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.

Station Life

I am eager to find my colleagues from the Food Program at Sealdah train station, so at lunch time I head over to the canteen. The fat and jolly proprietor beams me a smile of recognition from this plastic chair of a throne, before shooing me away with quick and rapid hand movements: They have just left so I turn and race across the brooming booming roads, and merge into the mass of pavement traffic. Within minutes I find Deepa organising the team. She is standing with her hand on her hip, and bag of food parcels in the other hand as she shouts at Mohammed and her new assistant. I smile as I drape my arm over her shoulders. Surprised she grins at me before handing me a bag as if I had never left. Although communication is difficult, through a mix of sign language and broken English, she tells me that her recently adopted baby is very well. Her husband however, has contracted leprosy. Deepa herself appears as 'full power' as always as she marches through the crowds finding the participants of the food program.

We arrive at the train station. Sealdah station is quieter and although the rush of travellers ebbs and swells with the arrival and departure of each groaning train, there are far fewer station dwellers than a few months ago. The police are stepping up their 'clean up' campaign. Deepa does a good impression of their technique. She swings her arm rising it above her shoulders and then swinging the imaginary baton down to crush the imaginary destitute around her legs. It appears that the old women are hit until they leave, while the younger men have moved to a place where it is easy to run away if they see the 'security' approaching. Pugli has been moved into a temporary rehabilitation home after being found by Hope Charity. Hopefully she is still there and receiving help for her drug addiction. Meanwhile, the 'two brothers', Raju and Niraj, have regrown their full head of dreaded hair in time for the cold winter weather. They were squatting at the end of the platform, filthy and silent and still giving a high Namaste as we approached. Laura and Sarah, the two old women, have been forcibly moved on. On to where? I have no idea. The station has been their home for years. Smiling Harry is still sitting cross-legged in his torn lungi at the North Entrance. He still seems happy, and perhaps happier still as his Angry Wife appears to have disappeared.

In the absence of the women, there are been a few new recruits. I handed a package to one middle aged man, who replied 'Thank you' in an accent eerily English. Deepa raised her concern over an old woman laying at the entrance to the station. She had to be pulled up in order to sit, her tattered clothes revealing her hip bones and protruding ribs. She was laying at the edge of the car park and only meters away from speeding taxis and their dirty exhausts and spinning racing wheels. 'Kalighat', Deepa shouts to me; as if raising her voice will convey the urgency of her concerns. I have only just returned and have no idea if the Mother Teresa Home for the Dying and Destitute even has space for one more lady lying in limbo between this world and no world. But Deepa's stare and the dislocated gaze of the old bony woman stay with me. Later I speak to some of the Mother Teresa volunteers who work at the station, and the brief conversation results in the intake of the woman the following morning. It is one case among too many, but one which reminds me that we are not without power to act.

With one package left we walk around the car park looking for someone 'suitable' to give it to. The candidates are too numerous and it is a strange feeling knowing that you have the power to relieve hunger even if only momentarily. I leave the responsibility for deciding who should eat to Deepa. She marches across the road and shakes an old man sleeping on a concrete island. She asks him if he wants food, and he slowly pushes himself into a sitting position. I quickly take out the remaining box. But I am too quick and the cardboard too flimsy and it falls apart in my hands. Rice spills onto the road, and the small packets of daal tumble towards the feet of the old hungry man. My embarrassment boils inside me, travelling up my body and filling my face and then settles to a well in my eyes. Unable to look directly at the old hungry man, I apologise to the ground.

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.

Human Strength

I have had more contact with people suffering from leprosy in the last three months than I have ever had before. Its a evil disease. Cannibalistic. Full of such a pain, that it not only eats the body but nibbles away at sanity. Mcleod Ganj is full of people living with leprosy. Living in a limbo. Mind trying to keep hold of the physical reality which the bacteria is destroying.

I had daily interactions with many people which would leave me feeling more than empty. I don't want to forget these interactions because it was during these times I saw real courage and human strength. It was during these times that a mirror was held up to my own beautiful life.

One morning I turned the corner to find the old mad but beautiful man sitting by the side of the road. He had removed the pile of dirty bandages from around his septic feet. He was holding a blunt grey knife which was was using to try to cut the dead part of his once living flesh from his feet. A small boy wearing a starched school uniform was standing in the middle of the road. The small boy was clearly mesmorisied by this live amputation. The old mad but beautiful man seemed not to notice either of us.

Another morning, the old mad but beautiful man was sitting outside of the Peace Cafe. I wished him a 'Namaste' as always but rather than smiling back, he complained about needing food. Today he was too hungry for jokes. I pointed to the cafe but he wouldn't come inside with me. Unable to communicate through any other way than hand signals and smiles I motioned to him to wait and that I would bring him some food outside. I asked the Tibetan man in the Peace Cafe to make some breakfast for the old mad but beautiful man. The Tibetan man appeared confused. So I asked for some eggs and toast. He nodded, but seemed reluctant and then a few seconds later took out a piece of Tibetan bread. The old mad but beautiful man refused the bread. I burned with shame.

