Bravely Blind Climber Child

Hands holding Hands

Hands guiding Eyes

Imagining, Pretending

Living, Ignorance

I place her palms on the cold metal ladder

Her fingers flick at the flaking faded colourless paint

I tap the bottom rung. I say her name

Like a robot she lifts a leg

Drops a foot and begins to climb

Bravely Blind Climber Child stepping into darkness

Trusting tones, trusting touch, trusting too much

Face lifted towards the sun she cannot see

Hands gripped firmly and then blindly distracted

Little feet balancing precariously

Hands holding Hands

Hands guiding Eyes

Sounds of a thought. Perhaps.

Probabilities. Possibilities. Potentialities.

Joy soars through my body escaping into a vibration of laughter

Pride born from admiration, soaring to the sky and beyond

Protective hands; protecting from the fall she cannot see

Instinct trying not to carry, prepared to catch

Instinct trying to explore, learn, play, to become

Hands holding Hands

Hands guiding Eyes

Admiring. Seeing. Learning. Loving.

Silent Responsibility. Excuses.

Together fighting the boundaries of control

Together for a few hours for a few weeks

Bonded in a dance of rhythms

Bonded in a tangible energy

An ocean apart in perception. In reality

Hands holding Hands

Hands guiding Eyes

Eyes learning mystery

A future in shadows

Encouraging words; words void of meaning

Every step another victory

A screech of Happiness sliding with gravity

A battle against prejudice; a trophy for truth

I want the whole world to See what you are

You are Incredible

You are too Brave

You are full of Power

You are only Blind.

I have no idea how to convey the intensity of the past weeks with the most incredible four year old I have ever known.

Street Monkey

Nuts? You want nuts? Very cheap? A little head rises from a pile of monkey nuts, his feet standing on a small bamboo stool. The little boy is sleeping. Or at least he was, until his street instinct alerted him to my presense. His body emerges from his mobile wooden tray of a shop. His question is loaded with anticipation. I shake my head. His falls back down to his edible lumpy pillow.

Fewa Lake

So I am sitting in Mike's Restaurant, at the Lake Side, Pokhara. It is more expensive than when I was last here, and it now has a path built through it. There are many more tourists. Richer tourists. I last sat here three years ago. When I had absolutely no idea what the future would hold. Now I again have no idea what the next three years of my life will reveal.

Watching as a square flat peddle 'boat' is being maneuvered backwards and forwards. Filled with Nepali tourists who laugh as they keep arriving back at their starting point. Now a group of kids have just arrived. A straggly haired girl is asking for my pens, picking up my tea, opening my bag, shaking my book. She is tough. Too Tough. Her friends come. One has a bloody elbow. A small graze. It turns out he fell off his bike – riding on the stony dirty road too fast. “Next time go slowly” I say. He wants money “to clean up my arm” he tells me. I laugh at him and tell him to be a “strong man”. Another shows me a tiny cut on his knee and once again asks me to “fix it” with his palm out turned. I work my Magic. He is unimpressed. I give him some more 'tickles' as he stifles a smile.

This is something which has changed in three years. I am no longer scared of these pushy little street wise, life wise people. I have a new respect for them as well as a new barrier against them. Laughing and Laughter.

The small terrorists move onto the next table to terrify a Northface clad North American couple. The elderly couple look dressed in preparation of a safari rather than for a cup of tea by Fewa Lake, but then again, maybe their uninvited guests are providing them with adequate adventure. I stop watching their obvious discomfort and instead find myself staring at their Nepali counterparts: A traditionally dressed elderly Nepali couple who are skillfully climbing on board a rowing boat. The bent woman bends further to slowly release the rusty chain, freeing their little boat from the muddy root covered shore. The topi topped man sits at the back of the boat and slowly maneuvers the shabby wooden vehicle 180 degrees to face the distant bank across the flat calm of the lake. Slowly – so slowly – they (he) paddles across the dark liquid water. Their rehearsed controlled movements are in such a contrast to two small pirates who have just hijacked a tin yellow peddle paddle boat and are mercilessly ramming it backwards and forwards into the row of rusting tin yellow peddle paddle boats.

A little further along the lake shore gathers a group of women. Their vibrant pink sairees shout out at my eyes; a strange but beautiful juxtaposition against the dark brown of the soft mud they are squatting on. Their gold piercing dangle along their ear lobes and travel up their ears. Their golden noses glimmer in the equally golden afternoon sun, as they tilt their heads backwards and forwards in rhythm to the movements of their working arms. If you focus, if you really isolate your ears, it is possible to hear the rangle jangle clang clung clink of their rows of bangles which they bash together as they rub their piles of bright washing (what appears to be) clean. I sit and gaze and stare and wonder what happens during the time they pick up their wet clothes stamp them next to the muddy soil and then lift them back into the air - washed?

Another woman appears into my field of vision. She walks towards the water with her back to me. She is wearing a printed batik lungi pulled up to her armpits. She stands knee deep in the clam still water and bends towards the liquid lake, sending velvet ripples outwards from an equal direction all around her. She washes her lengths of hair as the other women scrub their clothes, the children play in the paddle peddle boats and somewhere between the muddy soil in front of me and the shadows of the same muddy shore fading beyond my vision, drifts a small wooden boat, with two ageless figures, who are silhouetted by the sun; suspended by the water.

