Temple Bathing

First stop – or rather after 20 hours on a bus – is Vashisht. A smaller tourist hot spot next to the larger tourist hot spot of Manali. But despite the tourists – just like me – I like it. I would love to see it without 'us' though; to see the natural beauty; free from the 'ethnic' shops selling nothing ethnic, and overpriced restaurants selling Israeli hummus and Italian macaroni. However, the natural beauty is still very much present as Vashisht is the last hill station in the Kullu valley of Himachel Pradesh. It is surrounded by lush green climbing hills, which climb into the invisible mountains which blow their fresh air down onto the town.

However what has amazed me the most is was something I found hidden inside an ancient stone temple. The stone temple sits in the middle of Vashisht – at the bottom of the many steps leading up to my guest hose. The temple is surrounded by the lush green hills of the valley that is in turn ringed by the Himalayas. Inside the temple are holes in the ground from which escapes bursting piping hot sulphur water – heated from inside the earth, and steaming out to fill the air with its chemical liquid vapour. Inside the temple, the water is channeled into two separate chambers – one for men and one for women and inside those chambers there is a line of pipes and a set of small stone steps leading down to a brick pool.

The temple bathing was the highlight of my mornings, and each day I learned a little more about the local community and relations between the women who washed there. The baths are clearly a social meeting point, with entire families gathering to wash together – small children scrubbing backs of mothers, aunts, sisters and even strangers who squat together naked under the water laughing and talking and soaking. Meanwhile, the odd tourist – just like me – would hesitantly peel off the layers of woolly clothes and try to find some personal space in a place where there is no space to be personal but just communal. After nearly one year of cold showers in Thailand and Kolkata, the hot steaming previously bubbling earth heated water felt incredible. The millimeters of grim embedded in my cracked heels seemed to dissolve, while I imagined any remaining lice fainting from heat exhaustion. After crouching under a tap I shared with a small girl and her infiltrating baby brother, I stepped my way over washing bodies and sat on the stone steps leading into the pool. I watched the young women and their beautiful figures, feeling smug knowing of all my male friends who would do anything to exchange places with me for just one 'bath'; I saw one women covered in yellowing bruises across her chest, and old women dripping in precious stones of coral and turquoise and strung with string through her ears and round her neck, wrists and waist. There were two large gold nose studs occupying both of her nostrils. I tried to fully submerge myself into the water, wanting to swim for the first time since Thailand but unable to train my body to accept the heat.

I dressed by the side of the pool, facing the ancient stone wall, as steam evaporated from my body and from the mass of water around me. How different life would be for the women on the streets of Kolkata if they had a natural hot springs? I never once saw a woman washing but only groups of men – for the public water fountains are far too public for the conservative city culture. Skin infections and diseases are rife precisely because of the lack of hygiene – of water pumps for women to wash, for water pumps which do not stand above the open sewers of the roads, and for water pumps which pump fresh water which is clean and safe.

Already the distance from the city has reminded me of the comparative social cohesion of the villages as well as the health benefits of nature, which our 'development' and 'progress' continues to break, discard and to destroy. Although my mind is still attached to the work I have abandoned and I am feeling self critical of tourists just like me – I am excited about the explorations to come; about meeting new people, learning, listening and seeing.

The Circus of Delhi

The train to Delhi was one of the best trains I had ever been on. Strange leaving from Sealdagh train station. Where I used to work. Walking away from the participants of the food programme and all the hundreds of others who wished that they were participants of the food programme. As I walked up the steps to the platform an old women, wearing ragged cloth which could have been any colour but which appeared to be the uniform dark brown which all of the truly destitute wear – if they are fortunate enough - or still care enough - to have clothes. The old women caught my eye because she was crouching disguised as a bag of bones. She was not begging, but just staring 'empty'. I took the two mangoes from my bag and bent down to offer then to her. She slowly looked at my face, stared at my pale eyes and accepted. She raised her hands to her head in thanks as I placed mine on her shoulder – wanting to somehow communicate the feelings she had evoked within me in some (meaningless) way. I walked away and climbed upon my super luxury air conditioned train the Rajastani Express. And this is Kolkata – the juxtaposition of the very rich next to the very poor. Just as in Old Jerusalem – where the orthodox Jews would walk around and behind and next to the Muslim Imams; both seeming invisible to the other but both an intrinsic part of the city.

