Songs from Kalighat

Two years ago this May I visited Nirmal Hriday. It was Mother Teresa's first of many homes, and known as her 'home for the dying and destitute' in Kalighat . What I remember of those first days as a volunteer was seeing a mirror for the first time of a reality which I could not handle. I saw the sheltered aspects of what I had arrogantly presumed to be a worldly life. The suffering of the patients; their pain paired with a defeat born from acting out their roles that came with their free cot, filled my mind with confusing justifications. I was forced to question what I was doing and why I could not do it. I lasted only a few days at Nirmal Hriday, and event though at the time I felt defeated and humbled, it was ultimately intelligence which made me leave. I left and moved to Sishu Bhavan where I uncovered another secret – a skill set which I had not realised that I possessed, and of course I met one of my most powerful life mentors - Deepa.

But thanks to Kolkata, in the past two years many gaps have been filled. My naivety has been dulled, and although important questions may not have been answered, at least they have been asked. And as life has a habit of doing, the very reason why I ever stopped in Kolkata is now working by my side.

Two years ago while I was living one of my many lives, my friend – an Angel diguised as a mermaid - and I were working under the sea with the ultra rich and a lifestyle which I had the privilege choosing. She told me about her previous work in Kolkata and told me to visit. It just so happened that the cheap flights from Bangkok to India were to Kolkata, and it just so happened that the first volunteer I spoke to once I arrived was a friend of the Angel's, who took me to register at the Missionaries of Charity. Now our paths have crossed again, and the Angel is volunteering at Nirmal Hriday and has asked my advice for how to work with the blind women confined to their beds. Using this as an opportunity to face a previous trauma I went back to revisit what I had once walked away from in nauseous tears.

Now I walked into Kalighat and saw a very different picture. I saw rows of women who had forcibly had their heads shaved. I saw rows of women who did have families, but for whatever reason were separated from them while no effort was being made to soothe that wound nor rectify that deep and raw separation. I no longer saw helpless victims or "bags of bones"; instead I saw very weak and sick ladies, sucked of energy by the asphyxiating atmosphere and devoid of options by a failing society. All of the volunteers, with the exception of the Angel, were drinking their afternoon chai on the roof, which even if the patients had the strength to climb the stairs, they are forbidden to. The Angel was beaming out her contagious energy; a natural nurse with an innate comforting presence. She led me through the rows of beds to a very old women who is living with cataracts. One of her eyes was totally glazed over with a thick milky layer, while the other was fighting the invading and unwelcome skin. She was almost totally blind. I introduced myself and she motioned for me to sit on remaining space left in her little cot. She was one of the ladies who astound me with their grasp of the English language, providing a key to a past lifetime away from their deserted and poverty driven reality. I asked her if she liked music, as I had come armed with my karimbu, but she was not interested in being entertained. Instead she quickly found out we had a favourite poet in common, and she began to recite songs by Rabindranath Tagore. She sang beautiful melodies in her native Bengali before translating them into English, moving her hand from side to side as she conducted her own renditions. Her voice was incredible, perfect, and her songs blacked out the rest of the ward, killing the discomfort and occasional moans of the women laying all around us.

The singing blind lady had actually studied at Santiniketan – Tagore's world renouwn school and unverisity. She recollected the concerts which her and her freinds would perform, allowing a smile to capture her face and take her back to a colourful happy time safe under the guard of her memory. I left her humming to herself as the Angel motioned me over to another cot, on which lay a much younger women – a women only twenty years old, but also living without sight.

The woman had been picked up at the station after being severely weak and malnourished. After a short stay in Kalighat she was much stronger and the Sister's are searching for somewhere else for her to go. The options are few – she can either return to live at Howrah train station, begging in her darkness, or perhaps the Sister's will move her to Shanti Dan.