The word 'suspended' triggers an association. This makes me look upwards. Momentarily blinded by the brightness of the sun, my eyes finally focus and latch onto what my thoughts were searching for. Sure enough I spy a rangi changi multicoloured parachute bellowing up and around, outwards and contained, with two gliding bodies suspended below. Lifted by the warm air currents, circling the town. Further in the distance the same distinguishable dots appear to be circling the clouds. Clouds which pad the beautiful snow covered peaks of the Annapurna range.

Again – if you listen carefully it is possible to hear the 'Whaooo' of excited floating screams, which echo down on the same living air which carried them on their wonderful journey to no where in particular.

Baby Mama, Baby Doll

Today I sat with a young girl with her two month old baby brother. The baby was nearly dead, but she didn't care. She just kept playing with it - pinching its nose closed so it would respond to instinct and try - with energy it still had hidden some here within its dirty bundle of being - to open its little mouth.

Minds 2 Open

I looked inside Gita's folder. One black and white line jumped out. It read “Birthday: 11^thJune 2004”. I had missed it – in fact everyone had missed it, but I felt particularly guilty since I am the one person who after working with her every morning for two months should have known. Apparently she is now four years old. I am simultaneously surprised and relieved. Surprised because she looks too tall for a four year old Indian child and relieved because this means that her 'slow' development is not quite as slow as it would be if she were five or six. Her development has really made me start asking questions: she is the first blind person I have ever become close to and I have absolutely no idea if her behavior is 'normal'. Normally I would argue that 'normality' is a pointless reference. Everyone is different, and comparing a child practically born into an orphanage with one born 'outside' in what I think of as the 'open World' is already difficult. Throw into that mix a child born without eyes and finding out what should be 'normal' seems not so useful. However, this is a definition which neither Gita nor I can afford to ignore. Her future depends on her 'normality'.

Hare (my Krishna Christian friend) suggested that she might be autistic; which he said may be why she becomes so stressed at meal times and although we dad dad dd da da da d and ssssssssss shs sh ssssssss everyday maybe this is why her speech has yet to come? In my rational mind my explanation is firstly she is feed far to much food: surely hunger is a natural perquisite for wanting to eat? And secondly she is force fed what she cannot see or even touch. In regards to her speech – she has grown up surrounded by noise – there are 37 children in the nursery. Although the 'inactive' children in Gita's section are all mute apart from the occasional tears, the children from the 'active' section are in the same room screaming and shouting and generally just being 'children'. Then there are the foreign voices of the volunteers speaking in varying languages including English, Spanish, Japanese, Korean and French. Then there are the Bengali voices of the Mashis and then the English, Bengali, Hindi or Nepali words from the Sisters, all of which is against the backdrop of the sound system which definitely creates a happy atmosphere playing all variations of 'Hallelujah' to Hindi tunes (which Peter loves) to 'Men in Black' (which the Princesses seem to enjoy). Now just try to imagine yourself as a blind child: A four year old in the dark who is yet to distinguish words, let along languages. It must be like looking for the library and then ending up at a Rave – blindfolded. And yet when we reach the quiet of the roof Gita will quietly start to explore her own voice. Playing with no sense sounds, which to my trained ears I also need to explore – trying to give her new verbal replies which are not in my own blahhhing vocabulary. The Mashis also complain that she makes sounds all night – which again is the only time that the nursery is quiet.

However, if she is autistic there are several routes to explore: Firstly it seems most likely that autism would be a response to her environment: where she is picked up and placed down, or if she is moving she moves 'unseen' quietly finding her way around the room to be pushed or knocked over. Her environment where she grows from a baby to a toddler without knowing a mother. Her environment where she does not know love apart from that of the Indian workers whose job it is to feed her and wash her, or the volunteers who stay for a day or a month or like me love her and then will leave her, or the Sisters, who care but who have a Faith which totters on passivity leaving her development to kindness and prayer. Secondly if she is autistic then in the past two months she has made incredible progress, which suggests that she can improve – or even over come it? Already without knowing words she communicates with me: if she wants me to sit down she will pull on my kurta until she finds my shoulders and then push. If she wants me to pick her up she will push down on my arms so that I will lift her and swing her. And she recognises me. If I find her searching for the massive yoga balls squeezed between the beds and the wall and I call to her, she will start to crawl over the beds, once she finds my hand she feels for my dive computer and my rolling tat tat tat beads wrapped around my wrist. She explores her world with increasing confidence: climbing and touching – seeing with her hands and her feet.

After spending two months with her I also know that she is very aware of her surroundings. She can fit herself into her little table and chair (although her yogi legs will always remain on top of the table), she knows that there are two sets of ten steps to the roof and that the floor of the bathroom is slippery. To me: this is all amazing within the noisy hectic impersonal life of the orphanage's nursery.

