The Man Outside

I couldn't sleep last night. This is pretty normal for me – always a life of extremes, of either passing out with tiredness or a restless insomniac. Last night the fan appeared too weak and then too strong; the mosquitoes appeared too hungry, my book appeared too boring and then not boring enough. The searching hands of a four year old Blind Queen kept coming into my head, and then Beautiful Smiles and Small Monkeys. I went to the window and looked out from between the bars which hung my clothes drying from the day; my purple head scarf blowing Gita's lice out into the evening sky – or back into my room. The green wooden shutters were wide open and looked down into the courtyard below. If I stood on my tip toes I could just make out the corner of the two plastic chairs pulled together by the night watch man. Hare's bicycle. The massive metal doors from my 'Modern Lodge – the Ideal Place for Tourists' remained firmly closed. Beyond the door lay the man which I had eaten dinner with.

I couldn't tell if the Man was sleeping or just conversing with himself. I wanted to believe that he was awake – like me; looking down upon him. I saw his hand appear next to his laying head and then it would pause. Perhaps waving away mosquitoes? But no, he brought it down to his side and continued the motion. The dark blue blanket which he usually wears around his head was now around his waist. Perhaps he was as hot as I was. But what about during the day when it is so much hotter – when he hides under it? Or when he sits at the table hooded and almost invisible apart from his elegant fingers quickly working his rice and daal?

The Man is always with his blanket but this is because he has no where else to keep it. The first time I met him I was talking on the phone sitting out side of a shop. He approached, bent down in front of me and began to touch my filthy feet. At the time I was too preoccupied with Portugal to pay him much attention but I definitely didn't allow him to meet me – or rather I definitely didn't allow myself to met him. Now I still find his persistent touching of my feet annoying. Now it annoys me because it still prevents me from really knowing him. Because he makes himself different – when I know he is not – when I know he is a Man who speaks perfect English, who even reads English which means that I should be able to easily communicate with him. Who I know has the kindest smile which he gives more to his chest than to his companions as his head is always tilted down. Who I know that has the most gentle manners and who always tries to make me eat the food bought for him before finally devouring it. Who went riding on the back of Hare's bike tonight and then came back riding the bike with Hare on the back. But when I bend down to lift up his touching hands, he stands readjusts his slipping blanket and then turns to the next foreigner and continues the process. For this is how the Man lives his days. Among the foreigners. Watching them and walking behind them, and understanding so very much about our lives and who we are but only giving us the quietest mumbles in return. His comprehension of English and his nifty bike riding skills is proof that he was not always on the Outside. That at one time he had a life not only of his own, or a life on his own, but which connected with people on the same level. Where he spoke to comprehending eyes and read to receive information and rode to go somewhere. Now all of his days and his nights are the same. Walking around the street which he has literally lived on for over ten years, bending down, standing up, bending down, cloaked in his blanket of a bed sheet. I watch him laying at the side of the road, waving his hand to himself. He places them carefully on his chest and then lifts one hand up to continue again. I am mesmorised by his precise movements, I feel intrusive blindly watching him.

Suddenly and without warning he leaps up. A dog is frozen in time and then snaps from its trance and runs towards the Man. The loud Beeeep of a car warns of its approach but it is an unwelcome alarm clock for the Man, who with one arm over his eyes to shield him from the white light jumps up to shoe the jumping dog away,. The light passes and the startled dog runs down the street. The Man stretches back out on his patch of road: in front of a laundry service, and opposite a rubbish pile, next to the gutter of the sewage water and underneath a sign reading 'U.S Travel'. The Man pulls his blanket firmly over his head.

