Crusade for Words

It is 1.50 am in Bali. 11.20pm in India. I listen to the gentle croak of the night-time crickets and occasional 'clucking' of the bungalow rat. There is so much life. Even in the dark the air is rich with fragrance of the lush green vibrant nature all around. I am trying to imagine hearing the noise of Kolkata: the shouts from the street, the persistent 'brums' of the yellow taxi's, the banging of doors and stamp of footsteps as human life pervades stillness and nature fades into a background flutter of the wings of a mosquito.

Deepa spoke yesterday. 'Up up up' as she walked up the stairs to the concrete rooftop. The rooftop which seem so very far away from the fresh rice paddies of my Ubud room. Despite the distance, despite the eleven months since I last saw her, despite the yoga, diving and trillion other events which will make my return journey possible, I haven't been able to stop thinking about her first word; 'Up'.

Earlier this year, in April I was standing on a ledge of a limestone rock, in Thailand's climbing paradise, with my head cricked upwards towards the sun. A unknown woman to my left was waiting for her turn to monkey her way up the rock. She was friendly and told me of her adventures around the world. She was exploring the beaches of Asia and soon to be in the roof of the world in Nepal, and then onto India. And then she mentioned the magic words 'Child Speech Therapist'. I poured out my stories fuelled from my guilt of leaving Deepa, while she told me about her ideas of volunteering. Within minutes Deepa's first words had been secured – but neither of us knew it at the time.

Climbing Woman only arrived in Kolkata last week. From my little laptop here in Bali I wrote pages of information, details about Kolkata, Shishu Bhavan, about Deepa, but the words only came into life in the replies which she typed. The last few days have been a painful realisation. Climbing Woman became Climbing Warrior Woman as she took on the establishment of one of the cities biggest orphanages. She was told:

You could be a doctor or a teacher or a therapist. I don't care. You are here to love all the children, all the same. That is all that you are here for. And I don't want to talk about it any more.

The tone, the meaning, the disbelieving frustration, echoed in my heart and weighed down on my conscience. Had I misled her? I knew the ridiculous reality and yet even I was shocked by the words of the new Sister in charge who didn't want Deepa to be receiving any 'special' attention. A few mails later and Climbing Warrior Woman told me she was stepping down; defeated. Unable and unwilling to battle everyday for Deepa's words but would continue to visit her a few days a week. Instead she would volunteer for another organisation more receptive to her skills. Furious at the inability to facilitate a possible solution. Tightness gripping at my privileged naive shoulders, there was little I could do but agree and be Angry.

I tried to counter balance the failed expectations which had been fueling these past months, taking reassurance from yet another 'expert' opinion which failed to agree she was autistic but instead just mute from the madness around her.

But today I read about these 'first words' – her first ascending words to independence. I hope.

I finally booked my flight yesterday. Arriving later than what I wished, but enabled by Air Asia's new route from Kuala Lumpur to Kolkata. A very small price to pay for a journey I have been waiting to make for eleven months. It still seems years away but the anticipation continues to hug my body with a scary premonition of the battle ahead. After reading the hundreds of words from Climbing Warrior Woman I predict fights with the forces that be, as they restrict progress with their own blindness. My expectations of more waiting words are dangerously high. I wish I could climb the coconut trees like the grinning gardener I saw today. Releasing the areas of tensions that six hours of yoga still cannot reach. Aum vighna nashanaya namah. Perhaps Ganesh can help to remove the blindness of a missions of charity without the sight of real transformation. Without the ability to truly faciliate a real life for the hundreds of dependent beings in their care. I wish I could filter power and perseverance across the Indian Ocean: Warrior Woman, who I met for what was only minutes, I hope you realise, you have already changed Deepa's life beyond words.

“Patience and perseverance had a magical effect before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish”.

To read more about the work of Warrior Woman see her blog: http://www.camilleonthego.blogspot.com/

I have decided to use Deepa's real name (previously I had wrote about Gita). I want her power to be shared and voice heard.

Until the Next Time

I spent the morning with The Bravely Blind Climber Child in the small park within the Sishu Bhavan complex. I am leaving her soon. And if feels just like that – leaving, abandoning, out of sight out of mind.

