Chaos

I move all the time. Every few months at least. But it is always traumatic. It never becomes easier. Even when I know I will be back here soon, packing up my life back into my rucksac and sorting through what is left of the tangible memories throws me into a state of chaos. I haven't seen Deepa today, because even down loading the photos from yesterday has again brought that horrible sensation of doubt to the forefront of my mind. Maybe I should stay? The doubt pecks away. Why am I really going? What do I need a break from? Do I need Deepa as much as I think she needs me? – Ow! That is tough one. Perhaps it is this city which infects my affection for it with endless exasperation, which is making me leave. The noise, the craziness, the continual intensity. The stares and exposure which goes hand in sweaty hand with over crowded bodies, absent spaces and chaotic places. But I feel tugged and tied; as if I have an incredible opportunity to work consistently and continuously with Deepa and yet I am taking break? Of course I have my reasons, my justifications, but what about my lack of commitment to my goal? Or is it because I doubt my goal: That I can help Deepa find words? That I can facilitate a space for a better future for the blind kids? I know that for the other work I do – in Sealdagh dispensary, teaching yoga in the slums, even being a clown - this is all replaceable. I am replaceable.

The exception is with Deepa. For some reason, I feel that I know that when I am not fighting for those kids there is no one else who is. The arrogance of my assumptions has called me to closely examine my self; do I really believe that no-one else will look out for the blind kids? That no-one else will try to ensure their education, their exposure to life skills? That no-one else will give them a taste of independence. Of course I don't know the answer, but I definitely feel the pressure of the responsibility, and if I am honest, the power which comes with that – that I have the opportunity to make a difference in a city full of chaos and a world which drives me as insane as it does exhalted. Perhaps this is what fuels my connection to Deepa – the desperateness of trying to share compassion here and a potential outlet with possible success. But then when I write 'connection' the answer I am searching for it given. It is a feeling deep inside, of a common energy of subtle comprehension that I and this little seven year old have.

So yes, leaving, even just for a short time, brings confusing chaos into my mind. Motives, motivations, aims? Continuous decisions for life changing paths.

I am leaving from Howrah station at ten o'clock this evening. I will arrive at Pune in two days time. I will travel across half of the country and be very far away from everything which has given meaning to the present. I look forward to returning. I look forward to leaving.

Back in a little while

I knew it was going to be a tough day. It was my last day at Sishu Bhavan after all – well at least for a while – and digesting the day which is about to finish, I know I have made the right choice by taking some time out. I think I am near bursting point. I am super charged, with an incredible amount of energy but it is taking a huge amount of effort to continue to direct this energy in a positive way. The last few weeks have been intense, and the last few days a culmination of failed expectations and potentialities. I have visited, called and emailed Bengali speech therapists, ngos fighting for the rights of blind kids and yoga therapy centres. I have made personal visits to as any Sisters from the Missionaries of Chairty as I could, planting the seeds of hope and the vision/illusion of a support base. I have tried to share my experiences with other long term volunteers at Sishu Bhavan, hoping that they will be motivated to continue the work with Deepa while I am away. I have updated the folder I made for her last year, showing her progress so that any new volunteers will know exactly where she is at: that she can eat her own food, that she can change her clothes, that she can find her bed, chair, the park. But our connection is unique, and I know she will be lucky to find a volunteer who will be willing to fight for her as I try to, or even to find someone who will try to teach her rather than pick her up and put her down, change her nappy and feed her lunch. The easy life is to go with the flow, and at Sishu Bhavan that usually means turning a blind eye to 'uncomfortable' events, avoiding confrontation and following orders. I have not done that, and it requires much diplomacy and continuous lessons in patience and perseverance and at times unavoidable confrontations.

Ultimately what I have tried to do during these past few weeks is to dedicate as much of my energy as I could to Deepa, without creating reliance on her part. It has been tricky as the dividing line drawn between spending intense and quality time with her and facilitating more permanent and productive opportunities has become faded and the goals blurred. I have such a faith in Deepa's ability to speak precisely because of all the time we have spent together. I feel her potential. The way she sits with me, walks and dances, laughs and trusts me has brought our communication to a much deeper and more sensitive level. And when I compare it to other relationships I have with friends and family, which is often founded on words and visual responses, I realise my friendship with Deepa is totally unique.

We know each other through subtle senses, and ironically, as I am trying to open Deepa up to 'our' way of talking, she has began to communicate in a much softer and at times much more 'truthful' ways. I know she knows me, and likewise, I know her – her tempers, her anger, her love for action and activity, but also her sensitivity masked by incomprehension. And yet during all of our sessions, our games, tears and laughter, she has still to utter more than a broader range of sounds and a impressive collection of tunes – Deepa has still to talk.

Meanwhile, the other half of my focus has been to network with those more 'experienced'. With the Special Language Practitioners, with the local ngos and blind educators. Yet with every door which opens, I seem to be surprised with a deep and wide hole over which I need to leap; decisions which would seemingly not exist in a rational world are brought to question, and I have ended up witnessing intense disappointment followed by renewed and reviewed strategies for success.

Today - my last day for a while - I played the clown as the two girls with the most beautiful smiles in the world lay on the floor and jumped their bodies inches off the air in appreciation. Their screams brought a flock of curiosity from the active section, and before I knew it an improvised clowning sketch was transformed into a full blown performance, with the massis stifling giggles and sharing meaningful glances. After I searched and recovered a matching pair of shoes, rescued Deepa from one of the active older girls who has taken to kidnapping her for a run around the nursery, and retreived everything from my pockets from the little Chinese boy and his partner in crime the wide eyed boy, we made it to the stairs.

But this morning, Deepa was in a different place. My friends told me she must have known that I was leaving. I told them she was just somewhere else. But after a few steps she reached up to pull me down and then hooked her arms around my neck and jumped her legs around my waist. She wanted a hug and she would not be put down until she was reassured that I was with her...I intermittently carried her to the park, putting her down whenever a Sister approached I pacified Deepa by swinging her in circles or bending her down to throw her up towards the sun kissed sky. In the park she took me straight to the big swing-for-ten, and then swung her legs over my lap to continue her hug. Today she wanted reassurance from me, she wasn't sad, in fact she spent most of the day in outbursts of laughter, but she wanted to be very close to me.

At the end of the day I took her to the corner and sat her on one of the big yoga balls. I told her I was leaving, but that I loved her. I told her I would be thinking of her and would be back very soon. I told her that she is incredible, brave, strong and amazing. I told her to have courage, as she was not alone, and even though I wouldn't be there to guide her, tickle her or share the world with her, I would still be with her. She tipped herself towards me, rolling off the ball and leaned her head on my shoulder. She placed her hand on my throat to feel the vibrations of my words and listen with her hands. When no more words came, as my thoughts had moved to my eyes, she reached for my wrists and rolled my blue bead bracelet between her pianist fingers. I pushed the bouncey ball down so that she sprang up and she laughed her crazy, beautiful pure and present laugh.

Leaving

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Thoughts of leaving Deepa fill my body with sadness which leaks out through the meaningless tears forming tiny puddles on the bottom lids of my eyes. Again the same sentiments of last year are creeping through me. I feel like a traitor. I feel like I am abandoning her. I feel that I have not tried hard enough. I feel that I am not committed to her. I need to leave for a bit. The intensity of Kolkata has drummed through me, and I am not at my most productive. The sounds, the smells, the craziness, all that I love, also drives me insane. The inability to realise simple objectives, for rationality to prevail, makes me frustrated to the point that my words become shouts as I type. The abscess which left me unable to sit, walk or bend took too much energy, and although I feel great now, it was another challenge, which needs a little rest to recover from.