Lately we have also been exploring outside of the nursery. After attaining the correct permission from the Sister in charge of Sishu Bhavan we have been going on an adventure to the park outside for the active and 'normal' children. The first challenge was finding her shoes which fitted from the communal pile. She surprised me as I was expecting her to kick them off, but she picked up her feet and let me put them on her. Down the stairs, through the stone corridor, past the active 'abled' children and then to the mud park. First stop was the gate which she clung to, playing with the 'ting' of the padlock on the handle. Next stop was a bush which brushed against her. Feeling the leaves in her hand and pushing them so that they would bounce back to her. We stepped over a small broken brick and she let me lead her to a swing. She felt the rusty chain with her fingers, flicking the rough surface. I held it steady for her and she pulled herself up. I placed my hands around hers on the chain and told her in a stern a voice as I could to 'hold on tight'. Then I began to push – she leaned back. Head facing to the sky, smile revealing all of her teeth, breeze pushing past her cheeks and then she began to feel the momentum. Her body began to lean forward and then backwards and before long I was not needed. She quietly swung herself – a silent weeeeeee wheeeeeeeeee weeeeeee wheeeeeeeeee weeeeeeeeee wheeeeeeeeee. And then she took her hands from the chain and placed them over her ears. Quickly my stern voice reappeared and somehow she understood. But I wonder what she must have felt – to be swinging free with her hands over her ears – blocking out all sound but just feeling the momentum? I feel so happy watching her pleasure but eventually I stop the swing. She takes my hands and lowers herself to the ground.

Next stop is a concrete slide. I show her the ladder. I tell her 'One Step' She amazes me by lifting one leg and finding the first rung. This must be so scary. A foot which can slip off. But she continues and while leaning back on my body lifts the second to join her first. 'Two Step' I tell her and very slowly the process is repeated. But this is as far as she dares to go as she is already the same height has me. She swings her body around and puts her hands around my neck. I realise that she is becoming much more affection with me than she used to me. She is accepting my presence. I pick her up and swing her. Again her hands go to her ears and her smile extends even further. I slow to let her feet touch the grass. I let go and she continues to bend down and feel the earth beneath her feet. She touches the mud and then brings her hand to her nose – a new smell. Seeing her 'meet' nature is powerful and I wish I could take her to the mountains – to feel real natural energy and not this urban construct. We walk over to a tap fixed on the wall. Already she hears the drip and starts to feel for it. Gita loves water. She finds it and I turn the tap to a trickle. She holds her hands under it and then begins to lower her head under it. I allow her a few seconds and wish we could just play in the water and the mud all morning, but as always I have accepted the restrictions to her freedoms. I try to image what it is she loves about the water – the coolness, the texture, the liquidity?

To me Gita is not 'normal'; she is amazing. And I tell her every day and when I do she smiles in unknowing agreement. She has such courage to explore her surroundings which are not 'blind' friendly but which are busy and noisy. She has responded by becoming the most independent four year old I have had the pleasure to meet – and perhaps this is why I admire her so much. Because she does not ask for attention but just explores her instinct – following sounds and feeling around her – blind to the affection of strangers or workers. Lately I have been thinking more and more about what will happen to her once she grows out of the nursery. The next step in the Mother Teresa Homes is to Daya Dan; for older children and then from there to the home for mentally disabled women (the majority of whom have been taken from the prisons by the Sisters). With this progression as motivation I have started hassling the Sister in charge of the nursery about Gita's future education. To me it seems that if she is able to develop the appropriate life skills there is no reason why she needs to spend her life institutionalised. The reply I was given was that unlike Jamie, Gita will not attend any specialised school for the blind – she is 'retarded'.

Perfect Babies

A sign on the wall reads "19 girls and 7 boys - total 26." A room full of tiny beds. Beds full of 26 babies. Some so tiny that they should not yet be in this world on their own. So tiny that their bodies still need to be made; with lips not yet closed and noses with no holes. They are so tiny that I dare not even stand too close. I don't want to bring them any of the diseases from the 'world' which they are not yet meant to be in. There are no incubators. There are no doctors. There is just “God's Will” which to my atheist logic means natural selection without the benefit of medical evolution. Others are more fortunate – they are in a limbo – not necessarily receiving the medical attention they need but in a clean bed with nutritious food; these are the babies whose destitute mothers have brought them to Shishu Bhavan in order to give them the strength which simply is not possible when you live on the streets. The mothers which I have met look much younger than me; they also look far far too thin for the new mothers which they are. But they come to visit their growing babies, holding them and hugging them, and sometimes taking them to Mass. Waiting until they are 'strong' enough to return to their homes on the streets or in the slums. Then there are the bigger babies. Babies that were born healthy but were born with imperfections. Imperfections that might cost the already poor parents too much. A trip to the hospital? Several trips to the hospital? Problems working? Trouble for their new baby girl to find a husband twenty years from now? Babies whose family decided that “survival of the fittest” was within their power to decide and who did not take their babies from the street but left them there.

I pick up a hand. It has fingers but the fingers are one. The toes the same – skin connecting skin. The little baby enjoys my touch and giggles like a baby giggles – noisily and bubbly. One small operation will 'save' her life and give her back to the world. I ask about her parents “she has none” I am told – at least none that want her. I walk past the 'healthy' babies – the 'lucky' ones. The ones who were just given away, or left on the street, or found by police men. The babies who are physically and mentally 'perfect' and therefore (unlike Gita) have more chance of growing up outside of this orphanage and most likely outside of India.

