Naked

How do you end up living on the street as a young women? Crazy, wearing only a large sweater, and with only one arm? A hard stare that looks straight through my eyes, and a feeling I detest of being in a position of 'power'. Showing a pair of Indian trousers bought in the nearest 'tourist' shop and hoping that she understands my wish to be invisible, to not share her shame, but rather to talk to her in a language I still don't know, and to ask her simply if she is ok? Instead she shakes the trousers and throws them onto the pavement, picking them up and repeating the action. Guiding her naked skinny bony legs into the flimsy cotton, she returns the favour by taking of her sweater, allowing her ribcage to protrude and spine to stick painfully into the cold evening air. Our brief interaction has only lasted for few minutes, and yet as is the norm for any street in Kolkata, we now have an audience of curious men. Silently begging her forgiveness of creating all of this unwanted attention, I walk away. Trying to resist the temptation to look back.

Baby Vision

The orphanage is pretty much the same. Two children have died from phenomena while their spaces have been filled with beautiful babies from the nursery one floor below. One of them is little Meta – the little blind baby I feel in love with a year ago. As a baby she was a natural yogini – legs and arms everywhere, but the most striking characteristic was her continuous smiling and laughing. She's grown taller, but is so skinny. Her body is still bendy, but her neck seems to fall back all the time, as she hits it on her chair, and leaves it there. She cries continuously, until she is held in your arms, and then she is still; just listening to your breath. Changing her clothes is hilarious. She loves to be touched and tickled, and giggles uncontrollably as I tickle her skinny legs and little baby belly. She particularly loves having her belly button tickled, which seems incredibly sensitive; I guess it wasn't so long ago that she was still connected to the mother that she still sheds the tears for. She is incredibly gentle, and quietly sits (or softly cries) until someone cares to feed her or change her. It is incredible how the characters of each child is expressed despite their ages, inability to talk, or move. She reminds me of Deepa – and not just because she was born without eyes – but because of her passivity and quiet confusion. Seeing Deepa's stinted development is all the more reason why it is so important to find a 'solution' to find a way to assist her to learn to speak and fight her way through this world; lessons learned which may make the journey for this next little baby a little smoother. But she is not the only one.

Next to her sits Nitu. Who is adorable. Totally. But her attitude is completely different. Her lack of vision seems to mean nothing to her. She is a real fighter and super smart. She is smaller than Meta but probably the same age – around one and a half (even though their folders say they are three and two respectively). She wants to learn and if she isn't finding the stimulus she will yell until she gets it. The power of her shouts reflect her frustration. She takes a deep inhalation and then pours our a 'Ahhhhh'. Unlike Meta, it isn't a cry of misery, but for attention. And what a successful technique! Within minutes she has someone in front of her, watching the Queen of the babies, and following her orders. I am no exception, and happily follow her demands for different sounds and songs, as she quickly repeats and giggles. 'La La La' is too easy for her, and soon we are 'rrrrrrrrrr' – ing and 'zzzzzzzz ZA!'-ing. I try singing 'twinkle twinkle little star' as she lifts herself off the padded chair and bumps back down with total uncontrollable excitement. Sporadically she throws her arms out to the sides and searches for Meta's still fluffy baby hair which she yanks with all the power of her little fists. Meta just sits quietly. Unsure of what is happening or how to react. Eager to preserve the little hair Meta has managed to grow, I turn my attention to her chair and move it slightly away from her incredibly stimulated neighbour. I guess most babies have no control over their movements, as parents and carers pick them up and deposit them at will, but the lack of vision that these babies have must make it all the more frustrating. However, Meta seems pacified by my continuing rendition of 'twinkle twinkle'. I feel like I have just seen a ghost – or rather heard one. Queen Nitu is bubbling a stream of 'little stars' – now for a blind baby whose first language should be Bengali and who apparently has still yet to speak her first word, this is AMAZING. So, amazed and with a smile from ear to ear, I struggle with the simultaneous feelings of frustration as I think that four years further down the verbal development line, Deepa is still struggling with basic sounds.