I have made the excuse to myself that I am going to see the south of India – where there seem to be many more projects for blind children. In the south there are exciting new clinics from Sight Savers International, aimed at the rehabilitation of blind children into main stream education, or at the sharing of essential life skills. In Tamil Nadu there is a famous yoga ashram for blind children. It sounds wonderful. I want to see it – I want to experience it. I want ideas of what is possible here in India, in Deepa's country of her birth. I want to add contacts to those I already have, and continue to bring fresh possibilities and potentialities to the options I am trying to help Deepa find for the dream of a future outside of the institution. But leaving Deepa even for a few days is tough – let alone for a few weeks. It will be harder to restart; she has made more progress in these past months; she has become so much more responsive to me than ever before - even in comparison to last years visit. But now I choose to abandon her, and abandon is exactly what it feels like. 

A dear friend wrote and to me with words which ran through my eyes, trespassing on the salty pool of my eye lids and then hugging me from inside. Her words triggered comprehension, and at the same time tried to release me from my self imposed 'guilt'. My friend wrote:

“I support you 100000% make the life beautiful for Deepa is a big challenge and you make it so well, do not forget yourself also if you want her to be happy.. and this is the hardest point to reach!! not feeling guilty by taking time for our self... gratitude and love are so important!!!”

My sponsor told me to look after myself, otherwise I would be no good to anyone, 'even to Deepa'. Their understanding and wisdom lunged deeper into my spirit. I am not living up to my own expectations. I am not living up to the expectations, that Deepa should have for me. But Deepa does not have expectations. She has never had control over anyone who comes and goes in her seven years of life. Abandoned by the parents she hardly had a chance to know. Abandoned for being blind, to grow up with the beautiful children around her who she will never see, and most of whom are unable to move or to talk, and those that can, who take her toys and fill her ears with their screams and shouts.

Volunteers come and love her and make her feel safe, and she rewards them with her trust. Volunteers come and love her and then so easily leave her.

I know I will be back soon, but I can not even tell her that. I can not tell her my plans. I can not tell her the research I have been doing on the afternoons which I have not come to work with her. I can not tell her how if she lets herself find words, her life will surely improve. I can not tell her that even though I will not be with her, playing with her and exploring with her that I will be thinking of her. Can not, can not, can not.

I feel her energy. I feel her power. I feel her beauty. I trick myself by pretending this intangible, invisible connection will mean something to her when I am not there to fight for the space for her to learn about and live in our world.

Thoughts of leaving Deepa fill my being with sadness, disappointment, frustration. Hypocritical tears.

Trusts Me

What can I say. I love Deepa. For a child of no relation, for a child who cannot see me, who cannot talk to me, who cannot understand most of what I say, I love her. She is incredible, inspirational, amazing and brave. Every morning, as I walk into Sishu Bhavan, I'll quickly search for her and usually find her standing behind the cots next to the window, or in the corner, banging on the plastic bin which hides the orthopedic shoes. I go over to her and say good morning. A smile will come across her face, and she will turn and look for my hands. She will flick my watch strap to make sure it is me, and she will roll her fingers over my blue bead bracelets, as if she is confirming my identity, that I am not a dream, that her day has began and I am here to explore it with her.

Lately Deepa has began to pull herself closer to me, hanging from my arm, and resting her head on my stomach as we walk to find her shoes to the park. She will hum a tune we sing together – the words of which go:

“Deepa is amazing, yes she is, la la la la laa la la la laaa la la la la la. We love Deepa, yes we do la la la la laa la la la laaa la la la la la.”

She trusts me totally, allowing me to guide her even when I do not notice a fold in the carpet and she trips, or when I walk directly to the massis for her daily dose of vitamins stepping over the kids who lay on the floor all morning, forcing Deepa to either walk on them or fall on them. Or when I hold her hand as we walk next to one of the Missionaries of Charities buses and she taps the tinny metal and then finds the door open and curiosity leads her to lean inside as I keep walking, causing her to bang her head on the door. Despite all of these stupid mistakes, she still trusts me. When we are playing with the Tibetan singing bowl, and the little Chinese boy comes and tries to place his lips on the rim, feeling the vibrations, but simultaneously stopping the sound, Deepa will become confused and frustrated. I will try and control the little Chinese boy, but more children will come and climb on top of me, and push Deepa out of the way. As I try and hold onto the Tibetan bowl and the wooden stick, the little Chinese boy will become angry at the lack of vibrating sound and he will lean over to the closest person – to Deepa – and plunge his teeth into her hand. It takes me seconds to react, but by that time Deepa already has teeth marks dug deeply into her skin which will gradually fade into a lasting bruise. Despite this she still trusts me.

When I do not come to work one day, because I am teaching yoga, or because I am ill, I can not tell her. I can not explain to her why I am not there. That day I know she will not leave the room. She will be walking around the chaos on her own. Grabbed by the active kids, moved around by the massis, walking like a little cowgirl as she hates the feel of her wet nappy. She will not be allowed to feed herself lunch, and instead will be fed. Forcefully. She will not learn, she will not sing apart from to shout to herself, she will not explore any new sounds, or be encouraged to reach her arms out to protect herself. She will not go to the roof, or to the singing sea-saw in the park, or the swirling merry-go-around, or climb to the top of her little Queendom by scaling the heights of the concrete slide. She will not listen to the too many tweeting birds in a cage too small, or feel for the stubby leaves of the bushes. But the next day, when I go and find her, she will reach for me, and smile, and lean on me, and trust me.

I feel like I know Deepa. I feel her energy, her moods, her fears and courage. I feel her power and despite my urge to protect her, I feel her strength to struggle through. I want to give her everything I cannot. I want to give her a future, love, knowledge, experience of our beautiful world. But I cannot even teach her to use the toilet or to find the words to express herself.

Yes I love Deepa, and I wish I had the courage and fortitude to even try to adopt her. I do not.

Universal Language

Sound, consciousness and connection equals communication, but exactly what does 'communication' mean? Every day's musical adventure with Deepa, makes me even more determined to try to develop her exposure to different sounds and in particular to European and Indian classical music. I have placed adverts for old pianos, and for teachers willing to volunteer a little of their time. It would be incredible to present Sishu Bhavan with a huge piano, where the children could go and bang away, exploring sounds as well as actions and reactions. I am practising a lesson of intention and of not putting any negative energy into my ideas, but I also have the little voice in my head, cynically laughing at the thought of Deepa actually receiving music lessons and having some expert guidance. But I know that after experimenting with music, Deepa and we have begun to communicate on a ,much more productive and personal level reaffirming the ancient phrase that “music is a universal language that transcends boundaries and bonds people.” It has inspired me to begin doing a little more research into the power of music, including its different effects on the brain. It is fascinating, and again suggestive that Deepa is definately talking with us, even if it is not through her voice.

It is debated that there is a universal recognition of human emotional facial expression (namely happiness, sadness and fear) and emotional prosody (which refers to the rhythm, stress, and intonation of connected speech.) So are there also common responses to music? Can meanings be relayed without words, body language, facial expressions? In fact can music go even further than words, and express meanings deeper than those imbued by verbal language? If so then Deepa is already expressing herself and she is dedicating a tremendous amount of focus to listening to the music of others. When talking to her, Deepa will continue to flick or tap whatever she is already doing, but when listening to music, she has three main responses: Dancing, frowning and smiling.

The evolution of music in relation to thought and language is still under debate. In his book The Singing Neanderthals, Steven Mitin explores whether music is the universal language – if we beat a common evolutionary drum, which extends not just across cultures but also across ancestral time? Darwin suggested that language came first, and then music, but the alternative theory is that language is the more complex form of music, and ancient musical instruments have been dated back to 36,000 years. Unlike language, music followed a similar pattern around the world. It is made up of seven main notes. It is also used to mark certain ceremonies (weddings, funerals, parties) reflecting its social role. The function of music is also similar as cultures all around the world use music as a way to soothe children, to intimidate (such as the Maori Haka) to induce feeling of adrenaline or rage (such as the heavy metal played into the personal stereos of US troops before battle in Iraq) and to express deep and complex emotions.