I stand over the cot of a baby who has little chance of living beyond this month. The baby is Screaming. Tears chase each other down her cheek. I start talking to her. Trying to soothe her. Trying to tell her she is not alone. Her body is tiny. Her legs only bone. No 'baby fat' for this 'baby' is a hydrocephalus baby. Her head is so enormous she looks like she has been invaded by a force far greater than her skull can deal with. Her head has incisions down the sides to try and let this force out – this force of liquid which has swollen her head to much larger than mine. I wish she could cry it all out. Her hand is wrapped in bandages with a key for an intravenous drip. The bandages weigh her hand down, fixing it to her cot. Her tears begin to slow. Her eyes are focused on a poster above the door. It is of three teddy bears. I keep talking. “Mummy bear, Daddy bear and Baby bear” I say. Perhaps she is not looking at the poster. Her dilated iris's even seem to have sunk to the bottom of her eyes. She seems to be staring right through me. I gingerly pick up the sheet she has kicked off and place it back over her tiny legs the length of my hand. “Those legs are too skinny to be naked” I tell her. She kicks them off again. “Bye bye beautiful” I whisper to her; beautiful because of the life which is within her, which is her, which after an incredible eight months she is still fighting for everyday - Life which I wish she could feel. And then; I leave her - to the bears and to her tears.

Village of Rubbish

This week the schools have reopened, so it meant that the Nurse's other mobile clinic in Dhapa district has also re-opened. So off we went. Yellow brooming beeping taxi to Howrah train station, dodging past the foot rickshaws and walking piles of building bricks into a auto-rickshaw. Backpacks of medicines loaded onto the tiny backseat and then chugging through the traffic, far more refreshing with its nearly 360 degree air conditioning than the suffocating taxi. We arrive in a field of rubbish and unload the auto rickshaw. Gopal appears. The Nurse's loyal assistant who cycles around Kolkata preparing the clinics – and the patients. We walk over to a shell of a brick building - the community school. The team proudly tell me that they funded its completion. The school is quiet and once again communication was mis-interpreted and the school will re-open next week. But it is not a wasted trip as word will quickly spread about our arrival. The clinic is open air, although sheltered from the rain by an extension from the roof of the school. A red plastic table and chairs, the mirror of the ones at Tapsia Clinic, are waiting to be loaded with bowls of disinfectant and syringes. My job today is not to clean bones or remove parasites, but to wash little bodies!

The history of the village is unique and also founded on a potential health hazard, which is why the Nurse decided to base one of his projects here. Only five years ago the land which the village is built upon was a massive rubbish dump, filled with all the waste from Kolkata city. In a unique effort to reclaim the land the government literally created a mountain, by pushing the rubbish into huge towering piles, which from a distance appear to be made of rock and soil rather than refuse. The local people filter through the piles of waste to find anything which can be resold, reused or recycled. Glass is sold, cardboard is collected, plastic bottles gathered. And whatever is left is then ploughed back into the soil; a sort of rudimentary and very artificial fertiliser. Fields of refuse – soil which seems to grow medical waste, pieces of plastic and broken brown chai cups, which stands upon meters of archaeological rubbish from decades past. What is even more amazing is that fields of waste are Kolkata's main agricultural land. All of the fruit and vegetables which are sold in the markets, cooked in the restaurants and digested by my stomach are grown here. Apparently fruit and vegetables are have highly efficient waste filters; according to studies conducted by West Bengal Pollution Control Board (WBPCB), “no traces of metal have been found in the city’s ground water” and “the vegetables grown around the Dhapa dumping grounds have been found to be free of toxicity.” I still find it fascinating that the soil can handle such levels of rubbish; when I express my fears to leaders of the community I am told, “it's ok because the plastic does not biodegrade” - my concerns precisely.

A combination of concern and curiosity took me to recent reports from locally based environmental groups – and my findings are pretty alarming. According to the a study conducted by the Centre for Quality Management System (CQMS) at Jadavpur University as much as 2,600 tonne of solid waste is generated in the city every day which consists of non-biodegradable substances including plastic, electronic waste, batteries, metal cans, glass, paper, medicine foils and construction waste. Such substances do not degrade – with the plastic taking about 1000 years to break down which batteries will eventually break open releasing the carbon and adhesives into the soil. Now this is the same toxic waste which is being ploughed back into the fields around Dhapa. The CQMS argue that this not only destroys the soils fertility but toxic substances seep into the ground water, while the sheer quantity of the amount of toxic waste dumped is enough to contaminate the crops. The solution is for a system of waste segregation to be implemented. However, the Kolkata Municipal Corporation have no such immediate plans and if they did it would most probably consist of the creation of a second dumping ground at Dhapa. Another major concern is the disposal of medical waste. In 1998 the Biomedical Waste (Management and Handling) Rules made it mandatory for all health care units to set up treatment plants including either autoclaves or incinerators. However, only 12 city hospitals have waste disposal units and two have incinerators – this is out of a total of 649 units. Then in 2002 Kolkata opened its first commercial medical waste disposal unit in Howrah. Under the system, all healthcare units had to contract private operators to collect the daily waste in order for it to be incinerated. However, this has yet to be regulated, and according to the National Medical Journal of India biomedical waste is still finding its way to the dumping ground of the vegetable fields of Dhapa. However, the Nurse has more immediate concerns than the condition of the soil and contamination of Kolkata's vegetables.

The aim of the clinic is to gradually improve the health of the community as well as to provide basic hygiene education. Like Tapsia Clinic, the Nurse established the clinic in response to a need – there is no other health care facility in the area. Also like Tapsia, when he first opened the clinic, people were arriving with infections and illnesses which were fatal, whereas now he is mainly treating minor infections, thereby preventing their development into something much more serious. However, there is an additional challenge which the village faces and that is of the water supply. Compared to the centre of Kolkata, the village looks like a rural dream; spacious houses, green fields of manicured rubbish plots and surrounded by ponds. Take a closer look and it soon becomes clear that the ponds are stagnant with green sludge.

