Pro-life or Capital Punishment?

5.00 pm Escorted back from the dispensary by Super Smiley Vincent. With one arm around my shoulders he lurches forward into the oncoming traffic of pedestrians. Stop to by fruit. Super Smiley Vincent carefully places the bananas and tangerines into the indestructible black plastic bag and on we go until we arrive at his home – a ledge by the side of the bus stop. Super Smiley Vincent grins at his neighbours as he makes sounds of super excitement and proudly points at me. We wave goodbye and try to continue along the road home despite Super Smiley Vincent's reluctance to leave my side.

5.10 Notice that the police cadets seem to have taken over the city's traffic control. Young boys in uniform frantically wave their arms, and indeed entire bodies, at the oncoming onslaught of vechiles. Dodging countless unstoppable bus, swerving auto-rickshaws, brooming beeping ambassador taxis, charging human rickshaws, motorbikes, hand-cart pullers and antique bicycles. They mentors are all squeezed into the periodic pavement booths, laughing.

5.20 pm Stop outside of Sishu Bhavan orphanage and see a group of young girls with a tiny baby. The baby is still, with its eyes closed. I walk forward and the 'mother' grins at the attention. Her friends signal that the baby is sick. Its little fingers don't grasp around mine, as I feel its tiny cold hand. They say it is three months old, but it looks more like three weeks. Born on the streets. 'Pa Pa no'. We take the baby inside and I go upstairs to find the Sister in charge of the babies nursery. The Sister accompanies me downstairs, briefly glances at the tiny still baby and declares there is nothing she can do. “Take it to the government hospital. It needs oxygen” is all the advice she can muster as twirls her white sari around and disappears back into the darkness. Many other Sisters walk by. We argue for attention. It is minimal. One Sister generously offers to pray for it. A Missionaries of Charity ambulance begins to rev its engine. We quickly run over and ask if they can take us to the nearest hospital. The driver looks at us in total incomprehension as his passengers of nuns daintily step inside.

5.35 With little alternatives left, we decide to 'walk' the baby, young mother and young mothers friend to the 'Mercy Hospital'; it isn't the god forsaken government hospital but it is used by the Missionaries of Charity. It advertises on its website “Since our inauguration in 1977 we have dedicated at least 40% of our resources to provide free healthcare to poverty-stricken men, women, and children who could not otherwise afford medical treatment.”

5.40 pm Stop to give the Mother with the Incredible Green Eyes the vitamins she wanted to stop her spinning. I hand one of her boys the bag of fruit. He grins widely through the dirt which streaks down the soft flesh of his smiling face. My recent experience has totally nullified any doubt I had about the families sincerity.

6.00 pm Arrive at the Mercy Hospital and take the tiny baby to the Emergency room. A huge oxygen mask covers her little face as life moves back into her body. The little fingers begin to twitch. Suspected pneumonia. The mother distractedly looks on.

6.10 pm We try to register the baby and are asked for 5,000 rupees for advanced fees. Between us we have 400 rupees. “Who will pay?” We are asked. False claims of charity echo off every wall.

6.20 pm Two Sister from the Missionaries of Charity walk in to visit a sick volunteer. We appeal to them to help. They listen and nod and listen and nod and say “later” and go to visit the sick volunteer.

6.40 pm Two doctors burst in “Who will sign for the baby” one asks. “The mothers signature will not to. You can't trust the mother. Who will take responsibility. The baby is in a very bad way. If it goes the wrong way [dies] what will you do then?” Money is no longer the major problem. The doctors are trying to tell us the mother might try and sue the hospital or us. The 'mother' is perhaps fourteen, lives on the streets, and all the possessions she has are in the woven bag tucked under her arm. We bravely say “The Missionaries of Charity”. “You need a letter” the doctor replies “I want the letter by 8.pm or I'll put them back on the street”.

6.45 pm We go in search of the Sisters. They seem to have been struck by a semblance of compassion and say they will try to help. They return to the Mother House for what I hope is a 'letter' to save a life.

7.00 pm I am sitting with the mother and her baby in a children's ward. The other women and children look on. “How did you find the baby” one lady asks as she cradles a baby with a cleft palate. “Why did you bring it? Will you take it home with you?” Her questions are unbelievable and unstoppable. Rationality bursts from my mouth as I reply “What would you do if you saw a dying baby on the street? You would take it to a hospital wouldn't you?”