Invisible Birthday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monsoon Time

Monsoon. Boom. RAH! goes the thunder. Dark in the night. Sounding its arrival. Cracking the skies open, revealing an earthquake from above. I am here, it seems to scream to the entire continent. Water every where. Falling, rising, flowing. Relentless. Bashing down from so high above the land it tries to soak too deep into. It hits the tiled roofs, it triiickles through the holes and then it pours. The ceilings seem to rain. Pipes overflow into waterfalls, and waterfalls fall flushing down the side of houses – outside and in. Trees creak. Bang! Horizontal on roads, cement hugging escaping roots. As the rain eases the water rises. The silence of the skies is replaced by chaos below. Already there are rivers filled of people where rickshaws drivers still try to run while their full carriages appear like boats, bobbing awkwardly through the surge of water. Wheels and Water both trying desperately to keep moving. The wheeling wooden wheels pulled by determined skinny men, sweat soaked, Water Washed; determined to take advantage of the new business opportunity as water laps over the exhausts of stubborn motorbikes and drowns escaping taxi's. Chug! As they splutter to a stop, wheeled to higher ground and then abandoned. A bicycle chained to a metal post by a rusting bicycle chain rises as if by magic.

Emergency forces are called: Rubbish collectors. Thin skinny sticks, poking and pulling: retrieving refuse which is still thrown without foresight. A whirlpool whizzes around and around. Swirling and pulling. A plastic bottle bobs in circles marking the whirling center. Pedestrians try to wade around it as more are created: man holes revealed to try to help the water find its real river and leave the roads to be. Splash Wwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaa Splash as our legs move through this new liquid pressure. Streets crammed with moving people trying to walk when they could be swimming. Flip flops floating from feet. Plastic bags tripping and sticking. Sediment marking and abandoned needles floating.

Thrash! As a straw brush breaks the surface of the river road, followed by screaming children, chasing the swimming river rat which paddles next to wading legs. Splaaaaaaaaaaaaaaash sings another stream released from a peeing man. Urinating in the public urinals – the street river. Meanwhile public water fountains continue to pump. A man digs around in a new concrete mote. He has found a colony of flat black worms, winging their way expertly around through the water. Shops are evacuated from within – goods placed higher, and customers sitting crossed legged in cafes.

Water rushes everywhere, relentlessly swallowing slums and sinking plastic houses as new ones are hastily constructed – a paddling pool above your flooded bed. Children yawn in class as they cannot sleep laying in the rain. Pavement 'houses' crumble, the train station bursts with seasonal-new arrivals as its permanent residents try to mark their territory. Mobile clinics are rendered immobile as epidemics are given free reign.

Government officials speak of 2010 as the 'dry' monsoon – when the water will finally be allowed to flow underneath the concrete rivers.

Hour Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bijoy

To the Volunteers who have worked at Shishu Bhavan;

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

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

Peace.

Humanity

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

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

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

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

Minds 2 Open

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect Babies

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

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

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

Too Late

I talked excited about my day. About how brilliant Gita was. About how she made me smile, about how I couldn't help but follow her laugh, and as she laughs for most of the day I too laugh for most of the day. Really she gives me so much energy. I spoke about how we danced and shouted la la la tra tra la da da da daaaaaaaaa. About how on the count of One Two Three! I would run and Gita would lift her second hand to join her first and manage to trail behind me, smiling but scared and then laugh with relief and enjoyment. Most days I leave Shisa Bhavan so refreshed. As I was talking I was eating chocolate cake with hot fudge sauce and it was delicious. The sweet warm taste added a new form of energy to my body. I took tiny slices with the edge of a tea spoon trying to make it last as long as logically possible. Eventually I stopped to speak and I asked my friend how his day was. Eventually my friend stop saying it was find and eventually he spoke to me about how his day really was. Eventually I stopped moving my tea spoon, as I lost all sense of taste.

Eventually the image will fade of a young destitute man being kicked aside by passers by. The image of a young man who is in the way. A young man who is in the way because he cannot move. He cannot move because he lays dead, because he lays alone, with nothing but a shroud covering him. A shroud bought by my desperate friend, desperate to give him something too late. Desperate to share a love for humanity, a love for life, a love that the image of the young dead kicked destitute man seems never to have known.