Another Old Happy Man – a different one – asked me for food. I had just given away all my change, all my daily supply of bandages, iboprofen and iodine solution so I shook my head. He patted his stomach just in case I hadn't realised really how hungry he was. I shook my head again. I walked away. He followed. Someone had given him a lit cigarette. He showed me his find. He turned the cigarette around, he put the lit end inside his mouth and made appreciative eating sounds. I walked on.

One morning I passed the Young Wrinkled Man sitting in the quiet of Bhagsu. This was the first time I had seen him outside of Mcleod Ganj. Bhagsu is a twenty minute walk away from his usual begging area. But that morning the Young Wrinkled Man wasn't begging. He told me his just felt like a walk. He told me that it was a beautiful morning. He sat on the grass. Smiling. Begging tin hidden inside his coat. Fingerless hands hidden inside his pocket.

Another morning, I waited for the Young Wrinkled Man to find me. When he did I dug through my day pack full of expensive but unnecessary 'things' to find a Massive Magic Mandala. I offered him the Mandala. I decided the original owner of the Mandala would approve of its new home. I guessed the Young Wrinkled Man could sell it, or even wear it. The Massive Magic Mandala had been laying on the floor of my room for three months. I had been using it as a sort of carpet to shield my feet from the cold of the stone.

One day I caught myself watching the old woman who had eaten my flower. She was eating daal and rice. She was digging her wrist inside her begging pot, piling the rice onto her handless joint and then bringing it carefully to her mouth, rice falling down her dirty saire. She was squatting with her back to the street, facing the wall, surrounded by her collection of sorted rubbish.

I knew that the old woman who had eaten my flower liked sweets. I gave her a lolly pop. I forgot to remove the wrapper for her.

I had a pair of woolen gloves which I no longer needed. I wanted to give them to a beggar. I felt embarrassed. My gloves had room for eight fingers and two thumbs. The beggars have none. I still have my gloves, which I don't need even for my eight fingers and two thumbs.

For more about Leprosy see:

Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leprosy

Lepra: http://www.lepra.org.uk/home.asp

Karma Contradictions

I have noticed beggars today. More than usual. I don't know if there actually are more or whether I have my eyes more open today.

During my walk into Mcleod Ganj this morning, I stopped to watch the lady leper (who ate my flower) try to tip over a garbage can as it was too high for her to search inside. It was difficult for her because she is old and because she wobbles on her stumps of feet, and because her hands don't work so well without fingers. I hesitated about whether I should help her tip over the garbage can... In retrospect perhaps I should have 'helped' her by buying her breakfast.

Sitting on the side of the road, level with the smelly choking exhausts of the zooming taxis and decrepit buses sit her 'family': Two young women, both with bandages holding together the remains of their fingers. I don't know whether the women are old leper lady's daughters or just her companions, but they appear as a family, sharing their 'earnings' or 'rummagings' and every day they huddle together stretching their eaten hands upwards while remaining invisible to the pedestrians they wave along, in their parallel dimension.

As I turned the corner into the main market I had to side step a Poor Man. I don't know if the Poor Man was a leper or a beggar, or both or neither because I felt uncomfortable to stare. However, I know that he was poor as he was squatting pillaging through a soggy cardboard box of rotten vegetables. The Poor Man was picking out the most choice of the decaying mush.

I continued to trace the route which I have walked nearly every day for three months, and before the old mad but beautiful man has a chance to shout his usual “GOOR MORNING MADAME!!” at me I raise my hands in Namaste and sing across the street, “Good Morning, Good Morning!” He beams me the biggest smile and laughs. The old mad but beautiful man does not even lift his tin to me; as if my greeting is enough to feed his empty stomach and to save him from the cannibalistic disease which is slowly eating his flesh.

On my way down the steep steps to yoga – on my way down to worship the divine within us all, connecting each individual and the self with the self and with the universe; on my way to strengthen the energy of my healthy body and to balance my mind - a young leper man stopped to ask me how I was. I know the man. I 'know' that he speaks excellent English and that when he speaks he speaks truthfully. I know this because he told me openly that he is here (like the Nepali waiters) to “work the season”. The young leper man does not lie and instead he tells me that he is entitled to the 'free' treatment for the lepers, but I already know from my own investigation that this 'free' treatment is very difficult to access unless you live isolated from 'people' in a colony of lepers. I also know as the saying goes, nothing is for free, and at a cost of 50 rupees per injection this young leper man would rather save the money to help his 'growing' son rather than to try to save his 'disappearing' body. The young leper man's son (who is six years old) lives in Utter Pradesh with his mother, and this is why he as the father and the husband he would prefer to 'work' to earn money for them. However, as a leper he can earn no money in Utter Pradesh which is one of India's poorest states which a shortage of karma earning tourists. I like the young leper man's honesty, and usually he declines my offer of food because his persistent fever takes away his appetite. When I offered him paracetamol to reduce his fever he also declines, saying that he would rather try to save money for his family than to 'waste' it on an appetite.