Meanwhile, I am caught in a ridiculous predicament. I have as yet avoided introducing myself to the new Sister in charge. Following warnings from Climber Woman, I decided not highlight the specific attention which I am dedicating to Deepa. However, I desperately want to ask about any potential speech therapy training. I have heard from another long term volunteer that this winter has put many of the children in hospital which has been an unexpected drain on the Shishu Bhavan funds. This apparent unexpected drain has meant a re-allocation of money from the weekly speech therapy tuition to the weekly physiotherapy sessions. I am in no position to question the use of the Missionaries of Charities funds, although this cutback surprises me, as they are one of the wealthiest charities in Kolkata. I'd love to offer paying for a speech therapist, but predict that my offer will be seen as interfering.

I want these beautiful blind girls to have the opportunities to learn to speak, to learn life skills that will enable them to facilitate a future for themselves. For them to be able to feed themselves, to go to the toilet, to communicate fully with those around them, so that they can understand where they are and made sense of all the craziness – inside and outside of the orphanage. I want them to have a life – despite not having eyes. Once again, I want to know – how can I help more?

Fire

Twenty one years old and laying in a hospital bed, without skin. Charred black, and leaving ash on all she tries to hug. Naked but disguised by the lack of flesh. Ninety five percent burns and a funeral to attend some day this week – Doctors orders. I don't know her, I have only heard. What I heard is a common story, but the reality is that this is no 'tale' but the short life of one beautiful woman, born in Bangladesh and to die in Kolkata. Two nights ago she covered herself in three litres of petroleum. She threw a match on her body and burned herself to nearly dead. Her husband was arrested but later released. Her friends said he hit her – hard – but not on the face; that wouldn't be good for business.

Her story – her life - is Consuming.

As a young girl she arrived in Kolkata; pretty, tall and fair. Before long she was working the streets of Kalighat. Where the younger girls can earn more per ten minutes, then the older or darker women. The going rate is between 30 and 50 rupees per ten minutes (around 10 cents). At the age of sixteen she met her husband – a client. They decided to marry and move to his village away from the city. But soon her savings ran out, and she was expecting her only child. She ended up back in Kalighat, but this time working to support not just herself but her husband and new baby boy. Then two nights ago Fire must have seen like a solution to burn away her pain. Her little son trying to reach her, singeing his fingers. Her husband reeling in guilty tears.

But the fire wasn't as effective as it should have been. She is fully conscious. She can see – her body. She can move around in her filthy death bed. Crying out for water which she is not allowed to drink, and laying naked with only one bandage wrapping the IV drip to her wrist.

Just to reiterate. This isn't a story. This is reality. Now.

Super Star Deepa

Taller and skinner, but a little more in this world. Still a fighter but with less spark; and incredibly rounded shoulders to prove it. As I walked through the disabled section I found Deepa laying on in a cot, with her feet nearly around the back of her head making indeterminable sounds. Impossible to know if she remembered me, but without a doubt that she remembered my bracelets. Fingers rolling the blue beads on each of my wrists, and then searching for the strap of my dive computer – flick flick flick. Pulling my arm closer to her ear as she enjoyed the hidden musical instruments disguised as random junk. Singing Indiana Jones to her as she used my body to pull hers up, I felt a relief that I was back where I was supposed to be. Smiling inside and laughing loudly. It was so good to see Deepa, and to see that she was ok. She has made some 'improvements'. More sounds are coming out of her mouth – sporadically and only when she wants. But it is clear that Climber Girl definitely broke down some verbal barriers. She whispers 'Deepa' into the air and between the 'la la la la la's' moves her mouth towards other sounds. She clearly knows the meaning of the English instructions, 'sit down', 'stand up' and 'step' but still decides not to make them part of her spoken vocabulary.