The progress which she has made since the time we first met eight months ago is Amazing. She is amazing. When we starting playing together, she was only swaying from side to side – unable to - or reluctant to walk independently. She had a curiosity which seemed muted – silent. Once her attention was attained she would quietly explore the new object within her hands or close to her ears, but if she was led away she would 'just follow'. Now I watch as she screams for the musical guitar or the tambourine if another child snatches it from her, and I feel reassured that she is beginning to learn how to fight in this world. Now she walks more confidently, not only that but she is even climbing – using her body rather than allowing others (her 'carers') – to move it for her. She will pull herself in and out of her chair, climb the stairs pulling herself up each step with both hands on the cold stone banister. And as she walks with me to the playground, she will pull me towards sounds, which without her would remain invisible to me, such as the warbling of the water inside the water pipes, or the clicking clinking of a cooling car engine or the mysterious rattling vibrations inside the climbing frame.

The Sister in charge of Sishu Bhavan is away at the moment. Three months in the USA. This explains the increased bullying of the children by the staff who do not have the luxury to work for pleasure like the volunteers do. This also means that I have been unable to ask her about Gita's possible education: Does the Sister still believe she is 'mentally retarded'? Is she still refusing to send her to a school for the blind?

In her absence I decided to check out for myself how the orphanage school for the 'visually impaired' was working out for Gita. I sat in the back of the room while watching three special needs teachers work with four children. The task of the afternoon was for the blind children to put their paint covered fingerprints inside a drawing of a hand. However, Gita found her art lesson a little too traumatic. She particularly disliked having her fingers pushed down onto the paper when she seemed to want to rub the paint between her hands. It is this sort of attitude towards the children which infuriates me. Everything seems so superficial – well fed (force fed); clean clothes (but not allowed to become 'dirty); new toys (hidden away in the class room otherwise they will be broken); a million volunteers (too many 'carers' and not enough 'facilitators'); a special needs school (to produce pretty paintings for the wall). Yet despite all of these frustrations of the best of the worst situation, working with Gita continues to fuel my energy and determination.

A returning volunteer told me that she first met Gita two years ago when she was still a baby. She told me that Gita had actually been born in a slum, where she was left to sit, ignored and starved of both physical and mental nourishment. When she was brought to the orphanage she would cry whenever she was made to stand so would just be left to sit. The returning volunteer was amazed at Gita's 'progress' and it is this 'progress' which fuels my determination to fight for Gita's right to education; that despite being blind, orphaned, female and alone in this world that she has a right to a future.

And this morning in the park was no exception. Leaving. the blaring music, running toddlers and staring eyes we walked out of the nursery – hand in hand – and found the air, the quiet and the freedom of the little park. Following my instructions to lift her feet at the steps I felt her reactions sink into me, producing waves of pride and admiration. I watched as she moved her hands searching and then finding the familiar iron ropes of the swing, turning herself around to sit on the small wooden plank. I watched as she sat suspended in the air and totally trusting in me, and I stood by her side feeling so strong and full of energy.

Gita inspires me and reminds me of the endurance of the human spirit. Meeting her – a stranger who I have never been able to 'talk' to, who does not even know my name, or what I look like and yet who utterly trusts me and laughs with me and holds me close to her – has changed something deep inside of me. As I pushed her on the swing and waited for her to lift her hands to her ears and stop the swing as she falls off, I felt such an admiration paired with a resolve that anything is possible. Watching as she explored the sea-saw, pushing the seat up and down and then climbing on it and waiting to be lifted to the sky until she would be grinning with such a wide smile that I could not help but join her at the opposite end, as we sat sea-sawing away, and this time it was me trusting that she would not let go and slide to the fall. Watching as touched the metal rungs of the ladder and then began to pull herself up the giant steps. Climbing, one (un)sure step at a time, slowly exploring, yet unaware of the dangers of slipping off. And feeling my own amazement when she reached the top of the slide and pushed herself back down to the ground.

I am amazed at her potential and her ability to fulfil it once given the space just to be. Her ability to learn, her quest for new sounds, her love for dancing and her ability to endure is such a tribute to her energy – her spirit. And it is this which makes it easier to leave her; knowing that she will continue to learn with or without me, even though I will desperately miss sharing Our World. And I know its not just me – I know that it is a power which comes from within her; and which if you can keep your eyes open you can see. I know because I have seen the reactions of strangers; of the unattached who meet her for the first time and who quickly become captivated. I watched as headphones were shared and Gita swayed to Bob Marley for the first time, and I kept watching and smiling as she grabbed the headphones back as soon as the opening beats of 'Get Up, Stand Up, Don't give up the Fight' whispered into her ears.