This morning I looked into his young wrinkled face, buried under a brown wooly hat and perturding from a dirty worn blanket, and replied to his greeting: “Very well thank you” and before I could stop the automatic response I continued with, “How are you?” The young leper man, wrapped up in dirty bandages, his eyes blurred from fever, his body painfully being eaten a little more every day answered: “I am fine. Thank you”.

I noticed so many beggars today that after teaching the free yoga class I asked all the freebies if they would give 'something' to someone they wouldn't usually. If for some reason they found it difficult to give to beggars then I asked them to check out the fancy new non-profit cafe just outside of the yoga shala. The new cafe has an open front, with a simple bench and wicker chairs giving it a sophisticated air; it sells a selection of teas, has freshly painted walls lined with beautiful photographs depicting Tibet – in Exile. And all of its 'profits' go to supporting the Tibet Rogpa, an NGO aimed to help support the transition of newly arrived Tibetan refugees settle into their life in exile.

Just outside of the shop sits a very very very old lady who perches half way on the road and half way in the gutter. She speaks no English, but calls to me 'Memsaab' as I approach. I feel my eyes try to avoid her and my ears wishing they could close. Memsaab is a term loaded with colonial legacy, “a word replete with rigid social class differentiation, a word denoting nothing but absolute dichotomy of high versus low social status, a word used to address masters”. It basically means, 'Female Master'. My diverted eyes can't help but see her bare feet, her wrinkled shins and one small shiny red tomato perched precariously in her lap. I try to disappear before her fading vision, and then I try to make the image of her disappear as fast as I walked past her reaching hands. Her image fuels my internal questions. She is still firmly in my mind. I imagine to her, I am just another Memsaab - a rich white woman who she has to plead and beg to while she keeps her eyes open for another escaped tomato.

Further along the road squat even more lepers with no fingers and no toes. They all clumsily clutch a stainless steel pot shaking it in front of the turned up noses of passersby. While I hesitate to give to one, feeling my own conscience debate that I will them have to give a few rupees to all, I often see a monk or a nun stop and fish around inside their robes and pull out not a coin but a note. And more often than not, I am facing this dilemma while I am on my way to the 'health food shop' to stock up on 'natural probiotics' and 'spirulina' just to try to 'prefect' my health. As I walk along during my average day I also see the lepers line up at the momo stalls waiting for a plate of hot Tibetan fare. I wonder if they pay for them with their hard earned money? Or I wonder if despite the differences in nationality, culture, language and religious beliefs the smartly dressed refugees who serve them do so because of their belief in the cycle of Karma. I wonder why I asked my fellow yogi's and yogini's to “keep the karma going” when I don't believe that these poor hungry eaten people in any way 'deserve' this brutal rebirth. And I wonder all of this while I sit inside a beautiful Tibetan cafe, watching the mountains and drinking my second pot of herbal tea. And I wonder because I have the luxury to indulge in thought as I just sit and feel the warmth of the sun on my nourished and healthy body. And I wonder if I could smile and laugh and look someone living in another dimension in the eyes and say “I am fine. Thank you”?

Forgive me please - the young wrinkled man - for using your photo. But your spirit is so powerful that I wanted to try and share it; To open Eyes that otherwise cannot see yours.

Tibet Rogpa: http://www.tibetrogpa.org/AboutRogpa.php

A very interesting site on the use of language in Hindi: http://www.linguistik-online.de/21_04/pande.html

Om Shanti

Today I bought myself a yoga bag. Its a beautiful light blue – the colour of the sky on a sunny day. It has the motif of 'Om Shanti' printed on the front. My yoga mat (which is also blue and has clouds and rainbows on – thanks Super Yogi Chef) fits perfectly inside. I bought my new yoga mat from a small Tibetan shop. The proceeds go to supporting Tibetan political prisoners, so I didn't feel so bad about spending 380 rupees/ £4.50 (the equivalent to what I spend on three nights accommodation). Indeed I didn't feel so 'bad' until I walked outside and handed seven rupees to a Beggar with eaten fingers and eaten toes.