The significance of music therapy (such as what I am attempting with Deepa) is also becoming more firmly grounded in science. Music lessons have been shown to improve children's performance in school. After eight months of keyboard lessons, preschoolers tested showed a 46% boost in their spatial IQ. If Deepa has a learning disability, then it goes to follow, that music may be just the stimulus she needs, especially seeing as it is what she responds so strongly to. The National Commission on Music Education has uncovered a correlation between the study of music on factors such as self-esteem, self discipline, the ability to work in groups and higher cognitive and analytical skill. Research by Rauscher also suggests that complex music may 'prime' the brain for mathematics or other analytical work because it triggers the same brain activity. Human neurology also examines the effects of music in relation to language on the brain. Music is perceived in the left hemisphere of the brain (in the angular and supramarginal gyrus area). This is also area of the perception of amorphous language area, which is concerned with comprehension and verbal thought. It therefore follows that perhaps music is therefore represented cerebrally as a form of language.

Often I wonder what Deepa thinks – if she thinks in colours and in shapes, or if everything just a dark empty black. Perhaps she thinks in textures, temperature, or perhaps even in sounds. What I know for sure is that simply because she is not using our most valued form of communication – language – need not mean that she is mentally disabled; at the moment she is just on a different track, and in the words of Einstein:

"If I were not a physicist, I would probably be a musician. I often think in music. I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music .... I get most joy in life out of music."

Nache

How does a baby learn to dance? Through watching? Imitating? How then to the blind babies learn? Today Netu was holding onto the cool iron bars of the cots. Never wanting to sit, and yet for so many months she has been so close to taking her first independent steps. The physiotherapist who visits the orphanage once a week told me in a unique twist of infant development, blind babies learn to walk before they learned to crawl. He explained it was because they never saw an object they wanted so did not know to try and crawl towards it, while simultaneously being scared of what might be in there way. I wondered about the power of sound and the heightened sensitivity to different noises which the blind children possess about whether this could be a stimulus for the baby crawl. I also wonder to what extent the walk before crawl phenomenon was specific to the orphanage where the babies either spend their days sitting in their chair or hanging onto the iron bars as they stand next to the cots. By having to reevaluate the development of blind children in relation to children with the gift of sight the intelligence and fortitude of the blind children, as well as their innate connection with their selves is overwhelming.

'Nache nache nache' sang a massi as she walked past clapping her hands in the direction of baby Netu. 'Nache nache nache' I continued as little Netu began to wobble her body forwards and backwards, propelling her hips towards the cot and then swinging backwards. She was actually dancing to my rhythmic claps. Two dimples had popped into her baby cheeks, as she smiled outwardly, while loving the movements and managing to keep her balance. Baby Mita was by her side, also hanging onto the iron bars, although her taller height means that she flops her head and shoulders over the cot while her legs stand like motionless stilts. Mita also began to grin, and very gently began to swing her body while slowly moving towards me and my sounds. I now had two little blind babies moving towards me in a slow happy dance.

Netu is clearly very clever. Her persistence to learn, to explore toys, sounds and movement is in stark contrast to the majority of the children in the 'inactive' section. Her baby babble vocabulary is growing extensively and now each morning she greets me with a rather disconcerting 'ma ma'. Thankfully, this is indiscriminate and she is happy to 'ma ma' to any of the volunteers. This makes me wonder if 'ma ma' is just a natural progression from 'la la la' and to the extent that this is taken as a word full of meaning and recognition by hopeful mothers? Netu has also taken to the rather harder pronunciation of 'da da'; but as no men are allowed to volunteer in the orphanage, this one is devoid of sentimentality. Meanwhile, she adores 'ba ba blacksheep' and will she sporadically start to quietly 'ba ba' before 'twinkle twinkling' her way towards a 'little star'. If she is seated and unable to do her hip wiggle, alternatively she will accompany her songs by quickly kicking her legs as she moves her whole body in excitement. She has also become a fan of the ipod, and when she hears the word 'music' she will put her fingers to her ears, dimple her cheeks and kick her little legs.

Music also has an incredibly powerful effect on Raki – another little blind girl who smiles and laughs her day through autism. Raki staggers around the nursery before curling into a ball on the floor and continuing in her own private world. But often she will hear me singing and come and take hold of the strings of my apron. She will twist and twirl and turn herself around and around and around, until my apron is in a tight knot of cloth and she has to contort her body to continue to twirl under it. It is almost as if without music she disappears into her own parallel existence, which all of our attempts to play with her are on her terms and in accordance with her silent view-point. But again music is the exception, and for this she loves to share it with others, even if it is just to dance around them, or use their hands for orientation. Deepa is also a natural dancer, and again loves to share it with feet she can trust to dance upon, providing a new connection with the ground beneath her and the space around her as she will waltz foot ontop of foot, hand in hand, around the nursery.

I think back to the experiences I was exposed to in Bali. The world of sound and expression, where 'dance' took on an entirely new meaning of moving through stored emotions and experiences. Where movement stimulated such powerful releases of energy from deep within the black hole of the subconscious. I began to really feel the power of dance – to experience it first hand – rather than as a witness watching traditional dances such as in indigenous Australia or the ritual dances of Tibet. Freestyle dance has the potential to connect us to our deeper self – to the rhythms of life which travel inside of us. The liberation of dance is to allow ourselves to move spontaneously without social conditioning, but surrendering to the music as it carries us on our own journey of expression and emotion. In Bali I used to run a blindfold dance class, which had some crazy responses. People who said they had never danced in public before – or never danced sober – but with the blind fold they felt the music and allowed it to move their bodies. Screams of anger would be released through stomping, shouting, jumping, tears would silently fall, and pure joy would bring elasticity to otherwise stiff and rigid bodies. Without sight it is much easier to be present – to be fully with the sound rather than to allow the eyes to lead the mind somewhere else. In fact, the result of blindfold dance was so powerful that one man nearly danced out the window (to land in the flower bed) while others would blindly move together, building and sharing a tangible energy, while being totally inside their own momentum of life.

It is fascinating that the blind children use dance so freely as a form of expression and are confident to move their bodies so totally naturally, without copying others or being forced to move in a predefined way. Dancing seems to be such an innate reaction to rhythm and one which provides them with obvious happiness. Netu, Raki, Meta and Deepa are incredible dance teachers, and like so many aspects of our world, they have an innate understanding and ability to express, feel and step into the flow without being constrained by social conditionings. They are totally in touch with their emotions, and dance is one of the few ways they have to express themselves freely. There is much we still have to learn.

Freedom to: Sing sea-saw sing

The park was shining today. It was light and bright and breezy. Yesterday I had been teaching yoga all day to schools around the city. It is the day in the week I miss Deepa. Yesterday Deepa cried all day. One massi told me she missed me, another told me she had constipation so she was crying because she had a sore tummy and had no other way to tell anyone, another told me she was crying to go outside and eventually, when someone finally gave in and walked with her to the roof, her crying ceased. So today the park was filled with extra air, and tangible space and a freedom impossible to feel from the roof of the nursery, or to image from behind the bars of the top floor windows.