I said goodbye silently. We rowed across the nursery floor for one last time, I tipped her over my legs and hung her upside down for one last time, and I hugged her tightly while spinning her around for one last time... until the next time.

Dreamings

I keep having dreams about Gita. They are disturbing dreams. I dreamt that I returned to Kolkata and went directly to Sishu Bhavan. I began to look for Gita among the running children. I couldn't see her anywhere. I asked the Sister in charge where Gita was and she pointed to a blind child – but it wasn't Gita. She insisted it was I who was mistaken. Doubting myself I approached the child and began to speak. She didn't recognise me. But something was strange about her. Like Gita she had no eyes. And yet unlike Gita she seemed to know the World. She knew about the invisible – about colours, about shades of skin, about the size of the world, about the air and about the enormous space above and around us. She knew because she had just lost her eyes. Her eyeballs had been stolen from her. I tried to tell the other volunteers, the Sisters, my friends, but no one would believe me.

Last night, once again, I dreamt that I returned to the orphanage, but this time I took Bruno with me – I wanted him to meet Gita. This time I found her easily. Although she was much younger – she was a baby. As soon as I walked into the room she sensed my presence, and once my wrist produced a jingle jangle she came tottering towards me. Immediately I sensed Bruno was thinking something. He whispered to me that Gita had down syndrome. How did I not know? I told him he was wrong and that he just had to spend more time with her. I picked her up and insisted that we sleep at the orphanage. Both Bruno and I crawled into her cot and slept. I woke in the middle of the night to find out that in our sleep we had suffocated her. I had killed Gita.

In real life, I woke up upset. I told Bruno of my dream – he replied that he had also dreamed of Gita.

Can any sense be made of these sub conscious dreamings?

Today I really miss her.

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.

Learning to See

The more time that I spent with Gita the more that I am finding out about her; she is showing me how to she sees. That often when I think she is listening to something in fact she is feeling. When I give her a squeaky toy to squeeeeak she will just gently flick it with her fingers, feeling the smooth texture. When I try to squeeeeak it next to her ear she turns away. I lift it to my ear and SQUEEEEAK! It is so loud. It makes me think about how many of my clickings and tappings next to her ears are actually too strong. Today we explored a box of 'smelly stuff' which I found in the nursery cupboard. Like a small child Gita seemed more interested in the large plastic container than what was inside. Again she used her fingers to 'flick' the texture. I opened up a smaller container labeled 'Cardamom'. I held it in front of her nose. I looked expectantly wondering if I would see her nostrils flare, or her nose move closer, but her only reaction was stillness. She stopped moving her arms and stopped her fingers from 'flicking'. Cumin, Cinnamon, Masala. All the same – her only reaction was no reaction.

Enough of the sitting and I take her hand and we negotiate our way between the corridor of cots and over the small step to the stairs. I no longer need to tell her how many steps there are. She knows on her own. In fact I also 'see' so much more now. I know that there is a small incline after the step which she will slow down when she crosses in order not to slide. I know that at the top of the stairs she likes to tap on the large tin trunk, and I know that since a Mashi painted the large tin trunk blue it now longer makes the same tinny sound so Gita no longer likes it quite so much. I know that at the window the two metal clips which hold the shutters open can be flicked up and dropped to tink tink tink against the window sill. I know that if I bend down and keep talking she sometimes thinks that I have sat down and will trustingly bend down to drop on top of me. We cross through another door way and stand on the roof where the floor is more gravely and a little wet from the mornings rain. Again it seems so much more quiet and still then the crazy noisiness of the nursery: the same sounds of the same tape playing too loud to hear the small details or to distinguish between the voice speaking to her and the louder one further away; or to hear the sound of the child in on a toy bike approaching her about to knock her over.

Hari Christian Krishna brought her two different little bracelets with small little jingly jangly bells on. Each one lasted only one day. I don't know where they have gone. One day I saw Princess Josephine wearing one. But anyway I stopped asking Hari Christian Krishna to buy them and instead bought myself two so now she can easily find my hands from the many which brush passed her.