What hypocritical lives we lead. What gives us the right to think we deserve our fortune? To spend money to satisfy our whims, while others Struggle just to Survive? And then we feel like martyrs when we make small sacrifices. Or find excuses to keep our eyes closed by telling ourselves that we 'can't help everyone' or ' the beggars make plenty of money so why should we give them more'? Why give more small change to a young man who has already lost his family through a disease as well as his fingers and toes when Others may give him their small change?
What feeds this attitude of dis-attachment, superiority, ignorance? Where we can live happily in a world of parallels – the 'lucky' juxtaposed against the 'unlucky'?

Is it religion? Is it that we feel fulfilled by doing a Service to God rather than by doing a Service to a fellow living creature that allows us to draw a line? Is it this 'disconnectedness' from our blatant interconnectedness with each other that makes us believe the suffering of others is nothing to do with us? Or conversely, is it a belief in 'Karma' which gives us the excuse to stay blinded? So as we make time in our busy schedules to pick and choose the selected 'Western Friendly' teachings of the Dalai Lama, such as the 'Art of Happiness,' our consciouses are smoothed by the idea that we have each been fed a fate which we 'deserve'? That leprosy or any other debilitating disease is a consequence of our own actions and therefore we can let the lepers live with their 'punishment'. That is of course if we even find the time to hear or to challenge our consciousnesses. However, this attitude would suggest that we would all feel grateful and satisfied with our 'lucky' lives..

Alternatively, perhaps our dis-attachment and view of compassion, it is a reflection of our consumer society which is becoming Increasingly Individualised and Isolated? Or even a continuation of colonalism which allows us (or in this case Me) to walk to the street and feel a flash of pity before continuing in my bubble of self assurance?

Anyway, apologises for using the plural to express my frustrations. I guess it makes me feel less heartless if I include 'You' within the same questions I am being forced to ask myself.

Om Shanti Indeed.

A Beautiful Flower

Today – as if left over from a dream - I found a beautiful flower. It was already picked and just waiting to be loved a second time. It looked like a rose but a rose without thorns. It had soft petals, but many of them, row after over lapping row. It had a sweet scent, but hidden within its coloured pleats; like a ballerina hidden within the folds of her intricate tutu. I stroked the flower, and brushed its smoothness against my dry flesh. Its touch felt strange to my skin – almost too soft and too tender.

I felt sad to waste the beautiful flower. I wished that somehow I could preserve the flower, to take it home with me and to look at it every day and to smell it every day. But even as I thought these thoughts, the flower did what was natural – for without its roots and without the life force of the water and soil it had already began to fade. In my hands its soft petals were too delicate to last; the petals were already turning outwards, as if making a final bow to a mesmorised audience after an incredible performance. I felt sad to think of the flower starting to wilt and then to disintegrate and then to disappear.

As I was thinking these thoughts I felt a pair of eyes staring into me. I looked up to see an old and wrinkled lady smile - at me. Her face was creased upon itself, her brown eyes peeking first through her sunken face and then through a pair of crooked specs. Her hair white like snow, and her golden nose stud looking too large for her shrunken nose. I thought I knew the lady but I couldn't quite place her face; that is until I saw her hands – her hands which were not there – the hands of a leper.

The old ladies fingers had been eaten, along with her toes, and part of her feet. As she smiled at me, she was still being eaten – and this was how I recognised her. The old lady with eaten fingers and eaten toes was a beggar from the side of the road. But now she was not begging, she was simply smiling at me as I stared at the beautiful flower.

As instinctively as I had felt her eyes look into me, I found my arms reaching towards her, passing the beautiful flower into her hands without fingers. The old ladies smile spread across her face. The old lady with eaten fingers and eaten toes stopped staring at me, and instead she turned her attention to the delicate petals she was trying to balance in her hands without fingers.

Now it was my turn to watch her become mersmorised by the beauty of the rose. I watched as she brought the flower to her nose, but the old lady didn't stop to smell the sweet scent. Instead the old lady with no fingers and no toes took a bite out of the flower. She smiled at the flower which was half in her mouth and half in her eaten palms. She chewed its petals as if it were a succulent fruit and when she had finished chewing she bowed her head to take another bite.

I smiled, and then I laughed, and then I thought how perfect that the rose without thorns - with petals so smooth and so soft, with a colour so deep, and a scent so sweet - should not be wasted, and certainly never forgotten.

Baby Pillow

Today I heard a 'story' from a Tourist. The Tourist was upset. He had seen an Indian woman using what he thought was a dead baby for a pillow. The Tourist didn't want to look but he couldn't help but stare. The woman jumped up and grabbed the baby pillow by the legs. She approached him signaling for food with one hand while dangling the baby pillow by the other. The baby pillow wasn't dead – yet. The Tourist described the baby pillow as having bones for arms and eyes which were only half open: as if waiting to pass back into the oblivion from where it came.

The Tourist backed away and then walked as fast as he could away from the woman and her dangling, dying pillow of a baby.

What could the Tourist have done? What would you have done?