I was in a super luxury air conditioned cabin because this was the only option – all the trains for the next few days were fully booked. A Very Important Person from the Army was sleeping opposite me. He asked me if I liked Indian food – it was a rhetorical question as he replied for me:

“We Indians love our food – thats why we are all so fat!” He laughed as he tugged on his massive belly.

Indeed we were feed so much food. Ironic as I sat there, with no appetite not wanting nor asking for the food which was being presented to me at two hourly intervals. I put what I could into a plastic bag, wishing that I could send it to the bags of bones which sat half living/ half dying on the steps of Sealdagh train station.

Delhi was different from how I had imagined. Firstly, I was not ripped off – well at least not that I knew of; it is also much greener and cleaner than Kolkata – the train station included. With the destitute hidden out of view my bag of train food went to two children sitting by the road side. And that is something else which Delhi showed me – another life for the street children. While waiting for a bus out of New Delhi and into Himachal Pradesh I met some little people. The first two little people which I met were brother and sister. The brother was wearing a painted moustache, the sister a tiny metal hola hoop. The siblings were circus children and once a sufficient crowd of tourists gathered with their massive bags and supplies of snacks they began their show. The sister back-flipped and cartwheeled, disconnected her arms and stepped through them, slide through the hola hoop as her brother lay in it, and then skipped around collecting money from the hands behind the cameras. Then came the boy selling water again; and then again and again until the 'tourists' became impatient with him and shooed him away like an unwelcome dog. Next there was an eleven year old girl. I know she was eleven because I asked her and I asked her because I really wanted to talk to her. She was street hardened and the sister/mother to a baby boy (who she told me was a girl). She was trying to collect 'milk' money for the babu and when this failed she just tried to get someone to buy babu a 'milk ice cream'. She was a good actress, as was babu – both tilting the head and holding out the hand. Street Survival. I didn't see anyone give her money. Perhaps no one will with every one presuming that someone else will, or that they 'can't afford to give five rupees' to every beggar, or justify their refusal by saying that the money is taken from the children by the organising gangs of adults etc etc. I didn't give her any money. I just gave her one of my two Gita bracelets with the jingely jangly bells on it. I gave it to her and told her it was for her and not for her baby brother. I wanted her to have it because she clearly has nothing apart from little babu. Little babu who is completely dependent upon his big sister – his big sister who talked to me through her face scared with fire – burned away, along with her ears and one finger. Burned away – I suspect; for being female.

Leaving

I had a dream last night that I adopted Gita and Karma. In my dream baby Karma started to talk to me. This amazed me and hurt me as then – in my dream – I believed that if a baby blind girl could speak before a four year old blind girl then the four year old blind girl did not possess the ability to speak. The night before last I dreamt that Gita and a mentally disabled young man who hangs around at the station were on the night bus to Himacheal Pradesh with me. My dream turned into a night terror where I was trying to move and speak but was unable to do either, and yet in my - night terror – I believed that some thing awful would happen if I didn't wake myself up – by either moving or speaking. The night before that I didn't sleep because my mind would not rest. Closing my eyes made no difference as I lay in my bed with my mind whirling; throwing images and questions at me. It was working and thinking and talking to me and making me so very restless that I needed to distract myself. I opened my eyes. I watched my friend - 'The Man Outside' - turn and roll and gesture to no body and my mind continued to whirl. At some time after the night and before the morning I began to make Gita a new folder so that new volunteers would know how capable she was/is. I had printed photos of her walking around on the roof, climbing the stairs on her own, in the park on the swing, holding a glass and drinking from it, taking off her bib – I had printed all the evidence that I knew showed that she is very competent, and in many ways very able. I then wrote advice to the new volunteers – speaking as if I was Gita which I know is a very great liberty to take. However, I told them that “I like to dance, explore the roof, touch the trees in the park” that “I need to learn to eat on my own so please help me to feed myself” that “I have to learn to walk unaided” and “to learn to speak.” I reminded the new volunteers that “I need to learn about the world around me through touch and exploration, so please help me rather than doing things for me.” I couldn't sleep because I was torn between feeling guilty that I had decided to leave Kolkata and that by doing so I was forfeiting Gita's progress: that every single day she was doing something remarkable, which amazed the Mashis and the Sisters but yet she needed the space to do these things. By leaving her I was not guaranteeing her space. Yet the more that I thought about it the more certain I was that there would never be a right time to leave her.