7.15 pm The little baby is no longer blue and her little brown eyes have opened into round circles trying to fight the flow of oxygen. Dinner is served; all the other women are given rice with their curry apart from the little babies mother. We complain and the interfering lady offers her own:“Rice is hot food, chapati is better, it is cold. Hot food is no good for breast feeding.” The interfering lady is referring to ayurvedic nutrition. After seeing the mother and child for only a couple of hours it is obvious that there is no 'breast feeding' implications to be concerned about. “She doesn't know how to look after her child” the interfering woman argues as the other mothers 'tut tut'.

7.35 pm I play the kurimbu to the other children. I make one burst into tears and one hide under the covers. Another woman comes up to me and introduces me to her daughter. She stands behind her sick child and motions for me to take her.

7.45 pm A nurse comes to remind us we need the letter by 8 pm or they will throw 'them' out. I go to look for white saris coming down the road. I take the opportunity to explain that the mother isn't breast feeding her baby. “Don't worry we will give the mother some health education” she (un) helpfully replies. “What about some food for the baby” rebounded my answer.

8.pm The Sisters arrive. The 'mother' needs to sign the consent form; they will cover the bills. The 'mother' doesn't understand and says she needs to ask her old god-father who lives outside of Sishu Bhavan in his three wheeled disabled buggy. The mother's friend is sent with a Bengali speaking nun and a volunteer to pay the taxi with a mission to seek the old god-fathers consent. A Sister pulls a plastic bottle of Holy Water out of her navy bag and flicks it over the child before mumbling a string of prays into her rosary beads.

8.30 pm The mission returns with a message from the old god-father: “It is in God's hands” he replies and relays a message for the 'mother to sign'. The Sisters and mother go downstairs to find the doctor and sign the papers.

8.45 pm I play peek a boo with the child who is still hiding under the covers.

9.15 pm With still no sign of the Sister and Mother we have go home. Visiting hours were over. We are tired. I don't want to think about the dying baby. But I can't. She stays in my head.

9. 30 pm The doctor refuses to let the 'mother' sign a legal disclaimer and tells her to leave the hospital. The tiny baby is removed from the oxygen, and Sisters, Mother, Mothers young friend, and one volunteer go to the nearby government hospital.

10. pm The still breathing baby has no address. She was born on the street, she lives on the platform at the train station. Registration is extremely difficult and a reminder of the battle that each homeless person has to fight in order to find treatment at the government hospitals. Eventually the little not-so-blue baby is admitted and the Sisters sit around a metal cot, which the mother and child share, and pray. The hospital is filthy, with needles scattering the floor, patient beds lining the corridor and used plastic gloves discarded along the staircase. No sheets, medicines or care is provided. A doctor visits and nurses (hopefully) administer medicine which the patients have to find someone to buy from the outside pharmacy.

The Next day....

3 pm A crowd of mothers continue to circle our young mother as they stare at the foreigners and point at the one with the bright red and shiny nose The baby has since had a chest x-ray which showed a hugely enlarged heart. Money from the Missionaries of Charity was used to by the required medicines for the chest infection, but it sits in a plastic bag along with a box of powered baby milk. We go outside to ask for some boiling water from the chai wallah and make a bottle of baby milk. The bottle buckles as the intense heat begins to melt the plastic. With a little ingenuity we manage to successfully create the artificial imitation and the baby is fed for the first time since her silent fight through illness, poverty and legality. She is a fighter and despite the false promises and the betrayal of her species, she is still alive.

What now? Operations? Medication? Health education? Back to her home of the train station with a family of street girls. Living without clean water, without the promise of daily food. With a mother too young to learn; to detached to feel like a mother. Is the baby meant to live? What repercussions will our desperate interventions have? What is her future? The future of her motherless mother? Every action has a reaction. Life. Pro-Life or Capital Punishment?

