Kindness

Some words from a local:

Right from the moment of our birth

we are under the care and kindness of our parents.

Then later on in our life,

when we are oppressed by sickness and become old

we are again dependent on the kindness of others.

Since it is the case that at the beginning and end of our lives

we are so dependent on others kindness,

how can it be that in the middle we neglect kindness towards others?

Dalia Lama XIV

A Celebration of Human Rights Violations

I walked down into Mcleod Ganj yesterday morning to find the streets eerily quiet. Metal shutters had yet to be pulled up, locked doors had still to be opened. Even the Takhyil Peace Cafe – where I usually sit and drink chai while reading 'messages to Tibetans' remained with a large padlock bolted to the front door. The scene reminded me of a similar one nearly four years ago, when I woke up in the Occupied Palestinian Territories to find the day delayed in beginning. The reason then had been that President Arafat had died. The reason yesterday was that the Olympic Games had officially began in Beijing. The people of Mcleod Ganj were not mourning a death, but the loss of their country. For the next five days the shops will remain closed in the morning – not in response to a public strike but because the Tibetan shop keepers are demonstrating. Posters plastered around Mcleod Ganj read “A Celebration of Human Rights Violations, Beijing 2008”. And here this is exactly what the 2008 Olympic Games is viewed as - international support for the Chinese violation of Tibetan Human Rights. Each morning women, men and children of all ages and professions are standing together, arms raised high, Mount Kalish waving to the sun, and marching down to Dharamasala. The demonstrations are their way of expressing their frustration, of showing their solidarity with their families, friends and country and of shouting out to the media “We are here! Do not forget Us! Do not forget Tibet!” And these calls to the international community are coming quick and fast.

Yesterday morning, the non-violent Gandhi styled direction action group the Tibetan Peoples Uprising Movement organised a peaceful demonstration of over 2000 people in Dharamsala. World wide Tibetan solidarity groups coordinated a massive public display of international solidarity through the lighting of candles. Countries all over the world participated in the vigil, with protesters in New York even shaving their heads as a symbolic gesture of support for Tibetans. And unlike the passing of the Olympic torch, there were no demonstrations against the lighting of these millions of flames.

Yesterday evening I followed the flags towards the Tsuglagkhang Complex and walked into a court yard full of candles. Nuns, Monks, mothers, fathers, young men and women, Press and tourists stood or sat, together, with one common thought in mind. Yellow t-shirts talking about the 'Rape of Tibet' or with the words “Bring Tibet to the 2008 Olympic Games” stood next to the polyester black jackets with the words 'Team Tibet 08' printed on the back. For others activist fashion was not needed to show their allegiance; old Tibetan women with their hair plated and striped apron wrapped around their padded waists stood next to the maroon colours of the robed monks and the nuns. As posters displayed around the town stated “One World, One Dream, Free Tibet. An Olympic opportunity to Make History for Tibet. ” And some – both Tibetans and tourists have not yet (in this lifetime) been to Tibet, but have either inherited the sense of injustice as second generation refugees or become influenced by emotive stories of injustice. The courtyard was not full, but with several hundred candles being held by several hundred pairs of hands it was an impressive show. The Tibetan flag which is banned in China, but which that same day was hung by Tibetan activists in the Olympic stadium, despite the presence of over 100,000 Chinese police, was everywhere in Mcleod Ganj: waved above heads, hanging off shoulders and wrapped around robed backs. Immediately the strength of the fifty year old exile community made itself clear. The activism here is real. It is not left for the international conflict tourists or protesters for peace.

The majority of activists in Mcleod Ganj are the refugees who want their country back. They want to return 'home' despite being 'free' here, in the Tibetan India which they have 'legally' occupied. And maybe this is why there is a difference between the strength of the peaceful activism in Mcleod Ganj compared to the combination of 'fighting activism' juxtaposed against other refugee communities such as the passive hopelessness felt in the Occupied Palestinian Territory's. Here the Tibetan refugees have the luxury to protest – they have houses, jobs and education. They have a strong communication networks through which to organise and the freedom of expression and movement to then act. In the Occupied Palestinian Territories all to often activism is left to the fighters as the majority of the people try to hold on to a semblance of 'normality' by continuing a 'normal' life within the ever increasing restrictions of the Wall, check posts, prisons and incursions. And it is contrast between the 'Free' and 'Unfree' which was stressed throughout the candlelight vigil.