Village of Rubbish

This week the schools have reopened, so it meant that the Nurse's other mobile clinic in Dhapa district has also re-opened. So off we went. Yellow brooming beeping taxi to Howrah train station, dodging past the foot rickshaws and walking piles of building bricks into a auto-rickshaw. Backpacks of medicines loaded onto the tiny backseat and then chugging through the traffic, far more refreshing with its nearly 360 degree air conditioning than the suffocating taxi. We arrive in a field of rubbish and unload the auto rickshaw. Gopal appears. The Nurse's loyal assistant who cycles around Kolkata preparing the clinics – and the patients. We walk over to a shell of a brick building - the community school. The team proudly tell me that they funded its completion. The school is quiet and once again communication was mis-interpreted and the school will re-open next week. But it is not a wasted trip as word will quickly spread about our arrival. The clinic is open air, although sheltered from the rain by an extension from the roof of the school. A red plastic table and chairs, the mirror of the ones at Tapsia Clinic, are waiting to be loaded with bowls of disinfectant and syringes. My job today is not to clean bones or remove parasites, but to wash little bodies!

The history of the village is unique and also founded on a potential health hazard, which is why the Nurse decided to base one of his projects here. Only five years ago the land which the village is built upon was a massive rubbish dump, filled with all the waste from Kolkata city. In a unique effort to reclaim the land the government literally created a mountain, by pushing the rubbish into huge towering piles, which from a distance appear to be made of rock and soil rather than refuse. The local people filter through the piles of waste to find anything which can be resold, reused or recycled. Glass is sold, cardboard is collected, plastic bottles gathered. And whatever is left is then ploughed back into the soil; a sort of rudimentary and very artificial fertiliser. Fields of refuse – soil which seems to grow medical waste, pieces of plastic and broken brown chai cups, which stands upon meters of archaeological rubbish from decades past. What is even more amazing is that fields of waste are Kolkata's main agricultural land. All of the fruit and vegetables which are sold in the markets, cooked in the restaurants and digested by my stomach are grown here. Apparently fruit and vegetables are have highly efficient waste filters; according to studies conducted by West Bengal Pollution Control Board (WBPCB), “no traces of metal have been found in the city’s ground water” and “the vegetables grown around the Dhapa dumping grounds have been found to be free of toxicity.” I still find it fascinating that the soil can handle such levels of rubbish; when I express my fears to leaders of the community I am told, “it's ok because the plastic does not biodegrade” - my concerns precisely.

A combination of concern and curiosity took me to recent reports from locally based environmental groups – and my findings are pretty alarming. According to the a study conducted by the Centre for Quality Management System (CQMS) at Jadavpur University as much as 2,600 tonne of solid waste is generated in the city every day which consists of non-biodegradable substances including plastic, electronic waste, batteries, metal cans, glass, paper, medicine foils and construction waste. Such substances do not degrade – with the plastic taking about 1000 years to break down which batteries will eventually break open releasing the carbon and adhesives into the soil. Now this is the same toxic waste which is being ploughed back into the fields around Dhapa. The CQMS argue that this not only destroys the soils fertility but toxic substances seep into the ground water, while the sheer quantity of the amount of toxic waste dumped is enough to contaminate the crops. The solution is for a system of waste segregation to be implemented. However, the Kolkata Municipal Corporation have no such immediate plans and if they did it would most probably consist of the creation of a second dumping ground at Dhapa. Another major concern is the disposal of medical waste. In 1998 the Biomedical Waste (Management and Handling) Rules made it mandatory for all health care units to set up treatment plants including either autoclaves or incinerators. However, only 12 city hospitals have waste disposal units and two have incinerators – this is out of a total of 649 units. Then in 2002 Kolkata opened its first commercial medical waste disposal unit in Howrah. Under the system, all healthcare units had to contract private operators to collect the daily waste in order for it to be incinerated. However, this has yet to be regulated, and according to the National Medical Journal of India biomedical waste is still finding its way to the dumping ground of the vegetable fields of Dhapa. However, the Nurse has more immediate concerns than the condition of the soil and contamination of Kolkata's vegetables.