Growing Weak

The Lady with the Incredible Green Eyes and her two little boys is back. She disappeared from the side of the road for nearly a week. During this time I began to wonder if she had just decided to camp outside of Sishu Bhavan over the Christmas period in order to take advantage of the free meals and goodie bags. Perhaps because the handouts had finished or her plan had failed (as she was never given a 'lucky' card to gain a free meal) she had left. Part of me felt happy - thinking that perhaps her few days on the street had just been a ploy and really she had a husband and a place to live. Another part of me worried that something had happened to her or her children. That they had become too hungry and the options become more extreme.

Today the Lady with the Incredible Green Eyes and her two little boys returned to the patch of pavement outside Sishu Bhavan. Confused and surprised I tried to find out where she had been, but the lack of a common language left as both signing into the thin air and the questions lingering, unanswered.

I found the Smiling Novice Nun in Sishu Bhavan. She is still fresh and full of life. She actually plays with the children and enjoys it. The Smiling Novice Nun is always helpful and speaks perfect English. She answered my questions and told me that the elder child of the Lady with the Incredible Green Eyes was severely under nourished. One week ago the child had been admitted into Sishu Bhavan and began to grow strong. However, the mother and brother remained on the streets. Today the mother decided to collect her son, even though the Sisters wanted him to remain in their care for a little longer.

Now the matriarchal family are back on the pavement. Hungry. I went back to speak to the Lady with the Incredible Green Eyes and she asked for 'vitamins' She drew imaginary circles around her temple, suggesting that she was dizzy. She is incredibly skinny; her light is fading.

Another volunteer told me the Sisters had said that she was delibrately staring herself and the children so that her begging would be more productive. But this doesn't add up - she begs for food not for money, and I have once seen the family sharing a plate of rice.

I am trying to think of solutions. She clearly doesn't want to be without her boys and neither should she be. I am wondering if I can find her a job working in a care center where her boys could stay. But would she trust me to take her there? Would she participate? Would she agree? Would they be safe? Ultimately, would this improve there situation?

I'll take her some vitamins and fruit for her tonight....continuously trying to stop the flood rather than to fix the dam.

Ideas Welcome.

The Terror of Car Stickers

Interestingly enough, as I was publishing yesterdays blog entitled 'Love Pakistan'; an entire swat team of Indian police men marched into the internet cafe and whisked away an English guy sitting on the table next to me. Today the 'story' was published in The Telegraph newspaper but what they failed to mention was that the swat team had smashed in the windows of his car and then towed it away. The reason? The British car had a 'Toyota Islamabad' sticker on while being accidentally parked in a no-park zone. 'Love Pakistan' indeed.

Love Pakistan: A New Year's Wish

Ethically responsible media: A joint indo-pak peace project led by The Times of India and Pakistan's Jang Group...

"Feels odd to see those two words side by side doesn't it? Terror, hatred and fanaticism somehow sit more comfortable in our minds when we think of the other side of the border. Words that we've been fed in daily does over the last six decades. And in greater doses over the last one year. Shutting out minds to the undeniable truth that people cross the border are, above all, people. Like us.

So here's the question. Is there any chance at all, that we could still raise a hand, not in anger but in greeting? Depends on who raises his hand first, some of us would say. Also how, whisper a few others. But mostly, it all boils down to one simple question.

Why? Why must we do it? Why do we need them? Why don't they first say sorry fr that they've done? And the answer is simple.

It's easier to say Hi than to say Sorry. It's shorter too. Besides, there is no rule that says a book has to be closed before a new one is opened. Not even if it's a history book.

So on the first day of this new year, we're going to make a start. Again.

With Aman Ki Asha. A brave new people-to-people initiative by the Times of India and Pakistan's Jang Group to bring the people of two fine nations closer together. Culturally, emotionally and peacefully.

Starting with a series of cross-border cultural interactions, business seminars, music and literally festivals and citizens meets that will give the bonds of humanity a chance to survive outside the battlefields of politics, terrorism and fundamentalism.

In the hope that one day, words like Pakistan, India and Love will not seem impossible in the same sentence."

