Eyes 2 Open

Cricket and Climbing

2010-04-10T13:54:00.000+05:30

Watching the boys in their playing field leaves my mouth open and my mind flying. The younger boys attack the climbing frames. They monkey themselves along the bars like junior Olympians, balancing on the very top bar of the swings and flinging their bodies backwards and upside down. They jump from bar to bar using their arms and propelling themselves with the momentum of their bodies in a way which would leave most adult climber shaking in their shoes and leaving even the most courageous and foolhardy sighted kid panting to keep up.

I was accompanied by a retinue of boys eager to show off and to have their photo taken. The majority of the boys are totally blind, but this did not stop their demands for photographic proof of their talents. Some of the boys have a degree of sight, hindered by incredibly low vision. These boys would pull my camera screen so close to their faces that it would touch their cheeks, and then a reassuring smile would appear, showing that they had recognised their image. Likewise, my dive computer was proving to be a winner with all, as the totally blind boys pressed the buttons and the sighted boys took turns in pulling my wrist to their eyes and reading the time out loud. Whenever I asked a question, they would reply with the characteristic affirmative head wobble, unique to most of India. It was mystifying how they had been taught the action so accurately; whether a teacher had taken their heads in their hands and moved it from side to side? They movement is so subtle in its precision that I still find impossible to imitate, despite having a hundred of visual renditions each day.

Meters away a group of boys were playing cricket. It was equally as incredible to witness. The cricket ball made a rattling sound and after the bowler had taken it in his hand he would confirm the location of the batter by calling 'ready?' to which a affirmative reply would echo. He would then bowl with a reverse arm loop, causing the ball to fly into the sky before rolling along the ground, rapidly rattling its way towards the listening batsman. If the ball hit the wickets a metal 'ping' would ring out and the boys would either cheer or groan. However, if the ball was hit all would listen and run in the correct direction. If the ball was hit high up into the sky, the boys would end up running around in puzzled circles listening for its non-existent rattle. Once it landed they would run alongside it stooping down to scoop it up. It was powerful to watch, and inspiring to see the courage which the boys ran around the field with, especially considering that most did so in what was for them complete darkness. They conversed about cricket as if it was a deep ingrained passion, reflecting their subconscious nationalism, as the adoration of cricket is an addiction common throughout the country. They talked excitedly about the recent India/ South Africa game, and proudly reminded me that it was their countrymen who were the victors. I guess the spoken commentary meant that they need not be able to watch the match in order to follow it, and yet for some unexplainable reason I found it amazing that they developed such a strong passion for the national sport on a par with their sighted peers.

These boys are incredible sports men – they have no fear. They follow their senses, running with a surety despite the many obstacles plaguing their paths. They relay on a finely tuned sense of balance which leaves me simultaneously amazed and naively protective as they swing and throw themselves around in a way which sighted children would not have the courage to do. Their sense of hearing is so accurate that they are constantly reorientating their bodies in accordance with the movements and motions around them. Their internal map of their school and home is deeply moulded in the minds of even the youngest of boys, as they all run confidently through the buildings and around the playground. Body contact and verbal communication is of the utmost importance, and the boys are constantly touching each other and standing incredibly close, with their low vision friends filling in any missing information which might come into focus as he shares the treasure of his own incredibly limited vision.

The boys demonstrate what is possible for blind children and young people, and how they have developed the most extra-ordinary skills. These are skills – such as increased awareness, memory of their surroundings, balance and courage - which Deepa is inclined towards. But what is currently inhibiting the fruition of this specific and deeply powerful skill set, is the lack of any mentors and expert guidance. Here in the centre of the city of Pune, 2004 kilometers from Sishu Bahvan, is a community of children and young people who are perfectly adapted to life without sight. They are visibly exploding with potential and have just the right degree of cultivated confidence and awareness that they will need to live the independent and self-sustaining lives which they are more than capable of.

Osho's Pune

2010-04-07T14:54:00.001+05:30

Pune, once famous for its Tigers, and now with two remaining species in the city zoo. Known by the locals as the old colonial name of Poona, and invaded by neo-colonials after the fame of Osho and Iyengar. Tourists walk the streets in a hippified daze, dressed in the uniform one piece maroon robes, some without shoes and all seeking something which whether or not they find it, costs them an incredible amount of cash. The Osho international meditation ashram was established in 1974. To enter not only requires a sustainable bank account but also an on the site HIV and hepatitis test. As for the Ramamani Iyengar Memorial Yoga Institute – I would love to study in one of the ashrams of the founders of modern day yoga. The ashram charges $450 a month and there is a 18 month waiting list.

In the city of Pune, a very different life style unfolds. One of shopping malls and designer shops. The young generation of women wear tight jeans and t-shirts, turning my head but no one else's. I feel a little freer to walk around without the eyes of all whom I pass observing me. The bookstores are incredible forts full of knowledge, and the local business industry is providing a healthy source of income to the cities college graduates.

A new outdoor climbing wall is about to be opened, after the battle between the politicians has been resolved as too who will cut the red ribbon. Young men and women spend their weekends re-bolting climbing walls in the area. At the blind school, I meet many local volunteers who come to play sports with the kids after work. Part of the city is dominated by military barracks, and huge sprawling houses are set in green well irrigated gardens. Sign painters are busy re-writing the name of recently relocated Generals and Sergent Majors on the bordering gates.

But despite the modern feel of business city life, adventure shops, sports clubs and jam-packed McDonalds, children in tatters continue to pitter patter by my side, an outstretched hand leading their way. Women with babies wrapped to their chests and a pile of belongings stacked on their heads take food from shop stalls, walking away before they are asked for the money which they do not have. Limbless lepers sit on the pavements, and mentally disabled boys begs knock on the windows of passing chauffeur driven cars. Although the poverty is not as extreme as in Kolkata, partially because the city itself is much smaller with a population of four million, the contrast between the modern and affluent India which the young generation so much want to believe in and the old generation are so proud of, is marred by the separation of the society into those that have and those that never will.

The more I look around the more I see two totally different groups of people; it is even physically obvious and not just through what I come to think of as the 'Bollywood' look of trendy clothes, fashionable hairstyles, piercings and tattoos, but through different physiques. There is a distinct separation between a young generation with a solid muscular build who are tall and athletic looking, showing their commitment to their gym memberships and with their pulse on modern fashion. Their parents are generally well dressed with designer watches and fine saris and suits. They are also generally overweight (easy to do when the food is so delicious and varied). At the other end of the scale there is an eternal generation of those with a much shorter life span, shorter statue, thinner and blacker. The women are incredibly skinny, and the middle aged men never seem to put on more than a pot belly onto their teenage boy's stick like figure. I know this is a dangerous generalisations, but the two groups are so stark that as an observer it is an easy generalisation to make, and it leaves me wondering what of those who are left straddling the two worlds – trying to make a living in modern India, while being tied to their social status and never ending burden of a dependent extended family.

Pune provides a vision of a India built on a history of successful trading and fuelled by a booming business sector, leaving in its wake a trail of Western seekers in search of a commercialised spirituality and a thick fringe of corrugated iron roofs, plastic sheetings and hungry bodies waiting for the chimera of a trickle down.

Dancing Fingers

2010-04-05T15:22:00.002+05:30

A million little hands touch my hair gently feeling its curls and length. I have so many fingers rubbing my blue bead bracelets that I do not know who they belong to. I am pulled down onto the floor as children repeatedly ask me inMarathi what my name is, and smile wide grins as their question is repetitively answered. They have been celebrating a local festival involving a huge number of coloured paints. Although they live colourless lives, darkened by their lack of sight, or perhaps pricked by a small hole of light, they celebrate the festival with as much vigour as their young counterparts outside. Palms press my cheeks as giggles follow, and within minutes I look like a blue mermaid, dripping with vibrant colour which my little friends cannot see but can feel. A tiny lady sits at my feet, unlike the others she is not vying for my attention, although her soft floating voice has captured it all but completely. She is entertaining herself by arranging six rainbow coloured plastic rings according to their size as quickly as she can. She empties them off a plastic pole and then rushes to replace them, feeling with her fingers if the shape follows a smooth triangle or a awkward wiggle. As she plays she sings, and her voice is incredible. I want her attention even though I already have that of a dozen or more girls.

By my side sits a seriously deformed girl. Her head is huge, her blind eyes bulge and her mouth hangs constantly open. She has the face that would either make sighted people stare at in fascination or turn away from in disgust. She strokes the skin of my arm with her webbed fingers, and I realise what a haven she is in as her friends have little idea that she has the appearance of a monster, and so she sits happily and confidently as she should and I hope always will. In the corner there is a television which two older girls are standing on a stool to reach. One has low vision and is peering into the screen, with her nose pressed against the images. The static is pulling her hair towards the box of images, which she can only see a partial fragment of. Her friend is feeling the buttons, tracing the plastic with her fingers while turning her head towards the direction of the sound.

A little cheeky monkey is entertaining herself and joining in the festivities by spitting on her colourless hands and then searching for a body. After locating a face she wipes her hands on the unsuspecting cheeks. Due to the commotion around me, her victims have no idea of her approach nor of the source of the fluid on their faces. She finds the little lady by my feet causing the cessation of her game of shapes and sizes. The little lady vigorously rubs her cheeks, thinking that they have been coloured blue with watered hands. I tickle the trickster's tummy, and she happily laughs that her ploy has been uncovered, but quickly dodges my arms and turns to continue her game.

The evening is growing dark and the lights remain switched off as for the girls the day is as black as the night. The dance of a proud and talented girl demonstrates the children's inert ability to locate their positions relative to their surroundings. Blindfolded I would never be able to dance with the confidence and agility which she did as she performed a rendition of a classical Indian dance. The fairy like dancer was immune to disorientation, and despite her turns and twirls constantly reorientated her body in the direction of her amazed audience. Her spinning provided me with inspiration, and I decide to share one of Deepa's favourite and most simple games.

I stand up and lift one of the little girls holding onto me. I dance her around, moving her through the air like the weightless little feather she is. The combination of the encroaching dark and our movements makes it difficult for me to see her reaction and then I hear a bubbling giggle. The game is a winner but what is unexpected is the participation of a third body. A girl a little to tall to be swung instead stands in front of me and just feels the smaller girls being lifted off the floor and swung around and around. Whenever I finish she quickly feels for another younger friend and brings her towards me. She tries to follow our movements and smiles such a beautiful and pure smile of joy and I end up swinging more for her than for the dizzy bundle of giggles in my arms.

I left to the invisible waves and enthusiastic shouts of a whole school of amazing girls. Girls who demonstrate the strength of their senses other than sight, and their precious vision built on trust and confidence in their innate perception of space, movement and orientation.

Bombs and Bakeries

2010-04-03T14:42:00.000+05:30

I am sitting in a cafe two doors down from what used to be the German Bakery in Pune (Poona), which six weeks ago I had been reading about as I ate lunch in a similarly touristic cafe in Kolkata. Six weeks ago a bomb took nine lives and injured forty five people. The denotation was well timed and the restaurant was packed full of tourists and locals. Now all that remains is a empty shell of a building, surrounded by colourful cotton sheets and metal railings. Police stay on a twenty four hour control at the corner of the road protected in what looks like a bright green hippy bus. Their constant vigil does little more than 'terrorise' passers-by, reminding them of the invisible but potential threat to their lives. The only time I actually saw the squad of police pay interest to anything other than their metal tiffen boxes filled with their lunch, was after I began to poke around the rubble, and even then all I received was a cursory second glances with a few follow up questions of where I was from, what was my favourite place in India and how old was I. Such questions I suspected, were not part of their campaign against terror, and they were equally eager to answer my own questions. They admitted that they were indeed very bored and although one of the perks of the job was to talk to the tourists, they would be stationed on the street for another two months.

Next door to the German Bakery is a tiny liquor shop. The three men squashed behind the counter were also there on the day of the bombing. “You were very lucky” I tell them. They all flash a smile in response and look around their huge selection of bottles, “Our shop is very lucky! Lucky shop!” I guess the sale of alcohol has now received a divine blessing in a country where sale of liquor comes under strict control. Above the shop the window frames have been blown out replaced with jagged glass and black holes. The blast even took with it an auto rickshaw which was parked outside of the.

“I was standing here” motions one of the shop keepers, moving half a meter to the side of the counter, “I heard a huge bang and the shop shook, there was dust everywhere and we couldn't see because everything was black.” I asked if he realised what had happened, that a bomb had just been denoted meters away from where he was standing, “as soon as the noise from the blast had finished, all I could hear was screaming, and then slowly the dust cleared and I saw all the blood and injured people standing on the road, then I realised it must have been a bomb”. What was interesting was that the liquor shop had received a warning three months prior to the blast, and the police had been patrolling an area one block away; next to the Israeli Chabad house, and on the corner of Osho's International Ashram. “Now there are police live outside our shop. Now it is too late.”

I asked if the German Bakery was going to reopen, and he told me that they had already received compensation from the government, “too much compensation” were his precise words. How much is too much? “Five lakh” - or around £7300. However, when I did my own research all I could find was a pledge from the government of five lakh to the family of those who had lost their lives, and this had still to be paid.