The vigil began with morale raising speeches in Tibetan to Tibetans. Next came a symbolic speech of thanks to the foreigners in the audience: “You Love Freedom and so do we” spoke the English words from a 'Tibetan' mouth to an international community. This mention of 'Freedom' is one which was repeated in various forms throughout the evening. Freedom is an ideal which is most passionately defended by those who have realised its absence and therefore now realise its importance. The majority of refugees left Tibet precisely because – unlike you and I - they were not 'Free'. They were being persecuted, threatened with imprisonment or torture, prevented from travelling, unable to speak freely about their religion, and in some extreme cases subjected to mass sterilisation. The monks and nuns (who are viewed by the Chinese government as the ring leaders of civil unrest) were prevented from studying the Buddhist philosophy in its traditional form and because of their allegiance to the Dalia Lama, they remain under constant suspicion. The majority of Tibetan Political Prisoners are Buddhist Monks. Ultimately the vigil was “dedicated to the Tibetans still in Tibet”.

The Tibetan voice speaking in English spoke of Our responsibility to “Convince the Global Community that there is No Freedom in Tibet.” Almost as if the inaction of the international community was a result of our lack of knowledge of the situation of Tibet and in Tibet. Which is itself a falsity as Tibet has been on the activist agenda for nearly fifty years. We know of the injustices there. The 'injustices' are - unlike the Occupied Palestinian Territories - not defended by the uninformed. We accept that China is the aggressor, that China invaded Tibet, conducted human and cultural genocide, and took away certain basic freedoms. And yet despite this knowledge, we, the international community actively supported, condoned and made possible the holding of one of the biggest historic international sporting events in China.

It is this contrast between the Tibetans living within the traditional borders and those living in India which has both prompted and allowed the exiles to fight for their brothers and sisters. The exiles are 'free' in that although they have been forced from their country, family and friends, they can live a life like You and I. They can live a life without persecution for being a certain nationality, they can conduct cultural practices, talk about their beliefs and actively learn rather than just inherit their Buddhist religion. The Tibetan exiles in Mcleod Ganj – like You and I - can talk about what they want, travel where they want (within India), work and have minimal interference within their personal sphere and to a certain extent their social sphere. In contrast, the vigil asked us to remember the continuing injustices which we are not experiencing, and therefore which do not immediately effect us and yet that is still within our collective power to do something about. It was the injustices inside Tibet, and Tibetans relative isolation from this 'international community' that the speaker was stressing. Ever since the demonstrations five months ago in March, China has slammed shut it's (and Tibet's) borders. Media coverage has been suppressed even further as have the daily lives of Tibetans and suspected political activists still inside those borders. There is a feeling of comarade and solidarity among the exiles who come from all across Tibet. Such sentiments were vocalised by one of the present Tibetan Youth Congress hunger strikers when he stated “Tibetans in Tibet have to endure much more, so I can also endure much more pain.”

After the speeches came a final call to the individuals competing in the games, which echoed a large banner hung in front of the crowd reading:

“To the Athletes, Speak for the Truth and Justice, Speak for Tibet.”

The words were surrounded by tiny flames growing brighter as the night grew darker and together the appeals really brought to mind the political weight of the decision to hold the Olympic Games in Beijing. Regardless of the athletes own personal motivation to win their medals and represent their country, this politicalisation can not be denied. As the people stood together holding their candles in the Tsuglagkhang Complex and in the hundreds of countries around the world these Olympic Games are clearly not just about sport. China itself used the Olympic torch as a statement of its 'legal' occupation of Tibet by not only passing the flame through Lhasa but also through gaining the passive support of the international community. Tibet is a small country, trying to stand up against a massive nation which seemingly has the backing of all the countries participating in these games. The Tibetan English voice over the microphone remained optimistic: “China is not invincible. It can be beat. The issue of Tibet will not be over.”

