean – a textured physical mark of this morning, this chai, this country; this potential memory and so much more.

I hugged my friend as she left to work at Nirmal Hriday- the House for the Dying and Destitute which had shaped my first days in Kolkata, intensified my reactions and held a cracked mirror up to my own fears and inadequacies.

I pulled the taxi door shut. Bang, Click. My mind whirled through the past, present and future. I chatted – relaxed, reluctant, anxious - with the taxi driver as I remembered my first – nervous, excited, wide eyed - journey into the city. As we drove through the slums I spied Prem Dam and thought of the severely disabled children who I had watched perform a Christmas musical. I remembered how they had smiled and swayed and singed and drummed with a diligence which had proved their potentials. I realised how familiar these once alien streets were, and how much I have learned and understood and how much I have still to learn and to understand, to see within this myriad of a country – this maze of cultures, contradictions, poverty and riches.

The taxi left the illicit rickshaws and decrepit buses of the road and pulled into the cultivated concrete car park of the airport. I watched as waiting relatives played cricket to an audience of taxi drivers, while Muslim men held their heads high, intricately crotched white kepiah shining out their recent pilgrimage to Mecca. Another click bang click. My spontaneous smile betraying my emotions as the taxi driver insisted on finding a wobbly trolley to transport my luggage. I would see him soon I told him and then I followed the wobbly trolley as we both wandered aimlessly into the airport. Mixed emotions, confusion, weighing down my heavy footsteps. Willing my ticket to be cancelled again, wondering if fate were strong enough to pull me back to the middle of the chaos I did not want to leave. I spoke a of 'Namaste's' as I filed through passport control and back again. And then finally the wet ink stamped down on my precious Indian visa and I walked into the departure lounge. Filled with business men, rich families and a scattering of typically dread-locked tourists I zoned out of the no-man's land around me and stared through the soundproofed thick glass windows. I submitted to my senses and as I did, I almost felt my iris's dilate as they tried to absorb a final image of India.

Streetless

Yesterday I found The Man Outside wandering along his street. He appeared from the shadows stooping into the soft glow of the sporadic street lamps before disappearing back into the darkness. Within seconds he was hidden by parked Ambassador taxi's or perhaps just by the invisibility which seems to shroud the Homeless. I turned back to the little hut of a street shop which shone out from the imaginary pavement. A couple of squared meters filled with colours and snacks, smokes and hanging shots of shampoos. I leaned up to the wooden counter and pointed for another packet of glucose biscuits. The chattering man leaned far over to reach the edge of his shop before swinging back up to exchange his food for my money. I left him streaming his words to his friend, as they sat squashed onto the same wooden stool, in the middle of his mountain of imperishable perishables.

Despite the mystical skill of disappearing under the cover of a blinking eye The Man Outside was back in sight. He stepped in slow strides with a surety which seemed to hold him tightly within the porous borders of his Own World. With each stride he gently kicked life into discarded plastic bags; providing them with a free flight with the Evening Breeze. He watched as the bags were - one by one - momentarily lifted from the dirt and filth. The plastic blew and bellowed into disfigured ballons around his ankles before rapidly deflating back into the gravity locked chaos of street rubbish.

I called his name. The Man Outside paused in his restlessness and tipped his head back from his hooded hugging blanket. His eyes remained camouflaged from the outside but revealed from within. He began to walk towards me. As he knelt down to touch my feet I tried to hand him the biscuits but he mumbled a stream of what appeared to be negatives before handing them back and then walking rapidly down the street towards His Corner. I obediently followed while still echoing my insistence that he take the snacks. Usually, I cringe when I see friends subconsciously dominate the small areas of freedom a Man free from social responsibilities still retains. I try to tune my ears out when I hear the tone of 'telling' rather than 'asking', especially regarding issues such as washing, dressing or even the cutting up of food. But lately I have noticed myself tottering around the same despicable paternal habit of presuming that I know what is best for someone living on the edges of society. Defeated and a little dejected I put the extra biscuits into my bag.

The Man Outside stops walking. I look at him. He mutters and mummers, mimes and mimics. His hands always working, his lips always moving, and yet dialogue is lost to probabilities. This evening it was a little easier to translate the message hidden within his garbled articulations. The reason for his discontent? Streetlessness.

A drunken man of an undisclosed nationality had curled up on top of The Man Outside's pavement bed. Why on earth he had decided to choose the one patch of road on the whole street which was (and has been for many years) occupied by the streets only regular homeless man seemed a cruel attempt by the rich and wealthy to possess everything of any value. After realising the reason for The Man Outsides agitated wanderings I tried to raise the cuckoo who had stolen his patch of road. I shouted at him to 'Wake Up' and give my friend back his bed, but liquor had clearly muted his senses. I even found myself trying to raise him with a few swift kicks to his legs and his despicably shiny leather clad feet. The intoxicated stranger remained in his different level of consciousness. I turned to The Man Outside and motioned my helplessness. He kicked at his own feet, and mumbled half words to himself, or perhaps to me. I expressed more anger at the stealing of a home than The Man Outside would ever be capable of. I mumbled a 'sorry'. A 'sorry' I can't help you sleep on the street. And then I awkwardly turned around, head lowered, eyes down, shame surrounding, as I walked off into the comparative luxury of the adjacent guest house.

