Pavement Restaurant

Another lunch time at the train station. Just the phrase sounds so stupid! As if I am going for lunch at the train station, rather than handing out lunch to fifteen of hundreds of hungry people. Anyway, today it began a little differently. Me, Muhammad and Deepta, standing in the middle of the multiple no lane road, waiting for a lull in the zooooming buses and the army of taxis to run across to the other side when we saw Fadi. I know its only an expression, but really, my heart nearly stopped. With his sandals on his hands Fadi was crossing the road. Pulling himself across the tarmac, trailing the stump of his leg behind him, with his bundle of possessions tied around his waist. Buses stormed passed him, taxi's careered around him. He appeared like a stray dog, caught in the middle of the rush hour traffic, while we were stranded watching, wishing, hoping with a collective determination that the bus drivers will see him, that the sprinting taxis will not accelerate until they have passed him. Miraculously he makes it. I feel the collective relief from our small group. Without even saying one word to the other we turn and dodge our way over to his side of the road. Fadi looks up. Smiles. Hands in Nameste and then begins to untie his bundle to reach for his half a cup of a hollowed coconut shell. Muhammad fills it up and then pours water over his hands, while Fadi rubs the bar of soap between his palms. Deepta and I empty the small plastic bags of daal and fish out into the cardboard box. Two chapati's are placed on top and then we turn to go, leaving Fadi sitting at the side of the road. Half a meter away from one of the busiest intersections in the city. Eating his lunch – just how he lives his life - at exhaust level, surrounded by traffic, fumes and horns.

Next stop. The old couple in the car park of the train station. The (Angry) wife isn't there, but other residents of the car park point to her mute husband. We follow the pointing arms and find Harry sitting cross legged outside the northern entrance of the train station. Surrounded by moving people. He is sitting directly in the sun. The temperature today is 42 degrees. It is mid day. Deepta picks up the bottom of her sari and runs. I watch as she reaches him, bends down and lifts him to a stoop with an arm linked under his. Always smiling he greets her as she half drags half carries him across the road. His small bundle of belongs and walking stick begin to fall away from his body and are left strewn across the road. I leave Muhammad with the bags of food and like Gita, lift up my long trousers in order to be free to run over to collect them. One old wooden stick. One dirty cloth. One empty water plastic water bottle. We return Smiling Harry to his usual shady spot. He is still clutching a soggy banana. Deepta takes it from him and places in the lunch box we have just prepared for him. We leave Harry with his smiling eyes sitting in the dirt but away from the cars, the blind feet and the sweating sun.

Next stop. The three meticulously clean men always in the same place. One without legs. One with brushed hair. One with no shirt and long hair, but still so clean. How I have no idea, when even after half a day my feet are black and my kuta soaked in stale sweat. We never offer to wash their hands. They clearly don't need our soap. Instead they great us, take the boxes of unopened food and then sit down as if the pavement is their dining table. They expertly remove the elastic bands sealing the individually packed daals and prepare their own lunch. We walk away and I turn around to see a small green lime produced from a shirt pocket, followed by a razor blade and then shared between the contents of the three cardboard boxes.

Deepta walks ahead to refill our water bottles and then we face the stream of disembarking passengers. Balancing on the side of the platform, walking towards the end. We look for Ramu. Again always clean and well dressed, but today he is not where he always is. The local cucumber seller will keep his lunch for him. We walk on, step down onto the railway track and pick our way across to the other side. Water continues to seep out of my pores, covering my skin. I lift my right foot up to step back up onto the platform. Back into the shade, and sitting at the very end of the platform, as always, are Raju and Niraj. After Deepta's hair attack of last week they don't look so much like brothers, but I have thought too soon as Deepta whips out the scissors. Niraj lets us wash his hands and then begins to eat his lunch, while Raju just watches the concrete as his long locks haphazardly fall down. He plays with a twig which eventually he uses to build a mountain from discarded hair. The crowds begin to come. They seem to emerge from underground as no train has arrived. The people stand and stare, and they don't care to keep their distance, but encroach upon Raju and Niraj's space. The two men retain their same expression of nonchalance and it gives the impression that they share a unique language that only themselves can understand. Niraj is left with a head full of snips – patches of hair next to patches of scalp. Deepta is pleased. She looks up and then welds her scissors at her audience. She shouts something in Bengali. I imagine it to be something like “So whose next?”. Either way, as always there is no reaction. We leave Niraj his lunch and as we walk away he walks to the edge of the platform to brush off the strands of hair that never made it to his soft mountain. As he faces the railway track Muhammad turns and rushes back. His limp making his run look cumbersome and painful. I motion to Deepta to stop. Someone is trying to steal Niraj's food. Muhammad intercepts the food and it is returned to its rightful 'owner' and we continue.

The two old women, Laura and Sarah, on separate benches. No smiles. No words. Just a silent exchange. And then Ramu. Sitting on his own. Back against a steel pillar. Covered in cuts and bruises. Deepta shouts at him. But she is not really 'shouting' only trying to ask him what has happened. No response. No reaction. Muhammed takes his hands and washes them. We leave another box of food. I wonder what will happen to the one waiting with the cucumber man? It is a pointless question. There are enough hungry stomachs. Everyday one or two people are feed who weren't the day before. I wonder whose lunch we have just given away. It isn't arbitrary but it is practical. If we have a 'extra' packet within seconds we can find a receiver. We come at the same time every day and if the participants aren't there, there is little else we can do. And today it is Pugli who is left without our lunch. She was not on the station stairs, she was not lying on the ledge outside. She was not crouched next to the rubbish.

We finish our circuit by walking back to Smiling Harry. His (angry) wife is back. She is eating his food. He is sitting in the same place where we left him. He looks up at us and points to The Angry Wife. His gestures are once again supported by the bystanders who seem just to be hanging out like is passive guardian angels. We bring out the last packet, empty the contents for him and place the chapatis on top. Deja-vu.

A gust of warm wind sends a stinging layer of dust around my ankles and a brown tattered plastic bag rolls over my feet. I kick it away. Another gust and I look down to see dirt swirling over the chapatis as Smiling Harry hurriedly tries to close the lid to his cardboard packet of food.