Man in a Box

The poverty of Kolkata seems far from here. Until you look closer. There is a metal box on Jogibara road. It is rusty and has a small opening covered by a dirty yellow tattered plastic sheet. It stands between two Tibetan stalls selling their wares of pearls, turquoise and coral stones, prayer beads and woolly hats. Outside of the box people have stuck their posters to advertise their power of healing - Reiki and Yoga. The posters are written in English and Israeli.

Inside the metal box on Jogibara road there lives a man. When the dirty yellow tattered plastic sheet flaps open it is possible to catch a glimpse of his house. He must sleep in the fetal position as it would be impossible for him to stretch out, or to sit up without banging his head.

For some reason, in the mornings, the Tibetan Welfare truck which attempts to collect the towns rubbish, and sweeps it outside the box of the man in the box. The man in the box sits, dangling his legs out of his door, head to his chest, eyes to the floor, rubbish all around. Sometimes it is possible to see the man in the box outside of the box. Standing on the street. Wrapped in his blanket of a tattered plastic sheet. He is filthy. The brown grey black colour the destitute always are - regardless of the original colour of their clothes - or tattered plastic sheets. The man in the box has a grey dirty beard and a head full of grey white hair, for the man in the box is an old man – an old Indian 'man'. He never begs. He never interacts. He just is. A man in a box.

The strange thing is that it took two days before I noticed the man or his box. And he is not homeless – he has his box.

Indian Tibet - Tibetan India

Feeling incredibly happy. Really loving McLeod Ganj, which is once again warning me of the transience of my first impressions. Cool Rider and I arrived at midnight after sixteen hours of intense riding. We wound our way up a dark hill, through several police check points and into the centre of the town. The light of our old Enfield bike shined on sign after sign: Tourist Central. Billboards advertising hotels, cafes, yoga classes, meditation, Indian cooking classes, Tibetan cooking classes, caperioa, Hindi lessons, ayruvedic massage etc etc etc. This was not the place I wanted to be. I had arrived at the centre of the exiled Tibetan government and the main destination for Tibetan Refugees and I felt as if I was at a ski resort out of season, and not only that but a ski resort in Israel. Even the shop keepers spoke Hebrew as packs of Israelis straight out of their en/forced military service monopolised the restaurents and guest houses. We drove up to the small town above McLeod Ganj – Bhagsu. My 2000 edition of the Lonely Planet had described Bhagsu as a much quieter place, with a bubbling stream and a cold water spring. We came face to face with a river filled with rubbish and a car park filled with auto-rickshaws.

The next morning I woke early, apprehensive. I walked the 20 minutes back down the hill which only a few hours before we had stuttered our way up. The walk was quiet. No cars. Only a view of rolling green hills, muffled by the falling mist. Lord Elgin – one of the British viceroys to India requested to be buried in McLeod Ganj because it reminded him so much of Scotland – I guess that is a Scotland with hills half the size and without 200,000 thousand Tibetan refugees. As the road from Bhagsu fell down into McLeod Ganj I realised that the busy market streets were filled with 'local' people – and by local I mean Tibetan as the 'local' Indian population is scarcely visible. There were no other tourists in sight. In fact compared to Leh, this place is a virtual tourist desert. Even the number of volunteers is not comparable to the massive influx of religious, poverty and good will Volunteer Tourists of Kolkata. And this is not a party place either. Apparently there is only one restaurant which sells alcohol, and from the quantity of locally produced apples, I am guessing it is mainly fermented cider. The tourists here seem to stay for a while – they come to catch a glimpse of the Dalai Lama, to learn about Buddhism or just out of curiosity and once they are here they learn about something partly related or totally obscure – macraem for example is a popular 'ropes course' teaching tourists the ancient Arabian art of knotting after which they will be able to purchase crystals and precious stones from the rock piles outside of every shop and transform them into 'ethnic jewellery'. The place seems like a magnet for anything 'alternative' or as my Irish Priest friend would say 'Hippy'. And perhaps this is why I now don't mind the 'tourists' here – because they are quiet, and humble and ok probably totally stoned on locally produced, wildly growing Indian hashish but if it wasn't for the tourists, then the local Tibetan refugee community would certainly be struggling.

What confused me when I first arrived was the absence of an Indian population: Where were the inhabitants who lived here before 1959? Even the Indian waiters are here looking for seasonal employment – and like the Nepali's in Leh they are also visters: working in northern India in the monsoon and Goa in the summer. The other Indians are either pilgrims coming to visit Bhagsu's Shiva Temple built by the raja of Kangra in the 16^th century or tourists. They walk down the hill barefoot and 'bindied', or spin down on motorbikes, three to a seat, shouting nothing and red flags flying. All the begging children are Indian – working - as they follow the tourists with eyes open wide and hands extended, only to then turn around to an Indian gang leader and non nonchalantly hand over their palm of coins. In contrast the Tibetan community here appears to be very strong. They have welfare committees, government offices and official and unofficial social networks of old family friends who support new arrivals. Those who are less wealthy are probably already connected to a nunnery or a monastery – which provides food, shelter and education.