On the roof, where there is a slight breeze which smells damp and of soap, I clap some tunes while she explores on her own. I am so proud of her when I think of the first day (see Broken Eyes) when I had to drag a swaying body around. I clap so she knows where I am but in the stillness of the roof she has the audible space to explore her own voice. She murmurs ba ba ba ba quietly. Then she starts to whisper a haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa from the back of the throat – a new sound and not one which she has copied as it is a Casper the Ghost sound. Haaaaaaaa haaaaaaa she plays. The Mashi's are hanging out the sheets and we have to walk through them in order to find her tinging wire. I close my eyes as the pressure of the damp sheets press against my face and brushes over my hair.

“The sheets on your face are from the beds. They are pink. Pink is a warm colour. Warm is like the feel of the milk you hate to drink for breakfast.” I walk over to the edge of the white stone wall, telling her about the day below “I can see lots of yellow zooooming and boooming taxi's which are splashing in the puddles. The puddles are full of rain, and rain is water which has fallen from the sky and the sky is all the space above you and around you.” I am trying to talk to her more rather than just making no sense sounds as I realised that she never actually hears words spoken to her apart from songs which are sang and her name. And not only is it difficult to resist the temptation to make sounds which she has just in the past day or so started to try to imitate but I am realising that until she learns language, there is so little meaning for her in any of the descriptive words which I use.

“Ting Ting Ting” she flicks the wire around the edge and we follow it until it leads her to the big plastic barrels which we bang on. Bang Bang Bang around the edge. She feels upwards on top of the rim and then hands follow inside, all the time feeling the vibrations from my bangs. I watch as the water inside ripples over her reflection as she leans forwards trying to reach the Wetness inside. The water is too low in the barrel for her to feel but she keeps trying. I stretch over to the tap on the wall and turn it a little.

Drip Drip Drip. Immediately she stops. Turns and follows. Hands searching for the watery wet sounds. Fingers find it, head lowers and she lets the Wetness touch her face. I turn it off and her hands follow the tap but they don't turn it. Instead she flicks the rust of the connecting pipe. She lowers her head down. She turns her head and presses her ear firmly on top of the pipe. She moves across and finds a larger piece of pipe free from any obstructions from the tap. Again she presses her ear against it. Now she has aroused my curiosity and I follow her lead.

I bend down and listen. There are so many different sounds: A low rumble which seems to come from far away, then a gurgling and then a high pitched eeeeeeeeeeeeeee from the pressure inside while at the same time I can feel the shudders against my ear from the moving water. Her own ear is still firmly pressed against the rusty pipe. I start to try and explain what it is she is hearing and then I stop and just let her listen. I think she would stay there for hours but I decide for her than she needs her exercise. I don't like to decide for her but it is precisely because she has spent all of her life being picked up and sat down and feed and clothed and led that I now need to show her within the confines of the nursery, staircase and rooftop that physical mobility is normality.

To regain her attention I take out my secret weapon and aim it at her face. Spuuuuuurt! A small powerful stream of water sprays at her face. She begins to giggle and then to laugh and I know that I now have her back in our world ready to explore with me. But before...I close my eyes and aim at my face. I miss and hit my wrapped up hair. I try again. It makes me laugh. Another pure laugh like just like Gita is teaching me - to laugh without knowing the meaning of anything, without responding to social convention or out of habit or to create a certain impression, or to put on a happy 'mask' - but just a pure laugh in response to a bursting of positive emotions. She follows my vocal Happiness and reaches for my hand. In her so brave way she is teaching me to feel and to touch – she is teaching me how she sees.

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.

Hour Out

Once a month the some of the children from Shishu Bhavan have the opportunity to go to an evening Children's Mass at the Mother House. I figured that any opportunity for the children to leave the room must be justifiable. All the children from the 'active' section were to attend along with a select 'active' if assisted 'inactive' children. The children were dressed in their matching outfits, hair/ lice tied back and shoes fitted. I was in charge of carrying one of the two Princesses who was given a green fridge magnet in the shape of a letter G as backup entertainment. I carried her downstairs which was an adventure in itself as she usually just totters around the room. We paused outside the perfect babies so Princess Josephine could give a wave of solidarity. One American volunteer asked if we were going in a bus. I responded with a laugh - after all the Mother House was not even a five minute walk from Sishu Bhavan and all of the children could walk unaided apart from a handful who just required some extra patience and assistance. It was only a short walk – but enough to feel the street and to see other people walk by, and the buses and cars and maybe even a crow or a wandering cow. Within seconds a big Missionaries of Charities van reversed and the children were piled in.