Ladies Only

After a day in Kolkata I felt like I had been here for a month. After a month I now feel perfectly at home. 'Home' in the sense that I no longer feel like a stranger, that sights and smells are no longer new. 'Home' in that I see the same faces at the same time every day, and people no longer 'see' me quite so much. In fact for a 170cm tall blonde woman I feel relatively 'invisible'. Living in Kolkata is much easier than I had envisaged. People may be incredibly curious, but that is not because I am a foreigner. As the food program reminds me, curiosity is more part of Kolkata's 'culture' than anything to do with me. In regards to 'me' people are incredibly helpful. Traveling on my own is easier than most other places I have been. Although the streets are full with many more men than women, the majority are all incredibly polite. On all public buses and the Metro, instead of designated seating areas for the elderly or disabled, there are designated seating areas for 'Ladies Only'. In fact the Metro (which Kolkata is very proud of) is always quite a pleasant experience. Walking down the steps, buying a four rupee ticket, walking through the 'metal detector' door frame which beeps and flashes regardless of what passes under it, through the turn stiles, and onto the platform. Trains to South Kolkata (Tollygunge) on the first platform and to the North (Dum Dum) on the opposite side. A cool breeze flows through the station combining the underground air conditioning with the vacuum left by departing trains. Hindi music rings out as (usually) the latest Kolkata Knights cricket match is played on one of the TV screens. There are a scattering of sari clad women and then the spacious gaps are filled by shirt wearing men, standing in backless polished shoes (but "no shoe shines in the Metro"- please...) and synthetic lap top cases. A train arrives, rattttling along the tracks. And then rush. Everyone converges towards the opening sliding doors and piles in. Hot bodies pressing forward. Arms reaching towards the stainless steel bars. We women squeeze towards our 'relief' – the middle section of every carriage is 'our' space. I usually stand although some times one woman will insist on becoming my personal traffic warden, using her native authority to shuffle up all the other women to reveal a small gap for me to squeeze into. Otherwise I hold onto the cool railings and look, and my looks are reciprocated.

My own curiosity is reserved only for women and children. Although I feel completely at ease wandering around Kolkata, I also know that staring with a strange face to a strange face is not always the most sensible option. But in the confines of the 'Ladies Only' we all observe the 'strangers'. I am self conscious of my comparatively scruffy appearance: my straw hair loosely tied back and wrapped up this way and any way, with strands escaping creating a fuzzy hairy aura around me. Meanwhile I look at the rows of scrapped back silky black plaits or neat low ponytails hanging obediently down backs. Lines of red marking the parting of the married women's hair line, reflecting the third eye de-marked by red, black or jeweled bindis. My earrings mis matching, my necklaces made of string, my clumpy dive computer and my beaded bracelet look awkward and childish next to the gold droplets handing off every ear lobe, detailed delicate chains, and wrists full of jinglingly jangling colours. My kuta faded from its nightly washes, and still with the faint line left by the wire it was dried upon. Marks of sweat where my cotton bag is pressing against my body. I look at the seats full of colours. Of fresh cotton saris, some studded with gems, all bright and each telling their own story. Meters of printed material wrapping around and over and flowing graciously to the floor, to reveal polished nails sitting daintily in strapped heeled sandals. I hitch up my fishermans trousers from under my kuta, readjusting the two lengths of material which hold it approximately around my waist. I look down at my dirty feet, at my black rubber Flip Flops.

A recording is playing following our journey. Familiar words can just be made out from underneath the rattle of the train: Maidan left side, Rabindra Sadan left side, Netaji Bose left side, J S Park street right side. As I hear my exit I move to the door, towards the men. A space is made for me and as the doors slide open I join the 'exchange' and hop out through through the bottle neck, into the opposing movement crushing into the confined. Back onto the cool platform and the rush is over and the pace is slow. Ticket in the machine, pressing my body against the turnstile, until it resists, releases and spits me out. Left following the sign to the 'Kalighat Temple'. Two small steps at a time up to the busy, dusty, beeping road and a first left.

"Rickshaw Madame?" A foot rickshaw driver smiles. "Rickshaw to the Metro?" He jokes. He sees me every day and tells me "walking walking everyday walking." And everyday I repeat his words back to him as I walk on, and he stands waiting to find someone to walk – or run. “Kalighat Temple This Way!” A distressed woman shouts to me. Waving me back with her entire arm. I continue along my chosen path. A few weeks ago and her advice would have confused me, but now I am walking with faith in my recently installed automatic pilot, and confident that my programmed legs will take me the right way. I walk the length of the quiet small road. Past a few parked taxis. Past the cart full of bamboo, the open door on the corner revealing a tiny room crammed full of leather bound books. Past the seated women with the fluffy black dog. The daily connection by our eyes, followed by two instant smiles. The miti shop, with a glass window full of round, square, diamond, white, brown, yellow sweets. All different, but all with a common taste. A faded painting on a wall advertising the 'World Cup 2006' next to red graffiti scrawls of the Communist Party India - Marxists (CPI-M) symbolised by the hammer, sickle and star.

Across the junction and past the men sitting on the pavement, all of whom are absorbed in a card game, neatly laid out on a sheet of newspaper. One hand resting on the pavement, the other holding the symbols, and one cradling a small clay pot. Weight shifting as he scoops its creamy sweet contents into his mouth with a small wooden slip of a spoon. I can almost feel the coldness of the clay in his hands. It is misti doi, a delicious desert “unique to Bengal”, tasting like a rich thick yogurt. A lull lull crescendos behind me and I step between two parked taxi's to let the barefeet of the rickshaw run past before I reclaim the concrete. I turn left straight onto the puga stall street, which also leads to the Kali Temple. I walk confidently, and can now see 'differences' between this street and the ones parallel and intersecting. It has taken many long diversions to reach this decisiveness, and I no longer have to wonder around looking for tell tale signs.

The street is busier, smellier and louder. Raised voices. Zooming. Little people, old people. The colourful women are squatting in their usual place. Its too early to stand. The women look bored. Some are more confident than others and have no hesitation to look into the faces of those who walk past them, holding the stares of the men and boys. I keep trying to figure out their position in the community; whether they are 'visible' to those who live here. To me, they just look at 'home', talking, buying food from the stalls, sitting eating. But as always I am apprehensive of drawing conclusions from these briefest of observations.

Two women are distractedly playing a board game with yellow and red counters. It reminds me of Connect Four, but its laying on the ground and the counters make no 'click click' sound when they are moved by the two hands of gleaming red nails. I take my sun glasses off and drop them in my bag to see what more 'connections' are there for me to take. I am very conscious of the glasses as they work to exclude much more than light. Sometimes a welcome barrier, other times reflecting an image not always wished to be reflected. A women who looks more Chinese than Indian, lips also gleaming red, is wearing a black sari made of delicate material and lined with tiny shining beads. She looks at my face and offers me one smile. I take it and as I walk past them into the stone alley way my eyes return to the muddy floor just in time to see her pedicured polished red toe nails. My eyes move back to my feet. Filthy. I squeeze past men in their lungi's and white vests, a small boy carrying a tray of glass chai cups. I dodge a muddy puddle and step into the courtyard guarded the body of an old man, curled up on the floor finding relief from the afternoon heat. Flip Flop Flip Flop Flip Flop up the small stone stairs. New Light. A blue colour pours down from the blue infusion created from the sun and the blue corrugated plastic roof. Fresh Air blows over the terrace and I walk into the Blue, fans spinning above my head, a line of children sleeping on wicker mats. I shake off my Flip Flops and leave them at the door. I walk into the class room, my eyes tracing those the sleeping children's head, the softness of which is broken by the one shaved one. Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple is fast asleep, wedged between two equally dream-a-tosed children. Today I will have a little more time before the 'EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE'. I wait.