Shanti Dan is one of the Missionaries of Charities homes for mentally disabled women. I have never visited, but I have heard several accounts of the ancient treatments used on the women. I know a volunteer nurse who was asked to leave after she began protesting about the use of electric shock treatment, including on epileptic patients. I stayed for only a few minutes by the side of the young women who I did not know. She lay still, with her legs curled into her chest under her uniform night dress. She remained rightly uninterested in my presence and besides all I could do was listen to the alarm bells ringing inside my head.

It will not be long before Deepa will be a young woman still under the care of the Missionaries of Charity. This is my motivation; for a different future for Deepa other than the one which is already laid out.

Pro-life or Capital Punishment?

5.00 pm Escorted back from the dispensary by Super Smiley Vincent. With one arm around my shoulders he lurches forward into the oncoming traffic of pedestrians. Stop to by fruit. Super Smiley Vincent carefully places the bananas and tangerines into the indestructible black plastic bag and on we go until we arrive at his home – a ledge by the side of the bus stop. Super Smiley Vincent grins at his neighbours as he makes sounds of super excitement and proudly points at me. We wave goodbye and try to continue along the road home despite Super Smiley Vincent's reluctance to leave my side.

5.10 Notice that the police cadets seem to have taken over the city's traffic control. Young boys in uniform frantically wave their arms, and indeed entire bodies, at the oncoming onslaught of vechiles. Dodging countless unstoppable bus, swerving auto-rickshaws, brooming beeping ambassador taxis, charging human rickshaws, motorbikes, hand-cart pullers and antique bicycles. They mentors are all squeezed into the periodic pavement booths, laughing.

5.20 pm Stop outside of Sishu Bhavan orphanage and see a group of young girls with a tiny baby. The baby is still, with its eyes closed. I walk forward and the 'mother' grins at the attention. Her friends signal that the baby is sick. Its little fingers don't grasp around mine, as I feel its tiny cold hand. They say it is three months old, but it looks more like three weeks. Born on the streets. 'Pa Pa no'. We take the baby inside and I go upstairs to find the Sister in charge of the babies nursery. The Sister accompanies me downstairs, briefly glances at the tiny still baby and declares there is nothing she can do. “Take it to the government hospital. It needs oxygen” is all the advice she can muster as twirls her white sari around and disappears back into the darkness. Many other Sisters walk by. We argue for attention. It is minimal. One Sister generously offers to pray for it. A Missionaries of Charity ambulance begins to rev its engine. We quickly run over and ask if they can take us to the nearest hospital. The driver looks at us in total incomprehension as his passengers of nuns daintily step inside.

5.35 With little alternatives left, we decide to 'walk' the baby, young mother and young mothers friend to the 'Mercy Hospital'; it isn't the god forsaken government hospital but it is used by the Missionaries of Charity. It advertises on its website “Since our inauguration in 1977 we have dedicated at least 40% of our resources to provide free healthcare to poverty-stricken men, women, and children who could not otherwise afford medical treatment.”

5.40 pm Stop to give the Mother with the Incredible Green Eyes the vitamins she wanted to stop her spinning. I hand one of her boys the bag of fruit. He grins widely through the dirt which streaks down the soft flesh of his smiling face. My recent experience has totally nullified any doubt I had about the families sincerity.

6.00 pm Arrive at the Mercy Hospital and take the tiny baby to the Emergency room. A huge oxygen mask covers her little face as life moves back into her body. The little fingers begin to twitch. Suspected pneumonia. The mother distractedly looks on.

6.10 pm We try to register the baby and are asked for 5,000 rupees for advanced fees. Between us we have 400 rupees. “Who will pay?” We are asked. False claims of charity echo off every wall.

6.20 pm Two Sister from the Missionaries of Charity walk in to visit a sick volunteer. We appeal to them to help. They listen and nod and listen and nod and say “later” and go to visit the sick volunteer.