After a few persistent questions I have found out that indeed tension does exist between the old and the new – the Indian and the Tibetan – but that relations are better than before. In 1994 after continuous fighting between the two groups of young men, the Dalai Lama actually agreed to move the exiled community. While looking for a new area he spoke at a conference in the south. The meeting was attended by Tibetans from all over India, as well as tourists. McLeod Ganj emptied and for one week the local Indian population realised their symbiotic relationship with the Tibetans – without them there would be no tourists and with no tourists there would be no business. So apparently now relations are better.

As for me? As I have said: I am incredible happy. I am finally going to pursue one of my long time dreams, and I have began to practice Ashtanga Yoga with a teacher called Vijay. The classes are between six and seven hours a day, the teaching fantastic and ultimately I will be certified as a Ashtanga teacher after fifty days. This also leaves a few hours in the day for me to learn more about the local refugee community, and in the evenings I have began to volunteer for an organisations called Gu Chu Sum.

Life is about balance, and luckily I have the means to realise that balance. After over two months in the madness of Kolkata – in a dirty city full of poverty and inhumanity I am now in the foothills of the Himalayas – totally focused on my physical and mental energies. The persistent guilt which I feel for not being proactive is still simmering, but it is being dampened by the opportunities to continue to learn and for new forms of social work. Time has taught me that for continuity I need inner strength, which is fragile but accumulative. I still miss Gita, but that can only be a good thing – for otherwise our relationship would have been too superficial. Now I have the space and the peace to reflect on what Kolkata has taught me, and to decide how best to use my freedoms to continue to learn about our World.

The Circus of Delhi

The train to Delhi was one of the best trains I had ever been on. Strange leaving from Sealdagh train station. Where I used to work. Walking away from the participants of the food programme and all the hundreds of others who wished that they were participants of the food programme. As I walked up the steps to the platform an old women, wearing ragged cloth which could have been any colour but which appeared to be the uniform dark brown which all of the truly destitute wear – if they are fortunate enough - or still care enough - to have clothes. The old women caught my eye because she was crouching disguised as a bag of bones. She was not begging, but just staring 'empty'. I took the two mangoes from my bag and bent down to offer then to her. She slowly looked at my face, stared at my pale eyes and accepted. She raised her hands to her head in thanks as I placed mine on her shoulder – wanting to somehow communicate the feelings she had evoked within me in some (meaningless) way. I walked away and climbed upon my super luxury air conditioned train the Rajastani Express. And this is Kolkata – the juxtaposition of the very rich next to the very poor. Just as in Old Jerusalem – where the orthodox Jews would walk around and behind and next to the Muslim Imams; both seeming invisible to the other but both an intrinsic part of the city.

I was in a super luxury air conditioned cabin because this was the only option – all the trains for the next few days were fully booked. A Very Important Person from the Army was sleeping opposite me. He asked me if I liked Indian food – it was a rhetorical question as he replied for me:

“We Indians love our food – thats why we are all so fat!” He laughed as he tugged on his massive belly.

Indeed we were feed so much food. Ironic as I sat there, with no appetite not wanting nor asking for the food which was being presented to me at two hourly intervals. I put what I could into a plastic bag, wishing that I could send it to the bags of bones which sat half living/ half dying on the steps of Sealdagh train station.

Delhi was different from how I had imagined. Firstly, I was not ripped off – well at least not that I knew of; it is also much greener and cleaner than Kolkata – the train station included. With the destitute hidden out of view my bag of train food went to two children sitting by the road side. And that is something else which Delhi showed me – another life for the street children. While waiting for a bus out of New Delhi and into Himachal Pradesh I met some little people. The first two little people which I met were brother and sister. The brother was wearing a painted moustache, the sister a tiny metal hola hoop. The siblings were circus children and once a sufficient crowd of tourists gathered with their massive bags and supplies of snacks they began their show. The sister back-flipped and cartwheeled, disconnected her arms and stepped through them, slide through the hola hoop as her brother lay in it, and then skipped around collecting money from the hands behind the cameras. Then came the boy selling water again; and then again and again until the 'tourists' became impatient with him and shooed him away like an unwelcome dog. Next there was an eleven year old girl. I know she was eleven because I asked her and I asked her because I really wanted to talk to her. She was street hardened and the sister/mother to a baby boy (who she told me was a girl). She was trying to collect 'milk' money for the babu and when this failed she just tried to get someone to buy babu a 'milk ice cream'. She was a good actress, as was babu – both tilting the head and holding out the hand. Street Survival. I didn't see anyone give her money. Perhaps no one will with every one presuming that someone else will, or that they 'can't afford to give five rupees' to every beggar, or justify their refusal by saying that the money is taken from the children by the organising gangs of adults etc etc. I didn't give her any money. I just gave her one of my two Gita bracelets with the jingely jangly bells on it. I gave it to her and told her it was for her and not for her baby brother. I wanted her to have it because she clearly has nothing apart from little babu. Little babu who is completely dependent upon his big sister – his big sister who talked to me through her face scared with fire – burned away, along with her ears and one finger. Burned away – I suspect; for being female.