Pineapple Girl

She is so adorable. How could anyone harm her? Six years old and already lived sexual abuse that I don't even have the strength to listen to. Six years old and full of so much light, that spills out of her as she smiles. And after spending her first day at New Light underneath the desk which I was writing on top of Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple seems to have grown quite an attachment to me. Now every day that I come into the center it doesn't take her long to find me. The pattern goes something like this...a little scream from behind, the pattering of running naked feet on top of the stone floor, and then ...Attack! A collision later and she has grabbed hold of me, jumps up if I am standing or simply hugs my waist so tightly if I am sitting. Today was no exception:

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” At which point I already turn around knowing what to expect.

Pat Pat Pat Pat Pat Pat as the feet come rushing towards me. Crush! Grab and Swing, as the swivel chair has to unexpectedly deal with a small tsunami.

And now we both sit here smiling. She has a shaved head today. Infected lumps of something, which meant that the hair had to go. She still looks beautiful. Short, Long or No Hair and Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple will still continue to shine and smile and giggle and laugh and want me to hug and hold her.

I will try and let her type:

hhhhmatmmadg

No she hasn't quite got the hang of it yet and her little hand just keeps resting on the mouse pad bringing up all sort of unwanted options. Now she just wants to touch the screen. Never mind, I will try and ask her to write to you some other time, however, its pretty hard considering that the little six year old can barely speak English – although she can smile SO much.

A little later and Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple has been collected and carted off by the teacher so many times I am beginning to think I should just save her the hassle and move into the classroom. We managed to have a small photo show before she was found the first time (after the failed typing experiment) and she went crazy, kicking her feet and jumping around on my knee, saying words to me which I have no idea what they mean, but which I repeated all the same between interjections of “Whale Shark! Manta Ray! Clown Fish (I won't say 'Nemo' as I am sure the film has no relevance what so ever for her) Lion Fish” as they flashed up before her amazed eyes. “Giant Moray Eel” – this one produced a reaction of even more kicks and squeals followed by a rather brave attempt to try and touch the screen. However, some quick thinking preemptive tickling and she was overcome by a fit of giggles. Next came some photos of me – hair down, bikini on, and my youngest scuba diver sitting at my side – eleven year old Akezjiah. Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple became extra excited at this photo. She touched my blue beaded bracelet on my wrist and then traced it on the screen, she pulled at my string necklace and then like a 'spot the difference game' tried to find my cowrie shell by peering down my kuta, only to find the silver charm from Mother Teresa via Mr Unconventional. She points to Akezjiah. “Ke?” She asks “Ke?” She points to the Me trapped in time and then returns to hit my face. She points to Akezjiah and then hits her own chest, little feet swinging and smile never ending. I reach over to click to the next photo and she pulls my arm back, she wants it around her and I am left trying to maneuver my left hand free from hers to show her move of this fantasy life under the sea but she stops me. She is fixated by the photo. Mesmorised. Staring deep inside. And then Slap! Two little hands on my cheeks followed by a Big Smiling Kiss.

The activity in the class room is growing more audible. As if reading my mind a stern voice shouts her name and she giggles into my kuta. Not wanting to betray her, but knowing our private movie showing of the Blue can't continue for much longer. I stand up. She holds on. Arms jump up to wrap around my neck and I walk like a clumsy overgrown kola into the class room. I try and put her down, but just like Gita she lifts up her feet in refusal. I turn around and sit her on a tactically placed bench. She climbs up and grins. I am left with the dilemma of how to break her fall but deposit her in class. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee. And she Wins. I am back with a Little Miss Squeaky Pineapple hanging around my neck.

Pugli

Another afternoon at Sealdah train station. Strange as very very slowly I am building some sort of relationship with the people I am working with and those who I meet every day. With Deepta and Muhammad (the local staff) I am learning a lot – how to cross roads for one, but also the 'Indian Way' of communicating – or not. For example....

Deepta was intent on doing some hair cutting today, as many of the participants have long hair and beards, matted with dirt and no doubt host to a variety of insects. I had brought a pair of scissors as she had requested but after failing to even cut one dread from one of the guys head, she was unimpressed. However, on another platform there were Raju and Niraj who we always find in exactly the same place. The two guys look very similar, and I can imagine are actually quite handsome under the mass of hair and baggy clothes. Maybe its partly because they have such life in their eyes, and always greet us with a 'Namaste' of raised hands in front of their chests. Its a small act of communication, but for me as a very self-conscious 'outsider' it makes a big difference. Muhammad washed their hands and I began to open up the food packets and before either of the men were any the wiser Deepta attacked a head of hair. This time the scissors didn't have such a battle, and before long, lush black curls were falling away from Raju's head. Now my immediate response was, “Deepta! You didn't ask him!” But she continued anyway, and there was no reaction from the Raju, who seemed to be squatting in a stunned silence watching his pillow fall away from his head. Eventually he began to tidy up the curls, picking them up and placing them in our rubbish bag, while Deepta's fingers worked quickly to reveal his scalp and large infected lumps caused by lice or scabies. Niraj was saved from Deepta's novice hairdressing skills, as unfortunately, one of the main reasons why we are so quick distributing the food is because of the massive audience which we can quickly collect. It seems to be that if you do anything in Kolkata from rummaging inside your bag for a pen, to crouching down to talk to a street child, you have a generous ten and fifteen seconds before passers by have stopped to observe. For the self-respect of those on the food program it can't be pleasent having an audience every lunch time, so we wash hands, open up food boxes, check everything is ok and then walk on. That is of course unless Deepta decides to open up a hair-dressing salon on the way. We picked up our remaining bags of food and walked down the platform. I turned around to see Raju reach his hand up to his naked head and begin to stroke the shaved lumpy scalp. The audience around him silently moved on, and Niraj continued to eat his hot food.

Our next stop was in the main part of the station, ironically next to the 'Women's Help Desk', which is randomly staffed by two be-spectacled ladies reading newspapers. We feed Laura and Sarah every day, and every day they are sitting on the same benches – but not the same bench. The two old women must have lived in the station for years, as they have been on the food program since its conception, and already appeared to have a 'seat' on the benches firmly established. Apparently neither ever smiles, with one being particularly miserable and only asking why we don't give her our 'nice bags' (by which she is referring to the plastic weaved bags which we carry the food boxes in). The ladies used to be friends, sharing the same bench, until one day they argued and since then, one moved, and their parallel lives continued in silence.

We walked outside of the station to find 'Pugli' – a younger women who has also been on the food program for some time. Today was the first time which I have seen her moving, as usually she just lays in the sun, and we have to pick her up, hold her hands out to wash them, and then open up her lunch box, leaving it in front of her hoping that she will eat it. Today however, she was holding a smashed watermelon which she had managed to save from the rubbish. Deepta asked her to sit down, so she did – in a soggy muddy patch of pavement. Today another female worker new to the program asked her in Hindi what her name was. There was no reply from Pugli, as there never is. So I ventured, my own response that her name was 'Pugli' which is what Deepta and Mohammad always affectionately refer to her as.

“'Pugli' means 'crazy'” the new worker told me.