Deepa took me around. She confidently climbed up the slide stood on the top, and leaned backwards. I smiled at the memories of a year ago, when I would cheer her up the ladder as she hesitantly learned to trust her bent knees. Today she swung her body around and sat at the top, as if she were surveying her Queendom – her little park, which unless was invaded by the 'normal' kids, was hers to enjoy in relative silence. “One, two, three” I cheered as she pushed herself down, slowed by the friction of the cement but still landing in a giggling heap at the bottom. “Stand up Deepa” I whisper to her and she does. Standing and searching for my hand, and pulling herself close to my body. I ask her where she wants to go to next “the seeeeeeeeea-saaaaaaaaaw or the birds, tweet tweet tweet?” “Sssssss” she repliea. So she led me straight to the singing sea-saw, walking next to it, and tracing the angle with her hand as she followed the wooden plank to the ground. Bending down she held onto the iron bar and stepped over to sit – as she always does, back to front. Besides, she doesn't need to face the centre; there is no friend to see. In fact, back to front, makes more sense, it means she can not slide off and hit the ground as the iron handle bars act as a little back to her plank of a seat. She begins to push her feet against the ground. I follow through her action with the expected reaction, as she rises to the sky to fall again. I wait, she bends her knees and pushes up; she is in control. She knows how the sea-saw works, even if it is my hands as the counterweight to her little pushes. We can't play the 'abar' game anymore; where I stop pushing until she tells me she wants to go again. If I did not push after she tried to lift herself up, this would break the rules of the game. But this is better. It shows she is developing her problem solving skills – instead of trying to figure out how to make me push her up and down, she has realised she can do it on her own.

As the sea-saw sings, she shuffles backwards, towards the centre of the squeaking. She reaches one hand back and feels the vibrations of the plank as it pivots upwards and downwards “Oto” and “Namo”. Its hard for her to reach the ground as she has shifted so far back, but she has chosen to be closer to the squeaking and the creaking than to the highs and the lows. After many minutes of otos and namos I asked her if she wanted to move. “What about the 'swiiiiiiiiiiiing' Deepa?” She slid herself back down to the ground, and stopped pushing her feet against the ground. “Do you want to go to the swiiiiiiiiiing Deepa?” She was still. Thinking? Thinking. Yes. She did. She moved her hands out in front of her, searching for my waiting arms. She pulled herself up and took me directly to the swing. Feeling for the iron rope she sat down and began to dribble her feet across the mud. For some reason, it had not occurred to me not to swing her before. But the other day, I was watching another volunteer who picked up another child and began pushing. It was as if the child was a toy, or part of the swing; of the volunteer was a toy, or part of the swing. “Oto pa Deepa” Legs Up. She continued to take little steps with her feet, moving but not swinging. “Oto pa” I repeated as I bent to lift her legs straight as she swung forwards. “Namo pa Deepa” as I pushed her legs backwards, bending her stubborn knees. “Oto pa – namo pa – oto pa – namo pa” Legs up – legs down – legs up - legs down. She loved the sounds, following the rythmn, not with words but with her unique Deepa sounds. I let go of her legs. “Oto paaaaa – namo paaaaa – oto paaaaa – namo paaaa”. Huge smiles. As I stood grinning at her as she followed my sounds with her own confident voice and allowed her body to explore the possibilities. She lifted her legs from the ground and began to move oto and namo and sure enough allowing the momentum to follow. She had figured out how to swing herself.

After many duets of otos and namos I asked her if she wanted to “go to listen to the birds tweeeeet tweeeeeet.” She stopped, and thought and stood and took my hand and began walking towards the tweeeeting. Then she turned to me, pulled me around and walked straight back to the swing, and sat back down, and began again – legs up; legs down.

As the sun shone down her, I thought back to Lao Lang – the tiny tranquil paradise island I had been fortunate to find myself living on last year after leaving Kolkata. I thought back to how I would sit on the beach swing, which was constructed from drift wood and rope and facing the infinite seamless sea. I would swing myself so high in the sky that sometimes I would brush my hair against the bark of the coconut tree from which it was hanging. Forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, thinking of Deepa, and how I wished she could be free to feel the sand, the sea, the freedom of swinging high in the vastness of the sky.

I am proud of her for realising these small freedoms. For making these small choices – of where she wants to go, and that she has the power to play in the way she wants and how she wants. Small freedoms for ninety minutes a day. I am proud of her for developing her communication skills. For listening to my voice, and acting accordingly. She is communicating with me; through her body and through her moods. I know when she is happy, sad, angry and frustrated. And she also knows when I am happy, sad, angry and frustrated. Today when she threw the Tibetan singing bowl on the ground and I scolded her, as I bent to pick it up, she dived her head into my lap, and hugged my waist. She was saying sorry. Perhaps we are finding our own way to talk, to share, to experience the little piece of the world we are able to feel. Together.

Free to Eat

Deepa didn't want to eat lunch today. An hour before she had drank a cup of chocolate milk and eaten a huge Bengali sweet. Even tyeing her bib on was impossible; immediately she would find the string, pull and throw. I gave up and put over her legs in anticipation of the chaos to come. Next came the spoon game. As a way to tell her its lunch time, we usually play with the spoon before. Its a good way to fill the time, and Deepa has become much less threatened by the instrument of toddler torture. After only seconds of making it balance on her nose she picked it up and 'Ding!' dropped it on the floor – again and again and again – although she would alternate in which direction she would drop it, so there were close misses with her neighbour Netu's head, and the water nymph. It seemed particularly ironic that neither of her victims could do anything about the continuous bombardment. Baby Netu can not see the flying spoon coming, and the water nymph is tied to her chair, every moment of every day. In fact the water nymph is tied so tight that the rope marks her tiny stomach and ensures that she can not escape or dodge out of the way of shooting kitchen utensils.

Lunch arrived and Deepa reclaimed her tea spoon and successfully fed herself several small spoons full. Her food is still liquidised. I do not know why. When I asked the Sister she told me that it was not liquidised. I think she was confused with the pureed food which the severely disabled kids are (force) fed. Anyway, the liquidised food makes it even more of a challenge for her to keep the meal of (liquidized) rice, daal and some veggies (the same combo most days) on the little spoon.

Liquid dribbled down her mouth which she tried to wipe away with the back of her hand and then promptly spread all over her clothes, her hair and me. Add the fact that today she simply was not interested meant that the games quickly began.

Deepa was amusing herself by picking up the spoon and then slamming it down in the bowl. I guess a baby game she missed out on, and one which was bringing grins to her face and sticky yellow stuff all over my trousers. I tried to sing encouragement to her, but she just wanted to sing, so would again throw the spoon down in to the puddle of mush and tip her head to one side to listen a little closer. When I manged to convince her that picking up the spoon again was a good idea, she would put it carefully in her mouth and then gently bite down before quickly pulling it out, releasing left over food into a jet spray all around her (us) while simultaneously exploring the pressure of the metal against her teeth and then against her lips.

Deepa lazily stretched her legs into my stomach as I held the bowl in front of her, as she enjoyed the pressure of my body against her straightened legs. Continuously winded I tried to ask her to stop, while balancing her bowl in my hand. I still have to hold the bowl for her, as she is not yet allowed to eat at the table with the 'active' kids. Even if she was, the table is too low for her and the distance between the bowl and her mouth would equal an 'unacceptable' mess. So she continued to avoid lunch and instead leaned her head down towards the bowl. A clever tactic; forcing me to move it to the side while she would then search for my hands to try and make me clap her a tune. Both as stubborn as each other I would try and lift her back up into her little seat and wrap her hand back around the tea-spoon, but the same charade would continue and considerably more food was on me than in her tummy.

A million 'visitors' came in. It is always disconcerting when a large group of visitors appear. They usually stare at the children, are more interested in asking about where I am from or how long I have been here than about the children, or whip out their cameras – for what I am not entirely sure; nor do I want to know. The visitors today were French, they watched as Deepa covered me with food. I commented to one who seemed particularly fixated that she can feed herself, but today she just doesn't want to. He looked sceptical with pitiful eyes. It was the look I needed to say a 'sorry' to Deepa for trying to make her eat when she didn't want to. I picked up the glass of water and told her 'pani'. She reached her arms out and took it, gulping down the liquid. She doesn't drink enough. Her lips are always cracked. But without words she will only drink when and what she is given.