My last few days at Shishu Bahavan provoked some of the strongest emotions. Now I know many of the children and more importantly they know me. I began to provoke smiles by just throwing some around. I realised that I felt completely at ease in a room full of 37 disabled children – knowing how to act – which was normal; and 'normal' for me is playing – it is laughing and smiling and tickling and picking little people up and throwing them around, as for some this is the most stimulation they will receive all day. For others they are unable to even take a few steps on their own and will just sit strapped into their wooden chairs or lay on the mats, curled up - passively watching and passively waiting. As for Gita; now she totally trusts me. My last day working with her really showed me how much she has accepted my presence, and I was really left feeling privileged. On my last day she was exceptionally happy. In fact both breakfast and lunch left me feeling so amazed at her and so scared for myself. For the first time she began to eat on her own – by this I mean that rather than fighting each spoonful she allowed me to wrap her hand around the tea spoon and guide it to her mouth. Admittedly this took some preparation with the spoon being used as a pre-lunch instrument to 'drum' the steel bowl with; and her aim of where her mouth is was drastically off the mark – leaving equal amounts of food on her face and bib then in her mouth. There were also the spontaneous dropping of the spoon in the bowl of mush – spreading a generous amount over my head and shoulders. However, seeing her begin to become independent left me on an incredible high – but as I am trying to explain also caught in a limbo where I know she now feels comfortable with me to learn and to explore and more to the point my presence givers her the space to explore: to play with her food (touching is the only way she can see it after all) and make noise and basically to have the freedom to live outside of herself.

On my last day she climbed the stairs at record speed only taking my hand when she wanted me to lift her and to swing her. We explored the roof but she wanted to explore her voice more; which makes me think that very soon she is going to begin to speak. She would pull on my shoulders to make me sit down and then blindly lean back and trust that my body was waiting for her to break her fall. She would fit herself into my crossed legs and reach for my hands and then begin baaaaaaaing laaaaaaing and maaaaaing. I have started to repeat her sounds to try to make her realise that this is one way in which we can communicate. And whenever I would chant 'Ommmmmm' she would join in and like a test for free diving we would continue to see who could last the longest. But really what had the strongest effect on me was when she sat down in her usual position and then turned herself around so that she was facing me, her legs over my hips. She then leaned forward and placed her head against my chest. She was listening to my heart beat. Quietly she sat as I sat, just breathing and wondering how it was possible to become so connected to a little person who cannot even see me, or who doesn't know my name and who I have never spoken to?

I said goodbye to Gita as she was sitting on the potty – sliding herself around the wet bathroom floor and continuing to make random no sense words. Every now and then she would lift her wrist to her ears to listen to the jingle jangle of the bell bracelet which matched the ones I wear so she can find me and which I gave her and which I know she will randomly discard. I said goodbye feeling that I was betraying her and feeling so thankful to her for trusting me.

The Sister in charge assured me that she would continue to monitor Gita's progress. I tried to tell her again of the potential I see within her. I told her of how grateful I am to Gita for how much she has taught me; how she has helped me to see the world and how she has helped me to communicate in more than just words. The Sister gave me another icon of the Virgin Mary (but this time in gold) and a collection of prayers and Mother Teresa memorabilia. Strange as these small tokens really meant a great deal to me; as I watched her search a small plastic box looking for gifts to give me. She takes her work at Sishu Bahavan seriously and genuinely cares for and loves the children. She said good bye to me, thanking me again and reminding me to pray for the children. And I will pray – I will pray in my way, which is with a focus of mind that I still hope will somehow help the impossible become possible. I will pray that she will see Gita's potential and help her to finally realise it, and I will pray as maybe this is the only 'language' which she understands – blind faith.

