Eyes still Opening

I hardly sleep. I have packed my sleeping bag and the Indian Winter which claims each night is cold; even in my bed, my own room, its still cold. Someone is playing a guitar badly on the roof top of the hotel opposite. The happiness of the singing is annoying me. I am sad. Every time I feel the sting of the salt in my eyes I chastise myself. Grow up! I tell myself. You will be back. You are going because you booked the ticket so accept responsibility for your decisions! But my advice does little to soothe my self. The voice of my father echoes in my ears. 'So why are you going if you are happy there?' So simple. So true.

In the morning the communal alarm clock wakes me from a crazy dream. Faces of India appeared to say good bye to me. The most bizarre of all was Vijay who poked his head around the door wearing his yoga shorts and sports cap, looked uncomfortable and confused and then turned around unable to wish me farewell. The echo of the muezzin call fades into vibrations mixing with the disappearing creations of my subconscious. My eyes open and I contemplate a hundred thoughts at once: The height of the ceiling, what I still need to pack, that today has arrived and today I will leave India. I debate a final cold water bucket shower, and despite the luxury of 24 hour running water I am not in the mood for its icy fingers to kiss my skin and numb my bones.

Instead I fight my dive gear back into my rucksack, pay the Old Man his tip of fifteen rupees and wake The Man Outside.

Fortunately, The Man Outside is laying in his usual sleeping spot but I was still reluctant to take him from what I know to be a sleep scattered with car headlights and the ache of rock hard concrete. But on my last morning I wanted to give The Man Outside a gift of my Clouds in the Sky Yoga Mat. I knelt down besides his mummified body – a donated sleeping bag engulfing him with the added security of his blue blanket sealing his head from The World. He peeked through the edge of his covers. Like an undercover agent I passed through the rolled up mat. Long fingers extended and lifted the corner of the mat to inspect the Rainbows and the Clouds it contained and then slowly continued to pull it into the safety of his bundle of sleeping possessions. I handed in another bag of unwanted trivialities: An apple (to keep the doctor away), batteries (so I didn't have to throw them away), socks (to fit snuggly under sandals), candles (in case the street light pops) and an assortment of papers and magazines (to provide a mornings entertainment, stimulation and recollection.) I said a 'Good Bye' but I did so quietly, aware of how intrusive I have already been walking into someone's bedroom uninvited, and at the same time surrendering to my innate aversion to farewells.

A new friend appeared. Her smiling eyes absorbing a little of the sinking feeling flooding my body. She took a bag from my collection and together we woke up a taxi driver who was sleeping in the back of his shiny yellow Ambassador. For the privilege (or rather luck) of being the first customer of the new day, only seconds of bargaining were required to ensure the use of the meter, and my dive gear and yoga books were deposited. And then finally - for the final chai – a staple of my time in India, a tribute to the friends I had shared a chai with, friendships which had even been secured over a chai; to all the early mornings at the Mother House where I would pour a triple serving of chai and try to tempt my eyes wide open; to the incredible morning chais at Sishu Bhavan where I would leave Gita for twenty minutes and actually meet those who I was working alongside – the doctors, the students, the mothers, the social workers, the poverty tourists; the utopic, the committed, the shocked, the brave and the naive. In memory of the night buses which would screech to a halt in the middle of nowhere-chai heaven; and to all the chai wallahs and their boy servants across the country, who I have watched as they expertly boiled tea leaves, added just the right amount of sugar and then a whole heap more, and then who pour a hot sweet comforting cup of chai with a taste which was always totally and utterly unique. As I sipped my last chai on Sudder Street, and rolled the clay pot between my palms, feeling the chalky residue and then tasting it between my lips, I heard the depth of my breath as my senses pulled within; a self protection to the tears which would undoubtedly fall if the mind kept thinking as much as the eyes kept seeing and the ears listened. I spoke distractedly with my new friend of her planned work with children in Kathmandu, and I felt the echo of my own indecisions reverberate through my thoughts. A ting ting ting snapped me back to the present as I stared into the face of a sadhu. I smiled in response and he reached up to paint my forehead with a red dash adorned with a white dot. A dash to symbolise the so-called 'third eye'; the eye to see deeper then everything which is superficial. A dash invisible to me but which will accompany me across the ocean – a textured physical mark of this morning, this chai, this country; this potential memory and so much more.