6.40 pm Two doctors burst in “Who will sign for the baby” one asks. “The mothers signature will not to. You can't trust the mother. Who will take responsibility. The baby is in a very bad way. If it goes the wrong way [dies] what will you do then?” Money is no longer the major problem. The doctors are trying to tell us the mother might try and sue the hospital or us. The 'mother' is perhaps fourteen, lives on the streets, and all the possessions she has are in the woven bag tucked under her arm. We bravely say “The Missionaries of Charity”. “You need a letter” the doctor replies “I want the letter by 8.pm or I'll put them back on the street”.

6.45 pm We go in search of the Sisters. They seem to have been struck by a semblance of compassion and say they will try to help. They return to the Mother House for what I hope is a 'letter' to save a life.

7.00 pm I am sitting with the mother and her baby in a children's ward. The other women and children look on. “How did you find the baby” one lady asks as she cradles a baby with a cleft palate. “Why did you bring it? Will you take it home with you?” Her questions are unbelievable and unstoppable. Rationality bursts from my mouth as I reply “What would you do if you saw a dying baby on the street? You would take it to a hospital wouldn't you?”

7.15 pm The little baby is no longer blue and her little brown eyes have opened into round circles trying to fight the flow of oxygen. Dinner is served; all the other women are given rice with their curry apart from the little babies mother. We complain and the interfering lady offers her own:“Rice is hot food, chapati is better, it is cold. Hot food is no good for breast feeding.” The interfering lady is referring to ayurvedic nutrition. After seeing the mother and child for only a couple of hours it is obvious that there is no 'breast feeding' implications to be concerned about. “She doesn't know how to look after her child” the interfering woman argues as the other mothers 'tut tut'.

7.35 pm I play the kurimbu to the other children. I make one burst into tears and one hide under the covers. Another woman comes up to me and introduces me to her daughter. She stands behind her sick child and motions for me to take her.

7.45 pm A nurse comes to remind us we need the letter by 8 pm or they will throw 'them' out. I go to look for white saris coming down the road. I take the opportunity to explain that the mother isn't breast feeding her baby. “Don't worry we will give the mother some health education” she (un) helpfully replies. “What about some food for the baby” rebounded my answer.

8.pm The Sisters arrive. The 'mother' needs to sign the consent form; they will cover the bills. The 'mother' doesn't understand and says she needs to ask her old god-father who lives outside of Sishu Bhavan in his three wheeled disabled buggy. The mother's friend is sent with a Bengali speaking nun and a volunteer to pay the taxi with a mission to seek the old god-fathers consent. A Sister pulls a plastic bottle of Holy Water out of her navy bag and flicks it over the child before mumbling a string of prays into her rosary beads.

8.30 pm The mission returns with a message from the old god-father: “It is in God's hands” he replies and relays a message for the 'mother to sign'. The Sisters and mother go downstairs to find the doctor and sign the papers.

8.45 pm I play peek a boo with the child who is still hiding under the covers.

9.15 pm With still no sign of the Sister and Mother we have go home. Visiting hours were over. We are tired. I don't want to think about the dying baby. But I can't. She stays in my head.

9. 30 pm The doctor refuses to let the 'mother' sign a legal disclaimer and tells her to leave the hospital. The tiny baby is removed from the oxygen, and Sisters, Mother, Mothers young friend, and one volunteer go to the nearby government hospital.

10. pm The still breathing baby has no address. She was born on the street, she lives on the platform at the train station. Registration is extremely difficult and a reminder of the battle that each homeless person has to fight in order to find treatment at the government hospitals. Eventually the little not-so-blue baby is admitted and the Sisters sit around a metal cot, which the mother and child share, and pray. The hospital is filthy, with needles scattering the floor, patient beds lining the corridor and used plastic gloves discarded along the staircase. No sheets, medicines or care is provided. A doctor visits and nurses (hopefully) administer medicine which the patients have to find someone to buy from the outside pharmacy.

The Next day....