On my part, I could not stay in Kolkata indefinitely. I would love to continue the social work there, but to do so I would need a way to fund it and at the moment I simply don't have the resources just to volunteer. And at the same time it seems ridiculous to expect payment when the people we are working with have absolutely nothing – many times including the naked infected and diseased bodies. In stead I am now on my way to McLeod Ganj – the temporary permanent home of the Dalia Lama where I am hoping to do a yoga teaching training course with the aim of one day working within a different medium with disadvantaged children and maybe even blind children; although more immediately it will probably just be a way to fund some more stints of use/less/full 'social' 'work'. I am still researching organisations which may be able to help Gita; but I still feel that adoption is her only really hope of having a life outside of a room, and inside of a living moving changing talking beautiful world. And yes – as my nightly dreams tell me my sub-conscious clearly won't let go of her and it is this connection which reassures me that Gita will continue to be a part of my life; even if it is just for a few months each year.

Three months ago I chose a name for my blog. I wanted a name which made people remember that there was always more than what our lifestyle choices necessarily allows us to see. Even though many times it is easier to keep our eyes 'closed' the reality does not change with blindness. And once we are aware of the reality, sometimes it is too much – making us feel powerless, overwhelmed. Personally, all I feel I can do in such circumstances is to write. A small act of freeing my mind and of trying to share information to those who are physically or mentally in a different place.

Three months ago I chose a name for my blog – before my life took me towards Gita's.

Dirty Blessings

It is so dirty. Brown muddy water washing up the stone river bank. Piles of rubbish consolidated as if a naturally formed spit. I watch as men fully submerge themselves. One stands water waist high and begins salutations. Another man rolls up his lungi as he sits on the stone floor, water lapping at his soapy legs. He scrubs and rubs himself dirtily clean. A man wearing a white shirt framed by a brown suit moves his brief case into his left hand and awkwardly tries to roll up the bottom of this trousers. He steps gingerly into the river. Careful not to loose his balance he leans forwards, places his right hand under the water, scoops out a blessing and pours it over his head. Brown muddy water sticks to the front of his shirt which in turn sticks to his skin. The act seems to have enthused his enthusiasm and he begins to repeat it – torn between trying to bless himself and keep his suit clean. Immediately next to the steps leading down to the river is a open air massage parlor – skinny men, wearing nothing but lungi's work from dawn to dusk. Their office is a collapsible table underneath the railway bridge. Their view is men washing in the dirty water – or the Holy flow of the Hooghly River, depending on your perspective. Their trade is as ancient as the ayurvedic principles which they practice. Forty five minutes costs forty rupees.

At the edge of the steps is a small Hindu shrine. It is covered by an equally small corrugated tin roof which is held in place by two aging wooden planks. My flip flops stick to the muddy concrete – fliiiiiiiip floooooop as they are sucked by the floor and then released by my stride. I extract my feet and sit on the back of the shrine and lean my back ever so lightly against the wall. To my side there is a cat and mouse game between a rat and some crows. The crows have dug out a dead rat from the rubbish which they are feasting on. A live rat is jumping around – each four of its scratchy paws off the mud at the same time. Jump! For a few seconds each minute the live rat manages to latch its jaws to the flesh of the dead rat, but it is outnumbered and soon the crows hop it away. Hop! Jump! Hop! The battle for the dead flesh continues. Eventually the rat scurries back into the rubbish spit, tail trailing behind it. The dead rat is divided and devoured quickly by sharp beaks and hopping claws.

I look at the tree in front of me. Although it is not really a tree – at least not a whole one. It is a concrete block with a mass of mud on top, out of which reaches the branches of a tree. Around the outside of the concrete is a fire place, framed with white tiles showing coloured pictures of Shiva. But in the center there is no fire – just what looks like a fat belly. I tuck my feet under my legs and breathe the air out of my lungs and the tension out of my muscles. Relax.

I am watching the brown water lap towards me. There is a clay pot which is momentarily lifted like a boat, before gravity reclaims it. It captures my attention and yet it is tiny compared to the mass of water which flows in front of me. The river is so wide. The other bank grows into a silhouette as the remaining sun's light is too weak to fight the thick clouds. I imagine the flow of water. The body of its oneness as it runs towards the ocean. Fresh dirty water soon to be filled with salt and purified as it drops into the enormous mass waiting for it. The ocean is amazing. Watching the river makes me miss it. I feel its rhythm, even here, in the middle of this filthy city, as it pulls the liquid released by the monsoon clouds towards it; as it calls the rains from the Himalayas. I relax even more.