I hugged my friend as she left to work at Nirmal Hriday- the House for the Dying and Destitute which had shaped my first days in Kolkata, intensified my reactions and held a cracked mirror up to my own fears and inadequacies.

I pulled the taxi door shut. Bang, Click. My mind whirled through the past, present and future. I chatted – relaxed, reluctant, anxious - with the taxi driver as I remembered my first – nervous, excited, wide eyed - journey into the city. As we drove through the slums I spied Prem Dam and thought of the severely disabled children who I had watched perform a Christmas musical. I remembered how they had smiled and swayed and singed and drummed with a diligence which had proved their potentials. I realised how familiar these once alien streets were, and how much I have learned and understood and how much I have still to learn and to understand, to see within this myriad of a country – this maze of cultures, contradictions, poverty and riches.

The taxi left the illicit rickshaws and decrepit buses of the road and pulled into the cultivated concrete car park of the airport. I watched as waiting relatives played cricket to an audience of taxi drivers, while Muslim men held their heads high, intricately crotched white kepiah shining out their recent pilgrimage to Mecca. Another click bang click. My spontaneous smile betraying my emotions as the taxi driver insisted on finding a wobbly trolley to transport my luggage. I would see him soon I told him and then I followed the wobbly trolley as we both wandered aimlessly into the airport. Mixed emotions, confusion, weighing down my heavy footsteps. Willing my ticket to be cancelled again, wondering if fate were strong enough to pull me back to the middle of the chaos I did not want to leave. I spoke a of 'Namaste's' as I filed through passport control and back again. And then finally the wet ink stamped down on my precious Indian visa and I walked into the departure lounge. Filled with business men, rich families and a scattering of typically dread-locked tourists I zoned out of the no-man's land around me and stared through the soundproofed thick glass windows. I submitted to my senses and as I did, I almost felt my iris's dilate as they tried to absorb a final image of India.

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.

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.

Climbing to the Sun

I have become far too attached and I have no idea what to do about it. My solution today was not to go to the orphanage and use the time to write instead. I have been going every morning and I am totally addicted. I have found such an energy with Gita and I look forward too much to seeing her everyday. By the evening I am still singing stupid tunes or tapping random sounds out. I think of her and think of her life and her options and how beautiful she is and it makes me happy and sad. I hear sounds – so many more sounds than I have been conscious of before, and this is not just because Kolkata is a noisy noisy place, but because she makes me Listen.

Yesterday was a particularly powerful day. As usual I found her sleeping on her plastic rocking chair/ dining table. I used to wonder if it was because her and Ana had been given too much medication, which is why they are the only kids (and usually the most active 'disabled' ones) who find it so difficult to wake up in the mornings. But apparently the only medication that they receive is a vitamin complex syrup. Perhaps seeing no light makes the little bodies harder to adapt from night to day...

I try to tickle her awake and tap on her table and eventually she reaches for my hands, places hers on the outside of mine and begins to push them together. Clap Clap Clap.

Their breakfast appears. All of the 'disabled' children eat food which has been turned into mush, but Gita is one of the only children (along with Pete, a lovely boy who also happens to have Downs Syndrome) who eats the same food as the active children – but again only after it has been 'mushed'. I tie a bib around her neck, which isn't easy as she lifts up her hands to try and find mine. Today she is wearing a particularly fancy dress, which means that breakfast is likely to be a particularly messy affair.

Gita and Ana are always wearing matching outfits, both of which are shiny and bright. A new volunteer asks me if they are sisters, which I guess is an improvement from my first day when I thought they were brothers. Regardless of this unconventional uniform, new volunteers often subconsciously pair off children with the same disability, same haircut and same sex, as siblings. But I guess its because these children often share the same traits. Gita and Ana both sway from side to side, or kick their legs, while both of the baby Princesses (Sharma and Josephine) are both so light, with floppy arms and legs and matching white leather 'adapted' shoes. I guess its tough for these little people to create their identity when none can talk, choose their clothes, have any personal belongings and are seen first as a diagnosis and then second as a child.