The speeches ended with a song. The song was led by a women, and followed by all who understood. I don't know exactly what the song was but I could hear that it was sang in Tibetan, and I could hear that it was sang with passion. Perhaps the ousted national anthem – but I did not need to know the translation to understand the meaning. Standing outside of the Dalia Lama's house and behind a sea of fire, lighting up banners of resistance, the foreign words were incomprehensibly powerful. As I wrote at the time:

“Full of power, filled with sadness. The rhythm changes. Louder. Faster. Energy. Determination. Memories of the Past and dreams of the Future together in this Present limbo of no mans land. Indian Tibet – Tibetan India. Singing together for a remembered Land with different borders – singing together for a different Tibet.”

The united voice ended with a united cheer – fire to the sky. The united voice ended with a cheer of an English English voice, shouting “Free Tibet” and then by the Tibetan English voice shouting, “Let us Unite – the Exiles and the Free.” Finally a message to us all: “Please continue to support Our efforts. Thank you very much”.

Tibetan People's Uprising Movement

Tibetan Youth Congress

The official web tv of the Central Tibetan Administration (CTA)

Phayul

The Official Website of the Central Tibetan Administration

Message for Tibetans

From an individual Tibetan

Without a name I express

Wake up and Stand up for our Rights

What are we waiting for?

No others will get our Rights for us

We have to stand up with Unity to get our Rights

Now the time has come

What are we waiting for?

Get up. Stand up.

Our brothers and sisters are being killed in Tibet

They are dying for our Rights

Let there be Unity

Lets be One.

(China we are coming back to our country. Salute to the Martyrs in Tibet)

A4 print out on the wall of Takhyil Peace Cafe, Mcleod Ganj

Re-Connecting

Walking down Jogibara road today and I was greeted by a smiling face and a large umbrella tent. Jake! Our fellow escapee from Darjeeling! The world is small, and lives continue to connect without plans and without coincidence. We sat in a small hut of a chai shop and swapped stories. Jake and Shreb had spent three days stranded in a local monastery (although stranded definitely implies negative connotations and with the bottle of rum and Tibetan words to be spoken that is clearly misleading) before travelling to Kathmandu. They were welcomed in Kathmandu by another strike. So Jake decided to leave and now he is here. Studying Tibetan and walking and talking. He told me stories of others who had hiked 37 days from Siliguri to Kathmandu and then resumed his role as tour guide and took me on a walking tour of Mcleod Ganj. Within only a matter of hours the town revealed monasteries above shops and behind hotels, we walked between roughly cobbled streets wedged between simple houses packed along the sloping hills. We visited the Dali Lama's official residence, the Tsuglagkhang Complex, where he explained the meanings of certain Buddhist symbolism while apologising for not being an expert in Thanka art. He patiently answered the hundreds of questions which popped into my head at nearly every corner. He explained the local exile dialect – which is incomprehensible to newly arrived refugees but which helps the confusion of tongues from around Tibet to communicate in India. The exile dialect is called ra ma lu which literally translates into goat female goat.

Once again I am amazed at how I continue to feel so at 'home' at places I have never visited before and so far away from my 'origins'. The persistent question asked by nearly every traveller of “where am I from” needs to be re-evaluated for now it holds little relevance to me. At the moment I have come from Kashmir, before then Ladakh, before then Manali, Delhi, Kolkata, Bangkok, Tonsai, Koh Tao and so on. New friends appear as old ones leave, old friends stay waiting to be re discovered. Connections continue – in/visible.

Indian Tibet - Tibetan India

Feeling incredibly happy. Really loving McLeod Ganj, which is once again warning me of the transience of my first impressions. Cool Rider and I arrived at midnight after sixteen hours of intense riding. We wound our way up a dark hill, through several police check points and into the centre of the town. The light of our old Enfield bike shined on sign after sign: Tourist Central. Billboards advertising hotels, cafes, yoga classes, meditation, Indian cooking classes, Tibetan cooking classes, caperioa, Hindi lessons, ayruvedic massage etc etc etc. This was not the place I wanted to be. I had arrived at the centre of the exiled Tibetan government and the main destination for Tibetan Refugees and I felt as if I was at a ski resort out of season, and not only that but a ski resort in Israel. Even the shop keepers spoke Hebrew as packs of Israelis straight out of their en/forced military service monopolised the restaurents and guest houses. We drove up to the small town above McLeod Ganj – Bhagsu. My 2000 edition of the Lonely Planet had described Bhagsu as a much quieter place, with a bubbling stream and a cold water spring. We came face to face with a river filled with rubbish and a car park filled with auto-rickshaws.