There was an exception. A small princess who was so silent that it was not noticed that she was sitting in my arms. I felt privileged to show her the world from on the street rather than from above it. She sat on my arm as if it were a little throne and rotated her head this way and that – an outside table full of cooked potatoes and a small naked baby, chickens hanging upside from from a bicycle which wheels by as a taxi slows to a stop. A pitter patter of bare feet preempted the running rickshaw man. Lull lull goes his warning bell to clear the road for his VIPs. A bunch of spick and span white shiny school uniforms; faces munching down on tiffin. So noisy, so smelly – no matter how many lives can be piled into one room there will always be so much more life on this street.

We arrive at the Mother House and walk into the room which extends out around the Mother Teresa's tomb. I always think it is a very large tomb for such a small lady but as time seems to be turning her into a Saint perhaps not. The children are all arranged in front of the alter. Cross legged and seated on the floor. Apart from Lipstick Girl who manages to procure a chair and the Sisters who are kneeling in a appropriately subservient and Christian way. Princess Josephine is still silent, that is of course apart from the rotation of her head which won't stop swiveling around. The room fills up – with people standing along the walls and in the doorway.

Something started in regards to the service, perhaps a prayer or a hymn, I am not sure but I know that from then on I really began to see the masked intelligence of an eleven year old girl from Shisa Bhavan. The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World was sitting on the floor – unattended but Watching and Enjoying. And then everyone around her stood up. She was left on the floor – flapping her arms and tilting her neck back -so desperately wanting to be part of the standing congregation. I quickly deposited the Princess with eagerly awaiting arms and went to The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World. Now The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World wears calipus – these are material and metal straps wound tightly around her legs and which lead down to her surgically adapted shoes. Ultimately it is really quite hard to push her from sitting to standing – especially if she is perched on top of you. So I levered her up and down and up again throughout the Service – each time become increasingly paranoid that I was somehow offending the congregation by my disruption to the proceedings and at the same time becoming increasingly frustrated at the lack of Christian help. It appeared that eyes were the only proactive part of the watching bodies. Eventually I managed to work out a system whereby I wedged her between me and the Mother's Tomb and used it to help me lift her up. I figured the use of the tomb was not disrespectful but perfect opportunity for the extra small dead Mother in the extra large box to help us both out.

The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World seemed to agree and took her new position in the center of the room as an opportunity to flash one of her most beautiful smiles in the world at all the new faces who were drawn to her. I watched as the New Faces would either pretend they hadn't seen or awkwardly grin back . As the Service went on The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World became increasingly desperate to make the most of her time outside of The Room. She began to fling her arms around, hitting whatever and whoever was between them. The 'Receiver' would initially look horrified but then their eyes would lead them to the most beautiful smile in the world and their mouth could not help but try to imitate. The greatest challenge however was when Communion was offered. I rapidly began to understand why one of the Sisters had been madly motioning to me – we were seated in the popular path right next to the Mother's Tomb, between the congregation and the alter. This meant that as I tried to nudge The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World away from the traffic she was positioned with the prime opportunity to show her Love to all the strangers in the room and her excitement in able to touch them – Whack Whack Whack – as I tried to support her standing body weight while at the same time controlling her arms.

Then it was our turn to join the line. We climbed our way over – one locked leg at a time, arms swinging and mouth grinning and eventually arrived in front of the Priest. The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World pulled her hands together and in a combined Prayer/Nameste and then placed a large drooling kiss on the large silver cross held in front before bowing her head to touch it. I was so shocked and amazed and disappointed at myself for not really seeing what level of understanding my silent swinging eleven year old friend had. I knew she loved babies as she always tried to Hug them from the confines of her wooden cushioned chair in The Room, and during the Mass she showed me that she loves strangers. However, that she is really aware of her surroundings and can follow and remember instructions was something of a revelation to me. We turned around and I asked her if she enjoyed the mass? She moved her arms to bring her hands sort of together and the Most Beautiful Smile in the World was certainly there. Then I had to deposit her back in the bus to be shipped back to The Room. At this point we briefly thought that Monkey Boy had gone on one of his adventures and had been swallowed up in the massive Mother House. Un/fortunately for Monkey Bot in reality he had just been walked back to Sishu Bhavan by a brave volunteer.