I take a steel bowl containing two plain biscuits, pour in warm milk from a bottle and then 'mush'. The first spoonful is always the hardest and then once she has tasted the food on her lips the next spoonfuls are easier to deposit. I shout “Gita” to her followed by “Kana”. Biscuit mush is now on her lips and her arms have began to wave around her ears. I have to be careful to keep the bowl out of firing range while at the same time keep it posed ready to catch any rejected mush if she decides to lock her jaw shut. This morning I have it easy and Gita doesn't need so much persuading, and after one month I have learned that the key is continuous interaction.

“Give me a G - G!” I shout at her and bring the tea spoon to her half open mouth.

“Give me a I - I!” and so it continues until I have spealt her name tens of times and the milky mushy biscuit bowl is now shared between her tummy, her face and the table.

“Hurrah! Wonderful! Hurrah!”. I pour the remaining milk into a plastic cup and I put her hands around it. She takes it and brings it to her mouth. Finishing all the contents but leaving the edge of the cup pressed against her lips. I try to pull it down but she resists and presses her face against its rim. She needs to learn how to feed herself, but first she needs more confidence with food. I have no idea why blind children find it hard to eat – in fact maybe they don't – but Gita and Ana certainly do. I guess it must be very strange putting something you can't see into your mouth. I have been trying to help her to use the spoon herself, but whenever I pass it to her she just throws it down on the floor, preempting the ding by quickly placing her hands over her ears. I am hoping that once she is able to eat on her own perhaps she will be moved over to the 'active' section. At the moment she is surrounded by children and babies who can hardly move, when her only 'disability' is the absence of sight.

In the past month I have been trying to make her more independent. When I first came she would walk by shifting her weight from one foot to the other, meaning that she wouldn't go forward just side to side unless she was pulled. Now she will happily totter slightly behind me as we hold hands and whenever she lifts up her second hand to join her first hand I take it away and direct it to her side. Slowly she is gaining the confidence to walk forwards and occasionally if I stand in front of her and clap and call her name she will take the steps on her own. Today however, she did something amazing. We were walking up and down the stairs. Her 'exercise' which after making myself her personal trainer, I decided was a necessity. This required determination from both of us, as the mashi's aren't always so impressed with my training routine, but thankfully they are often too busy to notice me innocently walking out of the door and up and down the steps to the roof.

“One step; Two step; Three step..” her left hand is still within mine and her right reaches up to touch the cool banister. The steps must be enormous for her. It would be the equivalent of me climbing up a pile of chairs. I am always one step ahead with tension in my arm so she knows to keep moving up. She places so much weight on my hand which I keep trying to transfer to the banister. “Four step; Five step. Six step” At this point we are joined by tiny Monkey Boy from the active section. He races under my feet causing Gita to collapse into me. But as always she makes no sound and just pushes herself back up. The word 'Resilience' doesn't even come close to describe Gita's determination. Tiny Monkey Boy is trying to pull down a large piece of plywood from the stone landing. I manage to reach up and hold the plywood with my right hand disabling Tiny Monkey Boy. Tiny Monkey Boy throws his weight towards the plywood. I tell Tiny Monkey Boy to stop which he replies to with a big toothy grin. I grab his arm and pluck him into the air and turn around to realise that I have let go of Gita. She has reached around to join her left hand with her right on the banister. She has one left foot raised above the step reaches forward and then deposits it safely and securely. She leans into the banister and pulls up her other leg. I am left standing mesmerized, with a Tiny Monkey Boy dangling in my hand. "Seven step, Eighth step” I shout trying not to let my hysteria distract her “Nine step, Ten step.” I am close to tears. I deposit Monkey Boy (who immediately returns to his own personal mission of attack and destroy) and grab Gita: “Gita!!!! Well Done! Gita! You are AMAZING! Well done!!” I am so happy. This shows she can easily walk on her own. I am so so so proud of her. I lead her onto the roof pick her up and swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing her around. Feet lifted off the ground and dress floating outwards like a flying ball of sun.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee round and round we go. The sun shines down on us, reflecting off the tiny silver pieces on her orange dress and stinging my eyes. She is glowing. She is laughing and laughing and laughing until I no longer have the power to turn her as I am laughing and laughing and laughing.