3 pm A crowd of mothers continue to circle our young mother as they stare at the foreigners and point at the one with the bright red and shiny nose The baby has since had a chest x-ray which showed a hugely enlarged heart. Money from the Missionaries of Charity was used to by the required medicines for the chest infection, but it sits in a plastic bag along with a box of powered baby milk. We go outside to ask for some boiling water from the chai wallah and make a bottle of baby milk. The bottle buckles as the intense heat begins to melt the plastic. With a little ingenuity we manage to successfully create the artificial imitation and the baby is fed for the first time since her silent fight through illness, poverty and legality. She is a fighter and despite the false promises and the betrayal of her species, she is still alive.

What now? Operations? Medication? Health education? Back to her home of the train station with a family of street girls. Living without clean water, without the promise of daily food. With a mother too young to learn; to detached to feel like a mother. Is the baby meant to live? What repercussions will our desperate interventions have? What is her future? The future of her motherless mother? Every action has a reaction. Life. Pro-Life or Capital Punishment?

Kissmas from Kolkata

It is officially Christmas. The sun is shining with only the evenings and night time showers revealing the cloak of the winter season. There are a few shops around Sudder Street dripping in sparkling tinsel and packets of plastic bells. Giant fake Christmas trees stand to attention on the pavement, but it is the five foot tall Santa which is more effective at welcoming the Christmas cheer. Surrounded by Hindu deities and small shrines, the glitz and glitter of the festive season is neatly incorporated in the city's Holy Days, and only sporadically advertised to sell specific ideas of Christmas. Today's Times advertised an 'English Dundee Cake' along side 'An Exotic American Fruit Cake', but it is the local bakers inside of New Market which are cashing in on the seasonal fare, with mini cakes stacked high on the wooden stalls and selling for a bargain of 10 rupees each.

On Winter Solstice the Sisters decided it was time to decorate Sishu Bhavan. Luckily I arrived late so missed the morning briefing that the volunteers were requested not to play with the children and alternatively decorate the nursery, including building a huge nativity scene depicting little baby Jesus with his doting mother Mary and adopted father Joseph – a fairy tale image.

A few days ago an Indian family arrived to celebrate one of their children's birthday. They brought a huge cake filled with candels and a million presents, including the Indian version of the 'Barbie' doll – 'Betty'. After picking up some of the children and dancing them around the cake to the sounds of their cheers and the objections of the massis, the family came to play with the children. The young son was petrified of the children but managed to throw some soft balls which landed in their laps, providing something different for them to watch. Meanwhile, the kids from the active section ran around holding 'Betty's' wrapped up in plastic bags. When one eventually figured out that 'Betty' need not be contained within the packaging, the ensuing slaughter was massive. Legs and blonde Betty heads popped off all over the place, with the little Chinese Indian boy finding a hidden treasure. Attaching Betty's leg to her hip was a circle of plastic, or in the eyes of the little Chinese Indian boy - a perfect shaped 'bindi'. He grinned holding the prize close to his limited eyes, as he placed the plastic circle carefully on his own forehead. Later I commented to the Sister what a lovely gesture it was of the family to bring so many gifts and spend so much time with the kids. She replied; “they only do it so they can receive God's blessing.”

Meanwhile, the small clinic I am volunteering in is closed for Christmas. Again the priority appeared to be the building of the nativity scene, but if it is closed behind locked doors on Christmas day even that seemed a little strange. (Then again the Sisters asked some volunteers to remove the Christmas decorations at the Mother House this morning. ) I had offered to come and change the dressings of the patients who most needed treatment, but I was ordered to take a holiday. It was difficult to explain to the old man with maggots eating his upper thigh that he would have to wait until next week for the next batch of carnivores to be removed.

Behind these frustrations there are many beautiful actions, glances and glimpses of compassion which bring renewed energy. Moments where I feel glad for this festive time and for the lapses of generosity and optimism.