The run-off from the mountain of rubbish collects in the ponds, turning the water into filthy pools. People are washing pots, pans and their own bodies in a liquid which is green and balancing on top of a thick black silt. However, there are fresh water pumps throughout the village, so I asked whether these were restricted for drinking water only because of a limited supply? But this is not the case: people continue to wash in the ponds because they always have. The ponds are convenient – you just have to jump in, and there is no hard work in pumping the water. So this is why I spent the day washing little people under the fresh water pumps. The weekly wash is not just to clean some mucky faces but to initiate a change in behavior, encouraging people to wash with fresh clean water rather than the green pond 'water'.

A group of small children arrived to greet us at the clinic. The tiniest ones viewed us with a suspicion which was dispelled as soon as the older diddy grabbed my hand and grinned a “Nameste Uncle” to 'Uncle' Gopal. Our little tour leaders guided us down to the main village pump and washing began – shampoo, boxes of soap and bottles of Nivea moisturizer were lined up alongside the water pump. Uncle Gopal and I take it in terms to jump on the pump, filling up our small collection of tin containers and buckets. Soon we have a small group of helpers. Tiny children who expertly assist us by running and jumping, landing on the handel of the water pump and then swinging from it, sending streams of frothy cold water into the waiting buckets. The children are laughing but restrained by shyness. They want to be washed, but wait for us to motion then forwards, some accompanied by older siblings. The tiniest have no apprehension to strip off, leaving a pile of dirty shirts and pants in the mud, but the older ones (who are still tiny) are already mimicking their mother's modesty, and insist on being washed still partially clothed. We empty buckets of gushing water over little heads, creating temporary waterfalls and tense bodies which relax into toothy smiles and the production line of washing children begins.

A drop of shampoo rubbed into hair and followed by the lathering of pink bars of soap against black coloured brown skin. A scrubbing pad and the black is quickly removed, another bucket/ waterfall later and the washing process is nearly complete. I grab one of the three towels. A length of brightly coloured cotton which is wrapped around expectant bodies. Arms strapped close to chests and dripping faces smiling up at me, unsure of what will happen next. The towel absorbs the excess water as I rub little arms and legs. Occasionally Uncle Gopal will chastise me for missing some soapy patches and throws some water at the offending parts, creating confusion from the child in question, who thought the 'washing' process had finished.

The more I work with Gopal the more I realise the degree of his dedication. Younger than me but with the wisdom of a person twice his age: taking peoples concerns seriously, communicating with the young and old with equal sincerity, and totally committed to the projects – whether it be the food program at Tapsia village (Gopal runs a parallel program to the one I work on at Sealdah train station), dressing people's wounds or washing little heads. While we work he discusses his frustrations with his country. He speaks passionately as a dalet who has converted to Islam in an attempt to escape the racism of the caste system. Gopal blamed 'corruption', 'consumerism' and what he termed the 'Indian mentality' for the ever increasing poverty gap. I am still building the confidence to share my own views. Ever aware of my position as an 'outsider' as someone who remains outside of the caste system, outside of the gender divide, outside of the poverty trap and outside of the violence of community politics.

I motion for the little body in front of me to hold out his hands. He quickly opens out his palms expectantly. I shake the bottle of moisturizer and tip is upside down, squirting out a small squiggle of white cream. He looks up waiting for more guidance. I motion for him to rub his palms together and then spread on his body. He splats the cream over his palms and then gingerly dabs white spots over his arms. I smile inside and out as I give him some more hands on instruction by rubbing the cream firmly over his arms. He continues the process on this tummy, and I shake out a few more drops to paint on his face. I comb his hair, aware that I am definitely not up to date on the latest local Bengali hair style.

A father walks by holding a tiny tot in his arms. The baby is wearing kohl around his brown eyes and a faded floppy yellow hat. The father turns his body so that his son can observe the washing process. I look up and smile. The baby looks down and cries. Other little children are queueing to be dried, combed and moisturized, with bigger sisters loitering nearby hoping to garner some excess cream from the little ones palms.

Two hours later and our washing session has finished. Gopal spreads the three towels in the sun to dry and we pack up our small but coveted collection of cleaning potions. “Aunty Aunty one photo!” A group of young girls return, looking fresh, shiny and full of smiles. I accept their demands, showing the photos and creating a cycle of “one more – one more!” as I take different combinations of girls with babies and brothers and sisters and mothers, all wanting to see. I make various promises, which I must remember to honour, of printing copies and distributing to their 'owners'. We walk back to the clinic, hands full of smaller hands. I pass an open door to see my last little customer. The little boy who had such fun exploring the softness of Nivea Moisturizing Cream. He was sitting on the mud steps inside his house, mirror on his knee and a look of intense concentration on this face. It is an image that really showed me how special we had made some of these little people feel. Making them feel pampered and extra freshly clean, and hoping that the feeling will be so good that it will be addictive.