My legs feel comfortable and I feel invisible. Sitted on the shrine people respect my silence. I lower my eyes away from the boats chugging upstream, and focus back on the lapping brown water. Moving and yet stationary, licking the concrete sand. I listen. I hear the movements of the bathers and the prayers around me. Men walk by fliiiiiiip flooooooop before squatting and peeeeeeeeeing into the rubbish and then fliiiiiiip floooooooping back to the edge of the water and then splassssh - pluuuuunge. The rat has been joined by more comrades and is now even bolder as together they scurry about, jumping and digging. Suddenly I feel vibrations. They shake the shrine underneath me, and the wall touches my back. The vibrations grow into a sound and soon a train is passing overhead. Chug Chugggga Chug Chugggga Chug Chuggggga it shakes.

I feel at peace. My eyelids lowered, the lapping water calming me, my visibility blurred. The fading light camouflages the concrete roots of the tree. It now appears to be a mighty tree drinking from the Holy Hooghly River.

The natural in the middle of the urban, as the river of life cleanses and feeds and then calms a surprised spinning woman.

Kathak Ta Thei Thei Ta

Completely amazed by Kathak. Need to learn. WOW! An ancient Indian art form. A physical and verbal fusion between spoken word and musical rhythm, Ta Thei Thei Ta, which to my novice ears sounds like Ra-da da-d a d ara-da-da da DA! Da dad da drarara da da. Da Da da-da-da- DA! The movement of the feet, the hands, the beats of the ghugharu bells. Tap dancing – but with naked feed – a soft tap a wave of jingles. And so quick a 'jingle' doesn't even come close to the sound which is produced. More like a soft series of crashes, as ankles lined with small bells rise and fall as rapidly as the feet pounding the floor. The vibrations being sent up the dancers body to her posed face, moving her shoulders and rippling up to her cheeks. Hands holding up the lengths of silk cloth, to show the listening audience the skill of her steps. Feet jumping at us, outlined with red paint, below the rrrrring rrrrring rrrrring of the tapping bells and the ra-ra da-d a d ara-da-da da DA DA DA DA! Of the tongue. How she can keep the sounds coming during such a rage of mesmorising motion is amazing. Hands let the skirt drop but the feet keep pounding and the rrrring rrrrring rrrrring of the tapping jingling bells shaking around the theatre. The words are picked up by another female voice. As precisely as the passing of a relay baton: Da dad da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-d-d DA! High but smooth. As rhythmic and addictive as the beat of the tabla. Thud dud dud dud. Thud dud dud dud. Da dad da drarara da da. Da Da da-da-da-d DA! Behind this plays the harmonium the lollllls of this are picked out by a sitar. The sounds of the dance penetrate the ears and move the hands. The eyes follow the movements of the body – which seems to be following a different beat to the feet. The dancer's hands move and take the audiences attention with it. Like a conductor she identifies the rhythm of her own feet– a hand is pointed DA DA DA DA! Is what it says. The hands return to collect the skirt. Feet pound. Heels Turning turning turning turning turning. Silk flying upwards. Like a whirling dervish. Feet solid – tapd tapd tapd tapd. Faster and faster taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaappppppppppppppppppppppppppppd. Skirt flying, sounds flying, eyes returning to connect with our watching eyes after every full rotation and then spinning away – connect – spin – connect – spin – connect - spinning the audience into a dizzy sway. Da da-d da dra-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-da-d. Da da-d-da dr-ra-ra da da. Da Da da-da-da-d- DA! And on and on the voice trills over and over. Guiding the beats and revealing the rhythm. Dark round eyes finally stay connected. Hands release and point. Mouth opened. Voices, drums, thud dud dud, lollllls and tri tri tras joined, slowing.
Ending.
Vibrating outwards from the source, across the stage, into our chairs, up my body and finally, through these fingers.

For more info on Kathak see:

Kathak

Tarang

YouTube

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.