Pavement Restaurant

Another lunch time at the train station. Just the phrase sounds so stupid! As if I am going for lunch at the train station, rather than handing out lunch to fifteen of hundreds of hungry people. Anyway, today it began a little differently. Me, Muhammad and Deepta, standing in the middle of the multiple no lane road, waiting for a lull in the zooooming buses and the army of taxis to run across to the other side when we saw Fadi. I know its only an expression, but really, my heart nearly stopped. With his sandals on his hands Fadi was crossing the road. Pulling himself across the tarmac, trailing the stump of his leg behind him, with his bundle of possessions tied around his waist. Buses stormed passed him, taxi's careered around him. He appeared like a stray dog, caught in the middle of the rush hour traffic, while we were stranded watching, wishing, hoping with a collective determination that the bus drivers will see him, that the sprinting taxis will not accelerate until they have passed him. Miraculously he makes it. I feel the collective relief from our small group. Without even saying one word to the other we turn and dodge our way over to his side of the road. Fadi looks up. Smiles. Hands in Nameste and then begins to untie his bundle to reach for his half a cup of a hollowed coconut shell. Muhammad fills it up and then pours water over his hands, while Fadi rubs the bar of soap between his palms. Deepta and I empty the small plastic bags of daal and fish out into the cardboard box. Two chapati's are placed on top and then we turn to go, leaving Fadi sitting at the side of the road. Half a meter away from one of the busiest intersections in the city. Eating his lunch – just how he lives his life - at exhaust level, surrounded by traffic, fumes and horns.

Next stop. The old couple in the car park of the train station. The (Angry) wife isn't there, but other residents of the car park point to her mute husband. We follow the pointing arms and find Harry sitting cross legged outside the northern entrance of the train station. Surrounded by moving people. He is sitting directly in the sun. The temperature today is 42 degrees. It is mid day. Deepta picks up the bottom of her sari and runs. I watch as she reaches him, bends down and lifts him to a stoop with an arm linked under his. Always smiling he greets her as she half drags half carries him across the road. His small bundle of belongs and walking stick begin to fall away from his body and are left strewn across the road. I leave Muhammad with the bags of food and like Gita, lift up my long trousers in order to be free to run over to collect them. One old wooden stick. One dirty cloth. One empty water plastic water bottle. We return Smiling Harry to his usual shady spot. He is still clutching a soggy banana. Deepta takes it from him and places in the lunch box we have just prepared for him. We leave Harry with his smiling eyes sitting in the dirt but away from the cars, the blind feet and the sweating sun.

Next stop. The three meticulously clean men always in the same place. One without legs. One with brushed hair. One with no shirt and long hair, but still so clean. How I have no idea, when even after half a day my feet are black and my kuta soaked in stale sweat. We never offer to wash their hands. They clearly don't need our soap. Instead they great us, take the boxes of unopened food and then sit down as if the pavement is their dining table. They expertly remove the elastic bands sealing the individually packed daals and prepare their own lunch. We walk away and I turn around to see a small green lime produced from a shirt pocket, followed by a razor blade and then shared between the contents of the three cardboard boxes.