I take her bowl back to the massis and say she isn't hungry – “too many sweets before lunch” I tell them. The reply? “Bring her here”. Not more than five minutes later I am called back to look at Deepa's empty plate. She had been fed her lunch. The massi stared at me expectantly, waiting for a congratulatory look, which didn't come.

The point was not that she could not eat – the point was that she did not want to. Everyday I have worked so hard to give her the confidence to overcome the trauma of years of force feeding by allowing her the freedom to put the spoon in her own mouth. Speaking from experience of years of set meals, at set times and school restrictions, I know how destructive control over food can be. The power to feed yourself is symbolic of so many more liberties. Yes it might be messy, yes it takes patience, and yes it is a freedom that apparently still needs to be fought for daily.

The Wonders of Music

The wonders of an ipod. I can't imagine how impossible it would have been sharing the universal world of music before the digital age. Even with the cd player in the orphanage, the music which Deepa is exposed to consisted of crackling church songs, old Hindi tunes or children's rhymes on a continuous loop. There is little possibility for melodies to be examined or pitch explored. Instead, the music crackles from the speakers and Deepa will usually find a space to dance, and if she has a pair of hands to hold onto all the better. But the ipod contains hundreds of songs from every genre; world music from classical to hip hop at a touch of an (invisible) button. Witnessing Deepa's reaction is incredible, especially as she hasn't made the connection between the ipod and the music, but rather has been woed by the mysteries of the headphones.

The first challenge is finding a place out of the grabbing curiosity of the other kids and the suspicious eyes of the massis, so our rudimentary 'music therapy' has been incorporated into our park visits. We do the usual routine where I try and encourage Deepa to take the lead; from the squeaking sea-saw to the fluttering birds and back to the singing merry-go-round swing. We then sit on the big swing for four people (or a dozen kids if it is Sunday playtime). As soon as she feels the plastic wires of the headphones she will quickly try and stuff them into her ears, immediately relating the object with the sound but unsure of exactly which part the music comes from. I try and pry her fingers away from the wires and her hands from her head, as she buckles into herself to guard against potential sabotage. If I am tricky I am able to maneuver the ear piece towards her ears, and then she will let go of the wire and instead place her palms flat against the sides of her face, securing the ear-piece to ear connection.

Sometimes she has grabbed the headphones before I have selected a song. As soon as the relevant piece is in the correct place and all she hears is silence, she will throw the headphones down as if she has been purposefully deceived. I will then have to coax her to try again by turning up the volume so she can be reassured that it is playing, and then she will allow me to reconnect her. As I do so, she remains incredibly quiet. Her eyebrows knit into a frown, as she protects the headphones with one hand over each of her ears. She concentrates incredibly intensely, and does so with all of her attention as I sit by her side diligently preparing her play list, to take her on a musical adventure across time and space.

Her musical repertoire now includes the Beatles, the Beach Boys, the Monkees, the best of David Bowee, REM, Queen, the Cookie Monster (a real winner), Blasted Mechanism Empire, Manu Chau, Flamenco, Salsa and Ray Charles. However, her strongest reactions have been to Bach and 'The Pianist' by Janusz Olejnicza. The first time she heard Bach her stillness was broken as she opened up her body towards the sky, straightening her spine, tipping her head back and grinning. This initiated a series of crazy rocking movements as her whole body followed the rhythm of the music.

When I fade out the last song, Deepa will wait, fingers still securely protecting the headphones and her ears. Eventually, she will remove her hands and let them fall down. She looks as if she is abandoning them for not keeping their side of their bargain and sharing their wonderful sounds with her. If I try a poor attempt of singing a melody that she is familiar with more or less immediately, she will join me. She doesn't necessarily make the same sounds as me, but she will follow the rhythm and the tone.

It is moments such as these that I really feel I am communicating in a very direct way with her. The other times, it is so difficult for those not familiar with her facial expressions and body language to realise that Deepa is finding her own way to talk – perhaps it is not the most valued way (as we all use body language, but tend to reply more on verbal communication) but she is definately very adept at using her body and facial expressions to say what she wants. The challenge now is trying to help her to tune into speech – to realise that what she says does matter and that eventually words will have a meaning for her because those around her will respond to them. Perhaps it is because she does not trust words; because even her actions of trying to fight off food she does not like makes no difference, or her attempts to explore the objects around her are controlled and their function left unexplained, or because the languages surrounding her are random and actually have no meaning, as “la la la” and “ba ba's” fill her head, along with random baby noises. She also has to filter through the direct and (usually) indirect languages of the volunteers' Spanish, French, German, Japanese, Korean and English, the Massis' Bengali and the Sisters' Hindi. A melody of sounds with little relevance.

I often try and image what it would be like to understand the world from Deepa's perspective. To never have seen the source of sounds, and often restricted from exploring them through touch. To have a very different measure of 'normality' as her peers are mostly physically or mentally disabled, and her carers are continuously changing.

Just try – think of how you learned about the meaning of objects (through show and tell), the function of objects (through watching the cause and effect), how our verbal communication only represents a tiny percentage of our actions, attitudes and experiences. Just think of all of the gaps that are left blank if you cannot see our world, if there is no one to explain it to you, and if you have yet to fully tune into the common perception of reality.

Hug

This evening many people have been asking me how my day was. Perhaps they do this everyday and it is so routine that I just give an automatic reply. But today, the question seemed to stick to me, sinking further into the journey of my memory and raising one stubborn image which was partly a figment of imagination and partly a recent reality.

This morning I arrived at the orphanage and began to find Deepa some shoes and a woolly hat. She was immediately reactive and and began to stroke my wrists to confirm my identify, before playing with the toys of my watch strap and retired hair-bands. The shoes today were imposters into the 'everyday' cupboard, and belonged to the 'special occasion' cupboard. The special occasion cupboard contains all the shiny white trainers and polished leather shoes, as well a pair of white Clarks shoes, with a buckle Deepa likes to flick and a little pink flower which she carefully traces with her fingers. Deciding that everyday should be a special occasion, and that shoes were made to be worn, Deepa balanced her hands on my head while I bent down to tap each of her feet to let her know which to pick up so that she could be fitted out with the white flowered special shoes. They fitted perfectly.

As we maneuvered our way out of the orphanage I was distracted a million times; leaving Deepa standing, outstretched arms searching. Firstly the girl with the most beautiful smile in the world was signing for her recorder, which thankfully I had remembered. She received it was arms outstretched as she stood strapped to the wall. Then after I gave it to her little bow peep with her head of curly hair, grabbed it out of her hands, and stepped back out of the girl with the most beautiful smile in the world's reach. I went to retrive the recorder and in my sternest voice possible (which isn't very stern, especially when facing a extra cute and smiley little bow peep) in order to safeguard the girl with the most beautiful smile in the world's morning entertainment. My reprimand was to backfire as I glanced back to see the girl with the most beautiful smile in the world taking her revenge by battering little bow peep with her musical weapon.

Once out of the room and on the stairs the water nymph who is always tied to the chair had miraculously escaped. The massis say the little girl is 'pugli' as they motion to their heads....'pugli' means 'mad', and as a result she spends her days and nights tied to either a high chair or the bars of her cot. The real reason is that the water nymph has a fascination with water, and whenever she can she will run to the nearest tap and pour water over her entire body. The massis will find her dripping from head to toe, and as a result she is 'controlled' in the prison of her high chair. With an escaped convict (even if it is one unfairly judged and receiving disproportion punishment) in my midst I again had to abandon Deepa pleading with her to hold onto the bannister while I caught the little girl and deposited her back in the orphanage (although no where near her prison chair).