Giant Child

Paeter is a large man. For an Indian he is a Giant. Under 'normal' circumstances his height would have been a social advantage – as a sign of 'good breeding' as the higher castes are generally taller than the 'average' Indian: generations of better nutrition by virtue of greater wealth. But for Paeter his circumstances are anything but 'normal'. Paeter has the mental age of around five years old. Psychologically he is still a child. Unfortunately for Paeter his body does not know this and instead his young mind rattles around inside of a Giant. Unable to communicate, but bursting with emotions and frustrations. His swinging arms are seen as premeditated punches, his screams of pain as angry threats. He spends his time at the train station. Where else is he meant to go? Like the street children he wonders around looking for food. Unlike the street children he remains naive to the dangers of his mobile home. Unlike the street children he hasn't worked out how to trick or to steal in order to survive. Unlike the street children he is protected only by a facade of a grown man. Unlike grown men – his inability to control his strength has left him an outcast; cast out from society and cast out from charity as he intimidates those with the power to help him. Unlike the street children this facade makes the Giant Child visible to the police, who use his size to justify extreme force. Avoided in the street, children hide from him, women scurry around him, even men feel threatened.

Then Paeter the Giant Child was found by a foreigner. A foreigner who wasn't scared or intimated, who saw his age and felt a little of his pain. He was taken to Sisters of the Missionaries of Charity. The foreigner felt happy. He felt relieved. He felt that finally Paeter had a home. A place where he would be safe. Protected. But God's House was not eternal and one day the foreigner found Paeter back at the station. The foreigner was confused. The station was far away from Paeter's new home. He was covered in bruises and cuts and blood. He moved erratically. Confused, like a lost small child, panicking for help. Unable to find help, but waiting to be helped. The foreigner tried to help. He tried to soothe the giant child's pain. He showed him kindness and patience and eventually managed to coax Paeter into a taxi and back to the Sisters.

But Paeter was still upset. He was distressed and he was scared. He moved clumsily. He felt confused. His pain was reflected in his strength and his strength still scared the Sisters. The Sisters then gave the foreigner some advice. The Sisters told the foreigner that Paeter the Giant Child had no place at the Missionaries of Charity. The Giant Child who swung his arms and shouted was not welcome. The Sisters told the foreigner to take the Giant Child back to the train station and find a train going far far away, and leave him; leave Paeter on a train going to Punjab.

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.

Humanity

Another day and another reminder that despite two months of working with Gita that I still need to listen more. I don't hear the 'blank' in Humanity's voice when I ask how his day was. Or maybe I do hear it, but maybe I don't know how to give it meaning. Eventually Humanity finds the space to fill the blank. Eventually Humanity tells me of the third dead man he 'meets' in just over a week. His blankness is a silence which shows Humanity is still 'affected' and it is because he is still affected by the passing of the living to the body of the dead that he finds his day difficult. To me this shows that for Humanity death still has to be normalised and I am relieved, because I cannot really imagine what strength it must take to do his work every day.

Today Humanity found a group of street children jumping for biscuits. Then they jumped to the Dead Man – an old dead man, dirty and destitute and covered in flies. With flies flying out of his mouth and eating him from the inside out. With flies showing that he must have been laying on the platform for more than a day and for more than a night. With flies warning that the dead man was newly diseased from dying. And yet the dead 'flying' man was still surrounded by the life of the day. The porters laying by his side – sleeping or chatting or drinking chai. Of the street children pointing and then playing. Of the passengers walking around him because he smelt to much to walk over. Of the police who never came to move him, but who surely knew him.

Humanity was still trying to understand the attitudes of those around him. As for myself; all I can think of is that this is a city where the border between the dead and the living is too blurred. Where the fight for life is too widespread to spread to fight for the dignity of the dead. And I guess I am writing this because I want you to realise that for the destitute who live and who die here their suffering would be enough to kill 'us' within days. The destitute who walk with worms eating them; who live with diseases that should have killed them. That survive with disabilities so severe it seems impossible to live 'alone'. And they don't complain of pain because there is no point. They don't seek help because they don't think it will be given. They don't respect the dead because they die every day – in the streets where they live. And because as they are known as the living lower castes or the untouchables and even when they are alive they are not always familiar with what 'respect' should be. And there should be no them and no us but just a much much more humane way to Live.