Deepta walks ahead to refill our water bottles and then we face the stream of disembarking passengers. Balancing on the side of the platform, walking towards the end. We look for Ramu. Again always clean and well dressed, but today he is not where he always is. The local cucumber seller will keep his lunch for him. We walk on, step down onto the railway track and pick our way across to the other side. Water continues to seep out of my pores, covering my skin. I lift my right foot up to step back up onto the platform. Back into the shade, and sitting at the very end of the platform, as always, are Raju and Niraj. After Deepta's hair attack of last week they don't look so much like brothers, but I have thought too soon as Deepta whips out the scissors. Niraj lets us wash his hands and then begins to eat his lunch, while Raju just watches the concrete as his long locks haphazardly fall down. He plays with a twig which eventually he uses to build a mountain from discarded hair. The crowds begin to come. They seem to emerge from underground as no train has arrived. The people stand and stare, and they don't care to keep their distance, but encroach upon Raju and Niraj's space. The two men retain their same expression of nonchalance and it gives the impression that they share a unique language that only themselves can understand. Niraj is left with a head full of snips – patches of hair next to patches of scalp. Deepta is pleased. She looks up and then welds her scissors at her audience. She shouts something in Bengali. I imagine it to be something like “So whose next?”. Either way, as always there is no reaction. We leave Niraj his lunch and as we walk away he walks to the edge of the platform to brush off the strands of hair that never made it to his soft mountain. As he faces the railway track Muhammad turns and rushes back. His limp making his run look cumbersome and painful. I motion to Deepta to stop. Someone is trying to steal Niraj's food. Muhammad intercepts the food and it is returned to its rightful 'owner' and we continue.

The two old women, Laura and Sarah, on separate benches. No smiles. No words. Just a silent exchange. And then Ramu. Sitting on his own. Back against a steel pillar. Covered in cuts and bruises. Deepta shouts at him. But she is not really 'shouting' only trying to ask him what has happened. No response. No reaction. Muhammed takes his hands and washes them. We leave another box of food. I wonder what will happen to the one waiting with the cucumber man? It is a pointless question. There are enough hungry stomachs. Everyday one or two people are feed who weren't the day before. I wonder whose lunch we have just given away. It isn't arbitrary but it is practical. If we have a 'extra' packet within seconds we can find a receiver. We come at the same time every day and if the participants aren't there, there is little else we can do. And today it is Pugli who is left without our lunch. She was not on the station stairs, she was not lying on the ledge outside. She was not crouched next to the rubbish.

We finish our circuit by walking back to Smiling Harry. His (angry) wife is back. She is eating his food. He is sitting in the same place where we left him. He looks up at us and points to The Angry Wife. His gestures are once again supported by the bystanders who seem just to be hanging out like is passive guardian angels. We bring out the last packet, empty the contents for him and place the chapatis on top. Deja-vu.

A gust of warm wind sends a stinging layer of dust around my ankles and a brown tattered plastic bag rolls over my feet. I kick it away. Another gust and I look down to see dirt swirling over the chapatis as Smiling Harry hurriedly tries to close the lid to his cardboard packet of food.

Hospitals to Die For

It is sometimes argued that the difference between being 'happy' or being 'sad' is really a physical difference and not physiological. If we are too hot, or too thirsty, or too cold, or too hungry, or sick, or with an injury, it is our 'physical body' which is suffering. Undoubtedly strength of mind can help minimise the extent to which we feel the pain, but if we are in good health then our sufferings are drastically minimized.

Since I have arrived in Kolkata every day produces more questions. My visits to Topsia Clinic was no exception. Likewise, when I walk through Sealdah train station to distribute 15 people lunch, I pass over bodies. Some mutilated with disease, others just mentally mutilated from a life of being 'Just Another Poor Man', or Woman, or Girl, or Boy, or Babu. Sealdah train station rose particular questions for me because it is right next to Nilratan Sarkar Medical College and Hospital; a state hospital. Yet people remained slumbered outside. And if medics or volunteers find someone near to death, they are transported to the Mother House rather than a few meters to the hospital. There are even cases where volunteers find patients in situations of severe neglect inside of the hospital and have had little choice but to carry them out and take them to Kalighat House where at least they are washed, feed and watered. Strange?

And what of the Mother House dispensary at the entrance to the train station which provides basic first aid and bandaging to the poor when the poverty stricken should receive medical care at radically reduced rates from the state government? And what of food rations available for those unable to provide for themselves? And what of free hospital beds for those who need operations? And why the need for Topsia Clinic if there are locals doctor? The State of West Bengal has after all been governed by the Communist Party of India for the past thirty years and one would think that there would be some sort of social safety net for the ill, injured, disabled, single mothers, child mothers, refugees or those still chastised by the remnants of the caste system? The answers my friend? Complicated.