When I return to Deepa she was angry. She pushed me away and then searched for my hands and pulled me back to her. Then she began to cry, in fact she began to scream. Nothing I could say, sing or clap was able to calm her down. She found the wall and pushed her body against it, again and again, refusing to walk with me. The frustration inside of her and her anger was bursting out – uncontrollable and all consuming. Tears poured out of her closed eyelids, leaving their glistening trails behind them as evidence of Deepa's rising emotions. Frustrated at what? At not knowing what is happening around her? Of beginning the routine of going to the park but being left without a word searching the darkness for guidance? Frustrated at not being able to do what she wants when she wants? Or perhaps the nappy she shouldn't be wearing was too tight; the shoes uncomfortable; perhaps she was hungry, tired, thirsty, feeling unwell...whatever the reason, the result was clear. Deepa was ANGRY and would scream and kick about it for as long as it took. Aware of the danger her screams would activate from curious massis and Sisters, I did something I rarely do and that was to pick Deepa up so that I could quickly carry her down the stairs and into the park.

I bent down to pick her up, and held her close to me in case she began to fight. Immediately she stopped screaming. Pure Silence. Shocked at her response, I held her tightly as she placed her head on my chest and allowed me to carry her down the stone stairs. Hoping that no-one would see me (as carrying the children is forbidden) I watched as the anger inside Deepa evaporated, replaced with a calm peacefullness.

Entering the park I went directly to the swing and sat with her as my legs dragged along the ground in one direction and hers sat in the sky in the other. She moved her head closer to the centre of my chest – perhaps listening to my heart beat like she used to do last year, but I sat with my arms around her, feeling incredibly privileged to have her trust while aware of the calming and soothing effect our friendship was having – on us both.

When I think back about my day today; I think of the hug which I witnessed from above, and which I felt with all of my body. When I think about my day today, I realise that Deepa feels safe with me and I feel a fear of betraying her.

Inside the Singing Bowl

The air feels thick with sound. Invisible vibrations waving and spiraling, pulsing as they diffuse and consume. Deepa delicately places her hands around the cool thick brass. The dented vibrations run through her fingers. I place her hands under the bowl and together we carefully lift it off her legs. I gently tap the rim and watch as she soaks up the sounds as they transform and grow and then fade all around her. She straightens her back and tips back her neck, lifting her head up towards the sky. It is the reverse action she does to when she feels threatens and curls into herself. Instead, she opens herself up to the world around her, only when she feels confidence, excitement or joy. Her lips pull back into a strained grin and then she exhales her self back down towards the source of the sounds. The same tone but different waves, playing with her ears as she turns her head slowly in differing directions. She is exploring. I ding again (although a 'ding' bares no reality to the melting echo of the song).

I hold the wooden stick close to the sides of the bowl and then slowly move it around and around and around. Pressing as hard as I can without pushing the bowl off of Deepa's hands. The sound transforms into a sonic hum. It grows through the air, drowning the silence with a quiet shrill.I placed my hand under hers and lift the bowl up, sending a new wave of vibrations down over her head. A frown buried between her eyebrows. Total concentration. The initial smiles replaced by a dedicated commitment to absorbing. The shrill was now a warble of colours, only visible with closed eyes and complete concentration. Not only audible but absorbable. I remove the wooden stick and allow the sound to return the silence to the air. I wait. Deepa continues to listen. I am studying her reactions as she studies the texture of the air. I am in no doubt she can still hear what I can no longer. Meditation, being present. Being conscious of every sound and distracted by no other thought. She was still listening. She was still hearing. She crouched even further down, as if trying to hide herself inside of the source; inside of the bowl of colours, vibrations, waves and spirals, of endless songs, silent and thick, powerful and free.

Birthday Presence: Tigers and Butterflies

A perfect day for the beginning of a new decade. After years of trying to avoid my birthday, my thirtieth was definitely worth the recognition – besides I think somewhere deep inside I had never expected to reach what had previously seemed to be such a huge age. But time comes and goes in a seamless ribbon of events, rippling from one to another as we ride the short length of the stream of infinity. Time carries us along with each breath, until age has worn the body, and experience battles with the forgetfulness of the mind.

I had tried to remember each year of my past birthdays; Thailand, Oxford, Palestine, Nepal.....but the memories are not clear and recollections of celebrations have become clouded with the criss-crossing of events and friends. My memories are faded with only certain smiles remaining: The smiles of snowboarding for my twenty first; or dancing in the streets of Darwin for my eighteenth, a friends parents taking me out for dinner on my sixteenth, the three flavours of ice-cream that I would have to choose to share with my boarding house as friends would line up with their mugs at the ready. I remember when I turned six, and it felt like I had reached a milestone of childhood – waiting for my little friends to arrive for cupcakes and pin the tail on the donkey games as well as the overwhelming stacks of presents which preceded them. The first birthday I think I can remember, although I can't remember how old I was, definitely involved a magician...magic birthdays...

My first Indian birthday involved copious amounts of music, noise and dancing – all at the orphanage. Even the walk to Shishu Bahavan involved an escort by a brass band, the members of whom where wearing bright pink shirts and joking with the crowd as they danced into waiting pedestrians amused at the cause of their delay. Behind them chugged an old van, filled with people and smiling children. On the front there was a polystyrene heart proclaiming the marriage of two veiled faces. I stopped to collect the one hundred misthi which I had ordered from a sweet stall tucked between the butchers of Alimuddien street. The Bengali sweets consist of mouth sized balls of soft deliciousness soaked in syrup which effortless melts in the mouth as escaping liquid needs to be rapidly licked up. The workers joked with us as we took photos of them peeking out of the roof and then proudly standing next to their collection of multi-coloured freshly made trays of sweet treats. Free samples were distributed, and I found my new favourite – a warm mixture of sweet thick curd served on a crispy brown leaf, shaped into a bowl with the help of a tooth pick.

In Sishu Bahvan I handed the clay pot full of misthi to a massi who swiftly removed them for later consumption – which I hope won't be too late. Meanwhile, a friend from Modern Lodge - a Swedish sitar player – tuned his hand crafted instrument in the stair well, while I tried to coax the active kids into the inactive section, so all would be able to listen. The Swedish musician with his Indian sitar sat on the floor as the kids began to edge around him. He began to pluck the delicate strings with his taped fingers (a sure sign of his commitment to mastering this beautiful instrument). The temptation was too much for the children and as soon as the Wide Eyed Boy had broken the imaginary barrier between performer and audience, little hands were every where. The children were drawn to the sitar like bees to honey. The Swede and his sitar began to retreat backwards in a slow bum shuffle, and eventually the concert had moved across the entire floor of the orphanage. Trying my hardest to protect the sitar and fight for enough space for the Swede to actually move his arms, but it was like trying to pry super strength magnets from super charged steel. The Little Chinese Boy with his low vision eyes even climbed on his lap hugging his arms around the sitar. The closer he was the more the source of the sound was revealed. Eventually the brave Swede surrendered and sitar was hidden. The replacement calvary included the blasting beats of popular hindi songs which crackled out of the speakers. Armed with a packet of face paints we began to decorate the faces of the kids, who soon were piling on top of us, in front of us and rolling over our backs, pointing to particular colours and body parts which they demanded should be painted. Protecting the paints required immense concentration as fingers appeared from no-where trying to take ownership of the treasures. The Little Chinese Boy crept up and blew some of his famous raspberries on my arm – a sure sign of appreciation.