A couple of weeks ago children from another of the Missionaries of Charities homes, Daya Dan, performed a brilliant nativity play. They toured around the houses, acting and singing for the other children, patients, Sisters, Brothers and volunteers. Their visit to Sishu Bahavan was inspirational. The cast was composed of disabled children who were natural performers, providing an incredible energy to the audience. I brought down a gorgeous girl from the nursery, who smiles her way through severe different abilities, despite having her legs scissored together and little control over the movements of her hands. She sat on my knee, staring at the story being acted out in front of her, pausing only to turn around and she her smile.

Last night friends disguised as Christmas Angels left for the streets at midnight. They spent three hours quietly placing blankets over sleeping bodies without a whisper of their work.

This morning after bouncing down the steps of Modern Lodge to be greated by the joke of the day 'Happy Kissmas', from the Old Man and his giggling entourage, I pulled on my Santa's hat and Jingle Jangled my way into Sishu Bhavan. The pavement outside was crowded with people trying to find there way inside. Today the Sisters were giving out packages of food and supplies to many. However, 'many' is never enough and somehow only those 'selected' could enter by showing the magic card. The lady with the Incredible Eyes and her two babies were standing patiently waiting – no card in hand.


Inside the orphanage the kids had been dressed in red and gold sparkly dresses and suits. All of the active kids had made their usual pilgrimage to the Mother House for morning mass but were now busy singing songs and dancing to Christmas carols with the Sister. It was an unusual sight but one which brought copious smiles and a much needed happy vibe. Deepa was busy swaying from side to side enjoying the tunes. She was discharged from hospital a few days ago and seems much better. She is also becoming very close to me again; a feeling which brings with it a warning hesitancy as well as comfort that she once again she trusts me and feels safe to let me work and play with her.

My aunt's gift of a school recorder and teddy arrived a couple of days ago, but with so many Sisters on patrol, I felt reluctant to share it with Deepa. Instead it stayed hidden under my apron until another, quieter, day. The children are not meant to receive individual presents, but the volunteers are able to circumnavigate the rule by bringing toys and games in during the day and take them away in the evening. As for the teddy, Deepa has difficulty finding out the 'point' of a teddy. Perhaps she thinks it is just clothes or bedding and she was happy to move it to one side and continue her Christmas dancing. This worked out well for the Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile. She motioned for me to bring it to her and she reached out to hug it tight to her as she Smiled even wider. The Super Smart blind baby also loved it and began to stroke the teddy, feeling the different material and pulling it towards her. Thank You for such a kind thought.


The head of the Missionaries of Charity, German born, Sister Mary Perma then made a brief visit. She walked around placing her hands on the children and wishing them 'Happy Christmas' while the massis scurried around bending down to touch her feet. She wished the children a good Christmas lunch as they fought the massis and spoon fulls of cold Cerelac porridge.

Outside I found the lady with the Incredible Eyes and her two children sitting on the pavement. She hadn't managed to acquire a magic card. It wasn't quite the same but I had brought two loud surprises. After the mass slaughter of Holy cows for Eid, the kids on the neighbouring street had become extremely resourceful and had melted cow skins over clay pots to produce little drums. The final products have crayon drawings scribbled on them and a nylon string to attach the drum to the drummer. The clay cow drums sell for five rupees each, which is about 10 cents. I pulled the little drums out of my bag and hung them around the little kids necks. I handed the mother a bar of soap and a towel as yesterday she complained that her boys couldn't wash and as a result were filthy and covered in flies. Their reactions was so strong that I felt myself begin to gentley shake. The little boys were so surprised and shocked that the smiles took time to grow and then consumed their faces. The mother looked at me directly in the eyes, once again sharing her tremendous strength and power. I tell you this only because today my sister donated ten pounds. It will allow me to buy the lady with the Incredible Eyes and her fatherless family lunch for one month. Another Thank You.