Next door to the liquor shop is 'Cafe' a chain of Italian inspired Indian coffee shops. According to the waiter there are 47 such shops in Pune alone and 880 'plus' in India. The waiter is particularly helpful, possibly because I am the only customer and on a Saturday afternoon they are staffed to deal with many more than just me and my order of one overpriced masala tea. I ask him about the blast and despite my fears that perhaps they would be tired of talking about it, he eagerly responds by telling me in the same excited tone of the shop owner that he was working during the blast, and standing in the kitchen. Unlike his neighbour, he had no idea what had happened, all he knew was that the huge glass windows fronting the Cafe had imploded, bringing with them a thick black dust.

I asked why he thought they had targeted the German Bakery and not the Cafe? He replied: “because of the foreign tourists” and was quick to add, “like you”. Killing foreigners makes for more publicity and ironically enough forces the government to take a stand; which in this instance seems to have resulted in a hefty compensation sum for the German Bakery and a semi-permanent police force camping out on the street. But the waiter is optimistic and prophesies that “all will return to normal in a few months” and the Cafe will again be a busy bustling hub for Pune's growing class of city coffee lovers.

I ask him if he is scared of working here, “life is too short to be scared” he replies. “I can die in a bomb blast today, tomorrow or in ten years, when it is my time to die I will die; it is not to be feared.” The waiter, is young and smiling and wondering if I would be so relaxed if the street of my work had been blown to smithereens because of people 'just like me', all I can manage to say is “crazy world”. He nods his head, but then corrects me, “the people are crazy, the world is not”.

Behind the counter the area trainer is introducing the “summer special” and as I look out of the newly replaced glass windows onto the busy road outside, I hear her shrill voice instruct her staff on how to put the finishing touches to the cold coffee, “just turn it around, and put two dots, and there you go; there is your smiley.” Life continues in its craziness. The German Bakery will be rebuilt, the liquor shop next door will continue to feel simultaneously blessed while resenting the “too much compensation” of its neighbour. Business will slowly start to drift back to the Cafe, as the fear of locals is numbed by time and the police will continue to bask in the afternoon sun safe, in the knowledge that there is little they can do apart from wait for another high alert to relocate them and their terror instilling presence.

Opportunities and Abilities

2010-04-02T15:40:00.002+05:30

Today I visited the Poona School and Home for Blind Girls, located in the quiet and suburban area of Kothran. After visiting the boys school I had high expectations and a budding day dream, which I was apprehensive of feeding, but despite my best efforts of fighting naivety it continued to grow and grow beyond my careful control. And I ended up sitting in front of the head teacher asking about their admissions, and if they accepted girls from other states or with multiple disabilities. The answer was affirmative to both and accommodation, food, education and clothing is all provided free of charge.

The girls school is home to 150 girls from the ages of six to eighteen. Like the boys school the younger girls attend school within the centre, before they graduate into the mainstream secondary education of the nearby government school. The girls school also provides vocational training to its young women, equipping them with as many skills as possible to survive in a world unfairly weighted against them. The social worker who showed me around, shared with me that it was very difficult for the young women to find work, but they were all able to live independently, and as their prospects of marriage is incredibly slight, this independence is vital. The vocational training centre provides classes in cooking, hand-loom, sewing, dress making, massage and candle making. The school already have a contract with a local firm for making 5,000 squares of material per month, while their selection of handi-crafts is on sale for visitors. The school have their own braille machine, an extensive braille library equipped with a telescope for low vision students and computer software that reads books. The computer keyboards are all equipped with braille and tactile landmarks are placed around the building to help the students with their orientation. The musical instruments comprise of a full orchestra and the girls regularly perform classical concerts for the public during local festivals. The classrooms are arranged in such a way that the teacher is in arms reach of all of the students, so that within one touch she has their specific attention. There is also a fantastic room designed to develop motor skills and coordination. The fantastic room includes all kinds of climbing frames, balancing balls and swings. I did not even have to try to image Deepa exploring the equipment – the room was perfect for her, and a far cry from the play ground at Sishu Bhavan.

The actual cost of sponsoring a child is 18,000 rupees or about £260 per year. Considering that I am paying (with the committed help of donors) 48,000 (£705) rupees for a year of weekly speech therapy classes for three blind girls, this shows what can be achieved with minimal resources and expert commitment. The figure also casts a shadow over the use of funds by the Missionaries of Charities. Visiting the school and seeing the facilities available to help the children develop to their fullest potential and watching as the girls ran around, totally free and independent, has given a renewed burst of energy to my fight for Deepa. There is no reason other than the lack of will by the Missionaries of Charity that Deepa and the other blind girls in Sishu Bahavan should not be receiving the same education.

Before I left Kolkata, I was sitting talking with a special needs teacher from Sweden. In fact it was his Tibetan singing bowls which had so mesmerized Deepa and provided such unusual stimulation for the children. During our many conversations I had been trying to glean as much advice and information of how best I could use my time with Deepa to encourage her use of language. Then he went to Sikkim for two weeks and came back smiling his way through praises of a eighty four year old Buddhist monk. The monk had responded to need and was building an orphanage for children with special needs. The orphanage was situated at the foothills of the Himalayas, and although it was still under construction, he already had several orphans under his care. What had so impressed my Swedish friend was the vision of the elderly monk. He wanted to provide a space for the children to learn the necessary skills to live in a society which had little provisions to teach them. Meanwhile, the monk recognised the unique potential of the children and was determined to establish connections with local and international special needs teachers who would be able to guide the children towards their fullest potentials.

Then my friend looked directly into my eyes and said simple and wise words of warning. As he spoke, I listened, and as I listened I felt a resonance deep inside. My friend said “they are not just denying Deepa her power, they are denying a huge source of power, of intelligence to the world.”

Imagining Deepa here; seeing the opportunities that the blind girls and young women here have to develop their skills and foster the necessary courage to enter a society which is not yet totally prepared for them, draws a stark contrast to the denial of Sishu Bahavan to facilitate Deepa's education or even to teach her simple life skills. Of the 150 girls at the school, none are wearing nappies, all know how to wash themselves, feed themselves and all are learning how to live their lives as differently-abled rather than as 'dis'-abled.

The Poona School for the Blind

2010-04-01T16:34:00.003+05:30

Today I visited The Poona School and Home for Blinds Trust

Today I visited The Poona School and Home for Blinds Trust. It is located just five minutes from the room I am staying in, and it welcomes volunteers and visitors. Last year I visited a government blind school in Kolkata and was feeling totally disappointed. I had been looking for options for Deepa, and instead just felt thoroughly disheartened that even if I did manage to achieve the miracle I was fighting for, and facilitate an education for her, the school was incredibly anarchic and offered no special help for children with learning difficulties. In fact, the school even refused entry to any blind child showing evidence of a second disability. With this in mind, here in Pune, I went to speak directly to the administration officer and fired my round of automated questions on their selection process and funding.

The Poona School and Home for Blinds Trust was established in 1934 by Dr. Shankar Rao Machva and currently houses and educates 170 boys and 150 girls. The children of primary school age (six to eleven) are educated by specially employed teachers, many of whom are themselves blind. The children and young people who are older attend the normal government schools located outside of the home. This is a brilliant strategy of mainstreaming blind children into the public system. The centre also provides vocational training for young men and women for three to four years after they have finished their formal studies. Sixty percent of the centre's funding comes from the government and the other forty percent comes from donations and supporting national and international ngos. The centre has won various awards and is constantly in the paper for the ventures to facilitate independent lives for their students, while integrating them into society. They are even in the Guinness Book of records for performing a play with the greatest number of blind actors in their annual school play (49 boys, 37 girls and two visually impaired teachers). Their students have been parasailing, perform concerts for the public during all of the major festivals and have held their own fashion show, walking down the cat walk for the cameras.

Walking through the school, the first class room I found was full of music students. The kids were all sitting on the floor and each had a different instrument in their hands. The sound of tablas, accordions, tambourines, cymbals and drums reverberated around the room. Caught in the bind between interrupting and being an uninvited and invisible guest I approached the music teacher and introduced myself. He told the children to stop playing while he described each of their instruments and invited me to look around. He told me he was new to the school and had been working there for three months. He was still adapting, but enjoying the work. The teacher then returned to his students and began singing a rhythm asking the children to follow his lead. When any of the students were having difficulties copying, he would approach them and move their hands to demonstrate how they should play. Watching him teach immediately revealed the gaps between myself and Deepa, he was so sensitive to their needs, and ways to communicate. After I said goodbye, I stood at the door and watched as the class and teacher all remained seemingly unaware of my presence and continued to interact as individuals exploring the musical sounds of a group.

Minutes later the school bell was rung and within seconds the children were running to the door while sliding on their shoes and exploding into the corridors. They ran around the corners and into their dorms or outside, while others sat down with friends. When together, the children would hold hands or had their arms around each other. I found myself trying to quickly dodge out of their way to avoid an inevitable collision as my presence was not in their mental map of their home. As this tactic began to fail, as the children were too quick and too numerous for me, I changed my plan and began to talk. Within seconds a crowd of boys had gathered around me, asking me my name and telling me theirs. Suddenly I was faced with a load of blind boys, many of whom were around Deepa's age, and all of whom were moving as if they had sight and talking fluently and eloquently. Gently touching the boys forearms every time I was answering one of the simultaneously directed questions, I managed to communicate with the group around me. In a change from most other interactions in India, here the barrier between the sexes was left outside. The boys and young men held my hands, playing with my bracelets and feeling my clothes. The boys were incredibly polite and so friendly. Through the help of English skills of one of the older boys who was in his final year of school, they told me about favourite subjects (Maths and Music being the most enthusiastically discussed) while asking me about my life. What was my country? What was my job? Did I play cricket? Then came the hilarious guess-timation of my age. The common agreement seemed to be “nineteen”. When I replied with “thirty” there were smiling sighs of amazement and I tinge of disappointment, although one of the older boys hastened to explain that my “voice was so sweet and soft like a young woman.”

The boys and young men were great, and the school seems a perfect place for them to learn the life skills necessary to go out into the world and pursue their dreams to the best of their abilities. In the words of the school principle, the aim of the school is exactly that: “to provide their students with the skill sets to enable them to live their lives in the sighted world.” I will try and spend as much time as I can with them over the next few days, as I already know they have much to teach and experiences to share. Meanwhile, their counterpart girls school is fifteen kilometers away. I will visit tomorrow.

A long way down

2010-03-28T15:13:00.000+05:30

Trains in India are incredible. Firstly they are enormous. Sort of like the cruise liners of the Caribbean only without the swimming pools, casinos and cabarets. But in terms of durability and capacity they must be on a par. However, the trains in India have their permenet passengers – bunked down to see the journey through to the end, and then a whole melody of those who pass through – selling whatever it is might be need for thirty hours in slow locomotion. If this was a cruise ship, I guess this would be the equivalent of the buffet being contracted out to the local fishermen or perhaps pirates, who would jump aboard from island to island tempting passengers with their local treasures. When they came across a foreigner in the midst of the carriage they would put on even more of an impressive show to convince them to part with their money while taking the opportunity to observe what I guess they must see as a strange and alien species. In the case of the Azad Hind Express from Howrah station this has meant a continuous relay of wallahs, the most dedicated of which must certainly be the 'chaiiiiiiiiiiiiii, coffeeeeeeeeee' wallah, who patrols the carriages with his kettle in one hand and plastic cups in the other. He began at first light and several hours later he is just revving up into first gear. But he is not alone. While I have been typing this, the morning newspaper in three different languages – Bengali, Hindi and English has walked by. This was promptly followed by calls of 'veg cutlets' and 'bread omelette' and then 'pani' and 'juice.' As the hours have slowly clicked by and noon has approached, offers of “hot tomato soup” complete with 'croûtons' have drifted through, along with 'chips' and what sounds like 'egg cheese burger' but perhaps this is my own version of Hindlish.

It is hard to tell which of the wallahs spend the thirty three hours walking up and down the carriages – and considering the twenty plus carriages I passed just to find my berth, I guess that the journey from chair class (where the passengers simply have a wooden bench to perch on) all the way to 2 AC (air conditioned bunks, with two beds pinned to each berth) could be done about once an hour – many miles walked. Others just jump on until the next station or until they have sold out and then they jump off refill and wait for the next train back to continue all over again.

Inside my little carriage I have successfully traded my middle bunk with the top bunk with an elderly gentleman. I am not sure if he was being polite or didn't actually want to climb to the top bunk, either way it worked out in my favour, as he roamed the carriages as the two guys who had boarded at two in the morning slept off their previous nights partying and refused to move off the bottom bunks - our seats.