Meanwhile, the sitar-less Swede was dancing with Racki – a little autistic blind girl who I think must believe that all volunteers are toys for her amusement. She was holding the Swede's hand and twirling and turning around and around and around as he stood next to her like a needle from a record player. Bruno was sitting face to face with Deepa cradling a baby 'Gibtone' guitar. Deepa was tapping out the tunes onto the guitar while Bruno strummed – two pairs of hands on one instrument. I watched as she leaned closer and closer until eventually she had placed her lips on the strings...delicately feeling each vibration as the sounds flowed through the surrounding air.

A group of kids had gathered in front of class room door. The door is 'protected' with a large plastic sheet. The kids were dancing so that they could watch their reflections and more specifically their newly decorated faces – as they pointed to their moving shadows temporarily disguised as tigers, cats and butterfly's. Giving me inspiration I picked up the Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world and took her over to the mirror. She clapped her hands together and flipped her body forwards and backwards as her face spread even further across her face.

The Sister in charge was surprisingly miffed that I hadn't told her it was my birthday, and insisted on adding to the celebrations by decorating me with a pink plastic garland and then presenting me with an enormous stuffed tiger. Meanwhile, the massis and active kids sang Happy Birthday followed by an enthusiastic rendition of 'God Bless You', sang in both Bangla and English. The Little Chinese Boy came to grab the birthday tiger, but was shooed away by the Sister who insisted he would rip it...but I have a suspicion that a Tigers den will soon be lurking under the cots. Deepa won the packaging – a plastic bag which she crunched and crushed, twisting it as she listened to the sounds and felt the slippery texture.

I left feeling incredibly elated, full of childish energy, and happy that I had an excuse to have a party with the kids. Walking back down the street with my face painted with a green foliage and two '30's one on each cheek, while a tiger peaked out of my bag. On the way home The Man Outside found me, and when presented with the Gibtone began to play a tune – always full of surprises – just like the time when handed the keys to a bicycle he jumped on and peddled off, leaving no trace of his belief that he was kidnapped from London and brought to Kolkata by a helicopter. We went for dinner in the Taj Continental. The waiters discussed whether the tiger was Bengali or African. The Man Outside watched warily as the waiters insisted on posing for photos with what was eventually decided to be a foreign tiger. As I walked home the taxi drivers contagiously sang 'Om Namah Shivaya' – presumably mistaking the '30's for sideways 'OM's but unwittingly singing the mantra of Anusara yoga. I walked home stepping into the flow of the currents of Grace – the beautiful ribbon of life which time accompanies us through year after seamless year., brushing over the past with faded memories and reminding us of the importance of living fully in the present.

Praying for Serenity

Furious. That was my initial title for today's blog. But determined to control my emotions and learn from each and every experience I wrote my heart out and then re-worked and re-worded, until I arrived at a compromise between how I feel and how I aim to feel...Today I was told not to work with Deepa anymore. I am not sure how direct this threat was but the very motivation for its verbalisation has deeply upset me. But I will start at the beginning...
Another morning in the playground and even this is becoming tedious. We go on the slide, the monkey frame, the singing sea-saw, the small swing for two and the merry-go-round swing for one. We listen to the twenty four birds as they sing for freedom in their cage full of wires, and when necessary avoid any shoves and pushes from incoming orphans from the 'normal' orphanage. Depending on Deepa's mood, she will either fly through the distractions or hang onto my arm, waiting for me to lead her rather than take the initiative. Today she was in the former mood – happy to be outside, and enjoying the swing.

Nearby there was an Italian couple, well dressed with nervous excitement spilling out of their actions. They were busy entertaining their son to be. Actions spoke louder than any of the few words they had in common and they each produced potential toys, eager to please the subject of their attention. He was an older boy – maybe around Deepa's age and without a doubt he was overwhelmed and happily followed his new parents lead, gratefully receiving the toys and expectantly hanging off their every look or action. His new father was blowing up balloons for him, which would disappear with a smile as it was quickly taken on a brief tour of the playground. The boy and ballon would then return as if scared to leave the source of such individual attention for too long. These were his parents. An expression previously unknown to him.

Without words to explain, gestures and actions had to suffice, and smiling seemed to be the common formula. Grins welcomed his return, and kind eyes calmed any insecurity. I couldn't stop thinking how terrifying it must be for both the new son and the new parents. The new son would be leaving all that was familiar to him – faces, clothes, culture, food, language and be entering an entirely new world full of different standards and perspectives. He would have to trust his new parents who he still could not speak to and learn their words fast. He would have to hope they didn't tire of him. It will take time for him to understand their triggers, their likes and dislikes, and hopefully his transformation towards their expectations will be relatively smooth. On the other-hand the new parents will have to learn to love a child they have just met. To accept any personality traits they don't like, to live with the temper tantrums, and adjustment problems that might never dissolve. As the child grows up, they will have to answer uncomfortable questions that perhaps they don't know the answers to. They will all have to stay present, let go of expectations, and enjoy the dynamics of a new family. As always, a sense of incredibly wellbeing floods through my body as I see parents meeting their children for the first time. The union brings hope, and although that I know Deepa's adoption is only a distant dream, perhaps there is a chance that someday, someone will free her.

The new son with his new balloons was encouraged to share his new toys and directed towards us. He held the balloon out in front of Deepa, who unaware of its presence stayed still, waiting to respond to my next move. I guided her hands towards the bright pink ball of plastic. She grabbed it and then cradling it like a huge teddy, gently rubbed her fingers over its surface, feeling its dry stickiness and enjoying the slight and random squeaks that her strokes would produce. The new son experiencing the joy of karmic sharing, gleefully ran back to his proud new parents. Wanting to increase the feelings of good-will the little son began to blow up more balloons – with huffs and puffs - floating spheres were released into the air. Some bubble-gum pink, some midday sky blue and some sunflower yellow; their vivid colours contrasting to the faded shades of the swings and climbing frames, lighting up the bleak and grass-less ground. The ballons bopped and bounced as they were blown across the compacted mud; carried by the slight breeze. One by one their journey was gradually curtailed; first by a net of wire protecting a stunted tree, another by the shelter of the swings and finally by a 'bang' as a leafless bush assassinated a sole survivor. The new son continued to blow and blow, producing his own production line of ballons, as the new father walked around the playground picking up the plastic remains of the once self-propelled and perfectly sealed colours of air. It was strange to see someone taking ownership of selected pieces of rubbish amidst the few discarded sweet wrappers, a broken plastic chair and a rotting ball. Here rubbish collection is someone else's job (usually the rag pickers), and dropped items are rarely retrieved. Notions of environmental responsibility appear to have grown from different standards as despite the mass of plastic bags which clog the drains and pollute the rivers, India continues to possess one of the highest rates of recycling in the world, as need prevents waste and it is the poor who picks up other peoples garbage. Perhaps it would be easier to teach a boy from the orphanage – who had previously had no personal possessions, and whose movements were always monitored - about the importance of picking up rubbish. I guess it would be a different challenge with a street kid.

The tiny school in the playground opened its bolted door and a handful of children ran out. Protectively, I took my place by Deepa's side, ready to fight off any incoming taunts but the sprinkling of colours were more of an effective magnet. The new son didn't have a chance to share his presents as the floating ballons were swept up by possessive little arms. With not enough arms satisifed, attention was then turned to Deepa, who continued to protectively cradle and stroke her bubblegum pink teddy bear of a balloon. Picking her up above the searching hands, her balloon was saved and we retreated back into the orphanage. Smiling a smile full of good luck and admiration, I nodded a goodbye to the new son and his new parents and walked back through the courtyards and up the stairs. Deepa continued to explore her new toy – an invisible centre of sound and texture. Certain that a sighted child would not remain so mystified by a balloon, Deepa again taught me a lesson in sensitivity to our senses. She was totally focused on a rubber ball of air - one which for her contained so much curiosity, full of different sounds and pressures.