I tapped on the front gate to rouse the night-watchman, and as the iron gates clunked shut behind, I left The Man Outside slowly pacing, gently kicking, quietly murmuring and patiently waiting for his corner of the street to be vacated.

Dinner with the Man Outside

The Man Outside opens up my newspaper and points to the photograph of buses. 'Driver' he tells me, followed by a list of Indian towns. I know from previous conversations that he used to be a driver, but I don't know where. I know he can read English, and that he has a wide understanding of the dynamics of the street, but this is all I know. As I have said before, The Man Outside is a Happy man. He smiles as he signs for food. He laughs to himself as I peer to see his face constantly hidden from the world behind his blue shroud of a blanket.

His mind is always working as he leafs through my newspaper. He takes a finger full of rice from his plate and begins to feed the head of a woman on the back page. He is always trying to share his food. Every time we dine together he refuses to eat without at least trying to give me his meal. After a few attempts and reassurances that I have my own food, he will begin to eat and do so extremely quickly. Even if I pass him while he is sitting in a street cafe, he will wave and lift up his plate of food to offer to me. I wish I could make more sense of his murmurings, and even when I pick up a word of English, I am not always sure of the context he is referring to.

I had a dream last night that The Man Outside took a magic potion which gave him special powers. He was able to communicate with different energies of the universe, and seemed to emit an energy so huge that everyone was in awe of him. The next morning I left the guest house to find him standing in the road talking to another scrap of newspaper. I cannot even begin to imagine his reality, or the journey which he took into his world.

I remember the first time I met him, when he was 'pestering' me by touching my feet. I shooed him away, annoyed of the attention, as if he was an unwelcome animal.

It is good to see him again.

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.

The Man Outside

I couldn't sleep last night. This is pretty normal for me – always a life of extremes, of either passing out with tiredness or a restless insomniac. Last night the fan appeared too weak and then too strong; the mosquitoes appeared too hungry, my book appeared too boring and then not boring enough. The searching hands of a four year old Blind Queen kept coming into my head, and then Beautiful Smiles and Small Monkeys. I went to the window and looked out from between the bars which hung my clothes drying from the day; my purple head scarf blowing Gita's lice out into the evening sky – or back into my room. The green wooden shutters were wide open and looked down into the courtyard below. If I stood on my tip toes I could just make out the corner of the two plastic chairs pulled together by the night watch man. Hare's bicycle. The massive metal doors from my 'Modern Lodge – the Ideal Place for Tourists' remained firmly closed. Beyond the door lay the man which I had eaten dinner with.

I couldn't tell if the Man was sleeping or just conversing with himself. I wanted to believe that he was awake – like me; looking down upon him. I saw his hand appear next to his laying head and then it would pause. Perhaps waving away mosquitoes? But no, he brought it down to his side and continued the motion. The dark blue blanket which he usually wears around his head was now around his waist. Perhaps he was as hot as I was. But what about during the day when it is so much hotter – when he hides under it? Or when he sits at the table hooded and almost invisible apart from his elegant fingers quickly working his rice and daal?

The Man is always with his blanket but this is because he has no where else to keep it. The first time I met him I was talking on the phone sitting out side of a shop. He approached, bent down in front of me and began to touch my filthy feet. At the time I was too preoccupied with Portugal to pay him much attention but I definitely didn't allow him to meet me – or rather I definitely didn't allow myself to met him. Now I still find his persistent touching of my feet annoying. Now it annoys me because it still prevents me from really knowing him. Because he makes himself different – when I know he is not – when I know he is a Man who speaks perfect English, who even reads English which means that I should be able to easily communicate with him. Who I know has the kindest smile which he gives more to his chest than to his companions as his head is always tilted down. Who I know that has the most gentle manners and who always tries to make me eat the food bought for him before finally devouring it. Who went riding on the back of Hare's bike tonight and then came back riding the bike with Hare on the back. But when I bend down to lift up his touching hands, he stands readjusts his slipping blanket and then turns to the next foreigner and continues the process. For this is how the Man lives his days. Among the foreigners. Watching them and walking behind them, and understanding so very much about our lives and who we are but only giving us the quietest mumbles in return. His comprehension of English and his nifty bike riding skills is proof that he was not always on the Outside. That at one time he had a life not only of his own, or a life on his own, but which connected with people on the same level. Where he spoke to comprehending eyes and read to receive information and rode to go somewhere. Now all of his days and his nights are the same. Walking around the street which he has literally lived on for over ten years, bending down, standing up, bending down, cloaked in his blanket of a bed sheet. I watch him laying at the side of the road, waving his hand to himself. He places them carefully on his chest and then lifts one hand up to continue again. I am mesmorised by his precise movements, I feel intrusive blindly watching him.

Suddenly and without warning he leaps up. A dog is frozen in time and then snaps from its trance and runs towards the Man. The loud Beeeep of a car warns of its approach but it is an unwelcome alarm clock for the Man, who with one arm over his eyes to shield him from the white light jumps up to shoe the jumping dog away,. The light passes and the startled dog runs down the street. The Man stretches back out on his patch of road: in front of a laundry service, and opposite a rubbish pile, next to the gutter of the sewage water and underneath a sign reading 'U.S Travel'. The Man pulls his blanket firmly over his head.