Published in the Times of India 1st January 2010

Inter-Faith New Years

A month or so ago it was Eid al-Adha. The Muslim “Festival of Sacrifice” commemorates the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son as an act of obedience to God, but instead he was able to sacrifice a ram (by God's command). Here in Kolkata, Eid al-Adha brought the Muslim population (which is estimated to be 18% of the population of the city) onto the streets. Indian Muslims swapped their blue tartan lungis for long white tunics and prayer caps. The mosques overflowed onto the streets, occupying the roads and bringing a total stand still to all traffic and morning shoppers. Walking to work involved labyrinthine skills as the maze of prayer mats had to be carefully side stepped but the uninviting drains and open gutters expertly avoided. From a vegetarians point of view the walk home was even more disturbing. Eid al-Adha has acquired the tradition of the sacrifice of domestic animals. All of the worlds Muslims celebrate by slaughtering unimaginable numbers of sheep, goats, cows and even camels. The craziness here in India is that the Holy Hindu Cow appeared to be the choice favourite.

Alimuddin Street – leading from the road housing the Missionaries of Charity to the Hindu shrines of Free School Street - became a butchers haven, as cows lined the pavements, while their family members achieved fast track enlightenment; depending of course on ones belief system. The irony of the cows predicament is that if they managed to stray just a few meters away they would be safe in cow worshipping territory. The affair reminded me of a good friend who ended up volunteering in the only pig farm in Israel and in a bout of rebellion ended up freeing the piggies from their fateful platform. By doing so the pigs unconsciously activated the law stating that as soon as a pig's trotters touches the soil of 'Israel' it is free from slaughter. However, the Holy Cows didn't seem equipped to try an similar escape attempt and soon the street was awash with fresh blood. Cow skins were picked clean by happy puppys, and I looked twice as young girls walked by with their prize of cow legs – one in each hand. Men walked around with blood stained shirts, as if coming straight from a massacre and later that evening a Muslim friend complained how tired he was after the hard work of killing over one hundred cows.

Thankfully the sacrifice is not in vain, and all of the meat and skin is used. The cow flesh is equally divided between the family, relatives, friends and neighbours and the poor. However, the question arises of the religious tensions which the festival may provoke as 'Gods' are sacrificed by the millions. This year, the Delhi based leading Islamic seminary, Dar-ul-Uloom, suggested to Muslims in the country that they should avoid slaughtering cows on Eid-ul-Azha as a mark of respect to the religious beliefs of Hindus. The appeal was supported by the All India Organisation of Imams of Mosques (AIOIM). Why then did I spend the day picking my path through cow remains? The answer is that unlike goats, sheep and chickens, the sacrifice of cows represents monetary wealth and dedication to ones faith, due to the 'price' of the sacrifice. A low breed Indian cow costs between 10,000 – 15,000 Indian rupees which is about £150 - £210; therefore the actual cost to the family over Eid is potentially enormous.

A week or so later what was intriguing was the hundreds of small drums that were appearing for sale along Alimuddin Street. The drums were made of cow skin which had been stretched over clay pots and then threaded with a string to hang over the drummers neck. Colourful children's drawings had been sketched on each drum, with the odd one sabotaged by a sketchy outline of a political party symbol. The purchase of one cost only 5 rupees (about seven pence) and came with two little sticks for beating. At the time I thought this was just a money making innovative tactic by the kids but a few days ago the city came alive with the sound of drums – all shapes and sizes – and made from the fresh cow skin of recently slaughtered cattle.

The celebration of Muharram is the festival which signifies the start of the Islamic New Year. The Muslim population of Kolkata celebrated by taking to the streets and parading in bands of drummers. The roads literally stood still while the vibrations rang out throughout the streets. Thousands of boys and young men dressed in costume and with an atmosphere of celebration banged there way through the city as the pavements were lined with spectators and beeping traffic. Gasoline was passed around as boys took turns to fill up their mouths and then blow into a torch of fire. Definitely a party atmosphere, excluding the copious amounts of alcohol more typical of New Years celebrations. The next day, the procession turned a little more sober as fake coffins and horses soaked in blood paraded down the street, with children rushing under the coffins and people queuing to touch the blood covered skin of the horse. In Sishu Bahavan the kids clambered onto the ledges of the windows, trying to peek through the iron bars to identify the source of the rhythmic beats which percolated up from the streets below, bringing cheers of 'nache nache' to the little people always eager for an opportunity to dancer. Meanwhile, trucks loaded with rice stopped to pass out food to the crowds. I watched as two little boys – rag pickers – dropped their bags to chase after the promise of a free meal, but were too slow and were left standing in the middle of the road watching the laden vehicle ride on. They turned around the retrieve their huge bags of rubbish, leaving the celebrations behind. That day was very quite at the dispensary, as patients who usually queue up wearing borrowed plastic crosses attached with pieces of string, went in search of a free meal and the rumours of clothes distribution.