We join the Nurse who has packed up his clinic and walk down what can only be described as a country lane while Gopal pushes his bike. The lane is surrounded is covered in straw making a soft padding for our feet. The padding is actually 'mustard seeds' laid down in the morning to be crushed by travelers in the day and then collected in the evening. We find a cycle rickshaw and load the backpacks onto its cart, but we need to wait for more customers before we leave. So we sit on the cart and wait. Gopal is teasing one of the assistant nurses for looking like a “Bengali Woman” - the assistant nurse has opened an umbrella to provide protection from the sun – the assistant nurse is also a man, and this is a practice reserved mainly for women. I watch Bengali women working at the side of the road. They are lifting bricks onto a roll of cloth placed on their heads and walking/ jumping the tower of bricks to the other side of the road. Their is one male in their group – a serious young boy, bending and lifting and carrying and depositing.

The cart is full and we are ready to leave. Gopal protectively tells me to move my legs around to the back to avoid overtaking cars, and he cycles slowly behind us until the first junction. The journey is quiet. Just the momentum of the rickshaw, interspersed by the sound of its wooden wheels lifting and falling over inconsistencies in the road. As we leave the rural landscape of the fields of rubbish we approach the newly constructed residential complexs: A bubble of new apartment blocks, surrounded by fences, security guards and cameras. The inhabitants of which will never set foot in the nearby Village of Rubbish, and whose closest contact with the local markets will be via their servants. I already know that I have experienced far more of Kolkata's slums than many of the Bharmin I have met here, who listen to my daily accounts of poverty and destitution with surprise. It is reminiscent of my conversations with Israeli's from Tel Aviv when I would talk about life in the Occupied Palestinian Territories. And yet my conversation by the water pump with Gopal told me that my view of reality is still too optimistic. Gopal told me that his mother is a domestic help and her monthly salary is 1500 rupees (22 Euros, 18 GB pounds, US $35) He told me that he knows of many people who will work a full day of 12 hours for 50 rupees (0.74 Euros, 0.58 pounds, US$1.17) In this scale a bottle of Nivea Moisturizer is the equivalent of two days work, and a Barrista Coffee far too much for me to ever again drink guilt-free.

Gopal cycles back to his village and our rickshaw joins the main road. A truck crusades towards me, beeping and braking just in front of my legs before swerving to overtake. The man in the passenger seat grins at me out of his wound down window.

For more information of the Village of Rubbish and Kolkata's Waste Disposal see the following:

“Master Plan on Solid Waste Management” Kolkata Municipal Corporation

"News from Here and There”, National Medical Journal of India

“Promoting Sustainable Consumption in Asian Cities”

Pollution Potential of Leachate from East Kolkata Solid Waste Dumpsite

West Bengal Pollution Control Board

Little Wise Babu

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

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

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

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.

Happiness

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

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

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

Pineapple Girl

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

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

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

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

I will try and let her type:

hhhhmatmmadg

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

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

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

Station Kids, Street Kids, Magic Kids

Fishing for Wishes is how some of the more resourceful children- with the help of a small magnet and a piece of string - can afford to live; both of Kolkata's main train stations, are flanked by the Hooghly River, which is a tributary to the Holy Ganges, and many travelers will toss a coin into its waters to wish for a safe journey. Add into the equation, trains littered with left over food, rich travelers disembarking from Delhi, an extensive roof, paved platforms and even a public water tap and it soon becomes obvious why train stations double as unofficial institutions for the orphans, poor, mad, sick and homeless. And the number of children – of all ages and both sexes – who sleep on its floors, scour the trains and hang out in packs is astounding, and today I visited a Center full of thirty such boys.

Now please do not misunderstand me – there are far more than only thirty homeless boys; although there is no official census on the number of homeless children, I am sure that a hundred orphanages could be filled within the hour – easily. However, the Center has reached its capacity, and until one of its older boys is able to independently support himself, or the family of a younger child contacted and rehabilitated, no new boys will be coaxed to leave the station. (There are several boys at the Center who are not 'orphans' in a traditional, but many ran away from home after a young life of hard physical labour, or after being sent to work as 'servants'.) The orphanage was opened three years ago and is funded by a Spanish NGO and staffed by local workers and full of boys found at Howrah train station. The staff would visit the train station regularly and try to establish a relationship with the boys in order to build trust and dispel suspicion; not an easy task as considering that the station is a center for trafficking and children are at risk from sexual abuse and/or being sold. But this is also a reason why it is important that aid/ relief workers have a daily public presence as well as an ear to the proverbial concrete. Of course many boys who go to Center would have problems readjusting. Many children who live on the streets quickly adapt and may have been members of some of the more established child gangs, where they have much more authority, power and 'freedom' than children at the center and the routine of going to school every day. For the older boys (the oldest in the Center is thirteen) formal education may not even be viable as they are unable to join a class with the youngest boys of five or six, so the Center also offers a more practical a vocational training scheme which may offer more chances of employment. Drug addiction and rehabilitation is also very real problem. However, what I saw today is tiny boys the age of six years old, just having fun, playing and having free access to food and water and a safe non-violent environment.

Now the point of my visit to the Center was to assist a group of Spanish volunteers who wanted to perform some Magic. We began our mission to the orphanage by taking a collection of different buses, raising many eyebrows, and eventually crossing a muddy field to be seated in a colourful room in front of thirty staring faces. A ball was passed and one by one the boys introduced themselves – name and age. Then little arms were raised as the youngest boys were eager to recite a song or poem to us and the older boys told us they were becoming ready to be 'men'. Our turn, and the Spanish Army and Bex all introduced themselves and then the preparations of Magic began. Now obviously, good old Magic Man was the center of the show, while the rest of us painted faces and blew up balloons. What was interesting though was that the responses of the children was much 'older' than the ages which they had just recited. Accusations of 'cheat' 'cheat' were regularly shouted out, while fascination of the 'turning paper into money' trick brought a stand up audience. Without trying to bow down to stereotypes, very quickly it became obvious that these boys were wiser than their years.