The women stare at me. The lady opposite asked if I was from Europe. She said 'Jesus', and when asked for further elaboration, reminded me that Jesus was 'my' god. This made her think of Mother Teresa, and she asked if Mother was also from Scotland, although then she remembered that 'she was Indian'. Her travelling companion – the older gentlemen and father – seemed uncomfortable with our interaction, and she hasn't spoke to me since, although she did wake up Clara (my Spanish friend) at four in the morning to tell her to pray. The younger men all speak English, as does the ticket conductor, although he is a man of very few words and seems suspicious of my questions of which route the train will take to Pune, and when the next stop will be.

A gentleman sitting on the seat adjacent to us answers his mobile phone. He is talking in English describing his travelling companions: “two from Bihar, one from Pune, one from Mumbai” he pauses and then continues “there are also two foreigners” and reassuringly adds “but don't worry they have become quite friendly”. I smiled at myself at the realisation that I was not to feel threatened as apparently I was the one who was 'threatening'.

To an outsider the dynamics of the different generations combined with different social classes is incredibly intricate. In my booth of six people, consisting of the father and daughter (of now very few word)s, the two party-ers from last night, and Clara and I. The young guys share our jokes about 'chaiiiiiiii' and they stifle laughs at hacks and burps which fill the air from the other passengers, and which I do not even notice any more. They are comfortable with us, and quickly swap between Hindi and English. The elder gentlemen studies them closely, watching as one flicked through a 'Motor' magazine and the other plays an absorbing game on his ipod. He asked the young guys where they are going and if they are studying. They politely answer, their voice full of conditioned respect, but when they have done their duty, they change to English, and the old man turns his gaze to drift at the top of my laptop, with a scowl of contemptuous boredom. As the journey progressed he allowed his curiosity to wander to the every movement which Clara and I made. He meticulously studied us as we tried to eat the thousand seeds of a bright red pomegranate, so much so that self consciousness overwhelmed me, and I ended up spilling endless seeds all over the seat and floor.

What still strikes me is how comfortable seemingly ever class is with body contact of total strangers. Passengers sit tightly together, despite the comparative space. Telephone conversations are listened to eagerly by those with no newspapers or books to read, and it reminds me again of the sense of privacy and personal space which we have managed to cultivate and consequently treat as inappropriately sacred. Paranoia of stories of stolen luggage means that both of my bags are chained under the seats/bottom bed, but thirty hours is still an eternity to remain cautious, and soon I am drifting with my day dreams which take me out the train window and into the country which chugs by.

Framed by train tracks and broken bustee brick roofs patched with tarpaulin, bright lively colours of washed saris, playing kids and grazing water buffaloes covered with drying mud. The scene is repeated hour after hour with the only difference being the back drop of mosques or temples. The duration of the day is continuously marked by the wallahs, and reminders of the stifling air in the carriages is sang out by the calls of 'ice cream'. Lunch comes on trays of walking 'roti and dhosas' followed by plastic wire baskets of 'cream biscuit, bourbon biscuit, snacks, SNACKS!'. Dinner is marked by 'cigarettes and samosas' as well as the rather ubiquitous in-train catering staff, who march the length of the train wearing their tartan uniforms and back to front caps, with the name badge, 'meals on wheels'. They are selling veg and non-veg dinner trays, creating a second of tension as the guys on our booth order 'non-veg' to which the daughter comments 'live vegetarian – eat vegetarian'.

The thirty three hour journey carries its city of passengers across the length of the country in a melody of songs and of food, where one thousand strangers break the boredom through finding commonalities and enforced unconscious intimacy.

Chaos

2010-03-24T15:56:00.001+05:30

I move all the time. Every few months at least. But it is always traumatic. It never becomes easier. Even when I know I will be back here soon, packing up my life back into my rucksac and sorting through what is left of the tangible memories throws me into a state of chaos. I haven't seen Deepa today, because even down loading the photos from yesterday has again brought that horrible sensation of doubt to the forefront of my mind. Maybe I should stay? The doubt pecks away. Why am I really going? What do I need a break from? Do I need Deepa as much as I think she needs me? – Ow! That is tough one. Perhaps it is this city which infects my affection for it with endless exasperation, which is making me leave. The noise, the craziness, the continual intensity. The stares and exposure which goes hand in sweaty hand with over crowded bodies, absent spaces and chaotic places. But I feel tugged and tied; as if I have an incredible opportunity to work consistently and continuously with Deepa and yet I am taking break? Of course I have my reasons, my justifications, but what about my lack of commitment to my goal? Or is it because I doubt my goal: That I can help Deepa find words? That I can facilitate a space for a better future for the blind kids? I know that for the other work I do – in Sealdagh dispensary, teaching yoga in the slums, even being a clown - this is all replaceable. I am replaceable.

The exception is with Deepa. For some reason, I feel that I know that when I am not fighting for those kids there is no one else who is. The arrogance of my assumptions has called me to closely examine my self; do I really believe that no-one else will look out for the blind kids? That no-one else will try to ensure their education, their exposure to life skills? That no-one else will give them a taste of independence. Of course I don't know the answer, but I definitely feel the pressure of the responsibility, and if I am honest, the power which comes with that – that I have the opportunity to make a difference in a city full of chaos and a world which drives me as insane as it does exhalted. Perhaps this is what fuels my connection to Deepa – the desperateness of trying to share compassion here and a potential outlet with possible success. But then when I write 'connection' the answer I am searching for it given. It is a feeling deep inside, of a common energy of subtle comprehension that I and this little seven year old have.

So yes, leaving, even just for a short time, brings confusing chaos into my mind. Motives, motivations, aims? Continuous decisions for life changing paths.

I am leaving from Howrah station at ten o'clock this evening. I will arrive at Pune in two days time. I will travel across half of the country and be very far away from everything which has given meaning to the present. I look forward to returning. I look forward to leaving.

Back in a little while

2010-03-24T15:37:00.001+05:30

I knew it was going to be a tough day. It was my last day at Sishu Bhavan after all – well at least for a while – and digesting the day which is about to finish, I know I have made the right choice by taking some time out. I think I am near bursting point. I am super charged, with an incredible amount of energy but it is taking a huge amount of effort to continue to direct this energy in a positive way. The last few weeks have been intense, and the last few days a culmination of failed expectations and potentialities. I have visited, called and emailed Bengali speech therapists, ngos fighting for the rights of blind kids and yoga therapy centres. I have made personal visits to as any Sisters from the Missionaries of Chairty as I could, planting the seeds of hope and the vision/illusion of a support base. I have tried to share my experiences with other long term volunteers at Sishu Bhavan, hoping that they will be motivated to continue the work with Deepa while I am away. I have updated the folder I made for her last year, showing her progress so that any new volunteers will know exactly where she is at: that she can eat her own food, that she can change her clothes, that she can find her bed, chair, the park. But our connection is unique, and I know she will be lucky to find a volunteer who will be willing to fight for her as I try to, or even to find someone who will try to teach her rather than pick her up and put her down, change her nappy and feed her lunch. The easy life is to go with the flow, and at Sishu Bhavan that usually means turning a blind eye to 'uncomfortable' events, avoiding confrontation and following orders. I have not done that, and it requires much diplomacy and continuous lessons in patience and perseverance and at times unavoidable confrontations.

Ultimately what I have tried to do during these past few weeks is to dedicate as much of my energy as I could to Deepa, without creating reliance on her part. It has been tricky as the dividing line drawn between spending intense and quality time with her and facilitating more permanent and productive opportunities has become faded and the goals blurred. I have such a faith in Deepa's ability to speak precisely because of all the time we have spent together. I feel her potential. The way she sits with me, walks and dances, laughs and trusts me has brought our communication to a much deeper and more sensitive level. And when I compare it to other relationships I have with friends and family, which is often founded on words and visual responses, I realise my friendship with Deepa is totally unique.

We know each other through subtle senses, and ironically, as I am trying to open Deepa up to 'our' way of talking, she has began to communicate in a much softer and at times much more 'truthful' ways. I know she knows me, and likewise, I know her – her tempers, her anger, her love for action and activity, but also her sensitivity masked by incomprehension. And yet during all of our sessions, our games, tears and laughter, she has still to utter more than a broader range of sounds and a impressive collection of tunes – Deepa has still to talk.

Meanwhile, the other half of my focus has been to network with those more 'experienced'. With the Special Language Practitioners, with the local ngos and blind educators. Yet with every door which opens, I seem to be surprised with a deep and wide hole over which I need to leap; decisions which would seemingly not exist in a rational world are brought to question, and I have ended up witnessing intense disappointment followed by renewed and reviewed strategies for success.

Today - my last day for a while - I played the clown as the two girls with the most beautiful smiles in the world lay on the floor and jumped their bodies inches off the air in appreciation. Their screams brought a flock of curiosity from the active section, and before I knew it an improvised clowning sketch was transformed into a full blown performance, with the massis stifling giggles and sharing meaningful glances. After I searched and recovered a matching pair of shoes, rescued Deepa from one of the active older girls who has taken to kidnapping her for a run around the nursery, and retreived everything from my pockets from the little Chinese boy and his partner in crime the wide eyed boy, we made it to the stairs.

But this morning, Deepa was in a different place. My friends told me she must have known that I was leaving. I told them she was just somewhere else. But after a few steps she reached up to pull me down and then hooked her arms around my neck and jumped her legs around my waist. She wanted a hug and she would not be put down until she was reassured that I was with her...I intermittently carried her to the park, putting her down whenever a Sister approached I pacified Deepa by swinging her in circles or bending her down to throw her up towards the sun kissed sky. In the park she took me straight to the big swing-for-ten, and then swung her legs over my lap to continue her hug. Today she wanted reassurance from me, she wasn't sad, in fact she spent most of the day in outbursts of laughter, but she wanted to be very close to me.

At the end of the day I took her to the corner and sat her on one of the big yoga balls. I told her I was leaving, but that I loved her. I told her I would be thinking of her and would be back very soon. I told her that she is incredible, brave, strong and amazing. I told her to have courage, as she was not alone, and even though I wouldn't be there to guide her, tickle her or share the world with her, I would still be with her. She tipped herself towards me, rolling off the ball and leaned her head on my shoulder. She placed her hand on my throat to feel the vibrations of my words and listen with her hands. When no more words came, as my thoughts had moved to my eyes, she reached for my wrists and rolled my blue bead bracelet between her pianist fingers. I pushed the bouncey ball down so that she sprang up and she laughed her crazy, beautiful pure and present laugh.

Leaving

2010-03-21T15:12:00.004+05:30

Thoughts of leaving Deepa fill my body with sadness which leaks out through the meaningless tears forming tiny puddles on the bottom lids of my eyes. Again the same sentiments of last year are creeping through me. I feel like a traitor. I feel like I am abandoning her. I feel that I have not tried hard enough. I feel that I am not committed to her. I need to leave for a bit. The intensity of Kolkata has drummed through me, and I am not at my most productive. The sounds, the smells, the craziness, all that I love, also drives me insane. The inability to realise simple objectives, for rationality to prevail, makes me frustrated to the point that my words become shouts as I type. The abscess which left me unable to sit, walk or bend took too much energy, and although I feel great now, it was another challenge, which needs a little rest to recover from.

I have made the excuse to myself that I am going to see the south of India – where there seem to be many more projects for blind children. In the south there are exciting new clinics from Sight Savers International, aimed at the rehabilitation of blind children into main stream education, or at the sharing of essential life skills. In Tamil Nadu there is a famous yoga ashram for blind children. It sounds wonderful. I want to see it – I want to experience it. I want ideas of what is possible here in India, in Deepa's country of her birth. I want to add contacts to those I already have, and continue to bring fresh possibilities and potentialities to the options I am trying to help Deepa find for the dream of a future outside of the institution. But leaving Deepa even for a few days is tough – let alone for a few weeks. It will be harder to restart; she has made more progress in these past months; she has become so much more responsive to me than ever before - even in comparison to last years visit. But now I choose to abandon her, and abandon is exactly what it feels like.

A dear friend wrote and to me with words which ran through my eyes, trespassing on the salty pool of my eye lids and then hugging me from inside. Her words triggered comprehension, and at the same time tried to release me from my self imposed 'guilt'. My friend wrote:

“I support you 100000% make the life beautiful for Deepa is a big challenge and you make it so well, do not forget yourself also if you want her to be happy.. and this is the hardest point to reach!! not feeling guilty by taking time for our self... gratitude and love are so important!!!”

My sponsor told me to look after myself, otherwise I would be no good to anyone, 'even to Deepa'. Their understanding and wisdom lunged deeper into my spirit. I am not living up to my own expectations. I am not living up to the expectations, that Deepa should have for me. But Deepa does not have expectations. She has never had control over anyone who comes and goes in her seven years of life. Abandoned by the parents she hardly had a chance to know. Abandoned for being blind, to grow up with the beautiful children around her who she will never see, and most of whom are unable to move or to talk, and those that can, who take her toys and fill her ears with their screams and shouts.

Volunteers come and love her and make her feel safe, and she rewards them with her trust. Volunteers come and love her and then so easily leave her.

I know I will be back soon, but I can not even tell her that. I can not tell her my plans. I can not tell her the research I have been doing on the afternoons which I have not come to work with her. I can not tell her how if she lets herself find words, her life will surely improve. I can not tell her that even though I will not be with her, playing with her and exploring with her that I will be thinking of her. Can not, can not, can not.

