Little Yogis

On Saturday I morph from social worker to yoga teacher. In the morning I teach yoga at a school for kids from the slums, and in the afternoon I teach the wonderful young women at the Soma home. This is four classes in total, and the two different locations are at entirely opposite ends of the city. Thanks to Kolkata's metro (which for many years caused total mayhem during its construction) all this means is short quick journeys squashed into a moving sardine tin, and then a couple of beautiful walks through two totally different areas. During my morning walk I pass a small market over spilling from the pavement and into the traffic of the road, leading towards a huge playing field rimmed by equally huge pipes. The pipes suggest a recent move to upgrade Kolkata's sewage system from one constructed by the British at the turn of the century to serve a population of 600,000. Today the same pipes are being used and the population is bordering on fifteen million. The new pipes have been waiting to be laid for months, and in the meantime, a few resourceful individuals have taken to living inside them, with bedding piled high, and portable stoves at the entrance. Inside the playing field lives many families, who during the winter months can enjoy dry days and nights, free from the darkness of the plastic tarpaulin rigged against the monsoon rains. All across the fields are boys and young men, showing their loyalty to the national game of cricket, as their sons and younger brothers cheer them on, or improvise their own mini versions on the parallel streets through the aid of rolled up plastic bags as a makeshift ball and broken branches as bats.

Tala Park school is situated next to the playing field and educates many of the children who live in its bustees. The school is ran by Calcutta Rescue, which despite its unfortunate name is an internationally funded organisation committed to reducing the health and social costs of poverty. Unlike many other of Kolkata's NGOs, Calcutta Rescue does not depend on foreign volunteers or function solely through providing free hands outs. The few volunteers who do work there have a mandate to share their professional skills by training the organisations staff and implementing improvements where possible. For example, their Austrian chemist oversees the stocktaking and distribution of medication. There is a teacher from Poland who trains the local teachers on innovative methods including how to control the children without resorting to physical abuse. There is a special needs social worker from the USA who works alongside the local team of doctors and counselors to share new knowledge and techniques.

Calcutta Rescue provide education to over 500 children from the slum areas. The children are given two meals a day to try and discourage truancy and improve levels of concentration. There are mobile clinics, outreach programs and a clinic specifically for TB patients and a general clinic which includes a section for Mother and Child providing lessons on nutrition and hygiene. All patients receive reimbursement for their transport costs and a bag of dry food including lentils and rice. Any medicine is provided free of charge. Calcutta Rescue also operate a leprosy clinic, which consists of a large canvas tent that is erected and dismantled every day, due to the community fear of creating a permanent leper colony. The clinic provides the patients with government funded medicine, the full course of which can stem the progression of the disease, preventing further physical mutation and protecting family and friends from contamination. They run an arsenic mitigation program and a vocational training centre, where unemployed men and women (including widows and different-abled people) make a selection of handicrafts for sale at a weekly event held by volunteers in Sudder Street.

When I returned to Kolkata in November, I was invited to teach yoga to the children at the Tala Park school. The teachers were desperate for the kids to have some physical activity but employing a yoga teacher was beyond their already stringent budget. I have taught yoga to kids all over the place – in fields, in gardens, museums and occasionally in the more orthodox yoga studios, but at Tala Park one of the major challenges was the restriction of space. The school has two class rooms which are both equally tiny. Although I was offered a class of sixty children, it was logistically impossible for the children even to have enough space to turn around, so instead we divided the class into two. Now perhaps for sitting on the floor and studying this is plenty of room for thirty little bodies, but when it comes to stretching out and jumping into downward dogs all chaos breaks lose as hands and feet intermingle and individual bodies become disguised in a mass of limbs.

Although my students are young (around five and six years old) they are incredibly eager, and their happiness is contagious. Even during the times I feel I should be working with Deepa or am exhausted by the prospect of four classes to teach, after moments of being with the kids I am smiling and laughing and unaware of the flying time. The most appropriate word to describe the classes is 'hilarious'. The little yogis and yoginis have total concentration and they all try really hard to follow the poses. Our audience is the school's cooks and cleaners who peer through the iron bars of the windows, studying our movements, smiling widely and occasionally trying to imitate. Although the children cannot speak more than one word of English ('Hello'), and my Bangla is restricted (namo pa, oto pa, namo haat, oto haat – leg up, leg down, hand up, hand down) thanks to the committed translation of their class teacher, they all end up copying some version of the required asana. What is particularly amusing is that the kids loyally follow every move I make. So if I turn around to show them what the pose looks like from behind, all thirty kids will turn around. Meanwhile, the teacher has given me total control, and will translate only what I tell her to, meaning that if I have not noticed that the kids and me are now sitting back to back, that is how they will remain until I turn around again.