We had fed all the participants on the program apart from one new women. She had been found yesterday, laying in the sun, and too weak to even feed herself. Today she had disappeared. However, there are no shortage of hungry people, and we walked by looking for someone 'suitable' to give the box too. On the main road just outside of the station, there was a old lady. Naked apart from a pair of lose trousers. She was lying underneath a bus shelter as crowds of people walked around her (but never stepping over her). Mohammad asked her if she would like some food, and she sat up in a way of passive agreement. Her hands were washed and water bottle filled, and then we walked away, leaving her looking at a cardboard box of rice, daal, fish and chapati.

What has really had an impact on me today is how little control people on the edges of 'society' have over their 'self'. When they eat, what they eat, where they lay, if they have a head full of hair offering a little padding against their bed of concrete, or a head full of lice. And in Pugli's case, what help is available for her? For a young women who appears to have no will to do anything. Could we force her to go into a home for the drug addicted if it was against her will? What right would we have to move her against her will? Is there even a NGO which would accept her free of charge? Alternatively, what right to we have to walk by and watch her be abused, name her 'crazy' and then wait until she surely is?

The options for the men at the station seem even more futile. And what about Raju and Niraj? How much longer will they remain at the station. Being fed every day, but having little other option of finding help or rehabilitation – rehabilitation back into society. A society where they have a sense of self, and control over their own body. Where they can communicate through words, rather than being a spectacle to be stared at, if they are 'seen' at all .

I haven't been feeling so good today. I fainted this afternoon. Maybe just dehydration. Maybe its just to hot. For those of you how know me, you'll just say its an occupational hazard of being 'Bex'. Either way, I know that I have to somehow justify why I am now sitting in Barista coffee shop rather than my room (which doubles as a sauna during the day). Barista is about ten minutes walk away, and maybe about thirty minutes by foot from Sealdah train station. I am sitting in air conditioning, drinking a cup of chai which has cost me 50 rupees (ten times as much as one which I could buy from chai man). Feeling helpless and feeling a strong sense of admiration for those who continue to work and yet are not overwhelmed.

Food Politics

As a child I remember my mother trying to coax me to finish my unwanted dinner by reminding me of all the starving children in Ethiopia. The response of a six year old was to refuse to eat at all: “please send my food” I would ask. Now I eat and give thanks. Not to any man in the sky, but to my fortune. Based on nothing but birth and privilege. Built upon exploitation and racism. I give thanks that I have a choice. A choice to look dirty because my clothes are unimportant to me. I can buy new ones. No one will judge me from my material appearance – only from my “Fair and Lovely” skin and my “Barbie hair.” I choice to eat – not based on money but based on appetite. And now even a choice of whether I help someone else eat or not, not by sending left over food to television images, but by literary handing boxes of rice and curry. I have no idea what image, feelings of emotions these words are creating within you, but for me already I am feeling the humility of this work which I am trying to describe.

Bending down to take off the elastic bands wrapped around each food package, to empty the individual plastic bags onto the bed of white rice. Taking a few seconds as always to wonder that perhaps they didn't want their lentils mixed into their fish? Feeling a sense of dread and guilt if I spill some daal onto the inanimate pavement. Feeling incredibly humble as I pass over the boxes into wet hands, or place it onto the ground. And then moving on. No time to talk, just a few seconds to check that Niraj's fever has not grown worse since yesterday lunch time. And if we are delayed by trying to pull Pugli up and sit her in front of the little cardboard package, wash her hands while she stares through us to some place far beyond, within minutes she has dozens of pairs of eyes staring down at her.

And it is this guaranteed curiosity from which continues to both amaze and frustrate me. I still see taxis stopping in the middle of the road, windows wound down, drivers' ear pricked, just to overhear random street conversations. Groups of men will arbitrarily form, watching and listening to no-one in particular. And the homeless are not exempt. Every lunch time seems to be like “feeding time at the Zoo.” In fact, we regularly have people urgently calling us over and then to ask “What are you doing?” It is indeed a fine line between making a public statement – interacting with the destitute – and turning them into public spectacles. Attention can all to often be most unwelcome when it can be from the authorities, who in previous years have come down incredibly harshly on the homeless living in the train stations. One of the less violent techniques was the construction of a carpark outside of Sealdah station to try and 'clean' it up, although I don't think it has worked.

This is anther risk of using volunteers; although we can draw attention to the need to act, we can also embarrass the authorities. This may cause them to crack down on the extended presence of tourists in the train station or alternatively push out the homeless (although I have no idea where they could go, the streets already seem full). Some of Kolkata's largest charities actually attempt to carry out their work in the stations silently, with the volunteers asked not to talk about their work. Now with packs of very 'visible' foreigners walking around with bags of food seems a little too ambitious. However, it is certainly true that the few programs running at the train stations offer some sustenance/ hope to those with nothing. I know of one old man who was found recently, with sticks for arms and a skin bag for a body, with the only form of identification on him being a slip from Kolkata Medical College. At least those who had dismissed him had the foresight to deposit him where he might be transported to the Mother House and receive 'free' 'care' if not medical care. But this isn't the case for all – other old men, the mad, the drug addicted and far too many young men seem to have little alternatives.

Out of the fifteen people on the Food Program four are women and eleven men. Now I have typed and deleted and typed again, but I have no idea how to describe these fifteen people without using labels such as 'old' 'mentally unstable' 'disabled' or judgmental observations such as 'surprisingly clean/ polite/ happy'. But basically the poorest and sickest of the poor seem to be either the oldest or young men such as Niraj, Raju and Ramu; all of whom seem to have no apparent physical or mental disability but appear to be 'institutionalized' into destitution after years of living at Sealdah station.

Before I came came to Thailand I spent a few days with a close friend of mine. A cyclist who was touring around Asia raising money and awareness of the lack of help for mentally unstable young men in the UK. My friend is young and brave and with a combination of personal determination and external support he has managed to fight years of depression to turn his life around. Now think of India. Full of children growing up on the streets. Living next to abuse, addictions, mutilation. Children with physical 'imperfections' which cast them out of society. Or those already born as outcasts – the Dalit community or the 'untouchables', the tribals or the lower castes. Throw into the mix some unemployment, poverty, illness, disease and soon the question of why there are so many young men of the streets suddenly doesn't seem so obvious. Add a degree of mental trauma or instability and the perhaps the participants of the food program no longer appear as outcasts, but as survivors – men who are still sane despite all the daily challenges around them; Men who still take pride in their appearance. Who still wash their hair, hands and clothes, and for who the provision of one small box of food every lunch time may be enough to sustain or even improve their physical or mental health just enough to continue to live.

I don't know exactly why but I am finding my experience of the Food Program hard to express. Perhaps because the provision of food holds connotations of power, luxury, choice and survival. Perhaps because I don't feel I have the right to 'describe' the people I have the briefest interaction with every day.

Red Light? New Light!