I feel her energy. I feel her power. I feel her beauty. I trick myself by pretending this intangible, invisible connection will mean something to her when I am not there to fight for the space for her to learn about and live in our world.

Thoughts of leaving Deepa fill my being with sadness, disappointment, frustration. Hypocritical tears.

Hippy Terrorist

2010-03-20T15:48:00.004+05:30

I have met a hippy in a bus. Actually that is a bit of a clique. He is not a hippy, he just has a hippy-like bus and happens to be travelling around the world in it. Perhaps a better way to describe him would be as an 'environmentalist' or even an 'environmental activist'. This is because he is not just bumming around the world, opting out of society, but rather he is on a mission to try and change some attitudes. His bus runs on bio fuel and his personal mandate is "to drive around the world to discover how people are using and generating energy, and their attitudes t0wards carbon emissions."

During his round the world trip the Environmentalist is carrying out a survey "to see how likely we are to meet the 2050 emissions target of two tonnes per person", what is more is that unlike the rest of us who hop on planes without a second thought, he is trying to conduct the whole project without going beyond the ration of two tonnes of carbon emissions.

The Environmentalist drove through Europe, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan and all was going very well. That is at least until he arrived in India, and then something rather unfortunate happened. While he was sleeping in his hippy bio fuel bus in a town called Ajmer, the Rajashtan Military Intelligence burst into his little home and arrested him as a terror suspect. He was put in the local jail for seven days, and then released on bail. He was told he was not allowed to leave the country and would have to wait to be called to trial. His crime? Possessing a satellite phone. And of course being highly suspicious travelling around with a bus full of bio fuel, and did I mention he was a paraglider? Which in January was a sport which threw the Mumbai police into terror themselves at the very thought of paragliders gliding over and dropping bombs.

Meanwhile, the Rajashtan Military Intelligence were very proud of themselves and told the press they had caught a terror suspect. The Environmentalist's photo was all over the national papers, and now there was no chance of the Rajashtan Military Intelligence backtracking and admitting that the hippy bus and its driver posed no threat to their national security. That was over a month ago and since then the Rajashtan Military Intelligence called over one hundred officers to come up with some more evidence than a satellite phone which had not even been used in India. Meanwhile, the Environmentalist spent the money saved for his carbon campaign on hiring a lawyer, and so far he has paid out a whooping £6000.

The Environmentalist's trial was today. I read his facebook status this morning and it read:

By tonight either it's all over, or i'm starting a 3yr sentence, or there will be a complication & another delay. Safe money's on C.

I sent him a text message of support, feeling totally impotent and at the same time aware of the but very real threat that he might be on his way to a few years in an Indian prison.

Thankfully reason has prevailed and instead of sitting out the next few years in jail, the judge fined the Environmentalist 1000 rupees (15 Euros) and gave him back his confiscated satellite phone on condition that he does not "use, sell or destroy in India."

To the Environmentalist:

I hope you can continue your journey and carry your message far and wide. And this message is not just that the world is facing a huge carbon emissions crisis that may, but risks being consumed by words such as 'terror' and 'suspicion'. Don't give up, the message is important. There are many good people who need to be reminded to think and not to follow; just like you continue to do. Peace brother.

To read more about the Environmentalist's adventures see http://www.2tonnesofcarbon.blogspot.com/

Day Out

2010-03-19T16:26:00.001+05:30

Something has just happened that has brought tears to my eyes. As I sit here typing a little boy from Daya Dan orphanage has just walked in. I am sitting in Raj's internet cafe which is (depending on the time of the day) a small little sanctuary tucked behind Sudder Street. I am surrounded by Spanish volunteers, life and laughter. The little boy walks around, investigating. Raj presents him with one of his delicious chocolate muffins and a cup of hot milk, but the little boy just wants to explore. Raj's puppy of a watch dog jumps out making the little boy jump behind the counter. The little boy was badly bit by a street dog when he used to live at the train station. Now the little boy lives in Daya Dan, which is another of the Missionaries of Charities orphanages for physically and mentally challenged children. But to say that the little boy lives in Daya Dan is slightly misleading.

The little boy has a 'special' room with padded walls, and the Sisters enter with a large prodding stick which they use to manoeuvre him around. The little boy is eight years old. He is severely autistic and finds it difficult to control his emotions, so he spends a great deal of his day banging his head on the floor or walls. Then a couple of months ago a Spanish volunteer who also happens to be a special needs teacher, was assigned to work with the boy. For some reason, unlike Sishu Bahavan, the Sister in charge of Daya Dan has the foresight to realise that some children can benefit from having one to one tuition with the same volunteer.

The Spanish volunteer worked hard at helping the little boy control his anger, teaching him to count to five whenever he felt like hitting himself or someone else. Then it was time for the volunteer to return to Spain, but before she did she did something which I wish I had the courage to emulate. She took the little boy out of Daya Dan for the entire day. Volunteers are not allowed to take the children out for the day, or even for an hour. Even if we have been working with them for months, and even if the children never leave the building they grow up in for months at a time. On occasion they might be ferried to the Mother House to attend mass, or perhaps a local NGO might arrange an outing for the children, or if it is the festive season, the children of Daya Dan will tour the Missionaries of Charities other homes performing their nativity play. Often I have day dreamed about taking Deepa to the water park, or to a musical performance, but considering the challenges I sometimes have just taking her to the park inside of the Sishu Bhavan my ideas remain just that - day dreams.

But today, the Spanish volunteer stood up for the little boy, and left the Sister a note and assumed total ignorance, as if she did not know that the child was not a loud to leave his cell or even the prison of the orphanage. Instead she took the little boy to the circus where he saw an elephant, and tight rope walkers and ate pop corn. She allowed the little boy to be free, and to take responsibility for his actions and at the end of the day, she brought him to Raj's for cake and milk, and to show everyone what an incredibly good boy the “very bad and very dangerous boy” could be - when allowed.

The courageous volunteer filmed his behaviour with a video camera and soon when she returns the little boy back to Daya Dan she will show the Sister in charge how 'normal' the little boy can be.

The Power of Hugs

2010-03-18T15:52:00.017+05:30

The blind children love touch. Mita giggles whenever I tickle her face, and Netu dimples her cheeks and kicks her legs when I tickle her tummy. They both love to be picked up and when I do they place their heads on my chest and listen to my silent heart beat.

Thankfully, child massage is pretty big in India, and as a result the massi's massage most of the physically challenged kids every day. However, it is not allowed to pick up the children, and even though I also agree the children who are able to need to learn to walk and not to be carried, when it comes to the blind babies, touch is essential. There is a fine line between comforting a blind baby and letting them know your presence and being scared to touch them for breaking the rules.

Deepa is also incredibly tactile and is becoming more so as our relationship grows. Her need for touch led me to a book entitled "The Power of Touch." Throughout the book the author (Phyllis Davis) refers to scientific studies supporting the importance of the human touch, and in particular its importance to children. She refers to scientific studies showing that inadequate touch not only leads to mental retardation, but is also a prime factor in marasmus (wasting away) which used to be the main cause of death of babies in orphanages. Davis refers to research showing that sensory stimulation actually increases a child's general alertness and responsiveness to learning: "Touch and tactile stimulation can increase a child's intelligence and learning ability". This seems incredibly relevant to Deepa, who is not only working to overcome delayed learning but who has also received very little tactile stimulation after growing up in the orphanage. Touch (along with hearing) is the principle way which Deepa is able to see and to experience our world.

I find myself in a rather stupid position as Deepa wants lots of hugs but I am not meant to reciprocate. Thankfully this does not stop her from trying and today as we were playing in the park, she gave me a beautiful hug, which I simply could not refuse.

I want to share this huge hug with you, as even from the photos it is clear how natural and innate Deepa's need for a hug was, and indeed her touch (as always) was incredibly powerful. However, the Sister who appeared on the roof was immune to Deepa's hugging energy, and shouted down to me to stop hugging her, so instead I turned her upside down and tickled her :-)

Karma Yoga

2010-03-16T14:54:00.002+05:30

Perhaps I have a romantic view of yoga in India. One of wise guru's patiently handing down knowledge from centuries past. Of incredible mentors possessing healing energies and keys of enlightened practise, and uncorrupted by modern day materialism and monetary gain.

I am sitting at the World Yoga Society (WOYOSO) 'chamber' in Golpa Park in Kolkata, it feels as if I am in a doctors waiting room; and a private exclusive one at that. The waiting room is tiny and full of plastic chairs, all of which are occupied. Here 'yoga' takes on a different meaning to the 'asana' based practises of western yoga studies. But I am careful not to say 'more commercialised' yoga studios, as here in Kolkata, WOYOSO has branded its own medicines and is doing a soaring trade in the homeopathic remedies. The remedies include rilopain "for aching muscles" (perhaps useful after too many or too few yoga asanas), vigotine "for strengthening vital energy and nervous ability'", diofem "to prevent all kinds of female diseases". And sneezocold "against all kinds of maladies!"

The patients are waiting to be cured; to be given a diagnosis, a prescription and most likely repeat appointments. I am curious about both the treatments, success and the root of its popularity. Perhaps homeopathy is so successful as it appeals to the elements of traditional Ayurvedic knowledge that many local people still practice? But the 'yoga' connection is also interesting – is it a marketing ploy to appeal to people's ideas of healthy body and healthy mind, or is it a genuine medical treatment? My cause of doubt is confusing as the 'yogis' and 'yoginis' in front of me do not exactly fit into any preconceived (Western) stereotype. They are clearly from the wealthier social class and in what seems to be a mark of prosperity, they are all a little over weight. Some are elderly and all are very well dressed suggesting that they are indeed not here for asana practice; one is even wearing a neck brace.

The waiting room houses a small book case of dusty fabric covered record books which look hundreds of years old. But founded by Dr Das in 1970 perhaps the aged look is more to do with dust then with authenticity. It is the founder who I am waiting to see and whose enlarged framed photograph draws the patients eyes; or at least mine. The photo looks (from the once stylish pudding bowl haircuts) to have been taken in the seventies, but the ancient appearance of the timelessly old figure of Mother Teresa makes the date difficult to verify. Mother Teresa stands between Dr Das and Dr Das (Dr Das's 'older' brother). She is receiving a certificate from the WOYOSO. This pricks my curiosity as to the nature of the award; pure publicity or was Mother a closet yogi?

I first met Dr Das a couple of months ago. I was walking back from Sealdah dispensary when I noticed a huge banner advertising a 'World Yoga Competition'. After a few seconds of lingering curiosity I was invited inside and given front row seats next to the chairman himself. The competition was brilliant. It was held over the duration of three days and although it might not have been as universal as the title had suggested, it was certainly national. Children and young women and men from all over the country were there to compete. I witnessed asanas I had never seen, or even read about in books before. The participants effortlessly bent themselves backwards and forwards and inside out, with feet next to ears and ribs inflated to counter pose triple jointed hips. Flexibility was the central theme, and I suddenly felt very self-conscious of teaching my weekend yoga classes to kids around the city, when they might all embody this incredible potential.

On the third day of the competition Dr Das invited me to the award ceremony held at the Science City auditorium, and feeling privileged to be the receipatant of such an offer I went. The auditorium was huge with a stage full of cups and medals. The winners from the junior boy and girls and senior men and women were presented not once or twice but with a continuous stream of awards – all donated by different people, and after nearly two hours of awards it began to feel as if the ceremony was more of a name dropping social event than a celebration of yoga. As always the unexpected happened, and I was ushered out of the audience and to the backstage. Before I had a chance to protest I was donned with a mortar board and university gown and joined a line of equally random 'yogis and yoginis'. We were marched on stage and I was presented with a huge certificate and accompanying cup for 'best foreign practitioner'. The chairman tipped his hat to me in recognition, as I smiled at the irony of receiving an award for doing nothing but being one the only foreign yoga practitioner in the audience. At the yoga competition he had presented me with six or seven of his name cards at different intervals, insisting that I come to visit him and learn more about the many yoga and holistic healing courses of WOYOSO.

A young boy living with down syndrome is ushered out of the doctor's room. He sits on a chair next to me and wraps his legs underneath him. He looks up and grins at me. Then he laughs; I beam back and feel a sense of gratitude for the wealth and dedication of his family. My parallel thoughts take me to Peter – the little boy with down syndrome who used to live in Sishu Bahavan before he was prematurely moved to another of the Missionaries of Charities homes for disabled men. Memories of Peter link back my thoughts to the therapeutic effects of yoga for physically challenged kids; those who sit in the same room day after day. But I am not here to ask Dr Das to renew his affiliation with the Missionaries of Charities, but rather to ask if he has any eager students who would be interested in gaining some experience by taking over my weekly yoga classes at Tala Park School. After seeing his organisations commitment to spreading yoga through the younger generations, while being the leading school in educating new teachers, I had been growing excited about the idea of WOYOSO sharing their knowledge and expertise with the budding yogi's and yoginis at Tala Park.