Its been a long time since I celebrated Christmas. It had forgotten what a good excuse it is to laugh loudly, sing badly and to Share and to Smile. A reminder of how relations could be everyday of the year.

Thank you to all who continue to Share and Inspire.

Baby Vision

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

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

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

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

Super Star Deepa

Taller and skinner, but a little more in this world. Still a fighter but with less spark; and incredibly rounded shoulders to prove it. As I walked through the disabled section I found Deepa laying on in a cot, with her feet nearly around the back of her head making indeterminable sounds. Impossible to know if she remembered me, but without a doubt that she remembered my bracelets. Fingers rolling the blue beads on each of my wrists, and then searching for the strap of my dive computer – flick flick flick. Pulling my arm closer to her ear as she enjoyed the hidden musical instruments disguised as random junk. Singing Indiana Jones to her as she used my body to pull hers up, I felt a relief that I was back where I was supposed to be. Smiling inside and laughing loudly. It was so good to see Deepa, and to see that she was ok. She has made some 'improvements'. More sounds are coming out of her mouth – sporadically and only when she wants. But it is clear that Climber Girl definitely broke down some verbal barriers. She whispers 'Deepa' into the air and between the 'la la la la la's' moves her mouth towards other sounds. She clearly knows the meaning of the English instructions, 'sit down', 'stand up' and 'step' but still decides not to make them part of her spoken vocabulary.

Leading her out of the room of screams and shouts, we walked towards the stairs. Remembering our first meeting when I would be practically dragging her across the floor, as she would stubbornly refuse to bend her knees, and then now watching as she confidently grabbed the bannister and flew up each step. She didn't need my guidance to negotiate her way around the concrete corner and take the final step up onto the orphanage roof. Striding between the hanging laundry she slowed her pace as we reached the edge, standing high above bustling A.C Bose road below. Resisting the temptation to protect her from every bump and bang, she gently hit the wall with her head but seemed to be expecting it and without a sound, began to feel for the hanging wire which she still loves to play with. Standing behind her I found myself gently allowing her to lean back onto my legs as I bent my knees into her back, trying to pull her shoulders towards me. I am not sure why she has developed this tendency to curl into herself. Protection? Not knowing any other way? Despite my careful persistence of trying to relax her shoulders, and despite her natural yogic tendency's she is not a student who I can advise and move. Besides, she is so tense, and I really hate to feel the tension she silently holds inside of her bony body. She resists my attempts, so I resort to the big bouncy ball tactic. I bounce the ball up and down and she immediately turns and reaches out, following the sounds with her hands. For a moment my mind is back in Bali, at my blindfold yoga workshop when participants sat listening to the rolling of the ball, as it was randomly rolled around the circle. But now, back to Deepa, as she allows her body to be repositioned with her back to the giant bouncy ball which I throw her over backwards. She grins widely as I lift her arms over her head, and her shoulders finally relax. She giggles and laughs and before long I am tickling her as we share a contagious energy.

I try and remember the games we used to play, and after we have row row rowed our boats across the floor, and she has fallen off our imaginary horse into the 'deep blue sea', we sit clapping and tapping and copying the others vibrations. The way she moves her hands to explore the potential sound of any unidentified object is incredibly intricate. She seems to 'drum' objects with the palm of her hand, the base of her fingers and her fingertips – simultaneously. It is a sensitivity which is incredibly difficult to duplicate, and even now I sit her hitting the keys of the laptop, wondering how she can control the flexibility of her entire hand in such a way. I disobey orders and give a gift of a bracelet of multicoloured bells. She pulls it straight up her arm and protects it with her other hand, tinging gently with each finger. There is a volunteer who is a retired music teacher. I ask her to sing Deepa a song, and she happily does so, while Deepa begins to sway from side to side. Her love for music is clearly evident. I listen as Deepa begins to copy the notes, while German Grandmother and I share a smile with our eyes. She is following the tune perfectly and although I need to be told this after, she easily reached the tricky notes. Her ability to follow rhythm and to copy tones is incredible, and I laugh at the irony of my inability to sing the same song in the same key twice.