I am sitting in the office of an absolutely incredible women. My lap top is perched on the edge of her desk, there is a small child with a squeaky toy underneath. The toy (a green plastic pineapple) actually functions as a bell, which the incredible women will use if she needs to get the attention of one of her staff. This is because she is the busiest women I have yet to meet in India. And this is quite a statement as women in India are all pretty busy. Although once I did walk into her office to find her laying on the stone floor. She sat up, brushed her hair from her head, complained about the afternoon heat, and then motioned for me to join her, “Bex do you mind? Its too hot for chairs.” Air conditioning is not an option for a women who gave up her former job in social policy development for real hands on grass-roots change. She applies this duality to all of her actions – well educated, impassioned and with so much energy she dances with being overwhelming, but ultimately, she uses this power to achieve her dreams. And even these she argues, are “shared dreams”.

She is Urmi Basu, a self-divorced Bengali women who choose her passions and her convictions over a traditional family life. Her twenty year old son, is the only indicator of her age, because her energy and drive is surely from a women much younger in years. She performs miracles which she denies. She transforms lives, although insists her role is merely a 'facilitator'. If anyone in Kolkata is on their way to sainthood, then Urmi is surely in the running:

Urmi is founder and director of New Light; a creche-cum night shelter which with the help of her fellow 'dreamers' she established seven years ago in Kolkata's Kalighat district. The center is easily reached by following a series of local famous landmarks – first there is the massive Kali Temple in the heart of the pedestrianized market area, second there is the famous Mother Teresa House, Kalighat, home for the Dying and Destitute. From here take a right onto a street covered in chai stalls, puga stalls and flower garlands, and on the left you will find an unusual amount of young women, standing or sitting, all wearing bright colours, beautiful saris, kohl decorated eyes, bindis, gold earrings and bracelets and smelling of fresh perfume. Walk through the young women into a small alleyway, lined with small 'chicken hut' like rooms, with wire windows in front of tiny beds, and past the loose dirty curtains hanging down to indicate whether or not business is in progress. From here you can ask any old man, women or child where 'New Light' is and you will be directed into a tiny courtyard full of piles of washing. Follow the small stone stair case up to a converted roof top and you will find yourself face to face with brightly painted murals, piles of tiny shoes, and a hive of happiness - Welcome to New Light – quite literally a 'bright light' in the heart of the Kolkata's oldest red-light district.

Urmi founded New Light to provide a service which simply did not exist – to provide a care centre for the children who have no other family members to care for them while their mothers are servicing clients. It has since evolved according to need and now its functions far beyond that of creche, providing a safe haven for children to come and study, play or socialise after school hours (aka mothers working hours); open more hours than there are in a day, and more days then there are in a week, New Light never closes. In the past seven years it has provided shelter to several hundreds of children, and currently has 132 under its supervision. It employs four teachers to provide remedial classes for the children, many of whom have been denied the right to education or have only received intermittent schooling. For those who have had no experience with the formal education system, this special attention helps to bring the children up to standard.

I want all of these children to have the very best of education. If my son wants to go to university to study law then I want these children to be able to make that same choice.

Urmi is busy explaining to some Spanish visitors what will happen once the children at New Light reach the age of 18; basically she will not accept just 'providing' but at 'improving' and 'facilitating' until even the poorest children have the ability to realise their Rights. Bright children are encouraged to apply for private schools; New Lights teachers provide extra tuition, and New Light provides financial sponsorship. I listen as Urmi explains that she wants to continue to provide this support after the children have left the center. She is not into creating expectations which will not be realised, “if they want to form businesses, then they will need seed money and we will provide that seed money”.

When asked about Soma Home – the home for the girls living in a residential area outside of Kalighat – she enthusiastically begins to talk about the style of Katark dancing which some of the older girls are learning:

It is incredibly complex. The girls must learn to count a rhythm which is in counterpoint to the rhythm on the percussion, splitting it into triplets or quintuplets and then tap it out with their feet.

The 32 girls at the Soma home are living outside of Kalighat for their own protection – they are at the prime age for being bought by their mothers interested clients. And this generational change – out of the sex industry – is exactly what New Light is about. It is not just turning around the lives of boys and girls “who have had experiences which a women of 20 years of age would have problems dealing with” but of real community development...of creating opportunities for Kalighat's young beyond being forced to sell their bodies:

In ten years time I want Kalighat to be full of skilled men and women. I want our young people to be able to realise their dreams, form cooperatives, open their own fashion boutiques, flower shops, travel centers if thats what they want.

She turns to me and asks, "Do you know of any French Volunteers who can bake bread?” (I guess she has an idea for some of the older children to set up a bakery..) When asked about funding, she brushes off the question. She will find a way and quite simply is too driven to stop working to fulfill these 'dreams':

Yes we will continue to grow in every direction, because we are about community development and change, and we cannot stop here!

While Urmi talks, her captivated Spanish audience nod. I sit in the corner silently typing away. I am compiling the annual report for New Light. At the moment I am trying to write the section about the new HIV/AIDS hospital which will service the local community. The opening ceremony was last week – it was blessed by four different religions; Hindi, Jainism, Islam and Christian.

Throughout the afternoon women, girls and her staff have been coming in to ask her advice or to seek help. So far today I have heard of three young children who have been left abandoned at their village home for three months after they mother disappeared. I have heard of one 14 year old Nepali girl who was sold a week ago, but amazingly managed to phone her father before she was locked in a darkened room just a stones throw from this office. Through communication with an anti-trafficking organisation in Nepal, New Light was contacted and the girl located. A young women of 21, draped in orange cloth and decorated in gold, came into the office with her four year old beaming son. She was on her way to work and has finally reached the hard decision that she must leave her son at New Light - permanently. The young mother was married at 15, pimped by her husband for five years and now left abandoned in an industry which is all she knows. She is beautiful and will be able to work for some more years yet. She has courage to realise the potential for her son. New Light is currently operating at maximum capacity “I could fill a new center in one hour” she tells me, but of course, just like the other cases, Urmi agrees. She wants to send this little boy to a good school in Darjeeling, “we really have a chance to turn his life around, he is young enough that he will forget the trauma of this childhood.”

These 'stories' surround me as I sit here typing and thinking and listening. Even the tiny six year old sitting under the desk, playing with the squeaky pineapple, has just been 'rescued'. Today is her first day at New Light. Her mother is a sex worker and has been in hospital for several months, she recently contacted Urmi concerned for her abandoned child's welfare. The little six year old was being sexually abused.

Its now dark and the stream of visitors into the office has slowed down although the flow of children is now at its peak. One of the practical challenges of today is how to arrange the passports for ten children without birth certificates; ten of the children have been invited to visit Germany and Spain on a three month cultural tour. Urmi slides down into her chair.

Bex I have a sink full of dirty dishes, a load of wet washing waiting to be hung on the line another load waiting to put in the machine, and about ten water bottles to be filled.

I tell her to stop thinking so much; it might rain anyway. But really I am amazed. Unlike her dishes and laundry her work cannot wait. Everyday the situations she has to deal with have to be solved immediately. “If I have a child who needs help, that child will need help now, and not in a week or a month.” Indeed, she has a large battle on her hands, which she takes with an immaculately dressed stride; she is in a continuous battle against Indian bureaucracy – which as an eloquent debater that refuses to be defeated, she fights with the professed skill of a supreme court judge.

I am really learning so much from sitting in this chair. I wonder if Wonder Woman came from Bengal?