After the waiting room had emptied of all of its patients, including those who arrived several hours after me, I was finally ushered into Dr Das's office. The blank look on his face triggered a warning signal, but after quickly reminding him of my new status of 'best foreign practitioner' he warmed and shone his trademark smile. Dr Das told me he had been eagerly awaiting my visit and I happily shared my idea of a karma yoga weekend class, whereby his student teachers might be able to extend their experience while at the same time provide the slum kids from Tala Park school with a totally novel and otherwise inaccessible class. I told him of the irony I felt of teaching a yoga class to Indian kids as well as the obvious language barrier. I told him how the school was run totally on donations, while simultaneously supporting medical clinics, leprosy centres and a women's training centre. He replied by saying the fee would be 100 rupees per 45 minute class. This is the price of two weeks worth of lunch for a child. Then without wasting any more time Dr Das began to bombard me with details of the many yoga teacher training courses he offered. He enthusiastically explained that for 10,000 rupees (the price of five months of formal mainstream schooling for one of the Tala Park kids) I could walk away with an authentic certificate after only one week, guaranteeing my abilities as a yoga practitioner and foreign teacher.

I walked away after buying a children's yoga book and poster which I intended to give to the teachers at Tala Park school. It will be a small gesture in the hope they may be inspired to try their hand at a little informal karma yoga. As I said, perhaps I have naive belief in the philosophy behind the business of yoga.

Solutions

2010-03-14T13:54:00.002+05:30

It is a fine line between accepting what you cannot change and passivity. Demotivated by my own inability to implement simple improvements, I decided to be try a new approach and seek external support. I emailed as many local and international organisations working with blind children as I could find on the net, as well as Indian, Canadian and American speech therapists and special needs teachers. After a cyber silence and feeling utterly isolated I began to receive some incredibly helpful and suggestive replies, which have once again kick started me into a more pro-active stance.

One of the hardest challenges to tackle is that the Sister in charge of the disabled children at Sishu Bhavan, does not want any of the children to receive special help. After several months of watching her work and handle the complaints of the volunteers about the treatment of the children I realise that she is quite the diplomat, that is until she feels volunteers are acting on their own initiative. When Climber Woman was here last year, attempting to use her training as a speech therapist to work with Deepa, her greatest fight was not against Deepa's silence but against the Sister's reluctance that she should be receiving 'special treatment'. This provided an added challenge to try and circumnavigate and I began by asking the Sister what she thought Sishu Bhavan needed in terms of practical assistance. Her initial reply was 'disposable nappies' (for when the children are admitted to hospital, so it is no longer appropriate to use the material subsitutes) and 'orthotic shoes' (for the many children who have distorted limbs).

When I enquired about whether another speech therapist would be useful, she agreed that the current cost of the weekly session provided by the Bengali Speech and Hearing Chamber, was an extortionate one thousand rupess (£14/ $22). I asked if it would be useful for her if I managed to raise money for another weekly session, and if so whether this could mean that Deepa and the other blind children would finally have access to what is for them an essential service. After she agreed and with a timely donation from a friend from Bali, I was able to give her enough money for four months of additional speech therapy lessons.

For safe measure I went to visit the Bengali Speech and Hearing Chamber, and met with the speech therpaist who works at Sishu Bhavan. He told me that he had briefly began to work with Deepa and the blind children. However, they required much longer sessions than the sighted children, so a decision was taken to exclude them from the therapy. He confirmed that the Sister had now asked for a second weekly session, and assured me that he will begin to work with the blind children.

Other aventues I have been exploring stem from a email reply from Sight Savers International (SSI). Perhaps their reply was due to our mutual origins of Scotland, but either way they provided an essential life line - the address of their branch in Kolkata. In the past weeks I have visited SSI-Kolkata several times, and they have been unbelievably helpful. They have ladened me with stacks of reading materials in English, Bengali and Hindi, as well as summaries of their world wide projects to share with Sishu Bhavan and Daya Dan (another of the Missionaries of Charities homes with blind children in their care). SSI have a mandate which includes the prevention of the unnecessary loss of sight, the education of blind and low vision children, as well as the social inclusion of individuals affected by blindness. In West Bengal SSI run the first centre for blind children with multiple disabilities, and immediately offered to accomodate Deepa and the other of the blind children. Knowing the Missionaries of Charities reluctance to let go of the kids in its care, it is an offer full of potential but devoid of any relevance. However, SSI also run two week long trainings for caregivers of blind children. They offered to pay for the Sisters and massis from both Sishu Bhavan and Daya Dan to attend their next training in April. The training will be held in Bengali. This is perfect for the massis, who have limited Hindi and no English, and it would be a step in the right direction to changing their attitudes towards the blind children, from one of 'disabled' victims to children with incredible talents, creative vision and limitless potential.

SSI also offered to provide low vision aids such as telescopes and walking sticks free of cost; this would be brilliant for the little Chinese boy. They also invited me to visit their many centres across India and were genuinely very eager to assist me in my search for the provision of life skills and basic education for the blind children at Sishu Bhavan.

After every visit to SSI I left feeling a little less lonely in my battle to open unnecessary closed doors for Deepa and the blind babies. However, approaching the Sister has been a little harder (or actually impossible) as she has been hidden away on a religious retreat for what feels like an eternity. I mentioned my visits to another of the Sisters, but despite her enthusiasm she is not the one which calls the shots, but perhaps it did a little to build up my imaginary support base. I did however visit Daya Dan to talk with the Sister about SSI's offers. Her immediate response for the free training was the dubious claim that her workers were already 'trained', although she had no objections to receiving some free low vision aids.

As always, the way is not clear from obstacles, but I will continue to raise money for the speech therapy lessons which I wish the Missionaries of Charity had the foresight to provide, and continue to try and build a relationship with a potentially powerful organisation with the skills and training urgently needed at Sishu Bhavan.

Trusts Me

2010-03-12T16:09:00.004+05:30

What can I say. I love Deepa. For a child of no relation, for a child who cannot see me, who cannot talk to me, who cannot understand most of what I say, I love her. She is incredible, inspirational, amazing and brave. Every morning, as I walk into Sishu Bhavan, I'll quickly search for her and usually find her standing behind the cots next to the window, or in the corner, banging on the plastic bin which hides the orthopedic shoes. I go over to her and say good morning. A smile will come across her face, and she will turn and look for my hands. She will flick my watch strap to make sure it is me, and she will roll her fingers over my blue bead bracelets, as if she is confirming my identity, that I am not a dream, that her day has began and I am here to explore it with her.

Lately Deepa has began to pull herself closer to me, hanging from my arm, and resting her head on my stomach as we walk to find her shoes to the park. She will hum a tune we sing together – the words of which go:

“Deepa is amazing, yes she is, la la la la laa la la la laaa la la la la la. We love Deepa, yes we do la la la la laa la la la laaa la la la la la.”

She trusts me totally, allowing me to guide her even when I do not notice a fold in the carpet and she trips, or when I walk directly to the massis for her daily dose of vitamins stepping over the kids who lay on the floor all morning, forcing Deepa to either walk on them or fall on them. Or when I hold her hand as we walk next to one of the Missionaries of Charities buses and she taps the tinny metal and then finds the door open and curiosity leads her to lean inside as I keep walking, causing her to bang her head on the door. Despite all of these stupid mistakes, she still trusts me. When we are playing with the Tibetan singing bowl, and the little Chinese boy comes and tries to place his lips on the rim, feeling the vibrations, but simultaneously stopping the sound, Deepa will become confused and frustrated. I will try and control the little Chinese boy, but more children will come and climb on top of me, and push Deepa out of the way. As I try and hold onto the Tibetan bowl and the wooden stick, the little Chinese boy will become angry at the lack of vibrating sound and he will lean over to the closest person – to Deepa – and plunge his teeth into her hand. It takes me seconds to react, but by that time Deepa already has teeth marks dug deeply into her skin which will gradually fade into a lasting bruise. Despite this she still trusts me.

When I do not come to work one day, because I am teaching yoga, or because I am ill, I can not tell her. I can not explain to her why I am not there. That day I know she will not leave the room. She will be walking around the chaos on her own. Grabbed by the active kids, moved around by the massis, walking like a little cowgirl as she hates the feel of her wet nappy. She will not be allowed to feed herself lunch, and instead will be fed. Forcefully. She will not learn, she will not sing apart from to shout to herself, she will not explore any new sounds, or be encouraged to reach her arms out to protect herself. She will not go to the roof, or to the singing sea-saw in the park, or the swirling merry-go-around, or climb to the top of her little Queendom by scaling the heights of the concrete slide. She will not listen to the too many tweeting birds in a cage too small, or feel for the stubby leaves of the bushes. But the next day, when I go and find her, she will reach for me, and smile, and lean on me, and trust me.

I feel like I know Deepa. I feel her energy, her moods, her fears and courage. I feel her power and despite my urge to protect her, I feel her strength to struggle through. I want to give her everything I cannot. I want to give her a future, love, knowledge, experience of our beautiful world. But I cannot even teach her to use the toilet or to find the words to express herself.

Yes I love Deepa, and I wish I had the courage and fortitude to even try to adopt her. I do not.

Songs from Kalighat

2010-03-11T11:42:00.003+05:30

Two years ago this May I visited Nirmal Hriday. It was Mother Teresa's first of many homes, and known as her 'home for the dying and destitute' in Kalighat . What I remember of those first days as a volunteer was seeing a mirror for the first time of a reality which I could not handle. I saw the sheltered aspects of what I had arrogantly presumed to be a worldly life. The suffering of the patients; their pain paired with a defeat born from acting out their roles that came with their free cot, filled my mind with confusing justifications. I was forced to question what I was doing and why I could not do it. I lasted only a few days at Nirmal Hriday, and event though at the time I felt defeated and humbled, it was ultimately intelligence which made me leave. I left and moved to Sishu Bhavan where I uncovered another secret – a skill set which I had not realised that I possessed, and of course I met one of my most powerful life mentors - Deepa.

But thanks to Kolkata, in the past two years many gaps have been filled. My naivety has been dulled, and although important questions may not have been answered, at least they have been asked. And as life has a habit of doing, the very reason why I ever stopped in Kolkata is now working by my side.

Two years ago while I was living one of my many lives, my friend – an Angel diguised as a mermaid - and I were working under the sea with the ultra rich and a lifestyle which I had the privilege choosing. She told me about her previous work in Kolkata and told me to visit. It just so happened that the cheap flights from Bangkok to India were to Kolkata, and it just so happened that the first volunteer I spoke to once I arrived was a friend of the Angel's, who took me to register at the Missionaries of Charity. Now our paths have crossed again, and the Angel is volunteering at Nirmal Hriday and has asked my advice for how to work with the blind women confined to their beds. Using this as an opportunity to face a previous trauma I went back to revisit what I had once walked away from in nauseous tears.

Now I walked into Kalighat and saw a very different picture. I saw rows of women who had forcibly had their heads shaved. I saw rows of women who did have families, but for whatever reason were separated from them while no effort was being made to soothe that wound nor rectify that deep and raw separation. I no longer saw helpless victims or "bags of bones"; instead I saw very weak and sick ladies, sucked of energy by the asphyxiating atmosphere and devoid of options by a failing society. All of the volunteers, with the exception of the Angel, were drinking their afternoon chai on the roof, which even if the patients had the strength to climb the stairs, they are forbidden to. The Angel was beaming out her contagious energy; a natural nurse with an innate comforting presence. She led me through the rows of beds to a very old women who is living with cataracts. One of her eyes was totally glazed over with a thick milky layer, while the other was fighting the invading and unwelcome skin. She was almost totally blind. I introduced myself and she motioned for me to sit on remaining space left in her little cot. She was one of the ladies who astound me with their grasp of the English language, providing a key to a past lifetime away from their deserted and poverty driven reality. I asked her if she liked music, as I had come armed with my karimbu, but she was not interested in being entertained. Instead she quickly found out we had a favourite poet in common, and she began to recite songs by Rabindranath Tagore. She sang beautiful melodies in her native Bengali before translating them into English, moving her hand from side to side as she conducted her own renditions. Her voice was incredible, perfect, and her songs blacked out the rest of the ward, killing the discomfort and occasional moans of the women laying all around us.

The singing blind lady had actually studied at Santiniketan – Tagore's world renouwn school and unverisity. She recollected the concerts which her and her freinds would perform, allowing a smile to capture her face and take her back to a colourful happy time safe under the guard of her memory. I left her humming to herself as the Angel motioned me over to another cot, on which lay a much younger women – a women only twenty years old, but also living without sight.

The woman had been picked up at the station after being severely weak and malnourished. After a short stay in Kalighat she was much stronger and the Sister's are searching for somewhere else for her to go. The options are few – she can either return to live at Howrah train station, begging in her darkness, or perhaps the Sister's will move her to Shanti Dan.