The next morning I woke early, apprehensive. I walked the 20 minutes back down the hill which only a few hours before we had stuttered our way up. The walk was quiet. No cars. Only a view of rolling green hills, muffled by the falling mist. Lord Elgin – one of the British viceroys to India requested to be buried in McLeod Ganj because it reminded him so much of Scotland – I guess that is a Scotland with hills half the size and without 200,000 thousand Tibetan refugees. As the road from Bhagsu fell down into McLeod Ganj I realised that the busy market streets were filled with 'local' people – and by local I mean Tibetan as the 'local' Indian population is scarcely visible. There were no other tourists in sight. In fact compared to Leh, this place is a virtual tourist desert. Even the number of volunteers is not comparable to the massive influx of religious, poverty and good will Volunteer Tourists of Kolkata. And this is not a party place either. Apparently there is only one restaurant which sells alcohol, and from the quantity of locally produced apples, I am guessing it is mainly fermented cider. The tourists here seem to stay for a while – they come to catch a glimpse of the Dalai Lama, to learn about Buddhism or just out of curiosity and once they are here they learn about something partly related or totally obscure – macraem for example is a popular 'ropes course' teaching tourists the ancient Arabian art of knotting after which they will be able to purchase crystals and precious stones from the rock piles outside of every shop and transform them into 'ethnic jewellery'. The place seems like a magnet for anything 'alternative' or as my Irish Priest friend would say 'Hippy'. And perhaps this is why I now don't mind the 'tourists' here – because they are quiet, and humble and ok probably totally stoned on locally produced, wildly growing Indian hashish but if it wasn't for the tourists, then the local Tibetan refugee community would certainly be struggling.

What confused me when I first arrived was the absence of an Indian population: Where were the inhabitants who lived here before 1959? Even the Indian waiters are here looking for seasonal employment – and like the Nepali's in Leh they are also visters: working in northern India in the monsoon and Goa in the summer. The other Indians are either pilgrims coming to visit Bhagsu's Shiva Temple built by the raja of Kangra in the 16^th century or tourists. They walk down the hill barefoot and 'bindied', or spin down on motorbikes, three to a seat, shouting nothing and red flags flying. All the begging children are Indian – working - as they follow the tourists with eyes open wide and hands extended, only to then turn around to an Indian gang leader and non nonchalantly hand over their palm of coins. In contrast the Tibetan community here appears to be very strong. They have welfare committees, government offices and official and unofficial social networks of old family friends who support new arrivals. Those who are less wealthy are probably already connected to a nunnery or a monastery – which provides food, shelter and education.

After a few persistent questions I have found out that indeed tension does exist between the old and the new – the Indian and the Tibetan – but that relations are better than before. In 1994 after continuous fighting between the two groups of young men, the Dalai Lama actually agreed to move the exiled community. While looking for a new area he spoke at a conference in the south. The meeting was attended by Tibetans from all over India, as well as tourists. McLeod Ganj emptied and for one week the local Indian population realised their symbiotic relationship with the Tibetans – without them there would be no tourists and with no tourists there would be no business. So apparently now relations are better.

As for me? As I have said: I am incredible happy. I am finally going to pursue one of my long time dreams, and I have began to practice Ashtanga Yoga with a teacher called Vijay. The classes are between six and seven hours a day, the teaching fantastic and ultimately I will be certified as a Ashtanga teacher after fifty days. This also leaves a few hours in the day for me to learn more about the local refugee community, and in the evenings I have began to volunteer for an organisations called Gu Chu Sum.

Life is about balance, and luckily I have the means to realise that balance. After over two months in the madness of Kolkata – in a dirty city full of poverty and inhumanity I am now in the foothills of the Himalayas – totally focused on my physical and mental energies. The persistent guilt which I feel for not being proactive is still simmering, but it is being dampened by the opportunities to continue to learn and for new forms of social work. Time has taught me that for continuity I need inner strength, which is fragile but accumulative. I still miss Gita, but that can only be a good thing – for otherwise our relationship would have been too superficial. Now I have the space and the peace to reflect on what Kolkata has taught me, and to decide how best to use my freedoms to continue to learn about our World.

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

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