Humanity protect your strength. Those who are still trying to live need it. You work to save lives - everyday. But please be careful. Everything can be taken.

Kalighat

About 60 beds, all full of patients, stood closer than reaching proximity to one another. Light streamed in through the rows of open windows. Breakfast was in full swing. Volunteers seemed to go into automatic pilot and donned aprons before grabbing stainless steel trays of food. No instructions were given. No “Do's” or “Dont's” but just a whirlwind of activity. I managed to intercept a Sister to ask what I could do and was given the answer, which lay at bed number 40. The majority of the women at Kalighat were very old and with shaved heads, matching gowns and a massive language barrier meant that it was hard for them not to become a number. None have any family, and if it wasn't for The Mother house, would probably be lying on the street – or under it. Number 40 was no exception. She looked emancipated and incredibly frail. I picked up the plastic spoon and slowly she began to eat her now cold porridge. I found myself concerned that she wasn't ready for her next mouthful while my spoon hovered before her toothless mouth. We seemed to take far longer than all the other patients and volunteers and by the time she had finished, the plates had been washed and the beds stripped. I followed the stream of sheets through to the adjoining area with the men's ward, where a highly organised system of washing the laundry was under way. I joined a young Japanese girl and an older Spanish man who were fishing out sheets from a large stone sink with a bamboo stick and wringing them out. Neither could speak English. We wrung our way through so many sheets, pillowcases, aprons, rags and trousers that I finished the morning with red hands and happy biceps. For a complete workout I would just have to move down a notch on the washing conveyor belt; next to me jumped a volunteer wearing a T-shirt which read :

Americans brought electricity to my ass before they brought it to my house. Word on the Street, Baghdad.

The 'jumper' or rather 'runner' must have ran a mini marathon this morning as he stomped the clothes clean using a technique similar to that used to press grapes. He was Italian. A energetic energising Korean lady rushed through, peeling the wrappers of Cadbury's chocolate éclairs as she went. As if on automatic feeding pilot she popped a sweet in each of out mouths. “Amen” laughed a jumper. Behind the swashes of the water and the pounding of the feet came the raucous laughter and singing from the Indian helpers. “They sing all the day, that is until they decide its time to shout” smiled Baghdad T-shirt jumping man. It was essential balance needed to the painfully quiet lifeless living ward on the other side of the stone wall.

Back in the ward the ladies were either sleeping, lying or sitting. If I was able to catch their eye I took it as a opening in the gate between the expansive public space and their private bed and gestured if I could sit with them. I gave as many hand massages as I could. Rubbing joints that felt like stone and holding hands that I could hardly feel. One lady kept holding out her steel cup, repeating the word 'pani' as if it was her own private mantra. But no matter how many glasses she would sallow, her fever remained. She motioned to her head as if she were spinning. I massaged as gently but with as much focus as I could. And yes, if anything, in those few minutes perhaps I did something useful with my day.

A little bell rang – tring a ling – and the volunteers and Sisters filtered out of the ward and up the steps. We spiraled up and up, taking steps which would be impossible for the ladies below. Our journey finished standing in the warm breeze and gazing down onto Kalighat square, onto the streets where our patients once lived or slept. No one talked about the ward. We just sat or stood, and ate our chai with the help of large missionary wheat cracker, watching the daily life as if it were a soap opera performed to entertain rather than to live. It was the perfect place to observe and yet not to be observed. We were joined by a group of Swiss visitors with an Indian guide who asked where I was from. Scotland I replied. “Ah Scotland! Did you know that Calcutta was founded by a Scotsman? Mr Job Charnock in 1686!” I replied in my head, “or long before that when the land Kolkata stands upon was owned by the Bengali family Sabarna Ray Churdi.” Calcutta – Kolkata. Bengali – British - Indian. Such thoughts were not to be voiced. Not here. Not now. His foreign guests asked me why I volunteered. I replied that the Mother House was easy to access – it required no application, no interview, no 'volunteering fees' and no maximum time. They nodded and thanked me. I felt guilty for their thanks. Those to be praised sat behind me. Those who had been here for months and years, not hours. Their voices echoed down the stairs and faded into the horns and shouts of the street.

During my warm cold shower later that night I ran on top of my clothes, stamping out the dirt and the wringing them dry. It was much quicker than usual. The washing process was strangely therapeutic. I hung up my kuta on the washing line I had constructed from the shower pipe to the rusty hooks in the corner of my mini bathroom. I stepped into my mini bedroom to bathe in the breeze of the ceiling fan and took pleasure in being cool for the only time that day. The shower pipe banged to the floor behind me. Sleep was delayed with calculations of the large ceiling fan falling on top of me.