Shanti Dan is one of the Missionaries of Charities homes for mentally disabled women. I have never visited, but I have heard several accounts of the ancient treatments used on the women. I know a volunteer nurse who was asked to leave after she began protesting about the use of electric shock treatment, including on epileptic patients. I stayed for only a few minutes by the side of the young women who I did not know. She lay still, with her legs curled into her chest under her uniform night dress. She remained rightly uninterested in my presence and besides all I could do was listen to the alarm bells ringing inside my head.

It will not be long before Deepa will be a young woman still under the care of the Missionaries of Charity. This is my motivation; for a different future for Deepa other than the one which is already laid out.

City Palanquin

2010-03-10T12:09:00.000+05:30

Most mornings as I walk to Sishu Bhavan, I pass a hand cart puller. On his hand cart sits a very old lady. The very old lady seems disinterested in her journey, as if she has made it many times before; perhaps for many years before. Sometimes, the hand cart is filled with sacks of something. But even then, the very old lady will sit perched on top; like a queen being pulled through her kingdom. The hand cart puller seems not to notice her; as her weight amounts to little more than one of his many sacks. Despite the honking horns, smoking exhausts, rushing and pushing, the very old lady remains seeminly oblivious to her journey; as if she is already in a distant place far far away.

Every day our lives pass briefly; everyday I day dream about her life. Meaningless thoughts far removed from her reality, as she travels barefoot on top of a hand pulled cart and I stop to take a photograph.

Life

2010-03-09T13:09:00.000+05:30

It doesn't have much to do with India. Or perhaps it does; as we are all part of one world, and life should be valued equally where ever we are, and whether or not we know those who have left this world - as we all will eventually.

I have just read a few moments ago, that the whole family of my friend and colleagues from the Alternative Information Centre was killed on Sunday, during a car crash in Southern Israel. His daughter (Noam), new born son (Ya'ari), wife (Efrat) and mother in-law (Ester).

How life can just change in a day.

Bryan, I am sending you so much love, thoughts, power and strength. I wish there was something more useful that I could say.

As always - In Solidarity.

Little Yogis

2010-03-07T11:13:00.003+05:30

On Saturday I morph from social worker to yoga teacher. In the morning I teach yoga at a school for kids from the slums, and in the afternoon I teach the wonderful young women at the Soma home. This is four classes in total, and the two different locations are at entirely opposite ends of the city. Thanks to Kolkata's metro (which for many years caused total mayhem during its construction) all this means is short quick journeys squashed into a moving sardine tin, and then a couple of beautiful walks through two totally different areas. During my morning walk I pass a small market over spilling from the pavement and into the traffic of the road, leading towards a huge playing field rimmed by equally huge pipes. The pipes suggest a recent move to upgrade Kolkata's sewage system from one constructed by the British at the turn of the century to serve a population of 600,000. Today the same pipes are being used and the population is bordering on fifteen million. The new pipes have been waiting to be laid for months, and in the meantime, a few resourceful individuals have taken to living inside them, with bedding piled high, and portable stoves at the entrance. Inside the playing field lives many families, who during the winter months can enjoy dry days and nights, free from the darkness of the plastic tarpaulin rigged against the monsoon rains. All across the fields are boys and young men, showing their loyalty to the national game of cricket, as their sons and younger brothers cheer them on, or improvise their own mini versions on the parallel streets through the aid of rolled up plastic bags as a makeshift ball and broken branches as bats.

Tala Park school is situated next to the playing field and educates many of the children who live in its bustees. The school is ran by Calcutta Rescue, which despite its unfortunate name is an internationally funded organisation committed to reducing the health and social costs of poverty. Unlike many other of Kolkata's NGOs, Calcutta Rescue does not depend on foreign volunteers or function solely through providing free hands outs. The few volunteers who do work there have a mandate to share their professional skills by training the organisations staff and implementing improvements where possible. For example, their Austrian chemist oversees the stocktaking and distribution of medication. There is a teacher from Poland who trains the local teachers on innovative methods including how to control the children without resorting to physical abuse. There is a special needs social worker from the USA who works alongside the local team of doctors and counselors to share new knowledge and techniques.

Calcutta Rescue provide education to over 500 children from the slum areas. The children are given two meals a day to try and discourage truancy and improve levels of concentration. There are mobile clinics, outreach programs and a clinic specifically for TB patients and a general clinic which includes a section for Mother and Child providing lessons on nutrition and hygiene. All patients receive reimbursement for their transport costs and a bag of dry food including lentils and rice. Any medicine is provided free of charge. Calcutta Rescue also operate a leprosy clinic, which consists of a large canvas tent that is erected and dismantled every day, due to the community fear of creating a permanent leper colony. The clinic provides the patients with government funded medicine, the full course of which can stem the progression of the disease, preventing further physical mutation and protecting family and friends from contamination. They run an arsenic mitigation program and a vocational training centre, where unemployed men and women (including widows and different-abled people) make a selection of handicrafts for sale at a weekly event held by volunteers in Sudder Street.

When I returned to Kolkata in November, I was invited to teach yoga to the children at the Tala Park school. The teachers were desperate for the kids to have some physical activity but employing a yoga teacher was beyond their already stringent budget. I have taught yoga to kids all over the place – in fields, in gardens, museums and occasionally in the more orthodox yoga studios, but at Tala Park one of the major challenges was the restriction of space. The school has two class rooms which are both equally tiny. Although I was offered a class of sixty children, it was logistically impossible for the children even to have enough space to turn around, so instead we divided the class into two. Now perhaps for sitting on the floor and studying this is plenty of room for thirty little bodies, but when it comes to stretching out and jumping into downward dogs all chaos breaks lose as hands and feet intermingle and individual bodies become disguised in a mass of limbs.

Although my students are young (around five and six years old) they are incredibly eager, and their happiness is contagious. Even during the times I feel I should be working with Deepa or am exhausted by the prospect of four classes to teach, after moments of being with the kids I am smiling and laughing and unaware of the flying time. The most appropriate word to describe the classes is 'hilarious'. The little yogis and yoginis have total concentration and they all try really hard to follow the poses. Our audience is the school's cooks and cleaners who peer through the iron bars of the windows, studying our movements, smiling widely and occasionally trying to imitate. Although the children cannot speak more than one word of English ('Hello'), and my Bangla is restricted (namo pa, oto pa, namo haat, oto haat – leg up, leg down, hand up, hand down) thanks to the committed translation of their class teacher, they all end up copying some version of the required asana. What is particularly amusing is that the kids loyally follow every move I make. So if I turn around to show them what the pose looks like from behind, all thirty kids will turn around. Meanwhile, the teacher has given me total control, and will translate only what I tell her to, meaning that if I have not noticed that the kids and me are now sitting back to back, that is how they will remain until I turn around again.

The balancing poses also require a great deal of creativity, otherwise all of the children will automatically lean out to their neighbor creating a domino effect of falling giggling bodies. The one culprit tends to be one little boy whose trouser zip is always broken, so in order to preserve his young modesty he insists on trying to do the tree pose with this trousers half way down his bum, preventing him from fully lifting his leg and instead toppling to the side and taking his little swaying friends with him. Now I try to preempt the collapse and ferry them over to the walls. Once one has achieved the pose I will be called over to verify and congratulate, bringing with it a stream of demands from every child in the room, as each one wants me to personally affirm their postures. Another winner is the 'lion pose', where the children have to kneel down and lean forwards, sticking out their tongues and roaring like a lion. This leads to sincere and dedicated 'RAHs' from the children but leaves the class teacher in total confusion as to why I would risk such potential anarchy. Watching the kids jump into full lotus reflects their experience in squatting and a life time of sitting on the floor rather than in more restrictive chairs.

Even the most shy of the children are able to contort their bodies into whatever pose I imagine, creating smiles and pride where perhaps there has been a previous drought. The class teacher commented how yoga 'evened' out her pupils. The more disruptive were calmed down by their determination to do the harder poses, while the kids who struggled academically glowed through their yogic successes. We end the class with a series of finishing poses including sitting in full lotus and humming 'om'. The children all close their eyes, with their hands aptly turned into chin mudra, while 'omming' with the most peaceful and genuine sincerity, leaving me with one eye searching for the giggles which never come. Afterwards they surround me to take my hand and bring it to their forehead as a very formal sign of respect and thanks.

Despite the irony of teaching yoga to Indian children, all of whom seem to have an innate flexibility which I can only dream of; it is an absolute privilege to share my Saturday morning's with such beaming and bright little people.

Durga the Survivor

2010-03-06T12:08:00.004+05:30

There is an very old woman who comes to Sealdah dispensary and she has been coming for a very long time. She has a large hole in her leg, but it is improving, sort of. She is known by the long term station volunteers as 'Durga'. I know this is not her real name, as I have asked her many times. The problem is that her real name is so complicated that no matter how many times I ask her, I forget, so even I have reluctantly ended up calling her 'Durga'. It is bizarre that by giving a name I feel as if our relationship is a little more personal – even if it is a fake name. In return 'Durga' calls me 'my friend', and her reciprocal naming is loaded with much more affection than the name of a Hindu Goddess famous for dispelling fear and destruction as well as creation.

What is unusual about 'Durga' is that her English is perfect. Most of the patients who come to the dispensary come because they have no alternative. In monetary and health terms they are incredibly poor. They usually have little education, and as a result their grasp of English is very rudimentary. But Durga speaks what I would call 'the queen's English'. She uses ancient and antiquated words which make me sound comparatively ignorant and rude when talking with her. She has refined manners and scolds the mentally challenged men, who clean the dispensary, for splashing her belongings of a large plastic bag. She asks me many questions about my life and my dreams. Her sari is filthy and she never washes. It is still too cold for her to take a street bath she tells me, but I also know that she is very modest and with no change of clothes or underwear washing herself and her sari is something of a logistical problem. I have hidden bars of soap and washing powder in her bag; just in case, and I argued her case to the Sisters when they were distributing second hand sari's at Christmas. The new sari came and within a week it seemed as dirty as the old one and the old one was no where in sight.

The first time I met Durga she was sitting outside of the dispensary. She was not 'allowed' to come in because her infection was so severe that it had to be washed and dressed on the step outside as bandages were passed through the window. On this first occasion the large ulcerated hole in her leg was full of worms and had to be soaked in a liquid – the name of which I never know but which I know smells very strong and takes at least twenty minutes to kill the worms. This first time Durga was particularly upset that she had 'animals' in her leg. She was in excruciating pain, which described as making her 'senseless.' Although she must have been dealing with for weeks before, she could not help but try to move away from whenever the dead worms were carefully picked out with a pair of surgical tweezers. We changed tactics and worked in pairs, with Bruno cleaning and me holding both of her hands and desperately trying to distract her with irrelevant chitter chatter. It was during these conversations that I learned a little about Durga and how she came to be living at Sealdah train station.

Durga was from a high caste and rich family. Her father worked in the British administration and Druga herself had a love for the English language which she went on to study at university. She had an arranged marriage immediately after her studies finished and was wedded to “a wealthy gentlemen.” The couple had three children; two daughters and one son. Then her husband died. Now to be a widow in India is considered by many to be worse than dying itself; it is seen as a curse and in the past widows were encouraged or even forced to commit ‘sati’, jumping onto of their dead husband's funeral pyres and burning to ashes. The widows were (and in many areas still are) seen as a burden by the rest of the family. Traditionally it was unacceptable for the women to remarry and high caste women were forced to have their heads shaved and wear a white sari.

In Durga's case, she went to live with a relative of her husband but her life became very hard. The lady of her new household resented Durga's presence and began to look for reasons to put Durga on the street. What happened next is covered in shadows. Durga clearly does not like to talk about it, and she is likewise very vague when I ask her about the whereabout of her three children. However, Durga says she must have been living on the streets for over ten years and as far as I can tell it is on the streets that her long life of contrasts will most likely end. Durga is proud of the fact that never begs or eats out of the garbage, but instead she will patiently wait for food to come her way. She works hard at collecting plastics and rag materials which she will take to be recycled and receive a few rupees in return. In fact the huge plastic bag which she protectively guards is full of nothing other than carefully selected rubbish weighing around twelve or fourteen kilograms.

I do not know how her pseudo-name was chosen for her but I do know a little about the Goddess Durga as she is the Hindu equivalent of the patron saint of Kolkata. Durga – or Kali as she is also known - is accredited with being the Mother Goddess or the creator, preserver and destroyer of all of the universe. In Sanskrit Durga means "she who is incomprehensible or difficult to reach" and for her namesake this explains her continuous lapses in treatment where she will disappear for days at a time and come back with her white bandage black and green gangrenous pus oozing out of her wound. We will all lecture her, frustrated at her lack of commitment to healing her leg and our parallel inability to help to relieve her pain.

There is another translation to Durga which adds an even more curious twist to the description so far. It means "the one who eliminates sufferings." So it is Durga who protects her devotees from the evils of the world and at the same time removes their miseries. The Goddess has eight or ten arms and three eyes. She holds a bow and arrow, a thunderbolt, a sword and a trident. She stands on the top of a lion to symbolise the conquering of fear. The Goddess Durga is said to be gorgeously dressed in royal red cloth, jewels and ornaments. Her hair is dressed up in a crown (karandamukuta) which then flows out in long luxuriant tresses that are darkly luminous and soothing to the eye. Hindu myth believes that Goddess Durga exists eternally.