I quizzed the Nurse. I received irate replies. The Nurse spoke passionately and with conviction and left me with little doubt that he is filling a gap out of necessity rather than charity. The doctors he replied are expensive. For the anonymous poor, destitute, refugees, mentally challenged or orphaned, finding the correct paperwork to receive their Right to medical care is not always an option. Without either papers or payment patients are refused treatment. And if they are able to find the papers, bribes might be necessary or waiting lists longer than remaining life energy. Besides, health care is still not free. In the government hospitals there is a ration of free beds, but a diagnosis and operation still needs to be paid for – even if at a radically reduced rate. For the poor, this means that they often wait until they are severely sick before trying to borrow or beg the required money. A blood test costs 30 rupees, which is the equivalent of about 35 British pence, 44 Euro cents, or 70 US cents. 30 rupees could easily feed a poor person for a day.

In regards to the local doctors, the Nurse argued that diagnosis's are given at a distance, and hands-on care is rare. Although many of the doctors have received their full medical training they haven't been able to pay for the final exam. Ironically this is a blessing for the poor who can't afford to go private, as once certified many Indian doctors are either working in private hospitals or overseas, where the conditions are much less challenging. The 'brain drain' is flowing quicker than the education system can refill. As for the hospitals, “corrupt and inefficient” seems to be the general reply when I ask the opinions of locals or medics working here. Patients are often turned away, or must bribe there way in and then once there, although the operations themselves are viewed as sound, there are long waiting lists, piles of paperwork to negotiate your way through, and a shocking lack of basic sanitary care.

Today I accompanied a long term volunteer on a visit two hospitals. This volunteer gave me a blessed icon of 'The Other Mother', is training to be a priest and streaked through the Mother House after Mass the day before yesterday. He is 200 percent committed, equally spontaneous and entirely unconventional. With such a combination he achieves some formidable results. Like the French volunteer I was lucky enough to meet on my first day, it was a privilege to walk next to him. Today helped me to answer many of my practical questions which were still left unanswered. He spoke of carrying a dying man into hospitals to be told the correct paperwork was missing. His response was to find a random stamp, provide a signature and with the appropriate amount the self-confidence return the 'completed' paperwork and have the patient admitted just in time to have save his life. Today I saw that food and drinking water is not provided. Washing sheets, clothes and patients is the role of the family. So what if the patient's family is poor, or far away or does not exist? It should not be presumed that the nurses will clean and dress wounds, and today I saw a young man cleaning his crushed leg with a bottle of savlon. I changed the bedsheets of a man with no family, and Mr Unconventional distributed food and a little money to the select individuals he had helped to help by finding/ buying them a 'free' bed and sponsoring their treatment.

Visiting the hospitals today helped me to understand the demand for free alternatives, and how ventures such as Topsia Clinic are essential for helping the local community to maintain a basic threshold of health care. The denial of essential aftercare and hygiene explained the massive number of post-operation infections which these clinics have to deal with, and which could easily cause repeat infection, amputation or fatality. Once again the conundrum is – how can the health care system be improved if there are non-state ran “free” alternatives, which are preferential in that at least they provide 'care' if not 'medical' care?

More information on the conditions of government hospitals in Kolkata has been complied by the Bengali Human Rights Group People for Better Treatment Prepare to be shocked.