Tonight the night clubs of Kolkata are advertising all night long parties to “Bollywood and Western Music” starring “foreign dancers” and DJs from Mumbai. Entrance fees are scaling the 2000 rupee mark; which at nearly £30 is a pretty exclusive price. But young men (and the occasional woman) from the surrounding Christan, Muslim and Hindu areas are strolling around in anticipation for another street party. If there was ever a place (other than Jerusalem) for the joining of faiths in a celebration of Humanity, India ia surely one. In its rich diversity and complexity of community festivals, unity through celebration is most definitely possible.

Going No Where

Frustration determination anger, going no where, nothing but words which want to be heard. A silent minority in a institution protected by the ghost of a soon-to-be-Saint. Wishing to change, to improve, progress, develop. But working within a system of values morphed by Indo-Anglican standards. “This is India! What do you expect?” Is a insult to the many reputable Indian institutions, working to fulfil the best of each child's potential. But here it seems enough that the children have been 'saved' – job done. Responsibility fulfilled. But is food, clothes and colourful curtains sufficient? Where is the watchdog, ensuring that standards are met? Where are the evaluations of how methods could be improved? Where are the rights of the children? But again, the loophole of 'India' seems to prevail, as compared to the millions of homeless kids, these are the 'lucky' ones. Reading old reports of the orphanage shows that much has improved. Not all the toys are locked up; there more than enough clothes, and the children receive regular health check ups and are usually admitted into a decent hospital when necessary. But other things have not improved, and this is unacceptable.

Children who should be learning to walk are just strapped to the wall, those who have had surgery to increase mobility, pull themselves along the ground, crawling rather than learning how to stand with the assistance of the box of prosthetic supports. Older children with minor disabilities are never taught to use the toilet, so at the age of six are still wearing cotton nappies. Volunteers with specialist skills are not filtered through, and offers to provide valuable trainings, sharing useful skills are shunned. Hanging out buckets of laundry on the roof rather than working with the children seems defeatist. Are volunteers taking local womens jobs? If they weren't hanging out the lines of hand-washed sheets would others be employed to do it? Is that 'saved' money appropriately used; and who decides what is 'appropriate'? But I am warned that we should all be 'humble' and no one is exempt from hanging out laundry – my point drying in the mid-day sun in total incomprehension.

Sharing my views with other volunteers feels almost like treason; what right to I have to question the work of God? Or question their well spent vacation? But I am the same. I have decided to attempt to change the system from the inside – to try to make the world a better place through reducing the suffering of a few children, and to do so by giving them a little power over their basic essentials – eating, toileting, walking. But it seems such a huge battle, and I am often left doubting if it is my courage which is lacking or the rigidity of the system prevailing?

Working Woman

Every day I hear a 'story' or see a few minutes of a life I want to write about. Meanwhile, I am reading an incredibly critical book about Mother Teresa, and the western media's portrayal of Kolkata. Yet what I see and hear is real – so why should it not be shared? I am not intentionally portraying a desperate view of the city but I am also not living in the new apartment blocks of Salt Lake City or Tollygange, or eating in the many European styled, or rather 'priced' restaurants. Of course these areas do exist, but they are not part of my reality right now, so instead I will continue to relay the lives of just a few of the many people who live with less than their fair share of our World's resources.