After they had all been armed with blow up swords, and a orchestra of 'popping' began and finished, we tied a box full of sweets and balloons to the ceiling, and blind folded and armed with a cricket bat the children had to one by one try to hit the box open. After much effort, the box came crashing to the ground, and colours of gold and silver, and tiny balloons fell from the sky and burst all over the children. Within seconds the glittering sweets had all disappeared. The speed of picking up the sweets from the floor and depositing them in pockets was really extraordinary. Later at dinner I saw the same technique, with food collected but then stored in pockets for extra safe keeping. What was unexpected though, was after a mini war for far too many sweets, small boys would later come up to me and insist on sharing their loot. I think the best experiences of the day was watching when the smallest and undoubtedly cutest boy 'found' the small pile of sweets I had hidden in his pockets - in order to ensure his survival through the 'c/rush'. He felt the lumps in his pockets, dug his little hands inside and pulled out shiny parcels of toffee. His eyes gleamed with amazement, fingers explored, more packets of sweetness found and waves of smiles spread across his cheeks – Magic!

The rest of the afternoon was spent either in the fields playing football (with a real football, rather than the usual empty water bottle or ball of tape) or on the breezy roof. I spent nearly an hour with a boy who had found himself in possession of one of Magic Mans 'flying' wheeeeeeeeeeing balloons – after a lot of puff the piece of plastic extends into a magnificent oblong shape and if held up and released zooms around the room, bouncing of walls and squeaking all the way. Shouts of 'Mama Mia!' followed it around from below. The shouting smiling face was covered in scars, which ran down his arms and had taken one of his fingers. He was completely mesmorised, and never tired, puffing and zooming until POP!

The roof a beautiful place to spend the rest of the day – as small black kite made of sheets of plastic and string was sent up into the sky. Kites make me think of Freedom. They remind me of one of the forms of 'resistance' children in the Occupied Palestinian Territories would use, flying them from the refugee camps when they themselves weren't able to move. I sat on the roof watching while being tugged to play a board game which I was no good at, but another super happy boy was determined to teach me, and failing that, he was determined that at least I should win! The game involved flicking a circular counter into a pile of other counters and trying to get one of them into one of the four holes. I ended up with a very sore finger, and even though hardly any of my counters ended up in the correct holes...I won.

As the day wore on it really became obvious how independent the children were – there was very little need for the staff to become involved, and the boys just played. The exception was one boy who remained sad all day (apart from when he was asked to assist Magic Man) but according to the staff there was very little which seemed to make him smile. Before we left there was a Spanish Army, one Magic Man and Me all holding onto arms and turning, sending feet flying and ripples of laughing. Balancing tricks were also performed as boys climbed on top of legs and held arms after receiving some expert tuition of Halvero – their 26 year old Spainish Mentor who shares his time between the center and a mirror project in Brazil, and there would be endless possibilities for recreational projects, outdoor pursuits and camps with the children, which has left me day dreaming of possibilities.

As soon as the light left, candles were lit and we were escorted to the small road, leaving shouts of 'Goodbye Auntie! Good bye Uncle!' Amidst a trail of glittering sweet wrappers and burst balloons. We waited at the side of the road for a bus back to central Kolkata. The winds were really picking up and dusk was been blown into our eyes and then blowing us over. I could imagine the little kite flier manipulating his sheet of plastic, pulling the strings backwards and forwards, running across the concrete roof, feet jumping and landing. Running, jumping and landing. Jumping, flying. Far far away...

Broken Eyes

This afternoon I volunteered at Shishu Bhavan. It is a House specifically for young children who are orphans or at least might as well be as have been left by their families, sometimes, newly born and laying at the gate entrance. After my reactions to Kalighat I decided that perhaps working with young children might provide the sense of 'hope' which I needed in order to continue. Sure enough the nursery provided a dramatic contrast to the ward at Kaligaot. Loud children's music came booming out of every corner and colours and toys were everywhere. Inflatable animals hung from the ceiling, and the many rows of barred cots were decorated with stuffed animals of all sizes and descriptions. I negotiated my way between the racing toddlers and walked between the corridor of cots to the play station for disabled children. There were five female volunteers all sitting on the floor and with children draped over them. Many were severely disabled and unable to move without aid. Others were walking with the aid of leg braces. Again an apron was donned and I was told to play with “Gita”. I took the little hand which reached towards me and before long we were both jumping to the sounds of Happy Birthday or whatever else came out of the music system. I rubbing my face on my shoulder to remove the sweat, as both hands were firmly engaged by Gita. I was unable to persuade Gita to make one verbal sound all day - with the exception of laughing, which she did with such ease I wondered why all of us born with sound body and mind don't walk around laughing every second of every day? I also have no idea how old Gita is, only that she came up to my knees, and was incredibly easy to make smile. Each child has a folder with their details and conditions listed, but Gita felt that it was more important that we dance rather than let me spend time shifting through paper. I even made the stupid mistake of initially calling her a “strong little man” as the Italian volunteer who had introduced us confused her prefixes and called “her” a “he”. Besides, Gita's “condition” was visibly obvious, as her little eyes remained tightly closed.