Broken Eyes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kalighat

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tsunami: 2 years on

When one thinks of the 2004 Tsunami the image of a demonic wave towering over holiday resorts and crashing down leaving a wake of human debris is probably the most widely accessible. Live video footage filmed by awestruck tourists caught on the edges of the oceanic uprising was transmitted into the living rooms of horrified individuals and facilitated a collective response that was as spontaneous as it was generous. Emergency aid in the form of food, medicine and clothes were dispatched through international organizations and in many cases delivered personally. The severity of the disaster reminded us of our mortal impotence. Even impromptu wars have roots, but natural disasters often strike with such rapidity and magnitude that we have no alternative but to surrender our desire to tame and to control, and bow down to the dominance of nature. The tally of victims rose with such rapidity that approximate estimates were not given in tens or hundreds but in thousands. In many communities across the affected areas, an exact figure of the dead remains unknown. Piles of rotting bodies carried a new health risk and meant that many victims were burned prior to identification. According to P.Pial, the proprietor of a hotel in Phuket, it was more mentally productive for survivors to underestimate the number of victims; as Buddhists it is widely believed that those who die violently or suddenly will be ill prepared for an advantageous rebirth. Alternatively, they will remain trapped between the mortal and the immortal worlds in the harrowing limbo of the spirit realm. P. Pial admitted that there were still occasions when he is forced to stop and turn away until the faces of the dead have passed. Such fears reminds us that two years on the Tsunami is still a daily reality for the survivors. A re-assessment of the destruction caused by the Tsunami shows that political, economic and social repercussions continue to emerge from the rubble of the coastal communities.

Renewal
In contrast to the emergency relief, the extent of longer term rehabilitation has only gradually unfolded, and this is what explains the aura of permanence which surrounds organizations such as the Tsunami Volunteer Centre (TVC). The TVC continue to tackle ongoing challenges, and are doing so with a foresight aimed at minimizing the consequences of past and current projects. Saori is the name of the brand of clothes and accessories which was one of many innovative ventures designed to utilize inappropriate emergency aid which flooded Thailand two years ago. Saori's overheads are minimal as the materials were largely donated from overseas; large aid parcels filled with clothes, unsuitable for conservative communities and which Tsunami survivors feared would attract dengue carrying mosquitoes. Instead they were transformed into a vibrant line of weaved materials stitched with effervescent colours and textured with an assortment of fabrics. Patterned trousers, shirts, wallets, bags, wristbands as well as tie-died sarongs and batiks are now sold throughout the local communities, and have began to appear in funky fashion outlets in Bangkok. Tsunami dolls have a nearly fetishistic appearance to them; the pocket size dolls are sold either as keyrings or as a festive Christmas decoration. The dolls are also hand-made from recycled clothes and are filled with sand taken from the beaches around the Khao Lak area. The dolls represent the victims, the survivors as well as the donors and come brandishing either the word 'Hope', 'Spirit' or 'Renewal' which is the TVC's affirmative and reverberating motto. To date more than 5,000 dolls have been purchased. Ninety percent of the profits go directly to the women. Two years on and the piles of donated clothing have all been utilized and the two projects now use factory seconds and other fabric scraps.

The TVC also supports an equally originative venture, Wave Creations; a range of beautifully carved wooden furniture, so allegoric of its name that it almost seems to be the workmanship of the sea rather than from novice carpenters. The carpenters are not working with driftwood or the traditional Thai teak, but with the wood from donated coffins. After the Tsunami, bodies were either burned before they could be buried or the aspiration of sea water meant that they were too swollen to fit inside the coffins. Whether or not one is able to transcend the morbidity of the venture, it is clearly another example of locating a practical opportunity for survivors from what would otherwise be shortsighted aid. Refurbishment of both public and private property was required on a massive scale and Wave Creations initially offered three pieces of new furniture to families. The condition was that one member of the family would participate in its production. The project provided each family with more than a material object but with a skilled craftsman, which it was hoped may help the family through the soaring unemployment. Ultimately, the carpenters began to design more ornate pieces for the tourist market and to fill the empty resorts gradually re-opening around the area. The furniture was sold in the aptly named Thaikea.

Another rehabilitation project which has had continuing implications is carried out at Cape Pakarang; a blissfully serene peninsula, surrounded by the ocean in three directions, the equanimity of which penetrates the nearby boat yard. An opportunity to volunteer at Cape Pakarang Boat Yard is certainly no hardship and reminds us that volunteering is not entirely altruistic. It was opened in March 2005 with the urgent mission to replace destroyed longtails in order to provide fishing communities with the means to self sufficiency. Prior to the Tsunami fishing had been the localities primary source of income. During the Tsunami, waves washed over the peninsula in all directions taking with it fishing boats, nets, crates and leaving shoals of fish stranded in newfangled marshes in the middle of swampy towns. Local boat builders have been employed to work alongside the fishermen and TVC volunteers and in the past nineteen months the hundreds of lost longtails have been replaced. The project has not been without challenges, and fraudulent claims have had to be sensitively investigated. Many boats were funded from international donors and as such have been dedicated in memorandum to victims of the sea.