Leading her out of the room of screams and shouts, we walked towards the stairs. Remembering our first meeting when I would be practically dragging her across the floor, as she would stubbornly refuse to bend her knees, and then now watching as she confidently grabbed the bannister and flew up each step. She didn't need my guidance to negotiate her way around the concrete corner and take the final step up onto the orphanage roof. Striding between the hanging laundry she slowed her pace as we reached the edge, standing high above bustling A.C Bose road below. Resisting the temptation to protect her from every bump and bang, she gently hit the wall with her head but seemed to be expecting it and without a sound, began to feel for the hanging wire which she still loves to play with. Standing behind her I found myself gently allowing her to lean back onto my legs as I bent my knees into her back, trying to pull her shoulders towards me. I am not sure why she has developed this tendency to curl into herself. Protection? Not knowing any other way? Despite my careful persistence of trying to relax her shoulders, and despite her natural yogic tendency's she is not a student who I can advise and move. Besides, she is so tense, and I really hate to feel the tension she silently holds inside of her bony body. She resists my attempts, so I resort to the big bouncy ball tactic. I bounce the ball up and down and she immediately turns and reaches out, following the sounds with her hands. For a moment my mind is back in Bali, at my blindfold yoga workshop when participants sat listening to the rolling of the ball, as it was randomly rolled around the circle. But now, back to Deepa, as she allows her body to be repositioned with her back to the giant bouncy ball which I throw her over backwards. She grins widely as I lift her arms over her head, and her shoulders finally relax. She giggles and laughs and before long I am tickling her as we share a contagious energy.

I try and remember the games we used to play, and after we have row row rowed our boats across the floor, and she has fallen off our imaginary horse into the 'deep blue sea', we sit clapping and tapping and copying the others vibrations. The way she moves her hands to explore the potential sound of any unidentified object is incredibly intricate. She seems to 'drum' objects with the palm of her hand, the base of her fingers and her fingertips – simultaneously. It is a sensitivity which is incredibly difficult to duplicate, and even now I sit her hitting the keys of the laptop, wondering how she can control the flexibility of her entire hand in such a way. I disobey orders and give a gift of a bracelet of multicoloured bells. She pulls it straight up her arm and protects it with her other hand, tinging gently with each finger. There is a volunteer who is a retired music teacher. I ask her to sing Deepa a song, and she happily does so, while Deepa begins to sway from side to side. Her love for music is clearly evident. I listen as Deepa begins to copy the notes, while German Grandmother and I share a smile with our eyes. She is following the tune perfectly and although I need to be told this after, she easily reached the tricky notes. Her ability to follow rhythm and to copy tones is incredible, and I laugh at the irony of my inability to sing the same song in the same key twice.

My aunt emailed me yesterday:

I was thinking about Deepa whilst I have been ironing, I think about all sorts of things when I am ironing. I would like to send her a present, do you think that would be allowed by the orphanage. If so, what do you suggest for a little blind girl?

I replied with the words “something musical” while in my head, I wished for another music teacher, with a full set of percussion instruments, who might know the secret to bringing Deepa fully into the World. My aunts words remain on replay in my head; What do I suggest for a little blind girl? I wish someone would tell me how I can do more for her.

It's wonderful to see her again.

Tea and Bread

Familiarity. A routine waiting to be picked up and re-experienced. The chilly morning my only companion along Alimudden Street. Wrapping my shawl tightly around my shoulders for extra protection. My apprehension was nothing more than a release of nerves. The street was otherwise entertained. Yellow taxi's and lean men covered in soap suds, as vehicles, bodies and undressed clothes are washed together. Sounds of 'mooing' escaping from behind closed doors, betraying the notion that city houses are only reserved for city 'people'. Fat fried breakfast roti's lining up on top of gas cylinder stoves. Young boys dashing between others strides, bringing home the hot delivery parceled in yesterday's grease stained paper. Today's news plastered to the brick wall, as a row of men stand silently squinting. I remember my old conundrum of if two papers are pasted for public reading, or is only one side read? My body jumps slightly as it reacts to the ground next to my feet moving. A bundle of a body has just woken up.