The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World had a medical assessment yesterday. One of the recommendation for her Care Givers was to “make her stop swinging her arms around when becoming excited.” I wondered how else The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World - trapped inside a body which cannot talk or coordinate - was going to be able to show her emotions? Can her Smile become any more Beautiful?

Bijoy

To the Volunteers who have worked at Shishu Bhavan;

Bijoy left the World this morning. The Sister visited him yesterday and said he was neither living nor dying. In her words she prayed for God to take him to stop his pain. For those of you who knew him his death should bring a relief.

Bijoy's exact age was not known; but he had been at Sishu Bhavan since he was a baby. He Lived with Cerebral Palsy and died with Hepatitis B. He smiled a lot.

Peace.

Minds 2 Open

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect Babies

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

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

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

Bbbbbbb beautiful Ssssss sounds

Today we are sitting on the floor. We are waiting for lunch. All the other children are strapped into their chairs, each individually being fed. Apart from Ana who is on the floor, curled up, eye lids tightly shut. I am entertaining Gita by banging on the table. “Boom Boom” I sing to her “Boom Ba Ba Ba.” The Tap Tap Thud of our hands on the plastic. Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! I sing to her. Ba ba ba ba ba. AAAAAaaaaah. She replies. I feel a release inside me. A new energy coming from her. Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! I repeat as I Tap and Thud. She has removed her hands from mine and is stroking her face, moving her lips and her Baaaaaaaaaa turns to Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I open my mouth and put my hand over it “AhAhAhAhAh.” She lets me open her palm and place it over her own mouth soon she is also softly producing AhAhAhAhs. And she continues to Br and Ba and Ah. I am laughing through my efforts of encouragement; Ahhhhhhh Baaaaa, Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! She starts to join my laughing. I start to tickle her and shake her so that her laugher vibrates through her own body. She keeps laughing to hear it continue. I pull her onto my lap, her legs outstretched on top of mine, but only reaching my knees. I open my legs and she falls through to the floor. Laughing so contagiously that even a smile breaks over the face of Little Princess Josephine, who rarely does anything but cry. I pull my feet together and she reaches forward for my anklet, feeling the rounded beads and then pulling her own feet together in a mirror image which she cannot see but only feel. I push her forward with my body - “Brrooooooooooooooooom” I growl, and then swing her to the right and backwards and then forwards, with sounds and shouts and taps and bangs and vibrations and laughter sending ripples of smiles around the watching faces of the other children. Brooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom and then screeeach back again. She is laughing.

I am handed a bib and a bowl of mush. I sing Indiana Jones to her (I saw it at the cinema last night) in between tap tap ta ta tap on her table. Her hands reach down to press on mine and I am able to wrap the bib around her neck before she has a chance to object. Next comes the hard part. “Gita Gita!” I begin. I scoop up a tea spoon of mush and while holding her neck slightly back with one hand shake off the contents into her open mouth. Immediately she begins to shake her head. Side-to-Side-to- Side-to-Side. “Gita Gita!” I sing to her. “Gita Gita! I Love You!” I keep singing, letting her know I am there, mixing English words with No-Sense words, which to Gita's Bengali ears and eyes that are filled with darkness, the meaning has little relevance, its only the rhythm which matters. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! My syllables getting louder and louder as the spoon arrives at her lips faster and faster. Her hands are still shaking and head still moving, but she still has an open mouth and the food is still disappearing. “Na Na Na”. She says to me. “Gita Gita I Love You!” I sing back to her. “Na na-n-n-na” she says before I manage to deposit the next load of mush. She does well today. She finishes her lunch and there is only one time were her movements quicker than my reactions as her little arm ended up in her bowl.

I pass her a cup of water. She competently holds it to her lips and tips back the cup. If only she could eat so confidently. “Brrrrrrrr.” She tells me. I realise she is blowing bubbles into the remainder of her water. As always we fight for re-possession of the empty cup. I wash her face with a damp cloth and then pull her up “One Two Three.” Her legs follow the demands which I made of her arms. We walk over to her cot and I begin another small routine which I have replaced from the usual 'lifting and depositing' of 'dis-abled' children. I pull down the bars and place her hands on the bed. Next I reach down and place both of her feet on the bottom bar of the cot so that she is now about 10cm from the ground. I lift up her knee and place it on her mattress. As if on auto-pilot she grabs the mattress and pulls herself up into her bed.

Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! The bell rings. “Auntie Auntie” a mashi quickly motions for me to leave. I whisper a Good Bye to Gita. I turn away – I turn back. Gita is sitting facing me. Hand brushing over her lips “brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr” I am not sure if she has yet sensed my distance. I Wave another Good Bye. I smile. A stupid wave. I walk away, hands by my side, ears wide open.

There is a new sound which Gita helped me to find today. It was a sound which I heard for the very first time; it was the sound of Gita's Voice.

Open Ears

Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA!

Exploring sounds. Walking around with my eyes closed. Trying to imagine never to have known sight. Trying to imagin the intensity of her other five sense; the power of touch, of textures, of temperature, of vibrations and of movement. Her strength of smell as she pulls my fingers towards her nose if I have washed my hands with soap and disinfectant before feeding her. Trying to imagine how intimidating it must be to have taste put into your mouth and how those tastes taste. Trying to imagine how to make sounds, how to talk, how to learn what 'things' are and 'who' people are when they remain invisibile. Trying to Listen. To hear my own voice. My own laugh. The whirl of life around me. Trying to imagine the courage which she has to explore this world.

Today, during her daily exercise regime, we explored the roof. Gita and the other children are brought up to the roof (for as long as the rain holds out) every evening for sunset. Usually she is left to play with the toys, ride a bike or is swung around, but always surrounded by action and activity. After successfully side-steping the mashis we began our daily exercise regime and began our Climb to the Sun again. We were rewarded by our determination by finding a 'quiet' roof, ready for us to explore.

With Gita's hand in mine I guided her over to the wall, and placed her other hand next to the hot brick. We walked around the outside, our bare feet - Pat pat Pat pat - on the hot and uneven concrete. I looked down onto the streets below. I don't need to lift Gita up to be able to 'see' as the muffled noises of the yellow taxis, the rickshaws, the fruit sellers rises up to us. Despite this it still seemed silent. Wind finding our faces. But the air still felt still. We walked under the lines of washing, the sheets brushing against our skin. I move her hand to hold the wire line. She moves it slowly backwards and forwards then faster and faster and faster. I kneel down to her level and listen very carefully. Ding Ding Ding Ding. Such an incredibly soft sound. Then her attention is moved. Her hand follows the line and she finds what she is looking for. A plastic clothes clip, spinning 360 degrees with the movement of the thin wire line. Rattle Rattle Rattle it spins. Rattle Rattle Ding Ding Rattle Rattle Ding.

Pat pat Pat pat. We walk slowly on. Her right palm reached out. Waiting. Two large plastic barrels. Turned upside down. Warmed Hot with the Heat from the sun. She strokes the side but then her hand remains still. Tap Tap Thud Thud Da Da Da d d d d. I randomly create different sounds from the outside to the edges. She doesn't tap herself but instead she moves her hand on top of mine and pushes. Faster and faster she makes me bang. Both of us listening. And then I stop. Silence.

Pat pat Pat pat. We walk on. A soft drip. Her hands feel around the top of a red bin filled up with water. I wait in anticipation. Her hands become wet. Without even a moments hesitation she leans forward. Arms right down, head following, legs trying to lift. I am smiling so much, but I pull her out. I want to let her jump in and splash and explore the Wet. But for now I unwillingly try to restrain her. I have to. We are meant to be downstairs in the 'nursery' and not exploring the amazing sounds of the mundane roof. I have already ignored the protests of one mashi, which was easy as it was in Bengali, and my replies of revolution in English. But I don't want to jeopardise any of our future morning adventures by bringing down a soaking (smiling) wet Gita. With a reluctance equal to Gita's determination, I hold her back. She pushes her body onto my arm and learns forward. Her arms submerged. I close my eyes and let her splashes touch my skin. It is warm, moist, refreshing, and very 'different'. The wind touches and combines to produce cool, stinging sensations. But Gita is still trying to climb into the bucket and the only way I have to stop her is to do what I know will always work. I tickle her and tickle her until she is laying on the floor with her contagious laugh, laughing so loudly that I am also laughing. Almost as if there was CCTV a mashi appears bringing with her what I can only imagine to be shouts of objection as she takes Gita from in front of me, lifts her up, and carries her down the stairs. I feel annoyed as I wanted Gita to practice walking down the stairs on her own. But really there is little I can do apart from follow. Pat Pat.

I am still smiling so much from Gita's laughter. It is still rippling through me.