We bounced along until I was presented with tiny tot Julie, who sat like a princess amid a regal carriage of a plastic bike, drawn by a plastic bear. Gita took control from Mr Bear and walked behind the princess pushing her along. It was a challenge to convince Gita to push as she had an inclination to rock from leg to leg while standing in the same place. Once again the role of 'carer' rather than 'facilitator' was difficult to avoid and I had to constantly stop myself from leading, as we meandered backwards and forwards, between the cots and “active” children; many of whom were vying for my attention by providing entertainment to Princess Julie and a unwelcome obstacle to Gita, who responded by leaning back against my legs. One little girl decided it really was her 'turn' to push the princess by frequently biting my hands. Hmmm. Eventually Gita and I managed to distract her with the help of a large plastic ball identical to one I used for abdominal crunches. After Gita and I walked the equivalent of a mini walkathon it was time to for Princess Julie to have her afternoon lemon water. I picked her out of her carriage as her stick legs dangled at awkward angels pulled down by her little orthopedic shoes. She was tiny, and could not have been more than 12 to 18 months old. I sat crossed legged on a cot and the first challenge of my afternoon began. Bottle in hand. She refused to drink. She cried. I distracted her with a plastic crocodile. The tears stopped, but the juice just poured out of her mouth and dibbled down her pretty white dress. An Indian Massi (carer) took control, and before long she was watered from the inside and not out. I then had the pleasure of meeting Jamie. A blind boy who seemed the only child able to speak or to understand a little English. Without a doubt he was an incredibly gifted little person (the only age marker I can share is that he came to just above my knees). He asked continuous questions and would not stop until he was satisfied with the answers.

“Auntie Auntie whats this?” He called to me. He took my hand and placed it on top of the carriage bear. Mr Bear was wearing a plastic hat, which once upon a time had worked as a button causing his eyes to blink and a plastic tongue to poke out from his empty plastic mouth. I told him it was a button. What for Auntie? What does it do? He insisted as he pushed the 'hat'. I took his hand and led it over Mr Bears frozen face. "It is to make the eyes move and the tongue come out of the lips" I explained. “Eyes Auntie? Where Auntie? Eyes Where?” I led his little hands to feel inside the empty holes of Mr Bear's empty eyes as he pushed the button again. “Its broken” I told him. Jamie was unimpressed and began to search for the 'electric guitar' and off he wandered, feeling his way through the maze of children, toys and cots.

A bell rang and the play station was cleared with lightening efficiency as toys were replaced by specially adapted baby chairs. Children were tied or strapped in, and dinner was served. I sat down next to one little girl, picked up her food and spoon and began to feed her. No go. No way. She cried. Then she screamed. I looked around. There was no reaction from the other volunteers or from the Massis, who proceeded to feed the children seated opposite them without even a whimper. I tried again. Food went flying. I tried again and again. But no. Eventually, a volunteer turned to me and said, “she's used to being held when she's fed, she hates the chair. Try one of those over there.” She motioned to pop stair Gita who was now in possession of Jamie's prized guitar and another little blind child. “Their easier” I was reassured. I let Gita enjoy her new found talent and gained the attention of the other child by tapping the tray in front of her. Soon he joined in and I felt a renewed sense of optimism. Spoon to mouth – mouth firmly clamped. Hmmm. I tried everything. Zoooooom. Bringing a smile in order to trick the spoon inside the laughing mouth, but nothing would work. “Impossible!” Another volunteer shouted over. “Impossible. He will never eat.

I moved chairs again and tapped a beat to Gita's automatic toy guitar. She loved the buttons and the tunes and refused to put it down, but as I wanted to feed her and not the instrument, eventually she agreed. Again nothing. No open mouth, no swallow. Just a firm resolution that today she would not be feed by Bex. Gradually the other children were washed and taken upstairs to the flat roof. Their outdoor playground. Gita and I remained. Cold food in hand, guitar on the floor. And then as if by magic a massi appeared, took the bowl under Gita's chin, tipped her head backwards, and gave her the fasted food I have ever seen. Within seconds the bowl was cleared and not even one wince of refusal from pop star Gita. Shocked, amazed, thankful and disheartened I took Gita to join the other children.

Jamie raced around the roof. He wanted the bike. “The small one Aunty.” He eventually found it with no help from me. Another child was riding it. A massive grin appeared on Jamie's face as he sped across the roof, pushing the bike with a child still on top of it. He is incredible. Gita and I rocked/walked around for a while trying to avoid the other children rushing around not looking where they are going. Unlike Jamie, Gita seemed completely reliant on me to keep her from being floored. I solved the problem by lifting her up. Wheeeeeeeeeeeee. Wheeeeeeeeeee. Gita howling with laughter, me with dizziness. She pulled my wrist closer to her as she pushed the tiny round beads on my wrist backwards and forwards. She was almost touching her ear to them as I realised she was listening to the tiny rattling sound she was making with her tiny fingers.

As I type a song by The Thievery Corporation comes on my play list. The track title flashes up on my laptop, “Heavan's gonna burn your eyes.” I want to stop my mind from thinking. I close my eyes, lift my wrist to my ear, and roll the beads. Raat-tat-tat. Raat-tat- tat.