But now there is another image which stays with me whenever I think of Durga. I think of how I lift up her plastic bag for her to stick her skinny bony arm through and then she will lean to me as I bend down to be level with her, and she will say in her most eloquent and precise English accent, “I am happy I have such lovely friends who are helping me to get better.” She will then proudly but slowly walk through the little gate which I hold open for her and then once I have turned around she will bow her hands to her head and then to her heart in a symbol of gratitude, before disappearing into the crowd of chaotic lives around her. For me Durga is and will remain an incredibly powerful ancient and wise woman, who symbolises the juxtaposition of old and modern Inida; of the filthy rich and the barely surviving poor.

Noodle Theatre

2010-03-04T13:18:00.000+05:30

Continuous refill of noodles. Oodles. Never ending noodles. Handfuls of salt and fistfuls of spices. A gush of oil, spreading its glistening oiliness over the growing, jumping, moving tangles of noodles. Above shines an accidental street light. Accidentally shining down on the tactically placed wooden stall. The bright beam of light reveals the black bottle cylinder of kerosene - pump pump - and greasy coat of the glass bottles, showing their assortment of coloured sauces. Street light – stage light. The centre of attention on the little run-away street. The pot-bellied chef loving his show, playing with his noodles, juggling his sauces, dramatically seasoning and decorating. The spill-over from the neighboring chai stall mingles with his waiting customers, swelling the audience and adding to the ambiance as the last sips of chai are sounded by the delicate smashing of the left over clay cups. Smash, sizzle, shouts, spicy steaming trails moving silently towards the light and dispersing a hint of burnt chili into the evening air. Hungry eyes step forward, taking center stage. A star for a minute as a plate piled high with shining slippery noodles is traded for a flimsy worn piece-of-paper note. The noodles walk away fading from the lime light, only to be replaced, randomly. Continuously. Never ending pot-pan frying flying supply of noodles.

Universal Language

2010-03-02T11:37:00.005+05:30

Sound, consciousness and connection equals communication, but exactly what does 'communication' mean? Every day's musical adventure with Deepa, makes me even more determined to try to develop her exposure to different sounds and in particular to European and Indian classical music. I have placed adverts for old pianos, and for teachers willing to volunteer a little of their time. It would be incredible to present Sishu Bhavan with a huge piano, where the children could go and bang away, exploring sounds as well as actions and reactions. I am practising a lesson of intention and of not putting any negative energy into my ideas, but I also have the little voice in my head, cynically laughing at the thought of Deepa actually receiving music lessons and having some expert guidance. But I know that after experimenting with music, Deepa and we have begun to communicate on a ,much more productive and personal level reaffirming the ancient phrase that “music is a universal language that transcends boundaries and bonds people.” It has inspired me to begin doing a little more research into the power of music, including its different effects on the brain. It is fascinating, and again suggestive that Deepa is definately talking with us, even if it is not through her voice.

It is debated that there is a universal recognition of human emotional facial expression (namely happiness, sadness and fear) and emotional prosody (which refers to the rhythm, stress, and intonation of connected speech.) So are there also common responses to music? Can meanings be relayed without words, body language, facial expressions? In fact can music go even further than words, and express meanings deeper than those imbued by verbal language? If so then Deepa is already expressing herself and she is dedicating a tremendous amount of focus to listening to the music of others. When talking to her, Deepa will continue to flick or tap whatever she is already doing, but when listening to music, she has three main responses: Dancing, frowning and smiling.

The evolution of music in relation to thought and language is still under debate. In his book The Singing Neanderthals, Steven Mitin explores whether music is the universal language – if we beat a common evolutionary drum, which extends not just across cultures but also across ancestral time? Darwin suggested that language came first, and then music, but the alternative theory is that language is the more complex form of music, and ancient musical instruments have been dated back to 36,000 years. Unlike language, music followed a similar pattern around the world. It is made up of seven main notes. It is also used to mark certain ceremonies (weddings, funerals, parties) reflecting its social role. The function of music is also similar as cultures all around the world use music as a way to soothe children, to intimidate (such as the Maori Haka) to induce feeling of adrenaline or rage (such as the heavy metal played into the personal stereos of US troops before battle in Iraq) and to express deep and complex emotions.

The significance of music therapy (such as what I am attempting with Deepa) is also becoming more firmly grounded in science. Music lessons have been shown to improve children's performance in school. After eight months of keyboard lessons, preschoolers tested showed a 46% boost in their spatial IQ. If Deepa has a learning disability, then it goes to follow, that music may be just the stimulus she needs, especially seeing as it is what she responds so strongly to. The National Commission on Music Education has uncovered a correlation between the study of music on factors such as self-esteem, self discipline, the ability to work in groups and higher cognitive and analytical skill. Research by Rauscher also suggests that complex music may 'prime' the brain for mathematics or other analytical work because it triggers the same brain activity. Human neurology also examines the effects of music in relation to language on the brain. Music is perceived in the left hemisphere of the brain (in the angular and supramarginal gyrus area). This is also area of the perception of amorphous language area, which is concerned with comprehension and verbal thought. It therefore follows that perhaps music is therefore represented cerebrally as a form of language.

Often I wonder what Deepa thinks – if she thinks in colours and in shapes, or if everything just a dark empty black. Perhaps she thinks in textures, temperature, or perhaps even in sounds. What I know for sure is that simply because she is not using our most valued form of communication – language – need not mean that she is mentally disabled; at the moment she is just on a different track, and in the words of Einstein:

"If I were not a physicist, I would probably be a musician. I often think in music. I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music .... I get most joy in life out of music."

Present Reflections

2010-02-28T12:05:00.002+05:30

I can hear my footsteps. I can hear the wind, and the birds. I can hear the trees as their leaves move through the sun kissed breeze. I can feel the ground beneath each foot, as I slowly step soaking in the spacious silence of the afternoon. Surrounded by leafy roads, brick walls and tall sturdy houses. It is quiete. Their is fresh moving air all around me. I can see beyond bodies. There is space.

This is my Saturday afternoon. The metro has zoomed into the suburbs; only two stops after the bustling bursting busy Kalighat, but two stops far enough for the crowds to descend and leave a few empty spaces in the 'ladies' section of the carriages. When the doors open there is no fight to reach the platform; no battle with incoming pedestrians, but enough room to quickly stride off and through the turnstiles which never seem to need the key of the tiny card ticket. Outside of the station the Saturday afternoon is in full swing. The chat stalls a busy fishing out little crispy pieces of spicy delights from clear plastic sacks and expertly parceling them into neatly folded dishes of newspaper. No matter which day of the week, nor the time of day, hot and cold street snacks fringe the pavements, while wooden benches piled with hungry customers spill out onto the roads.

The auto rickshaws dodge between the trucks, cars and yellow battered taxis while the feet from the metro take on the oncoming traffic in a silent but calculated unity. We flow from one side of the road into the middle, where we all continue to walk in the same direction, around the invisible men at work and their wooden obstructions. Again we stop and watch the cars and cycles and then follow one another's lead, using our mass as individual protection. Arriving at our destination, the line of waiting auto rickshaws jump and rev into action, and three bodies pile in the front of each, while one sits either side of the driver. A continuous refill as each three-wheeler hurtles off, and 'we' - the incoming commuters - begin to dwindle in mass and disappear into the suburban streets.

I climb into the tin cab, swashed between a sari made with delicately decorated fine fabric, and a young man with a crisp clean white shirt and perfectly creased trousers. Hustle, chug, zoom, maneuver, moves the teenage boy behind the tiny wheel. The street moves by like a flick book of sketches. Shopping, buying, trading. We travel a few minutes only, and then the brakes screech slowing us to a gentle hubble-chug-chug and then unexpectedly bounce back into action and hurtle us to the side of the road. A calculated stop at which I climb out and hand the exact pre-counted change of four rupees to the driver. He briefly registers the coins before throwing them into the brown satchel handing from his control centre, protected by Ganesha, and a distractedly swinging garland of old plastic flowers. He has zoomed and dodged his way away before I have turned to cross the road.

The traffic has slowed. The distance between me and the centre of the market area has grown. Here it is quieter. It is less busy. I am standing in the centre of the old colonial suburban Kolkata; where old buildings still look regal and airy despite their need for renovation. Where wise trees cast their shade over the sprinkling of chai stalls. I stop at a small mountain of green coconuts, which rises like an oasis from the stale dusty pavement. I wave a ten rupee note and within seconds a machete has hacked off the top revealing a clear white cooling liquid, spilling over the sides and ready to be enjoyed. I take the turn down past the cinema, full of young guys wearing tight flared jeans and heavily gelled hair and talking in a hub-a-bub of shouts. And I sigh as my feet take me further into the space around me.

A few people wander down the street. Stopping to talk to one another, or to disappear through a door. I stop to tip the coconut back and drink what remains before throwing it into a huge pile of street garbage in the middle of the road. Two cows are meandering through the rubbish, munching on pieces of vegetable sodden paper. I follow the landmark of a tiny hindu shrine, protected by iron bars and brightly decorated before turning towards 'Regents Park' police station. A single army jeep is parked outside, as a man with a watering can tends to the shrubbery. The trademark ding ding of a bicycle rickshaw sounds the arrival of a lungi clad man who stands his way past, pushing carefully down on two solid peddles – slowly but surely moving his carriage of passengers out of sight.

Walking free from stares and curious glances I slow my gait, able to look around and to observe unselfconsciously. It is a rare luxury from a self-imposed paranoia; I am never invisible – there will always be someone studying my weird clothes, strange style, blonde hair. Similarly, it is rare that there is space to see the ground around; free from other bodies, free from cars, bikes or hustling movement. Walking down the wide lane, I breathe through the warm breeze and let myself relax.

A friend stands on the corner and greets me with a flashing smile. One of the beautifully intelligent young women who was in the Soma Home last year. She looks sophisticated and fashionable and lifts my happy heart with a warm hug. She is waiting for her driving instructor as her driving test is on Monday. I wish her well, and continue on my path with my own wide smile settling deep inside.

I am on my way to teach yoga to her prodigies; to the little girls and young women in the Soma Home which is situated just around the next corner. Ever since my first visit to the Soma Home I have had a sincere affiliation with the girls – they remind me of myself living in a boarding school year after year of my childhood. Some love yoga, acro-yoga, partner yoga. Other prefer the documentaries or perhaps just sleeping; as it is their weekend after all. They are incredible girls – incredible because they are so 'normal'. With mothers who are working in the sex trade, fathers who either support their wives work or who were their customers. With baby brothers and little sisters possibly with HIV, possibly not. Others have parents but are at risk from being sold or mistreated. But as I said, the girls are great. And as I hear the precious sound of my footsteps lead towards more smiles, laughter and far and present memories, I know they will achieve whatever their young minds can conceive.

Unacceptable Acceptance

2010-02-27T12:35:00.003+05:30

The same old spinning confusions of frustration twinned with resources, ability and will to change. Watching – like a passive witness brought in for a few hours a week to return to a ‘safe’ bubble of relative reality. Work at the station dispensary has taught me a great deal from the practical to the philosophical. I have learned how to bandage wounds properly, clean deep infections and entertain scared children, but perhaps the most profound lesson has been the endurance of the human mind to deal with the deep and unrelenting pain of the human body. I have had the luxury to watch tremendous suffering and to sit uncomfortably with the realization that it is a consequence of the unacceptable conditions which too many of our brothers and sisters do not live with but rather have no choice but to deal with – to die with.

The majority of the patients who come to Sealdah dispensary have injuries to their lower limbs – mainly ulcers. The majority are men, but women and children come to. The kids usually live at the station and are dealing with self-inflicted injuries. A huge problem for the boys living on the streets is 'membership' of belonging to their new family; of proving their resilience. One way to 'prove' themselves is to take a razor blade and cut their forearms. Many are high on glue so seem immune to the pain, but if it becomes infected they might appear at the dispensary, backed by their curious gang, all bearing the thick pale scars on their soft young skin. Another risk for the street kids are their station games – running along the tops of the trains, or jumping into a moving train and then leaping out of the other side. These kids do not usually make it to the dispensary, but last year I met a survivor who was in rehabilitation. The boy was thirteen. He was learning to live with one less arm than his remaining friends.

The other kids who come to the dispensary are just keeping their mothers company – one little guy watches me from the doorway, scared to come closer but staring intently as his mother as she sits down opposite me. His nervousness softens after I hand him one of the bananas hidden in my apron, and the little piece of fruit consumes his wandering attention.

His mother is younger than I am, and she is beautiful – glowing with energy through her red sari made of cotton and washed soft. We study each other carefully and sporadically, while she tries to explain her affliction. She has just been to the government hospital and hands me her report and prescription. The report describes the “human bite on right middle finger” and the prescription is for oral and topical antibiotics – neither of which she can afford. She motions for her son to join her and he quickly walks the few paces to her side and stands as close as space allows, banana tightly clasped in his fists. I muster a tone of non-judgment and hidden curiosity, as I do not need to know who bit her in order to dress her severely infected finger, but I ask anyway. She replies with a look, then a gesture than a word, 'husband'.