The Mother House welcomes me through her cold and stony entrance and ushers me towards the lively sounds of the volunteers meeting room. Team Korea were diligently pouring chai from the industrial steel kettle, which was standing to attention in thick plastic cups. At their side, a nun was filling the next step in the breakfast production line and fervently slices doorsteps of white bread. The bread was only momentarily suppressed from the machete like kitchen knife, before bouncing back to a nearly 'normal' position. Volunteers lined up grabbing hot tea to which they could suffocate and dye the bread. Despite the breakfast rush, Team Korea plus Sister were totally committed to their mission. The scene seemed to perfectly explain the roots of the term 'missionaries'.

Hot chai in hand, and bread sunk and floating, abandoned or perhaps just waiting to be sucked up with the grains of sugary tea. I loitered around listening to the melody of languages jumping into my ears behind the visual backdrop of a huge world map. Spanish mingling with French, American English, Spanish English, the excited laughs of a group of Portugese women. One-day volunteers queued up in front of a Sister with a rather depressing name – 'Mercy' – waiting to register for their day of Charity. When she had handed out the last paper square, with her ordained scribble of permission, she opened the prayer. Turning to read the familiar words, I thought how awkward Catholics must feel in yoga classes – chanting mantras and humming 'oms'. But then again its all social conditioning. Now I was just feeling like I was at school. Perhaps it was the previous thoughts of Team Korea, but the memories of school assembly began to transform into the low rumble of a war dance. The collective energies being gathered and directed towards the 'mission'.

I stood with words silently passing through my consciousness as those around me mumbled through the daily prayer. Words of gratitude for the privilege of working with the poor, wishes for singleness of purpose and strength for the day ahead. The mission? In my mind, facing poverty, seeing suffering, not just crossing the road or reading what 'fate' might lay in wait for those we wouldn't feel comfortable touching. Despite my reluctance to move my lips and despite the groups clearly very different motivations, the importance of a common goal felt reassuring. 'Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!' jumped out, as controlled claps followed the rhythms of gratitude directed to those leaving and continuing their journeys – home or onwards.

I found what I was looking for. Two committed smiling Spanish women who were long term volunteers in Shishu Bhavan. I needed moral support to walk into the orphanage, and the women's chit chat about the kids and their experiences, providing just the right amount of comfort.

Breakfast was worth it. Its good to be back. Its good to be part of a collective of energies working towards compassion – despite the religious camouflage and culture confusions.

Fear

I have found something which has changed. I am now accompanied by a fear of expectation, so much so that I am petrified to return to Shishu Bhavan. In the last eleven months I have spoke continuously about Deepa. I have spent so much time trying to figure out a way to provide her with the opportunities she needs to grow into independence, and right now I am so scared that it is beyond my capabilities. I registered with the Missionaries of Charity yesterday, ready to begin work tomorrow. I listened to a volunteer warn about giving money to professional beggars, about only eating in touristic restaurants, about the dangers of catching lice, malaria and a million other indescribable infections, about how to make an appointment for confession. Trying to swallow frustrations I took my seat for registration, and felt a little of my anxiety float away, as the Sister penciled my name into the list of volunteers for Shishu Bahavan. I told her I was a yoga teacher and would be happy to provide some classes for the Sisters if they were interested? I was left smiling on the outside and in as the offer was received with deaf ears. She handed me the tiny silver Mother Teresa medal with a whisper of a blessing and then called forward the next on the volunteer conveyor belt.

A group of French flipped through the homemade Lonely Planet to the Missionaries of Charity – choosing which home to volunteer in, organising their schedules and coordinating with the available places. If it wasn't for Deepa, I would not be here The amount of willing hands is amazing. So many people wanting to experience a little of Mother Teresa's magic. But I am thankful for my self imposed responsibility to my little friend. She has given me a goal inside the enormity of poverty; but the path isn't as simple as it could be, and I am continuously trying to remain thankful to Shishu Bhavan for supporting life, while wishing they could facilitate futures. I have already received warnings that the new Sister in charge of the orphanage is battling any attempts of the children receiving individual attention. I realise that every day I will be witness to routine acts of abuse and incompetence, tempting my frustrations and giving a voice to my anger. Yet despite this, I am really scared of my own self imposed expectations. Despite how much I want to see Deepa, I don't know whether I will be able to fulfill my silent pledge to her – to help her find her life. Have I romanticised opportunity? Forgotten the rigidity of the 'system' she was more or less born into? Given myself supernatural powers to perform miracles reserved usually for only a tiny percentage of the 'normal' orphans? I start work at Shishu Bhavan tomorrow.