There is a cheeky squeak from under our desk and a teacher appears to carry the latest resident of New Light to class.

For more information about New Light, including some great photos, visit the following links:

New Light

New Light Carnival

A Visit to Kolkata's Red Light District

Presentation by Urmi

24 Hours with Rakesh

Station Kids, Street Kids, Magic Kids

Fishing for Wishes is how some of the more resourceful children- with the help of a small magnet and a piece of string - can afford to live; both of Kolkata's main train stations, are flanked by the Hooghly River, which is a tributary to the Holy Ganges, and many travelers will toss a coin into its waters to wish for a safe journey. Add into the equation, trains littered with left over food, rich travelers disembarking from Delhi, an extensive roof, paved platforms and even a public water tap and it soon becomes obvious why train stations double as unofficial institutions for the orphans, poor, mad, sick and homeless. And the number of children – of all ages and both sexes – who sleep on its floors, scour the trains and hang out in packs is astounding, and today I visited a Center full of thirty such boys.

Now please do not misunderstand me – there are far more than only thirty homeless boys; although there is no official census on the number of homeless children, I am sure that a hundred orphanages could be filled within the hour – easily. However, the Center has reached its capacity, and until one of its older boys is able to independently support himself, or the family of a younger child contacted and rehabilitated, no new boys will be coaxed to leave the station. (There are several boys at the Center who are not 'orphans' in a traditional, but many ran away from home after a young life of hard physical labour, or after being sent to work as 'servants'.) The orphanage was opened three years ago and is funded by a Spanish NGO and staffed by local workers and full of boys found at Howrah train station. The staff would visit the train station regularly and try to establish a relationship with the boys in order to build trust and dispel suspicion; not an easy task as considering that the station is a center for trafficking and children are at risk from sexual abuse and/or being sold. But this is also a reason why it is important that aid/ relief workers have a daily public presence as well as an ear to the proverbial concrete. Of course many boys who go to Center would have problems readjusting. Many children who live on the streets quickly adapt and may have been members of some of the more established child gangs, where they have much more authority, power and 'freedom' than children at the center and the routine of going to school every day. For the older boys (the oldest in the Center is thirteen) formal education may not even be viable as they are unable to join a class with the youngest boys of five or six, so the Center also offers a more practical a vocational training scheme which may offer more chances of employment. Drug addiction and rehabilitation is also very real problem. However, what I saw today is tiny boys the age of six years old, just having fun, playing and having free access to food and water and a safe non-violent environment.

Now the point of my visit to the Center was to assist a group of Spanish volunteers who wanted to perform some Magic. We began our mission to the orphanage by taking a collection of different buses, raising many eyebrows, and eventually crossing a muddy field to be seated in a colourful room in front of thirty staring faces. A ball was passed and one by one the boys introduced themselves – name and age. Then little arms were raised as the youngest boys were eager to recite a song or poem to us and the older boys told us they were becoming ready to be 'men'. Our turn, and the Spanish Army and Bex all introduced themselves and then the preparations of Magic began. Now obviously, good old Magic Man was the center of the show, while the rest of us painted faces and blew up balloons. What was interesting though was that the responses of the children was much 'older' than the ages which they had just recited. Accusations of 'cheat' 'cheat' were regularly shouted out, while fascination of the 'turning paper into money' trick brought a stand up audience. Without trying to bow down to stereotypes, very quickly it became obvious that these boys were wiser than their years.

After they had all been armed with blow up swords, and a orchestra of 'popping' began and finished, we tied a box full of sweets and balloons to the ceiling, and blind folded and armed with a cricket bat the children had to one by one try to hit the box open. After much effort, the box came crashing to the ground, and colours of gold and silver, and tiny balloons fell from the sky and burst all over the children. Within seconds the glittering sweets had all disappeared. The speed of picking up the sweets from the floor and depositing them in pockets was really extraordinary. Later at dinner I saw the same technique, with food collected but then stored in pockets for extra safe keeping. What was unexpected though, was after a mini war for far too many sweets, small boys would later come up to me and insist on sharing their loot. I think the best experiences of the day was watching when the smallest and undoubtedly cutest boy 'found' the small pile of sweets I had hidden in his pockets - in order to ensure his survival through the 'c/rush'. He felt the lumps in his pockets, dug his little hands inside and pulled out shiny parcels of toffee. His eyes gleamed with amazement, fingers explored, more packets of sweetness found and waves of smiles spread across his cheeks – Magic!

The rest of the afternoon was spent either in the fields playing football (with a real football, rather than the usual empty water bottle or ball of tape) or on the breezy roof. I spent nearly an hour with a boy who had found himself in possession of one of Magic Mans 'flying' wheeeeeeeeeeing balloons – after a lot of puff the piece of plastic extends into a magnificent oblong shape and if held up and released zooms around the room, bouncing of walls and squeaking all the way. Shouts of 'Mama Mia!' followed it around from below. The shouting smiling face was covered in scars, which ran down his arms and had taken one of his fingers. He was completely mesmorised, and never tired, puffing and zooming until POP!

The roof a beautiful place to spend the rest of the day – as small black kite made of sheets of plastic and string was sent up into the sky. Kites make me think of Freedom. They remind me of one of the forms of 'resistance' children in the Occupied Palestinian Territories would use, flying them from the refugee camps when they themselves weren't able to move. I sat on the roof watching while being tugged to play a board game which I was no good at, but another super happy boy was determined to teach me, and failing that, he was determined that at least I should win! The game involved flicking a circular counter into a pile of other counters and trying to get one of them into one of the four holes. I ended up with a very sore finger, and even though hardly any of my counters ended up in the correct holes...I won.

As the day wore on it really became obvious how independent the children were – there was very little need for the staff to become involved, and the boys just played. The exception was one boy who remained sad all day (apart from when he was asked to assist Magic Man) but according to the staff there was very little which seemed to make him smile. Before we left there was a Spanish Army, one Magic Man and Me all holding onto arms and turning, sending feet flying and ripples of laughing. Balancing tricks were also performed as boys climbed on top of legs and held arms after receiving some expert tuition of Halvero – their 26 year old Spainish Mentor who shares his time between the center and a mirror project in Brazil, and there would be endless possibilities for recreational projects, outdoor pursuits and camps with the children, which has left me day dreaming of possibilities.

As soon as the light left, candles were lit and we were escorted to the small road, leaving shouts of 'Goodbye Auntie! Good bye Uncle!' Amidst a trail of glittering sweet wrappers and burst balloons. We waited at the side of the road for a bus back to central Kolkata. The winds were really picking up and dusk was been blown into our eyes and then blowing us over. I could imagine the little kite flier manipulating his sheet of plastic, pulling the strings backwards and forwards, running across the concrete roof, feet jumping and landing. Running, jumping and landing. Jumping, flying. Far far away...

Hospitals to Die For

It is sometimes argued that the difference between being 'happy' or being 'sad' is really a physical difference and not physiological. If we are too hot, or too thirsty, or too cold, or too hungry, or sick, or with an injury, it is our 'physical body' which is suffering. Undoubtedly strength of mind can help minimise the extent to which we feel the pain, but if we are in good health then our sufferings are drastically minimized.