Reclaiming the Tourists
The Tsunami put the coastal village of Khao-Lak and the neighbouring fishing communities firmly on the national map but it also removed it from the holiday brochures of European travel agents. The combined result was an outburst of spontaneous generosity from the rest of Thailand and a disappearing act from the seasonal foreign tourists. While the Kingdom of Thailand refused the majority of the international aid which was flooding the region, it remained heavily dependent upon the tourism industry. The beautiful beaches along the Andaman coast, as well as the world class diving sites surrounding the Similan Islands have in the past been a reliable magnet for seasonal tourists. In Khao Lak, the Tsunami washed away dive shops, restaurants, shops as well as a once abundant stretch of locally owned guest houses and luxury resorts. Two years later the number of independent dive shops has been rebuilt to 12, compared to the 50 or so at the other major diving are, Koh Tao. Unlike the tourist hub of Phuket, which received an immediate (if only superficial) face-lift in order to numb the predicted impact on the tourist industry, the much smaller and provincial town of Khao Lak remained a construction site. Debris continued to be washed up along the beach, once fertile land remained reclaimed by seawater and temporary housing consisting of one room cement blocks and corrugated iron began to take on a permanence. Last year the number of tourists to the region dropped dramatically. This was known as the 'Second Disaster' to hit Khao Lak. This year, people are hopeful, but apprehensive.

The recovery which has already been made is remarkable. Top of the range resorts are opening every week, local women who have reopened their restaurants are helping to teach their new staff English. The beach is beautiful and clean; and for anyone new to the area it would seem a peaceful and tranquil place far removed from the photographs outside the highstreet camera shop, which shows a beach covered in rubbish and to the informed eye – bodies. Some of the larger resorts, such as Le Meridan 'took Khoa Lak' to Germany and Switzerland in a road show designed to convenience once regular agents to come back. And so far it seems to have worked. Old dive shops are reopening. New resorts are slowly filling up, and the common language spoken on the main street seems to be German. However, behind the scenes, new challenges continue to be tackled, many of which are reflected by projects supported by the TVC.

Continuing Ripples
Volunteers have also been engaged in building entire villages. Nam Kham 1 is a new fifty house village, built on reclaimed swamp land. Volunteers built the village with the help of volunteers and alongside its new residents and proud owners, who like those of Nam Kham 2 had fallen through the proverbial net. A major problem after the Tsunami has been land rights. Many people could not prove that they owned the land that their, particularly those in the poorest classes, Burmese refugees and the moken sea gypsies. Paradoxically, much of the beach front which was previously owned by individual Thai families was quickly snatched up by large international hotels, and the once publicly accessible beach is now being filled up with chain resorts, which in turn are being filled by European families, who spend their prepaid holiday in the parameters of the hotel.

Indirectly the TVC has also been a network of support for survivors. Many of the initial volunteers included those directly involved in the Tsunami or who had lost friends or family. The TVC provided a basic network of support and a channel to direct energy into a practical outcome.
Two years on the needs of the local community are changing and the TVC is changing accordingly. It is still receiving a steady stream of volunteers and is looking at a way to involve them in a more socially sustainable way, minimiing the impact on the local cultures, but still taking advantage of this new interest in the area. Plans for more long term home stays in exchange for language classes or Thai cooking courses are being explored. Other new initiatives are also flourishing, such as Fun for Kids which is a new charity aimed at providing public play areas and activities for local children. Meanwhile, survivors are also continuing with their lives. Many of the dive instructors continue to share their love for the ocean while the local people are slowly beginning to return to the beach for picnics and socialising.

More information on the above projects can be found at the following websites:

http://fun4kidsinthailand.org/index.html

http://www.tsunamivolunteer.net/