There is a beautiful woman who finds me at the same time every afternoon, as I cross over from Free School Street towards the tourist territory of Sudder Street. The beautiful woman grabs my wrist and asks for money for her baby. Unfortunately over the years I have developed a rather passive attitude towards pro-active women with babies. The rumours of 'rent a baby' reflects the use of kids to release the pennies from the pockets of the blindest of pedestrians. These women use baby sitting time to earn some extra rupees from their apparently much increased desperate situation. Judgements aside, as at least they are taking initiative while playing their own Robin Hood. The way the beautiful woman grabs my wrist is persistent and forceful – again not the characteristics of the helpless female which might earn her a few more rupees if adopted along side the additional baby. At first I am always surprised at how beautiful she is, at her dominate energy. Not characteristics of a street 'victim'. I usually walk on, ignoring her pleas while playing the familiar record in my head that perhaps I should just stop and talk to her, although her attitude suggests she would not be satisfied with words. Judgments; perspectives; reality. This is her story:

The beautiful woman lives at Sealdagh station with her husband and children. The couple have had five children, the eldest of which is already eighteen. This seems incredible, as she is still so beautiful but then I remember her energy and power and how she is clearly a fighter. It also seems incomprehensible partly because it is not assumed that the couple were married when they were children – but they were. The beautiful woman's mother died when she was eleven. This was the age I was when my own mother died. At which point life continued as 'normal', as I still had another six years of school to finish. But this was not so for the beautiful woman. Her father arranged a marriage for her and she was quickly wed to the then fifteen year old husband. Her husband worked as a rickshaw wallah, pulling people around the city in the cumbersome wooden carriage. He would earn a average of 20 rupees (50 cents) a day.

One year ago her husband became sick and could no longer work. The responsibility fell on the still young and beautiful woman. She heard that good money could be made from begging on the tourist strip of Sudder Street, so for three days a week she moved away from her family to the center of the city to pester the foreigners, touting her youngest baby for sympathy fodder. She is smart and during the past year she has learned to speak English from her persistent interactions with the tourists. She says she likes the foreigners because they are kind, even the volunteers for the Missionaries of Charity, although she holds the 'Charity' responsible for the death of her ten year old child. She recalls how the child developed a fever and became increasingly ill. Not knowing where to go for help she camped outside of Sishu Bahavan asking for medicines. Her demands were repeatedly refuted and the child died.

The woman earns between 200 and 300 rupees ($5 to $7) during these few days of begging . Although this is a very meagre sum to support her family of six, it is double the salary which her husband used to bring home from a full weeks work of hard physical labour.

I'm glad she is able to support her family. Does it really matter that she is 'earning' her money through begging, rather than receiving state benefits or from working for a foreign NGO surviving on charitable donations?

Interestingly, I continue to justify my inaction, comfortable in the knowledge that someone else will give to her and alternatively I can give a 'gift' of food to someone more 'needy'.

The power of money. The power of 'giving' the basic requirements for life. The perspective of judgements. Reason, rational, reality. Truth and the inequality which leads to deception.

City Floor

There are hundreds of multi-coloured shapes on the ground. They are have each been cemented into the floor. Interspersed are larger shapes; with the same colours. Black, a dirty white, grey, brown and various shades of green. Randomly placed. Around the edges they are encrusted in dust. A uneven edge of thick black dirt. The strip of light on the ceiling sends down beams of brightness, which are reflected by the whiter pieces; sometimes shiny. The base is a earth red, prevailing through the shapes of colour. A tiled mosaic which stores the cold and sends a chilling sensation to the bare soles who walk on top.

How many cities are there in this world? And within those cities how many beings? How many islands of nature are there remaining? Where have we not infected, colonised, dominated, destroyed?

There is a postcard on the open door of the room. It is stuck to the wooden panel with a strip of white jagged tape. It hangs unevenly as it fights the moisture of the paint. The design and colours of the card contrast with the fading ambiance of the ancient peeling room. A shape of a world drawn and coloured blue and green, circled with the words “Save the Human”; a new environmental campaign attempting to raise awareness about the self imposed threat. Overpopulation, extinction of the animal species (our own included), human made killer viruses, super-human bacterias, carbon emissions, continuing mining, drilling, producing. Drying up rivers, melting glaciers, trawling the oceans, ransacking the land, clearing the jungles. Meat farms eating up precious resources, redistribution of wealth and health. The list continues as old news under the heading of 'fading intelligence'. Conscious denial. Inaction. Actions continue, informed Blindness.