Back to Kolkata

“Its never the same the second time”. Apparently. It has been eleven months since I reluctantly left; during a time when I was sentimentally attached to every moment, and totally attached to life in the middle of an Indian city. In the time lapse between I have been living a completely different reality: Next to the sea, on paradise islands, in the middle of lush rice paddies...always surrounded by fresh clean air, nature, hot water showers and normalised luxury. It is good to be back and in a strange way it is comforting that not much has changed. The yellow ambassador taxis are still beeping and surging and hustling the human pulled rickshaws, the piles of rotting rubbish are still drifting under feet, sticking to shoes and successfully reproducing trails of filth. The street chai is still loaded with sugar and evaporating from boiling kettles sending a sweet sticky vapour to join the melody of scents The gangs of women are still shouting in my ear “no money just milk” as I try to buy water from a lungi-clad man crouching on top of his stall of a shop.

There is however, something refreshing about being back in Kolkata, which is perhaps why the lack of change is reassuring: Away from the mask of careers, consumerism, advertising and future plans. Life in Kolkata seems so much more Present. Adapting has still been unexpectedly tough. Even though the dirt, smells, metallic fumes and crowds of pressing bodies are so familiar, my senses haven't just adjusted and are still too sensitive. My pedestrian skills are rusty, and my curious eyes betray my previous experience. Walking back up the stairs to my new room on the roof of Modern Lodge, I felt the skin tickling sensation of deja-vu; as if I have never really left and as if time has just stood still. The rattle of the tap filling up the rusty bucket with ice cold water sounds so familiar and yet strangely exciting – a reminder that I am back. The hotel's resident 'old man' still spends every day and night camped on a broken bed at the entrance, collecting 100 rupee bills and monitoring every event as his remaining energy migrates to his incredibly lively eyes. The manager still refuses to give a discount for long term stays and smiles at his obvious victory as despite his vicious bedbugs and bubbling walls of mould, his rooms are still competitive with the rest of the run-down infested hostels. The man who washes the floor with old rags, jumps up to offer his hand, and squeezes it as a sly reminder that if I want an electric plug in my room, he is only to happy to silently oblige.

Most of the Sudder street beggars are the same. The lady who is covered with acid burns; the matriarchal families camping on the pavement; the crazy Man Outside is still wandering the lanes, bowing down to touch the passing feet of volunteers, and bringing a contagious smile to all around as he grins and mutters and waves his hands. The 'India Game' man continues to try to sell a shot of pooping his board of small balloons. But his energy seems a little dimished, his cries no longer echo down the street, and more often then not he if crouching rather than standing – too many years of 'India Games'.

So what has changed? The chai wallah has gone home, and the two boys in the Sikh restaurant have shocked me by apparently turning into men. One has grown whiskers and one has grown nearly half a meter and seems to be trying to flirt with me; perhaps child labour isn't as prevalent as appearances might suggest. I still haven't ventured to the train station or to the slums, but I am well aware that the effects of the global financial crisis are beginning to filter into the city. The dollar plummeting has more than doubled the real price of food and accommodation, and as I worry about how my money will last, I also wonder how the crisis, that was only a feature of the international news one year ago, is now affecting the city's homeless?