Walking into the orphanage, Deep's new toy was immediately attacked by the little Chinese boy. I managed to retrieve her ballon with speedy reactions, which took both me and the little thief by surprise. Handing back the treasured balloon to Deepa, I turned to put her shoes back in the cupboard. Deepa screamed. Looking back I saw that the wide-eyed boy had stolen her prize possession; her gift from her invisible friend and which had allowed her to explore new sounds and sensations. With revenge on his mind, the little Chinese boy charged at the wide-eyed boy and 'POP' went what had been nearly one hour of entertainment for Deepa. Deepa was still waving her arms in front of her searching for her lost treasure. The screaming which commenced was impossible to stop. She wanted her toy back and she did not know where it had gone; she did not know that it no longer existed.

The Sister in charge told me she didn't want me to work with Deepa. She said this while Deepa was crying. She said I was making Deepa cry and that she 'felt so bad to see her like this'. I tried to explain that Deepa was often upset everyday – sometimes for no reason, sometimes because the nappy she shouldn't be wearing was too tight, sometimes because someone had burst her balloon, sometimes because she was hungry, most times because she didn't have a clue what was going on. But then I had a realisation. I realised I was talking to a woman who didn't seem to really care. Who simply didn't want to know about the progress that this incredible amazing girl has made. Who didn't want to know about my ideas to facilitate this progress and those of the other blind children because they didn't include the children who are not blind. Who didn't want to know about her staff's mistreatment of the children. Who didn't want to know that her predecessor had requested that I work specifically with Deepa. Who seems blinded to the reality of the children in her care.

Shaking with anger, disappointment, frustration - at the inability for reason to prevail - I took my emotions into my own hands and with no alternative, calmly walked away, leaving Deepa crying and the Sister watching.

There is a prayer in the Mother House. Logistically placed for careful consideration. So far, I am still considering.

Searching for Dreams

I have never been as ill as I am when in India. It is incredible. In Bali I was teaching yoga every day, practising a million times, farming, flying, full of life, and yet after a couple of months in India I have been plagued with an onslaught of debilitating viruses and infections. Even though I have been nursing headaches which feel as if they are hacking away my brain from its bony housing, while tissues and muscles ache as they battle bacteria trying to invade and conquer, the irony is that it is impossible to complain. I have even surprised myself at my silence, and despite the constant fear that this time I am an actually really ill, and the very last place I want to go for help is the local hospital, at least I still have access to medical care. I also have a bed, which is in a quiet room, with windows that might not close but a down sleeping bag which certainly provides a cosy cocoon. I also have as much food as I need to recover, and I have even finally waged war on to the freezing icicles pouring out of my inside water tap. I have invested in a low tech water heater (although this did short-circuit the entire top floor of 'Modern Lodge' while melting two home made adapters) and eventually it worked and professionally heats a entire plastic bucket of water within half an hour. However, I know that the people who enter the dispensary have no expectations. Many have been walking around with severe infections, eating their bodies from the inside and out, for not days, weeks or months – but according to the registrar – for years. Few complain or even wince when pus filled wounds are scooped clean, and all give a thankful 'namaste' with both palms to their head in gratitude, for what is barely a solution but the closest they can get to real medical attention. Often I think we are providing false hope – dressing wounds and thereby delaying the search for emergency treatment, but then again, it is incredibly difficult for homeless, street-bedded patients to be admitted into a hospital and receive treatment.

The latest set back has come back to haunt me after several years. An old cycling injury became infected causing a abscess bigger than a ducks egg and far more aggressive. Thankfully my body has learned a few lessons in self-healing, and with debilitating pain and much patience the 'egg' finally cracked and the infection released. Unfortunately this has meant staying immobile for most of the week, but again one week is nothing compared to a year or more. One of the main reasons my patience has lasted and my complaints have been mere murmurs is because I knew I would be ok. But what of those one the streets? How much fear must they have? Many who I treat, seem comparatively (and impossibly) fearless. And how incredibly high their tolerance must be as they break super human pain levels? Does it gradually feel normal to have huge infected ulcers in the leg? Or is this one of the reasons why the homeless drug users line the streets in the evening and the day time; it is not uncommon to pass a dead man – overdosed and finally free from suffering. Ironically, it is often extremely hard for the homeless drug addicted or drunk to receive medical treatment. (The Sisters at the dispensary are adamant that they don't receive treatment.)

Delirious dreams led me to Deepa, and after reading a book about Cherokee Indians, I fall asleep imagining her running in a vast open expanse, full of flowers of every shape and size. She runs through them as they brush her legs and tickle her face, she runs past still glisenting lakes, magical mountain trees and under rainbows which melt their colours into the sky, turning it into a rich melody of fantastical colours. Behind her rise huge snow-capped mountains, which shelter her with a protective aura. She feels and hears everything and life rushes through her. Every texture, every breeze, every sound. She is completely part of the nature which in reality she has never known. The sun is shining all around her, lighting up the colours in the sky and she continues to run and run. She isn't running from anything, but she is running with everything; with the fresh air around her, dancing with the vibe of nature, every step full of life leading her towards a huge leap taking her high into the blue sky. She flies up into the clouds, higher and higher and higher, her face transforming into a pure smile, before 'splash' she falls into the ocean. A shoal of a million fish of all shapes and colours surround. She is laughing and singing to them and they start to sing back through air bubbles full of songs and sounds. They guide her safely to the shore. She lands on a sandy golden beach. She cautiously touches the sand, rubbing the grains between her finger tips, catching hand fulls of it and holding the heat between her palms. She lifts up hand fulls into the air allowing it to fall through her fingers and over her head. Then she begins to dig, and she digs and digs and digs until she totally disappears. Suddenly I am there, but I can't find her, and her hole begins to fill up with sand as if it is an up-turned egg timer. I watch as the sand follows her down into the ground and then covers up, as if she had never been there. I shout for help but all I hear is a continuous echo, which instead of fading grows louder and then silence. It is as if she had never existed. There is no trace of her. No record of her life.

Awake and my dreams are of her freedoms and independence. But unable to leave my room, my thoughts begins to be consumed by sensations of apprehension. Reading a stack of 'Philosophers Notes' leaves me worrying about my worrying...why do I worry? After all Deepa has been on her own for the majority of her life? Well I guess because over the past months she has made definite progress and feels comfortable and confident to do this by my side. The friend who have visited her in my absence remarked that she has recoiled back into her corner – next to the plastic buckets and 'ting ting' lever of the window frame. One morning my friend gave her a broken toy keyboard to play with and when another friend went to visit over six hours later, she was still sitting banging and flicking the tuneless plastic keys. It takes time to build Deepa's trust, and these periods of absence my set back our work and her progress. Moreover, I have been worried that if I am not there she will be force fed again – unable to be allowed to feed herself. Again, friends stepped in to cover her lunch and I know that she has been supported to continue to enjoy this freedom.

All of this has not only been a test of patience, but a reminder of the need for a more permanent solution to Deepa's progress. I have emailed speech therapists, special needs teachers, international and local organisations working with blind children and charities proclaiming that they fight to provide equal opportunities to blind children in developing countries. The few replies I have received have been empty apologies. So what is the solution? What am I searching for?
I am searching for a way to provide Deepa and the other blind children at Sishu Bhavan with a means to learn life skills, develop and progress until they have fulfilled their potential. The future of the children who are unable to look after themselves will be transferal to another of the Missionaries of Charities homes; many without the intervention and distractions of the volunteers. At the very least, I am searching for a way for them to be able to express themselves and to continue to explore life, even if it is from the confines of institutionalisation.