Kissmas from Kolkata

It is officially Christmas. The sun is shining with only the evenings and night time showers revealing the cloak of the winter season. There are a few shops around Sudder Street dripping in sparkling tinsel and packets of plastic bells. Giant fake Christmas trees stand to attention on the pavement, but it is the five foot tall Santa which is more effective at welcoming the Christmas cheer. Surrounded by Hindu deities and small shrines, the glitz and glitter of the festive season is neatly incorporated in the city's Holy Days, and only sporadically advertised to sell specific ideas of Christmas. Today's Times advertised an 'English Dundee Cake' along side 'An Exotic American Fruit Cake', but it is the local bakers inside of New Market which are cashing in on the seasonal fare, with mini cakes stacked high on the wooden stalls and selling for a bargain of 10 rupees each.

On Winter Solstice the Sisters decided it was time to decorate Sishu Bhavan. Luckily I arrived late so missed the morning briefing that the volunteers were requested not to play with the children and alternatively decorate the nursery, including building a huge nativity scene depicting little baby Jesus with his doting mother Mary and adopted father Joseph – a fairy tale image.

A few days ago an Indian family arrived to celebrate one of their children's birthday. They brought a huge cake filled with candels and a million presents, including the Indian version of the 'Barbie' doll – 'Betty'. After picking up some of the children and dancing them around the cake to the sounds of their cheers and the objections of the massis, the family came to play with the children. The young son was petrified of the children but managed to throw some soft balls which landed in their laps, providing something different for them to watch. Meanwhile, the kids from the active section ran around holding 'Betty's' wrapped up in plastic bags. When one eventually figured out that 'Betty' need not be contained within the packaging, the ensuing slaughter was massive. Legs and blonde Betty heads popped off all over the place, with the little Chinese Indian boy finding a hidden treasure. Attaching Betty's leg to her hip was a circle of plastic, or in the eyes of the little Chinese Indian boy - a perfect shaped 'bindi'. He grinned holding the prize close to his limited eyes, as he placed the plastic circle carefully on his own forehead. Later I commented to the Sister what a lovely gesture it was of the family to bring so many gifts and spend so much time with the kids. She replied; “they only do it so they can receive God's blessing.”

Meanwhile, the small clinic I am volunteering in is closed for Christmas. Again the priority appeared to be the building of the nativity scene, but if it is closed behind locked doors on Christmas day even that seemed a little strange. (Then again the Sisters asked some volunteers to remove the Christmas decorations at the Mother House this morning. ) I had offered to come and change the dressings of the patients who most needed treatment, but I was ordered to take a holiday. It was difficult to explain to the old man with maggots eating his upper thigh that he would have to wait until next week for the next batch of carnivores to be removed.

Behind these frustrations there are many beautiful actions, glances and glimpses of compassion which bring renewed energy. Moments where I feel glad for this festive time and for the lapses of generosity and optimism.

A couple of weeks ago children from another of the Missionaries of Charities homes, Daya Dan, performed a brilliant nativity play. They toured around the houses, acting and singing for the other children, patients, Sisters, Brothers and volunteers. Their visit to Sishu Bahavan was inspirational. The cast was composed of disabled children who were natural performers, providing an incredible energy to the audience. I brought down a gorgeous girl from the nursery, who smiles her way through severe different abilities, despite having her legs scissored together and little control over the movements of her hands. She sat on my knee, staring at the story being acted out in front of her, pausing only to turn around and she her smile.

Last night friends disguised as Christmas Angels left for the streets at midnight. They spent three hours quietly placing blankets over sleeping bodies without a whisper of their work.

This morning after bouncing down the steps of Modern Lodge to be greated by the joke of the day 'Happy Kissmas', from the Old Man and his giggling entourage, I pulled on my Santa's hat and Jingle Jangled my way into Sishu Bhavan. The pavement outside was crowded with people trying to find there way inside. Today the Sisters were giving out packages of food and supplies to many. However, 'many' is never enough and somehow only those 'selected' could enter by showing the magic card. The lady with the Incredible Eyes and her two babies were standing patiently waiting – no card in hand.