Since I have arrived in Kolkata every day produces more questions. My visits to Topsia Clinic was no exception. Likewise, when I walk through Sealdah train station to distribute 15 people lunch, I pass over bodies. Some mutilated with disease, others just mentally mutilated from a life of being 'Just Another Poor Man', or Woman, or Girl, or Boy, or Babu. Sealdah train station rose particular questions for me because it is right next to Nilratan Sarkar Medical College and Hospital; a state hospital. Yet people remained slumbered outside. And if medics or volunteers find someone near to death, they are transported to the Mother House rather than a few meters to the hospital. There are even cases where volunteers find patients in situations of severe neglect inside of the hospital and have had little choice but to carry them out and take them to Kalighat House where at least they are washed, feed and watered. Strange?

And what of the Mother House dispensary at the entrance to the train station which provides basic first aid and bandaging to the poor when the poverty stricken should receive medical care at radically reduced rates from the state government? And what of food rations available for those unable to provide for themselves? And what of free hospital beds for those who need operations? And why the need for Topsia Clinic if there are locals doctor? The State of West Bengal has after all been governed by the Communist Party of India for the past thirty years and one would think that there would be some sort of social safety net for the ill, injured, disabled, single mothers, child mothers, refugees or those still chastised by the remnants of the caste system? The answers my friend? Complicated.

I quizzed the Nurse. I received irate replies. The Nurse spoke passionately and with conviction and left me with little doubt that he is filling a gap out of necessity rather than charity. The doctors he replied are expensive. For the anonymous poor, destitute, refugees, mentally challenged or orphaned, finding the correct paperwork to receive their Right to medical care is not always an option. Without either papers or payment patients are refused treatment. And if they are able to find the papers, bribes might be necessary or waiting lists longer than remaining life energy. Besides, health care is still not free. In the government hospitals there is a ration of free beds, but a diagnosis and operation still needs to be paid for – even if at a radically reduced rate. For the poor, this means that they often wait until they are severely sick before trying to borrow or beg the required money. A blood test costs 30 rupees, which is the equivalent of about 35 British pence, 44 Euro cents, or 70 US cents. 30 rupees could easily feed a poor person for a day.

In regards to the local doctors, the Nurse argued that diagnosis's are given at a distance, and hands-on care is rare. Although many of the doctors have received their full medical training they haven't been able to pay for the final exam. Ironically this is a blessing for the poor who can't afford to go private, as once certified many Indian doctors are either working in private hospitals or overseas, where the conditions are much less challenging. The 'brain drain' is flowing quicker than the education system can refill. As for the hospitals, “corrupt and inefficient” seems to be the general reply when I ask the opinions of locals or medics working here. Patients are often turned away, or must bribe there way in and then once there, although the operations themselves are viewed as sound, there are long waiting lists, piles of paperwork to negotiate your way through, and a shocking lack of basic sanitary care.

Today I accompanied a long term volunteer on a visit two hospitals. This volunteer gave me a blessed icon of 'The Other Mother', is training to be a priest and streaked through the Mother House after Mass the day before yesterday. He is 200 percent committed, equally spontaneous and entirely unconventional. With such a combination he achieves some formidable results. Like the French volunteer I was lucky enough to meet on my first day, it was a privilege to walk next to him. Today helped me to answer many of my practical questions which were still left unanswered. He spoke of carrying a dying man into hospitals to be told the correct paperwork was missing. His response was to find a random stamp, provide a signature and with the appropriate amount the self-confidence return the 'completed' paperwork and have the patient admitted just in time to have save his life. Today I saw that food and drinking water is not provided. Washing sheets, clothes and patients is the role of the family. So what if the patient's family is poor, or far away or does not exist? It should not be presumed that the nurses will clean and dress wounds, and today I saw a young man cleaning his crushed leg with a bottle of savlon. I changed the bedsheets of a man with no family, and Mr Unconventional distributed food and a little money to the select individuals he had helped to help by finding/ buying them a 'free' bed and sponsoring their treatment.

Visiting the hospitals today helped me to understand the demand for free alternatives, and how ventures such as Topsia Clinic are essential for helping the local community to maintain a basic threshold of health care. The denial of essential aftercare and hygiene explained the massive number of post-operation infections which these clinics have to deal with, and which could easily cause repeat infection, amputation or fatality. Once again the conundrum is – how can the health care system be improved if there are non-state ran “free” alternatives, which are preferential in that at least they provide 'care' if not 'medical' care?

More information on the conditions of government hospitals in Kolkata has been complied by the Bengali Human Rights Group People for Better Treatment Prepare to be shocked.

Bed Time

Another night time chai, at the Chai stall. A friendly face waves good night from across the street. He is not sleeping on the street – just sleeping outside. On the same spot where he works. He shouts good night from underneath a thick blanket as he lies on top of his cart, on which during the day he sells his wares. His friends and colleagues walk by, pulling down the metal shutters of their shop stalls and clicking padlocks into place. Brushing teeth and spitting into the alleyway.

Paul appears, as always as if from no where. He waves a big hello and my friends point to his eyes and to me and Paul is already enthusiastically nodding. No problem my friend. Silently it has been communicated that he will walk me back to my guest house. I have walked this road many times during the day, but by night it looks very different. I pass so many sleeping people, lined up next to rickshaws or chai stalls. Taxi door stand open as feet poke out of the backseat, or gentle snores escape from wound down windows. Bodies lay everywhere, inside trucks, underneath trucks, even on top of the cabins of trucks. Many sleep directly on the pavement, some have a mattress of cardboard, or others with pillows and blankets arranged in courtyards a small distance from the pavements. Insomnia does not seem to be a problem. Maybe too tired to be awake, maybe accustomed to the night time sounds of footsteps and car horns. These people don't look homeless. They simply look as if the streets are their home.

The longer I spend in Kolkata the more I 'see' and tonight I see that there are many different classes of homelessness. There are those who have a family or community of workers on the street, or whose 'homes' are far away or too full. For some it is just more practical to sleep outside their work – or underneath it. Others have constructed more 'permanent' shelters, which are not dismantled at first light, but remain poised against walls or fences, and guard a small bundle of belongings. Then there are those who before sleeping remove their sandals from their feet to place under their heads; a pillow and a safe. For these street sleepers, their alarm clocks are the numbers of pedestrians whose number increase with the dawn's light, walking through their beds of pavement.

And so I'd like to ask you: What is a Home? Can a home be made of the wheels of your rickshaw, and the roof of its undercarriage? Can a home be a piece of concrete marked by flattened cardboard or two pieces of plastic sheeting tied together, which is where you and your family, or your colleagues sleep every single night? Can a home be a street if you don't 'own' it, but if it is where you don't just walk, but wash, defecate, work, eat and then sleep upon? And if so, maybe this is why it becomes impossible to talk of the 'homeless.'