There are many new faces among the volunteers. Only a couple of friends remain. In a way, the fresh influx gives me confidence. It is ok to leave. There will always be others to fill the space. While the absence of the most committed and inspirational friends from one year ago, reassures me of the importance of a life in 'balance'. Living more than several years in this intensity of human poverty has to come at a cost. Now I am realising why I left – to grow stronger and be ready to return with a much more sustainable attitude. The 'guilty' sensations of my own random 'privilege' doesn't appear to be hanging over me. Perhaps its just waiting around the corner, ready to pull me back into the suffocating grips of self-reproach. But right now I am finally feeling the freedom of choosing to be here. I want to be exposed to the harshness of exploitation in order to learn, to change, to improve; but this is a massive system of injustice, which can be tackled at any place in the world. Continuously thankful for change providing the gift of opportunity for me to live around the world, to explore the diversity of life – its paradises and it tragedies.

Kuala Lumpur Limbo

The Coffe Bean, Starbucks, Big Apple 'the food that angels eat' donuts, laptops as skinny as mobiles and as technical as Big Brothers, persistent adverts gatecrashing my apparently inferior computer screen – I am being programmed: You need to buy this car, you must book this holiday, now go to watch the latest movie release. I am in a supersized digital Kuala Lumpur limbo. Waiting with crossed fingers for my Indian visa to be processed. Five working days – mumpkim.

I left postcard green and luscious Bali six days ago. A whirlwind goodbye. Too few malas for too many special friends. Six months previously I had arrived with minus money and day dreams of teaching yoga amidst the most beautiful and inspiring teachers. Intention. Determination. A belief that if I continued to follow my heart the only outcome could be a positive one. In retrospect all I feel is disbelief. Realisation. Lessons learned which I could not have anticipated. I began to tune into a new frequency. One which is less judging and more accepting. At times totally alien, intangible and incomprehensible, but still audible. Welcoming strangers. Wonderful friends.

Exposed to the liberating and uniting power of song, the exploratory journey of dance, the new depth of old characteristics and the seeds of awakening potential. I am so grateful for the gifts of opportunities and the magical realisation of day dreams. I have left with so many gifts of friendship, wisdom and support for the months ahead. Thankful for this limbo to process and to prepare. But accompanied by a disconcerting apprehension.

Thinking back to the intense culture shock I felt when flying out of Kolkata airport and into Bangkok. Interesting how after only eleven months it is relatively easy it is to sink back into this perversely normalised culture of consumerism. Hi-tech, fast-paced, working, spending, rushing, building – rising upwards, outwards, palm-trees twenty stories up and shops twenty meters below the ground. Grass and dirt replaced with a human made alternatives. Progress? (D) Evolution. Excess through a urban jungle mirroring the capitals of so many countries. Curiosity. Contradictions. Beautiful people hidden amongst the walls. Smiling faces on every cement corner.

What is my role in this globalised sphere? How will it feel taking my first steps along the manic streets of a predominately homeless Kolkata? Will I need to re-adjust yet again? Enjoying the privilege of choice, and safe in the knowledge of alternative destinations. How will it be to see Deepa? Have I created impossible goals? Ignored the dangerous reality of what could too easily be her -I deteste this word – 'fate'? What reflections will be shone for me to choose to face? What will the future hold?

Staying present vis-a-vis the juxtaposition of mental preparation to soften the blow and ultimately be more effective (-ly present). Perhaps. Parallel lives. Suspended in a limbo between self exploration and universal responsibility.

I collect my visa tonight. I fly tomorrow.

Inner Vision

The weekend before I left Bali I conducted my second blind fold yoga workshop. A bean of a idea which had grown from the surrounding depth of yoga knowledge, which had left me feeling uprooted. What could I contribute to the richness of the expertise around me? Throughout my time in Bali the niggle of guilt had been tingling in my belly. In a spiritual haven, surrounded by novel opportunities for self exploration and examination of tricky egos, I fought to examine my need to pursue social work, while feeling isolated from the 'real' world of suffering which I choose to submerge myself in for so many other months of the year. Surely, it need not be a choice? Surely we all have a part to play in alleviating suffering? And not just in perfecting our own internal thought patterns? I reprimanded myself countless times for 'judging' the internal journeys of those around, while finding clues to the obstacles which prevented me from following the same path. Pressing 'pause' on such confusing judgements I still couldn't deny that I felt pulled to Kolkata. My yogi friends would reassure me that this was the path which the universe had laid out for me, friends from university would argue it was my political training and dedication to a philosophy of a universal humanity. My father would most probably say that it is my 'nature'. Different or one united explanation? Either way, I wanted to try to bring the reality of too many people in Kolkata to friends in Paradise.