The aim of the clinic is to gradually improve the health of the community as well as to provide basic hygiene education. Like Tapsia Clinic, the Nurse established the clinic in response to a need – there is no other health care facility in the area. Also like Tapsia, when he first opened the clinic, people were arriving with infections and illnesses which were fatal, whereas now he is mainly treating minor infections, thereby preventing their development into something much more serious. However, there is an additional challenge which the village faces and that is of the water supply. Compared to the centre of Kolkata, the village looks like a rural dream; spacious houses, green fields of manicured rubbish plots and surrounded by ponds. Take a closer look and it soon becomes clear that the ponds are stagnant with green sludge.

The run-off from the mountain of rubbish collects in the ponds, turning the water into filthy pools. People are washing pots, pans and their own bodies in a liquid which is green and balancing on top of a thick black silt. However, there are fresh water pumps throughout the village, so I asked whether these were restricted for drinking water only because of a limited supply? But this is not the case: people continue to wash in the ponds because they always have. The ponds are convenient – you just have to jump in, and there is no hard work in pumping the water. So this is why I spent the day washing little people under the fresh water pumps. The weekly wash is not just to clean some mucky faces but to initiate a change in behavior, encouraging people to wash with fresh clean water rather than the green pond 'water'.

A group of small children arrived to greet us at the clinic. The tiniest ones viewed us with a suspicion which was dispelled as soon as the older diddy grabbed my hand and grinned a “Nameste Uncle” to 'Uncle' Gopal. Our little tour leaders guided us down to the main village pump and washing began – shampoo, boxes of soap and bottles of Nivea moisturizer were lined up alongside the water pump. Uncle Gopal and I take it in terms to jump on the pump, filling up our small collection of tin containers and buckets. Soon we have a small group of helpers. Tiny children who expertly assist us by running and jumping, landing on the handel of the water pump and then swinging from it, sending streams of frothy cold water into the waiting buckets. The children are laughing but restrained by shyness. They want to be washed, but wait for us to motion then forwards, some accompanied by older siblings. The tiniest have no apprehension to strip off, leaving a pile of dirty shirts and pants in the mud, but the older ones (who are still tiny) are already mimicking their mother's modesty, and insist on being washed still partially clothed. We empty buckets of gushing water over little heads, creating temporary waterfalls and tense bodies which relax into toothy smiles and the production line of washing children begins.

A drop of shampoo rubbed into hair and followed by the lathering of pink bars of soap against black coloured brown skin. A scrubbing pad and the black is quickly removed, another bucket/ waterfall later and the washing process is nearly complete. I grab one of the three towels. A length of brightly coloured cotton which is wrapped around expectant bodies. Arms strapped close to chests and dripping faces smiling up at me, unsure of what will happen next. The towel absorbs the excess water as I rub little arms and legs. Occasionally Uncle Gopal will chastise me for missing some soapy patches and throws some water at the offending parts, creating confusion from the child in question, who thought the 'washing' process had finished.

The more I work with Gopal the more I realise the degree of his dedication. Younger than me but with the wisdom of a person twice his age: taking peoples concerns seriously, communicating with the young and old with equal sincerity, and totally committed to the projects – whether it be the food program at Tapsia village (Gopal runs a parallel program to the one I work on at Sealdah train station), dressing people's wounds or washing little heads. While we work he discusses his frustrations with his country. He speaks passionately as a dalet who has converted to Islam in an attempt to escape the racism of the caste system. Gopal blamed 'corruption', 'consumerism' and what he termed the 'Indian mentality' for the ever increasing poverty gap. I am still building the confidence to share my own views. Ever aware of my position as an 'outsider' as someone who remains outside of the caste system, outside of the gender divide, outside of the poverty trap and outside of the violence of community politics.

I motion for the little body in front of me to hold out his hands. He quickly opens out his palms expectantly. I shake the bottle of moisturizer and tip is upside down, squirting out a small squiggle of white cream. He looks up waiting for more guidance. I motion for him to rub his palms together and then spread on his body. He splats the cream over his palms and then gingerly dabs white spots over his arms. I smile inside and out as I give him some more hands on instruction by rubbing the cream firmly over his arms. He continues the process on this tummy, and I shake out a few more drops to paint on his face. I comb his hair, aware that I am definitely not up to date on the latest local Bengali hair style.