Inside the orphanage the kids had been dressed in red and gold sparkly dresses and suits. All of the active kids had made their usual pilgrimage to the Mother House for morning mass but were now busy singing songs and dancing to Christmas carols with the Sister. It was an unusual sight but one which brought copious smiles and a much needed happy vibe. Deepa was busy swaying from side to side enjoying the tunes. She was discharged from hospital a few days ago and seems much better. She is also becoming very close to me again; a feeling which brings with it a warning hesitancy as well as comfort that she once again she trusts me and feels safe to let me work and play with her.

My aunt's gift of a school recorder and teddy arrived a couple of days ago, but with so many Sisters on patrol, I felt reluctant to share it with Deepa. Instead it stayed hidden under my apron until another, quieter, day. The children are not meant to receive individual presents, but the volunteers are able to circumnavigate the rule by bringing toys and games in during the day and take them away in the evening. As for the teddy, Deepa has difficulty finding out the 'point' of a teddy. Perhaps she thinks it is just clothes or bedding and she was happy to move it to one side and continue her Christmas dancing. This worked out well for the Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile. She motioned for me to bring it to her and she reached out to hug it tight to her as she Smiled even wider. The Super Smart blind baby also loved it and began to stroke the teddy, feeling the different material and pulling it towards her. Thank You for such a kind thought.


The head of the Missionaries of Charity, German born, Sister Mary Perma then made a brief visit. She walked around placing her hands on the children and wishing them 'Happy Christmas' while the massis scurried around bending down to touch her feet. She wished the children a good Christmas lunch as they fought the massis and spoon fulls of cold Cerelac porridge.

Outside I found the lady with the Incredible Eyes and her two children sitting on the pavement. She hadn't managed to acquire a magic card. It wasn't quite the same but I had brought two loud surprises. After the mass slaughter of Holy cows for Eid, the kids on the neighbouring street had become extremely resourceful and had melted cow skins over clay pots to produce little drums. The final products have crayon drawings scribbled on them and a nylon string to attach the drum to the drummer. The clay cow drums sell for five rupees each, which is about 10 cents. I pulled the little drums out of my bag and hung them around the little kids necks. I handed the mother a bar of soap and a towel as yesterday she complained that her boys couldn't wash and as a result were filthy and covered in flies. Their reactions was so strong that I felt myself begin to gentley shake. The little boys were so surprised and shocked that the smiles took time to grow and then consumed their faces. The mother looked at me directly in the eyes, once again sharing her tremendous strength and power. I tell you this only because today my sister donated ten pounds. It will allow me to buy the lady with the Incredible Eyes and her fatherless family lunch for one month. Another Thank You.

Its been a long time since I celebrated Christmas. It had forgotten what a good excuse it is to laugh loudly, sing badly and to Share and to Smile. A reminder of how relations could be everyday of the year.

Thank you to all who continue to Share and Inspire.

Gifts to Share - a call for Christmas donations

'Tis the Season to be Jolly!' and I have had a few offers from friends overseas to pass on some Christmas Cheer to strangers in Kolkata! It is a wonderful feeling that there are some positive and beautiful gifts from a festive holiday that has so successfully been captured by mass consumerism...So a huge thank you! I plan to use the donations to distribute some blankets, fruit, soap and food to those who most need it, but of course an open to any other suggestions of toys or clothes as well. There many single mothers, young children, elderly, sick and disabled people who live on the streets, and although winter provides the dryness absent in the floods of the monsoon, the evenings are cold and there are many who are very hungry. I am currently volunteering in a extremely basic clinic at one of Kolkata's main train stations where many of the city's poor and homeless live. This means that I am in a perfect position to distribute a few items to those who would really appreciate the offers. A little can go a really really long way, so even if it is just a couple of dollars, pounds or rupiah it can be used well... here is a list of some basic commodity prices:

a single fleece blanket: 200 rupees ($4.30; 2.64 GBP)
rice and lentils: 30 rupees (65 cents; 40 pence)
one egg roll: 8 rupees (17 cents; 10 pence)
two tangerines: 10 rupees (21 cents; 13 pence)
one bar of dettol soap: 18 rupees (38 cents; 23 pence)

This means that for a total of $5.70 or 3.50 GBP we can give someone a really useful and fulfilling gift.

If you feel like contributing to this Christmas in Kolkata there is a 'Help to Help' option on this blog, which leads directly to a paypal account.

Thank you! And have a Happy Holiday where ever you are!

Much Peace