The “Inner Sense” blindfold workshop was an attempt to try and share a little of what Deepa taught me. An opportunity for yoga practitioners to explore a novel style of yoga – yoga without eyes. Remembering the incredible lessons of trying to see the world through Deepa's incredibly sensitised hearing and touch, I advertised the workshop as “the practice of yoga with a different set of senses and courage.” The aim was to provide a space for practitioners to explore movement without visual stimulation. Our innate inner senses such as our natural orientation and kinesthetic sense often lays dormant, overridden in our very 'visual' world. By removing sight one is forced to be completely present. There is no space for day dreaming. Every sound is magnified, and every movement seems like an enormous brush against a unknown limitless surrounding spaciousness. During both of the workshops, it was a challenge to create a stimulating experience without falling into a emotional recollection of Deepa's fight. A hard balance but one which appeared to be surprisingly well received.

I began with some sound games. Listen. No talking. Just hearing. Repeating. Copying. Confusion? Perhaps. Then came the challenge of stepping off the yoga mat. Exploring the familiar space of the studio, but this time being guided only by outstretched hands and the sounds of other soft footsteps. Amazed by those who immediately jumped into the unknown, while trying to entice the fearful to take a few more unsure steps. Introducing the energy of some African beats seemed to stir up the levels of courage, and before long tentative strides transformed into jumps, sways and finally dancing. Developing senses. Feeling...“Sharks utilise their electro-magnetic field which enables them to sense other life forms around”. Experiencing a new freedom in the familiar; feeling a new dynamism in the spaces around and ultimately allowing a new sensitivity to the other energies sharing that space.

Next came Trust. Pairing up of participants as when blinded even good friends became strangers. Alienated from sight and unable to communicate identities but surrendering to blindly follow verbal instructions. George MacDonald wisely suggested that “to be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.” Indeed it was interesting watching as participants supported one another through my spoken instructions. Leaning back into space while holding hands to defy gravity. “The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand, nor the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship; it is the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when you discover that someone else believes in you and is willing to trust you.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson). Laughter softening the feelings of loneliness which were to come during the solo asanas, where people struggled to follow potentially confusing instructions, and fought frustrations of failure. Afterall, there is no wrong way to move, rather just listen to what your body needs. “The biggest barrier to living a creative life is the fear of being wrong.” But preconceived 'rights' and 'wrongs' still created an article level of judgement. Invisible competition.

The flow of sun salutations. “Thank for the sun – which Deepa occasionally feels”. The variability of rhythm hiding the synchronization of steps and stretches. An awareness of our kinesthetic sense; the sense which provides the brain with information on the relative positions of the parts of the body. Allowing us to 'know' where hands and feet are moved – even though we can't see the movement. Breath increasing during the balancing exercises, as those adept with their eyes opened felt the debilitating sensations of locating their internal sense of orientation. Deepa didn't lean to walk until she was four.

Intense gratitude for the talents of Others – to Uma for her vividly visually stimulating 'yoga nidra' – guiding the practitioners safely into their own imaginations. To Daphne, for her beautiful and emotive Kirtan. Whose vision and support has been eerily pre-empted by her previous dedications to Mother Teresa and dreams of filming in Kolkata. Her voice broke the verbal fast through call and response singing, providing a space for those otherwise hesitant to join the confident pitches of other singers; no room for self-consciousness underneath a blindfold, only for the liberating rise of connecting harmonies. Hoping - Deepa will learn to speak this year.

The unveiling in front of a small display of old photos – soon to be renewed. Pictures speak a thousand words. Relief, tears, smiles. An incredible gratitude to those who facilitated the workshops, to those who allowed their sight to be restricted for two and a half hours, and for those who have given me so much power and encouragement. “Long may our eyes See the Sun!”