A father walks by holding a tiny tot in his arms. The baby is wearing kohl around his brown eyes and a faded floppy yellow hat. The father turns his body so that his son can observe the washing process. I look up and smile. The baby looks down and cries. Other little children are queueing to be dried, combed and moisturized, with bigger sisters loitering nearby hoping to garner some excess cream from the little ones palms.

Two hours later and our washing session has finished. Gopal spreads the three towels in the sun to dry and we pack up our small but coveted collection of cleaning potions. “Aunty Aunty one photo!” A group of young girls return, looking fresh, shiny and full of smiles. I accept their demands, showing the photos and creating a cycle of “one more – one more!” as I take different combinations of girls with babies and brothers and sisters and mothers, all wanting to see. I make various promises, which I must remember to honour, of printing copies and distributing to their 'owners'. We walk back to the clinic, hands full of smaller hands. I pass an open door to see my last little customer. The little boy who had such fun exploring the softness of Nivea Moisturizing Cream. He was sitting on the mud steps inside his house, mirror on his knee and a look of intense concentration on this face. It is an image that really showed me how special we had made some of these little people feel. Making them feel pampered and extra freshly clean, and hoping that the feeling will be so good that it will be addictive.

We join the Nurse who has packed up his clinic and walk down what can only be described as a country lane while Gopal pushes his bike. The lane is surrounded is covered in straw making a soft padding for our feet. The padding is actually 'mustard seeds' laid down in the morning to be crushed by travelers in the day and then collected in the evening. We find a cycle rickshaw and load the backpacks onto its cart, but we need to wait for more customers before we leave. So we sit on the cart and wait. Gopal is teasing one of the assistant nurses for looking like a “Bengali Woman” - the assistant nurse has opened an umbrella to provide protection from the sun – the assistant nurse is also a man, and this is a practice reserved mainly for women. I watch Bengali women working at the side of the road. They are lifting bricks onto a roll of cloth placed on their heads and walking/ jumping the tower of bricks to the other side of the road. Their is one male in their group – a serious young boy, bending and lifting and carrying and depositing.

The cart is full and we are ready to leave. Gopal protectively tells me to move my legs around to the back to avoid overtaking cars, and he cycles slowly behind us until the first junction. The journey is quiet. Just the momentum of the rickshaw, interspersed by the sound of its wooden wheels lifting and falling over inconsistencies in the road. As we leave the rural landscape of the fields of rubbish we approach the newly constructed residential complexs: A bubble of new apartment blocks, surrounded by fences, security guards and cameras. The inhabitants of which will never set foot in the nearby Village of Rubbish, and whose closest contact with the local markets will be via their servants. I already know that I have experienced far more of Kolkata's slums than many of the Bharmin I have met here, who listen to my daily accounts of poverty and destitution with surprise. It is reminiscent of my conversations with Israeli's from Tel Aviv when I would talk about life in the Occupied Palestinian Territories. And yet my conversation by the water pump with Gopal told me that my view of reality is still too optimistic. Gopal told me that his mother is a domestic help and her monthly salary is 1500 rupees (22 Euros, 18 GB pounds, US $35) He told me that he knows of many people who will work a full day of 12 hours for 50 rupees (0.74 Euros, 0.58 pounds, US$1.17) In this scale a bottle of Nivea Moisturizer is the equivalent of two days work, and a Barrista Coffee far too much for me to ever again drink guilt-free.

Gopal cycles back to his village and our rickshaw joins the main road. A truck crusades towards me, beeping and braking just in front of my legs before swerving to overtake. The man in the passenger seat grins at me out of his wound down window.

For more information of the Village of Rubbish and Kolkata's Waste Disposal see the following:

“Master Plan on Solid Waste Management” Kolkata Municipal Corporation

"News from Here and There”, National Medical Journal of India

“Promoting Sustainable Consumption in Asian Cities”

Pollution Potential of Leachate from East Kolkata Solid Waste Dumpsite

West Bengal Pollution Control Board