Help Wanted

I want you to meet Karma. I have just met her. I went to visit the tiny babies and ended up with a Karma to feed. But she was easy. So quiet. No fighting the food – for she has yet to be scared of it and she is also natural yogi – with feet permanently in her mouth whenever the spoon wasn't. Scruffy fluffy hair like a mohican. She is a mirror image of Gita, but just so tiny. A few months old. Born without eyes, born to be given away. To grow up like Gita – isolated from a family and from the world.

I am becoming so frustrated with circumstances and with myself. I know the blind girls at Sishu Bhavan are lucky – they have food and a bed, toys to play with, a constant stream of volunteers and a happy environment. They could have been left on the street, they could be without food or care. But I am not satisfied. I am left feeling frustrated because I feel their power. They are so full of potential and I have absolutely no idea about how it is going to be realised.

I asked the Sister in charge of Sishu Bhavan if Gita could have a re evaluation to see if she really does have any other challenges apart from not having eyes... “There is no need” I was told “She is retarded” Full Stop. I asked the Sister what the future would be for Gita and her reply “I cannot think about her future. I can only think about her present.” I asked what I could do? “Prayer” was the her first answer and “find her a family” the second. Prayer to me means power of the mind – and trust me I am thinking powerfully about this one. And find a family? How? Place an add in the paper?

Unable to accept the Sisters fatalism I went to visit a blind boarding school which teaches the national curriculum but in braille. I went to see for myself what the chances of Gita being accepted were. The teacher I spoke with was adamant “we only accept normal blind children”. Again that word - 'normal'. And with the sisters convinced that Gita is a 'retard' this is not the answer which I wanted to hear.

But the blind school also confused me. The day I visited it was a holiday in respect of the schools one hundred year anniversary. In fact I still felt as if it were 1908 rather than 2008. Big empty rooms. Indeed it was a beautiful space. But devoid of life – of entertainment or of stimulus. Outside were a group of boys of eight years of age. Exploring a van. They were all crowded around it, touching and feeling the metal warmed by the afternoon sun, the dusty plastic of the bumpers, the glass of the windows, the wing mirrors. Eyes tightly closed – or open and unseeing. It was powerful to see. I felt drawn towards them, and I went. I began to speak – hoping that my English words made sense. Breaking all Indian conventions I reached my hand out to touch theirs. Walking down the path were another group of young men. Hands on shoulders – shoulders walking in a line. Again I spoke and touched. I wished I could ask their advice about Gita; I wished they could talk to her to explain to her. I wished I could tell them how without even knowing them I admired them. They walked on. I began to think – is this what I am fighting for? For Gita to live here. With no more stimulation than she already has? With only a handful of carers? And to learn brail and then what? How to support herself? How many jobs are there in India for young blind women?

I am frustrated because I want her to be able to learn the world – not only to learn to walk on her own, to learn to communicate, to wash herself, feed herself, but to be able to walk outside and to live outside of an institution; to live according to her own choices– but is this realisitic? Is this possible in this country at this time? Maybe for Jamie – but for a Woman? For Gita? For baby Karma who lies in a cot like a 'normal' baby – about to follow in the dark footsteps of four year old Gita?

And the alternative scares me – it would be as the Sister says – for her to be adopted; and it would take either a very rich Indian family or a foreign one. And this causes me to feel disappointed in myself as I believe in indigenous adoption – that the adoption of a child should be with as limited trauma as possible – that the child be given the opportunity to learn their native language, to learn their culture and be close to what they are familiar with. But in Gita's case this would not be enough. She needs specialised care in order to become independent and once she is, she needs the opportunities to live what my 'Western' mind believes to be a full Life.

Feeling very on my own about Gita I have contacted as many organisation working with blind children that I could find. Only the ones outside of India replied and most of these told me that they only worked inside their respective 'developed' countries. The exception was one: The Blind Children's Fund. My new friend at the BFC has within only a few exchanges of emails given me so much support. Thank you. She has reassured me that Gita's development is indeed 'normal' for a child in her circumstances. She is sending me a box of information of how work with blind children and help them to achieve their potential. She has also sent me a List. It is a List of adoption agencies in America and in the UK which specialises in looking for families for blind children. And now what? I try and 'sell' Gita – try and show how amazing she is? How she deserves a family? And what of the new parents? Do they even exist? And if they are there am I stealing them from another orphan? Is this the best for Gita? I guess I am going to try. It would be easy to give up after only one week of trying. Or would it? Because now I feel that this is my part of our friendship. She has let me know her. She has shown me her energy. I guess I now have a responsibility which I can't really turn away from by tricking myself by saying that this is not my responsibility. So now I will try: “New parents wanted for an amazing little girl – currently living in an orphanage in India – without eyes - and for the moment 'retarded'.”

Any help welcome.

Blind Childrens Fund

Giant Child

Paeter is a large man. For an Indian he is a Giant. Under 'normal' circumstances his height would have been a social advantage – as a sign of 'good breeding' as the higher castes are generally taller than the 'average' Indian: generations of better nutrition by virtue of greater wealth. But for Paeter his circumstances are anything but 'normal'. Paeter has the mental age of around five years old. Psychologically he is still a child. Unfortunately for Paeter his body does not know this and instead his young mind rattles around inside of a Giant. Unable to communicate, but bursting with emotions and frustrations. His swinging arms are seen as premeditated punches, his screams of pain as angry threats. He spends his time at the train station. Where else is he meant to go? Like the street children he wonders around looking for food. Unlike the street children he remains naive to the dangers of his mobile home. Unlike the street children he hasn't worked out how to trick or to steal in order to survive. Unlike the street children he is protected only by a facade of a grown man. Unlike grown men – his inability to control his strength has left him an outcast; cast out from society and cast out from charity as he intimidates those with the power to help him. Unlike the street children this facade makes the Giant Child visible to the police, who use his size to justify extreme force. Avoided in the street, children hide from him, women scurry around him, even men feel threatened.

Then Paeter the Giant Child was found by a foreigner. A foreigner who wasn't scared or intimated, who saw his age and felt a little of his pain. He was taken to Sisters of the Missionaries of Charity. The foreigner felt happy. He felt relieved. He felt that finally Paeter had a home. A place where he would be safe. Protected. But God's House was not eternal and one day the foreigner found Paeter back at the station. The foreigner was confused. The station was far away from Paeter's new home. He was covered in bruises and cuts and blood. He moved erratically. Confused, like a lost small child, panicking for help. Unable to find help, but waiting to be helped. The foreigner tried to help. He tried to soothe the giant child's pain. He showed him kindness and patience and eventually managed to coax Paeter into a taxi and back to the Sisters.

But Paeter was still upset. He was distressed and he was scared. He moved clumsily. He felt confused. His pain was reflected in his strength and his strength still scared the Sisters. The Sisters then gave the foreigner some advice. The Sisters told the foreigner that Paeter the Giant Child had no place at the Missionaries of Charity. The Giant Child who swung his arms and shouted was not welcome. The Sisters told the foreigner to take the Giant Child back to the train station and find a train going far far away, and leave him; leave Paeter on a train going to Punjab.

My Friend I Never Knew

I remember walking up a hill in Darjeeling to be introduced to a man around my age from Sweden. The man around my age was also working with disadvantaged children in India. We agreed to meet later to talk about our work, to exchange information and experiences. We never met because the next day we had to rush away from the striking hill station. We will never meet because a few days ago he killed himself.

I would have like to have talked to you. I would liked to have listened to your thoughts. I would have liked to have known that you only had six weeks left to live. I hope you have found Peace. My friend I never knew.

Learning to See

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adopted Cake

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.