Crusade for Words

It is 1.50 am in Bali. 11.20pm in India. I listen to the gentle croak of the night-time crickets and occasional 'clucking' of the bungalow rat. There is so much life. Even in the dark the air is rich with fragrance of the lush green vibrant nature all around. I am trying to imagine hearing the noise of Kolkata: the shouts from the street, the persistent 'brums' of the yellow taxi's, the banging of doors and stamp of footsteps as human life pervades stillness and nature fades into a background flutter of the wings of a mosquito.

Deepa spoke yesterday. 'Up up up' as she walked up the stairs to the concrete rooftop. The rooftop which seem so very far away from the fresh rice paddies of my Ubud room. Despite the distance, despite the eleven months since I last saw her, despite the yoga, diving and trillion other events which will make my return journey possible, I haven't been able to stop thinking about her first word; 'Up'.

Earlier this year, in April I was standing on a ledge of a limestone rock, in Thailand's climbing paradise, with my head cricked upwards towards the sun. A unknown woman to my left was waiting for her turn to monkey her way up the rock. She was friendly and told me of her adventures around the world. She was exploring the beaches of Asia and soon to be in the roof of the world in Nepal, and then onto India. And then she mentioned the magic words 'Child Speech Therapist'. I poured out my stories fuelled from my guilt of leaving Deepa, while she told me about her ideas of volunteering. Within minutes Deepa's first words had been secured – but neither of us knew it at the time.

Climbing Woman only arrived in Kolkata last week. From my little laptop here in Bali I wrote pages of information, details about Kolkata, Shishu Bhavan, about Deepa, but the words only came into life in the replies which she typed. The last few days have been a painful realisation. Climbing Woman became Climbing Warrior Woman as she took on the establishment of one of the cities biggest orphanages. She was told:

You could be a doctor or a teacher or a therapist. I don't care. You are here to love all the children, all the same. That is all that you are here for. And I don't want to talk about it any more.

The tone, the meaning, the disbelieving frustration, echoed in my heart and weighed down on my conscience. Had I misled her? I knew the ridiculous reality and yet even I was shocked by the words of the new Sister in charge who didn't want Deepa to be receiving any 'special' attention. A few mails later and Climbing Warrior Woman told me she was stepping down; defeated. Unable and unwilling to battle everyday for Deepa's words but would continue to visit her a few days a week. Instead she would volunteer for another organisation more receptive to her skills. Furious at the inability to facilitate a possible solution. Tightness gripping at my privileged naive shoulders, there was little I could do but agree and be Angry.

I tried to counter balance the failed expectations which had been fueling these past months, taking reassurance from yet another 'expert' opinion which failed to agree she was autistic but instead just mute from the madness around her.

But today I read about these 'first words' – her first ascending words to independence. I hope.

I finally booked my flight yesterday. Arriving later than what I wished, but enabled by Air Asia's new route from Kuala Lumpur to Kolkata. A very small price to pay for a journey I have been waiting to make for eleven months. It still seems years away but the anticipation continues to hug my body with a scary premonition of the battle ahead. After reading the hundreds of words from Climbing Warrior Woman I predict fights with the forces that be, as they restrict progress with their own blindness. My expectations of more waiting words are dangerously high. I wish I could climb the coconut trees like the grinning gardener I saw today. Releasing the areas of tensions that six hours of yoga still cannot reach. Aum vighna nashanaya namah. Perhaps Ganesh can help to remove the blindness of a missions of charity without the sight of real transformation. Without the ability to truly faciliate a real life for the hundreds of dependent beings in their care. I wish I could filter power and perseverance across the Indian Ocean: Warrior Woman, who I met for what was only minutes, I hope you realise, you have already changed Deepa's life beyond words.

“Patience and perseverance had a magical effect before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish”.

To read more about the work of Warrior Woman see her blog: http://www.camilleonthego.blogspot.com/

I have decided to use Deepa's real name (previously I had wrote about Gita). I want her power to be shared and voice heard.