Paul pretends to drive a car, points to his eyes, squints and then points to those sleeping near the road. He slams one hand into the other to motion a crash. Indeed it must be very dangerous to drive at night. It must be very dangerous to sleep at night. I wave goodbye to Paul. Walk down the road and bang lightly on the metal concertina door. The security guard is sleeping on the stone floor underneath the table. Tap Tap Tap. I don't want to wake him, but I want to go to bed. Tap Tap. He rolls, wakes, jumps up and then inserts the massive key into the massive padlock. Click! The lock jumps open. Screeeeeech. The metal door is pulled back. I turn and wave goodnight to Paul, who is still standing, watching at the end of the road. A silent wave back. I step inside the guest house. Screeeeeech. An apologetic whisper of "Danyabad", as I walk to my double bed, inside toilet and running water.

Even here sleep doesn't come. The fan rockets around recklessly. Noisily and tirelessly it tries to dispel the days humidity. The breeze it creates is hot. My sheets become damp under my body, and my hair begins to stick to my cling to my neck. I take my sarong and walk out onto the roof. I sit in a old wicker chair staring out into the haze of Kolkata. By the light of the half moon I can make out the beautiful ruins of the old Indian Capital. The sound of the night traffic is muffled by height. A cool breeze strokes my face....Finally, sleep lazily takes me.

Fifteen Boxes of Food

A longer post; I hope you will find the time to read it...

We set off on foot across one of the busiest roads in the city center. Now there is no technique to crossing these roads. It literally is a case of walking your own life across to the other side and hoping that it makes it. Of course like a shoal of schooling fish, there are safety in numbers, so often you will find yourself gaining momentum with a crowd of waiting pedestrians. Eventually a silent agreement is reached that together you can take on the tsunami of traffic. Today this sort of worked, with half of our contingent making it across in one go, and the other half (the one with Me tottering around in the middle of it) left somewhere in the middle, standing like lost lemmings. Packs of yellow taxis zoomed passed us. Hands were raised just in case a stationary bus decided to join the zooming army; the driver of which sits above like a god blind to the lemmings below. Feet were made to dance. Courage sallowed, and any semblance of self-preservation discarded. Eventually our small group made it across to the outside of Sealdah train station.

“Remember that after two pm the traffic changes direction, so if you want to catch the bus back you need to go to Bose Road.”
“Why does it change direction?” I ask.
The Nurse smiles, “It just does...”

The Nurse is accompanying us today as it is my first day working on the Food Program. One of the conditions is that I will commit to volunteer for a minimum of one month. The time minimum means that the poor and hungry aren't made to feel like a tourist attraction – with every day having new faces hand them food, and the Nurse and his team do not have to waste time re-training a new volunteer every few days. The distribution itself is a surprising quick. The collection of the freshly cooked food packets from a local restaurant, the time taken to cross the 'road' and the distribution of the food to the fifteen participants will take a total of about one and a half hours.


Now the philosophy behind the program is interesting. The Nurse believes in long term solutions rather than providing immediate relief from a days hunger. So not only will the participants be able to benefit from long term nutrition, but with the certainty of knowing that they will eat one hot meal each day a massive mental strain is taken away. The hope is that they can then refocus their energy on looking for a source of income and on their health and safety. By visiting the same people every day, their well-being can be monitored and gradually they can be encouraged to take a little more care about their own well being. The provision of one hot nutritious meal a day is also a step towards reducing the health risks of living on the streets; it is hoped that it will help to re-establish a routine of minimal hygiene and gradually increase the physical strength and immunity of the participants. Before the food is distributed the participants are encouraged to wash their hands at the public water fountain. For those too old, weak or without the will, the team wash their hands with a bottle of water and soap. It is a small – but important – detail.

The Nurse also employs four permanent Indian staff; two of which will be working on the food program everyday – the volunteer (Me) is therefore 'helping' but not replacing local workers. There are three large bags to be carried, a first aid kit, and many bottles of water. There are also many hands to be washed and food packets to be opened. Ultimately, the program is not only providing employment for a handful of people, but in a very practical sense, there are Bengali and Hindi speaking people interacting with the participants every day. If they have any immediate problems or health concerns these can be communicated. The daily interaction also works to try and keep the the poorest of the poor integrated into 'society'. One of the challenges of local aid organisations is how to achieve just this; Those without homes and food are slowly pushed further and further to the edge of the community, to the extent that mental instability becomes a high risk illness for the destitute.


Another advantage of the local staff, is that they are making a strong statement by interacting with the marginalised: it seems to be firmly embedded in the Indian culture to observe; other travelers love to look, and to see the provision of daily aid beyond the transfer of left over food or coins is really working to make the destitute visible.


The Nurse and his team spent two months monitoring the station everyday in order to identify fifteen people who were always in the same location and therefore would be able to benefit from the regularity of the meals. Those with an alternative means of support (such as a women with a husband) were not eligible. Now the number of homeless children, women and men at the train station comes into the hundreds so the selection is incredibly difficult and to me seems almost humbling; that it is within 'our' (and by this I mean to include you - who even if not geographically present have the means to support the poor and destitute) power to choose who eats today and who might not.


There are of course many other considerations. For example, does providing free food prevent independent alternatives from being sort? But if this was the case then why are there so many hungry people searching (and failing) to find food each and every day and night? Or does providing free food take the pressure from the government to act? However, the homeless are usually those who fall out of the state social net or victims of a system of bureaucracy and corruption. Many of the destitute are refugees from a different country (most typically Bangladesh), from a different state (and therefore not entitled to aid from the West Bengali government) or without a birth certificate to prove their entitlement to state help (which is clearly a major problem for orphans, street children, mentally disabled or trafficked children and women). It could also be argued that helping to feed fifteen people wastes a lot of resources and time on short term satisfaction for a few, rather than focusing on long term solutions for the many. Yet as explained, the idea behind the food program is that one solid meal a day is enough to make a massive short and long term difference to these fifteen lives. And unfortunately resources are not limitless. Besides, if one were to be overwhelmed by the magnitude of the poor and destitute in Kolkata, then no aid would ever be offered.


One of the final dangers is that providing food everyday may actually encourage movement to the train station. Yet the reply to this is simple – there are hungry homeless people all over the city, and they are attracted to the train station for practical reasons regardless of a few select handouts. For all of the participants on the food program, the station is their home. For some they have slept on the platform for so many years they can't remember when they first arrived.

Now I will write more about the food program after I have worked on it for more than one day; but for now all I will share, is that providing food to those who have nothing is not humbling, but almost embarrassing. Today I felt awkward; I felt rude – another 'stranger' 'watching'. Appearing to hand out food and then to walk away to sit at a computer and write about it. There is no doubt that it is impossible to be anything but an observer. Perhaps I can try and show you the daily reality of some of the people who have no choice but to reveal their lives to me, but to even begin to try and understand what life must be like without anything, including in some cases communication with other people or rights over your own body, will remain impossible. At the moment I can do little more than give thanks for the freedoms and the choices which I have and the fact that I will eat today without even thinking twice about it. Because the liberty to eat is mine and because poverty or circumstance has never threatened it.

Meanwhile, on the way home the buses remained a mystery...I walked! More to come...