The balancing poses also require a great deal of creativity, otherwise all of the children will automatically lean out to their neighbor creating a domino effect of falling giggling bodies. The one culprit tends to be one little boy whose trouser zip is always broken, so in order to preserve his young modesty he insists on trying to do the tree pose with this trousers half way down his bum, preventing him from fully lifting his leg and instead toppling to the side and taking his little swaying friends with him. Now I try to preempt the collapse and ferry them over to the walls. Once one has achieved the pose I will be called over to verify and congratulate, bringing with it a stream of demands from every child in the room, as each one wants me to personally affirm their postures. Another winner is the 'lion pose', where the children have to kneel down and lean forwards, sticking out their tongues and roaring like a lion. This leads to sincere and dedicated 'RAHs' from the children but leaves the class teacher in total confusion as to why I would risk such potential anarchy. Watching the kids jump into full lotus reflects their experience in squatting and a life time of sitting on the floor rather than in more restrictive chairs.

Even the most shy of the children are able to contort their bodies into whatever pose I imagine, creating smiles and pride where perhaps there has been a previous drought. The class teacher commented how yoga 'evened' out her pupils. The more disruptive were calmed down by their determination to do the harder poses, while the kids who struggled academically glowed through their yogic successes. We end the class with a series of finishing poses including sitting in full lotus and humming 'om'. The children all close their eyes, with their hands aptly turned into chin mudra, while 'omming' with the most peaceful and genuine sincerity, leaving me with one eye searching for the giggles which never come. Afterwards they surround me to take my hand and bring it to their forehead as a very formal sign of respect and thanks.

Despite the irony of teaching yoga to Indian children, all of whom seem to have an innate flexibility which I can only dream of; it is an absolute privilege to share my Saturday morning's with such beaming and bright little people.

Present Reflections

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slum Yoga

My first yoga class for children! Impromptu and disorganised chaos! It was the Wednesday clinic at Dhapa slums; the village built on a garbage dump (see Village of Rubbish) The clinic is held outside of the two room village school, and consists of a plastic table, two chairs, the incredible assistant and the current (maybe qualified) volunteers. The team emerge from the ambassador taxi to be greeted by a rush of Charging Cheering Children. We are pulled and pushed, jumped upon and swung around as tiny hands attach themselves to our arms and twist and turn. It was play time and the children wanted to play.

The children can only speak the most rudimentary English, with Bengali being their mother tongue. However, unlike Gita, they have eyes so can imitate what they see. I stood in the centre of the crowd they had built around me and attempt to clear some space, with the meters of muddy grass only to be immediately refilled by jumping feet. I wobbled into Tree Pose, reaching to the sky as my one leg fought for a patch of ground to stand upon. Within seconds my movements were being copied by a mass of children. Forward bends, twists, a line of back benders followed, as even the smallest reached behind their heads to find a patch of ground and successfully contort their already highly flexible bodies. 'Aunty Aunty' they shouted as they each fought for my divided attention.

By the end of the morning I was exhausted by exhilarated. Their enthusiasm had given me a renewed motivation to develop my teaching skills in order to work specifically with young people.

However, the visit to Dhapa also highlighted the risks of this young generation of slum dwellers. The grass which we balanced upon was rubbish: Garbage which the Kolkata Municipal Corporation rubbish collectors had ploughed into the land, and garbage which had been discarded at random and in accordance with the piles of rubbish being dumped in the slums each and everyday. Walking around the village was like taking a tour of a bio-hazard site. The many multipurpose lakes were filled with ultra violet green water. This was water which had been filtered through fields of waste and drain into the multipurpose lakes. Men sat next to the pools, sewing their fishing nets as other waded waist deep, throwing buckets of bright purple potassium permanganate to 'neutralise' the water, transforming the green of the algae was into a dark purple. A family of fluffy ducks paddled with difficulty through a surface of discarded floating plastic and polystyrene. A young mother showed off her collection of snails which she had just dug from the mud and would later feed to her family. The thoughts of children growing up on food farmed in such pollution reminded me that they needed much more than yoga.

Dhapa village is relatively new (it was established around five years ago) and despite reassurance from the Kolkata Municipal Corporation of the limited health risks, just the thought of the plethora of diseases and mutations which must be developing within their young bodies shocks me into a futile search for solutions.

I wonder what can be done to transform this village into a 'safe' place? What plants can be planted to help to filter the filth? What techniques can be used to remove the sludge from the lakes which are the centre point of the village? What education techniques can be used to help the people of Dhapa protect themselves and their children from the hazardous waste which the city is sending to them?

As we rode out of the slums, piled onto the back of the bicycle cart, truck after truck filled with garbage made its way towards the village. Continuous. Never ending. A reminder of our constant consumption and thoughtless disregard of waste. Fields of crops reached through the plastic soil next to the road. Within minutes we had arrived at a busy intersection, which was marked by the new hotel complex and housing estate for Kolkata's rich. I wonder what they must think of the mountain of refuse which looms in the horizon, or if they realise that their vegetables are being grown in a field full of trash, or if they realise the environmental and the social cost of their consumption? I wonder how attitudes towards trash can be changed? I wonder how non-biodegradable waste can be reduced. I wonder how Dhapa village can be relocated from a chemical minefield? I wonder what a passive and empty word 'wonder' is.