My aunt emailed me yesterday:

I was thinking about Deepa whilst I have been ironing, I think about all sorts of things when I am ironing. I would like to send her a present, do you think that would be allowed by the orphanage. If so, what do you suggest for a little blind girl?

I replied with the words “something musical” while in my head, I wished for another music teacher, with a full set of percussion instruments, who might know the secret to bringing Deepa fully into the World. My aunts words remain on replay in my head; What do I suggest for a little blind girl? I wish someone would tell me how I can do more for her.

It's wonderful to see her again.

Fear

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

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

The Love of a Toilet Brush

I have just left the orphanage. I left Gita sitting on a potty in the toilet room. I left Gita sitting in the toilet room while a Mashi smacked the crying toddlers with a toilet brush. I am so angry that I slam the door shut, and then I write. This is how I take my frustrations out – not on mentally and physically disabled children, no matter how 'naughty' they are. Yes cultures are different, and yes there are many alternative 'techniques' to install discipline in young children, but bullying should not be one of them.

I have no doubt of the good intentions of most of the Sisters. I have no doubt of the Love of Mother Teresa for the millions of children which her homes have saved. I know the children in Shishu Bhavan are the 'lucky' ones. They could be living in the slums, hungry and abandoned. They could have been left to die. I know they have plenty of food to feed their bellies, and a warm bed to sleep in. I know they are clean and fed their daily dose of vitamins and unlike their destitute counterparts, I know they have cupboards full of clothes and toys. I know they have the attention of thousands of well meaning volunteers who pass through the nursery's doors every year. But I have a great deal of doubt over the depth of this 'luck'. Potentials are not being fulfilled. Love is no longer the prime motivation.

Leaving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adopted Cake

As I walk into the Mother House this morning something catches my attention. Sitting on top of the Mother's tomb is a small child. The small child is wearing a white frilly dress and surrounded by a line of smartly dressed Indian men and women. The small child in the white frilly dress is one of the 100 plus children from the 'abled' active section of Shishu Bhavan. The small child in the white frilly dress is really one of the 'lucky' ones. Not only was she saved once – just by given an opportunity to live, but she was born 'perfect' without disability. This immediately increased her 'adoptability' and today she will begin her new life out side.

What really struck me as strange though was not as the Sister by my side said "ah..she is sitting in the [dead] Mother's lap" but that she was adopted by an Indian family. It struck me as strange as all of the 'prospective' parents which visit the orphanage are foriegn. Even Jamie will be adopted by some ex-volunteers; although the process may take a formidable one to two years. But again the volunteers are foriegners and were undoubtably charmed beyond escape by clever Jamie (see Broken Eyes posted in May).

Once we had a Indian family visit the 'imperfect' section and when asked if they were here to adopt they replied most certainly NOT! They were after all a Bharamin family – which they explained to us ignorant volunteers – a high caste and therefore they were not allowed to adopt a child from a low caste for god forbid – an untouchable.

So why were they in our 'imperfect' 'untouchable' 'pollutable' section: "Ah because we have some spare wedding cake we would like to 'donate'".

I wanted to ask why they weren't allowed to adopt a child? Which part of their democratic constitution forbid it? Which part of their social conscience prevented them from donating more than some left over cake? I write in this tone because this is the disappointment which I feel. That children continue to go abandoned by those too poor to provide care and those too rich to care. That the educated 'rich' are not educated enough to not be 'polluted' by the touch of a small child who just simply needs someone to love them. Who needs to live outside of one room. Who like Gita – needs an opportunity to find herself in this world rather than in one which she hides on her own just because she has yet to be invited to join the real one yet.

The two large slices of pink spongy cake were given to children to celebate Peter, Shiv's and Sunali's joint birthday.

Invisible Birthday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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