Some people who come to the dispensary are healed. Others (according to the registrar) have been coming for more than ten years. But the dispensary is not a hospital, or even a clinic – we simply clean and dress wounds and where possible provide basic medication. We have a store room full of antibiotics and fancy dressings, but they remain 'stored' until they go out of date and then perhaps are thrown into the rubbish for the rag pickers to use. At the moment none of the volunteers who work there are trained medics. The Sisters who supervise our work are more paranoid about guarding the entrance from drug users and turning away anyone who comes after closing time. Over Christmas the supply of gauze and saline solution was used as a base on which to build the nativity scene, and we had to either creatively look for alternatives or surrender and pay a visit to the local chemist. At that time the dispensary closed for two days out of the three days in the week which it is open, and in protest Bruno and I opened our own little makeshift clinic outside. The Sisters never knew, but the patients gave us deep and humbling Namaste’s, providing me with a renewed sense of purpose and Bruno with a deeper sense of anger at our part in a machine which refuses to benefit those which it exists to serve.

As the months have passed I have made 'friends' with people I can hardly say two words to, but who have allowed me to try and relieve their suffering and done so with total acceptance of their situation and with no expectations. Sometimes I cry empty tears full of frustration, as the same old men and women will religiously come into the dispensary and flash a huge smile at me before rolling up their trousers or saris to show me their severely painful and infected wounds, which continue to refuse to improve. I have no other medical knowledge other than what I have learned in a first aid course and from what I have accumulated while working in India. But I am able to excuse my lack of training by knowing that even if I were a doctor, to try and administer antibiotics to patients who come some days and not the rest, or who have undiagnosed medical conditions such as HIV or TB, or who will walk outside into the filth with a clean bandage wrapped around their foot and no shoes, would be a even greater challenge. Even trying to change the attitude of the Sisters or long term volunteers requires infinite patience and determination. Theirs is a sense of defeat, or rather a dangerous acceptance that this is the reality, and it is and will remain impossible to change. I watch as some volunteers dress wounds without the blink of an eye; without discussing taking the patient to a hospital, or of paying for a diagnosis. I listen to myself feebly argue and then wallow in disappointment as not even the patients have the will to fight and it is just easier to surrender to the system.

I am left hoping that despite the refusal of the Missionaries of Charity to employ a local doctor or even to filter through a volunteer doctor, or to responsibly use the thousands of pounds worth of donated medicines, that small and continuous improvements can be made. Perhaps if the dispensary continues these small changes, such as to disinfect the tables after each patient or giving everyone some fruit to encourage them to return on the next session, then eventually larger improvements can be instigated. Larger improvements which will provide a service for those who most need it - a simple, free and effective medical treatment with the goal of alleviating the suffering of people no different from you and me. People no different from you and me but who just do not have the money or the means to pay for their health, so instead do what only they can do – accept.

Tittle Tattle

2010-02-25T10:21:00.000+05:30

Poverty tourists, self help volunteers, roof tops filled with shadows and rising sounds of clumps, cranks, chatter, low hummms, loud beeps. The night air is thick with fragments of indiscernible communication, conversations. A mosaic of lives of peoples, of cultures, of imported domesticated animals ready for milking, breeding, eating. Areas demarcated by the howls and rough barks of street dogs and overseen by the soaring diving eagles of the rubbish. A city full of happenings. Lives hidden, exposed, believed, seen, pondered, forgotton. A moment in a blink, and our time in an eternity. Beep, brroooom, the rick a tick tang bang of the rickshaw pullers. Bare feet soundlessly pounding the wet muddy concrete. A cough, a Hack, an engine starting. Flick, tap, flick tap, patterns, repetition, routine. A flutter of a fly, sounds louder, until it passes like a speck of concrete hitting a tin. It drops to the worn white sheets to flitter into nothingness, while the light strip burns on. Reflections of a day in a life of a billion. Present distracting from the movements before. But the momentum is continuous.

Where is this leading to? Where am I? Returning to the thoughts forgotten, past, present. Possibilities. Decisions, options and choices, experiences leading to an eventuality soon to be history. Inhalation. Long deep exposed exhale. Silent sigh. Visible to no witness. External questions stored, external questions unheard. Internal conundrum. Tittile tattle, rattle rattle.

Nache

2010-02-23T09:54:00.004+05:30

How does a baby learn to dance? Through watching? Imitating? How then to the blind babies learn? Today Netu was holding onto the cool iron bars of the cots. Never wanting to sit, and yet for so many months she has been so close to taking her first independent steps. The physiotherapist who visits the orphanage once a week told me in a unique twist of infant development, blind babies learn to walk before they learned to crawl. He explained it was because they never saw an object they wanted so did not know to try and crawl towards it, while simultaneously being scared of what might be in there way. I wondered about the power of sound and the heightened sensitivity to different noises which the blind children possess about whether this could be a stimulus for the baby crawl. I also wonder to what extent the walk before crawl phenomenon was specific to the orphanage where the babies either spend their days sitting in their chair or hanging onto the iron bars as they stand next to the cots. By having to reevaluate the development of blind children in relation to children with the gift of sight the intelligence and fortitude of the blind children, as well as their innate connection with their selves is overwhelming.

'Nache nache nache' sang a massi as she walked past clapping her hands in the direction of baby Netu. 'Nache nache nache' I continued as little Netu began to wobble her body forwards and backwards, propelling her hips towards the cot and then swinging backwards. She was actually dancing to my rhythmic claps. Two dimples had popped into her baby cheeks, as she smiled outwardly, while loving the movements and managing to keep her balance. Baby Mita was by her side, also hanging onto the iron bars, although her taller height means that she flops her head and shoulders over the cot while her legs stand like motionless stilts. Mita also began to grin, and very gently began to swing her body while slowly moving towards me and my sounds. I now had two little blind babies moving towards me in a slow happy dance.

Netu is clearly very clever. Her persistence to learn, to explore toys, sounds and movement is in stark contrast to the majority of the children in the 'inactive' section. Her baby babble vocabulary is growing extensively and now each morning she greets me with a rather disconcerting 'ma ma'. Thankfully, this is indiscriminate and she is happy to 'ma ma' to any of the volunteers. This makes me wonder if 'ma ma' is just a natural progression from 'la la la' and to the extent that this is taken as a word full of meaning and recognition by hopeful mothers? Netu has also taken to the rather harder pronunciation of 'da da'; but as no men are allowed to volunteer in the orphanage, this one is devoid of sentimentality. Meanwhile, she adores 'ba ba blacksheep' and will she sporadically start to quietly 'ba ba' before 'twinkle twinkling' her way towards a 'little star'. If she is seated and unable to do her hip wiggle, alternatively she will accompany her songs by quickly kicking her legs as she moves her whole body in excitement. She has also become a fan of the ipod, and when she hears the word 'music' she will put her fingers to her ears, dimple her cheeks and kick her little legs.

Music also has an incredibly powerful effect on Raki – another little blind girl who smiles and laughs her day through autism. Raki staggers around the nursery before curling into a ball on the floor and continuing in her own private world. But often she will hear me singing and come and take hold of the strings of my apron. She will twist and twirl and turn herself around and around and around, until my apron is in a tight knot of cloth and she has to contort her body to continue to twirl under it. It is almost as if without music she disappears into her own parallel existence, which all of our attempts to play with her are on her terms and in accordance with her silent view-point. But again music is the exception, and for this she loves to share it with others, even if it is just to dance around them, or use their hands for orientation. Deepa is also a natural dancer, and again loves to share it with feet she can trust to dance upon, providing a new connection with the ground beneath her and the space around her as she will waltz foot ontop of foot, hand in hand, around the nursery.

I think back to the experiences I was exposed to in Bali. The world of sound and expression, where 'dance' took on an entirely new meaning of moving through stored emotions and experiences. Where movement stimulated such powerful releases of energy from deep within the black hole of the subconscious. I began to really feel the power of dance – to experience it first hand – rather than as a witness watching traditional dances such as in indigenous Australia or the ritual dances of Tibet. Freestyle dance has the potential to connect us to our deeper self – to the rhythms of life which travel inside of us. The liberation of dance is to allow ourselves to move spontaneously without social conditioning, but surrendering to the music as it carries us on our own journey of expression and emotion. In Bali I used to run a blindfold dance class, which had some crazy responses. People who said they had never danced in public before – or never danced sober – but with the blind fold they felt the music and allowed it to move their bodies. Screams of anger would be released through stomping, shouting, jumping, tears would silently fall, and pure joy would bring elasticity to otherwise stiff and rigid bodies. Without sight it is much easier to be present – to be fully with the sound rather than to allow the eyes to lead the mind somewhere else. In fact, the result of blindfold dance was so powerful that one man nearly danced out the window (to land in the flower bed) while others would blindly move together, building and sharing a tangible energy, while being totally inside their own momentum of life.

It is fascinating that the blind children use dance so freely as a form of expression and are confident to move their bodies so totally naturally, without copying others or being forced to move in a predefined way. Dancing seems to be such an innate reaction to rhythm and one which provides them with obvious happiness. Netu, Raki, Meta and Deepa are incredible dance teachers, and like so many aspects of our world, they have an innate understanding and ability to express, feel and step into the flow without being constrained by social conditionings. They are totally in touch with their emotions, and dance is one of the few ways they have to express themselves freely. There is much we still have to learn.

Freedom to: Sing sea-saw sing

2010-02-21T10:26:00.005+05:30

The park was shining today. It was light and bright and breezy. Yesterday I had been teaching yoga all day to schools around the city. It is the day in the week I miss Deepa. Yesterday Deepa cried all day. One massi told me she missed me, another told me she had constipation so she was crying because she had a sore tummy and had no other way to tell anyone, another told me she was crying to go outside and eventually, when someone finally gave in and walked with her to the roof, her crying ceased. So today the park was filled with extra air, and tangible space and a freedom impossible to feel from the roof of the nursery, or to image from behind the bars of the top floor windows.

Deepa took me around. She confidently climbed up the slide stood on the top, and leaned backwards. I smiled at the memories of a year ago, when I would cheer her up the ladder as she hesitantly learned to trust her bent knees. Today she swung her body around and sat at the top, as if she were surveying her Queendom – her little park, which unless was invaded by the 'normal' kids, was hers to enjoy in relative silence. “One, two, three” I cheered as she pushed herself down, slowed by the friction of the cement but still landing in a giggling heap at the bottom. “Stand up Deepa” I whisper to her and she does. Standing and searching for my hand, and pulling herself close to my body. I ask her where she wants to go to next “the seeeeeeeeea-saaaaaaaaaw or the birds, tweet tweet tweet?” “Sssssss” she repliea. So she led me straight to the singing sea-saw, walking next to it, and tracing the angle with her hand as she followed the wooden plank to the ground. Bending down she held onto the iron bar and stepped over to sit – as she always does, back to front. Besides, she doesn't need to face the centre; there is no friend to see. In fact, back to front, makes more sense, it means she can not slide off and hit the ground as the iron handle bars act as a little back to her plank of a seat. She begins to push her feet against the ground. I follow through her action with the expected reaction, as she rises to the sky to fall again. I wait, she bends her knees and pushes up; she is in control. She knows how the sea-saw works, even if it is my hands as the counterweight to her little pushes. We can't play the 'abar' game anymore; where I stop pushing until she tells me she wants to go again. If I did not push after she tried to lift herself up, this would break the rules of the game. But this is better. It shows she is developing her problem solving skills – instead of trying to figure out how to make me push her up and down, she has realised she can do it on her own.

As the sea-saw sings, she shuffles backwards, towards the centre of the squeaking. She reaches one hand back and feels the vibrations of the plank as it pivots upwards and downwards “Oto” and “Namo”. Its hard for her to reach the ground as she has shifted so far back, but she has chosen to be closer to the squeaking and the creaking than to the highs and the lows. After many minutes of otos and namos I asked her if she wanted to move. “What about the 'swiiiiiiiiiiiing' Deepa?” She slid herself back down to the ground, and stopped pushing her feet against the ground. “Do you want to go to the swiiiiiiiiiing Deepa?” She was still. Thinking? Thinking. Yes. She did. She moved her hands out in front of her, searching for my waiting arms. She pulled herself up and took me directly to the swing. Feeling for the iron rope she sat down and began to dribble her feet across the mud. For some reason, it had not occurred to me not to swing her before. But the other day, I was watching another volunteer who picked up another child and began pushing. It was as if the child was a toy, or part of the swing; of the volunteer was a toy, or part of the swing. “Oto pa Deepa” Legs Up. She continued to take little steps with her feet, moving but not swinging. “Oto pa” I repeated as I bent to lift her legs straight as she swung forwards. “Namo pa Deepa” as I pushed her legs backwards, bending her stubborn knees. “Oto pa – namo pa – oto pa – namo pa” Legs up – legs down – legs up - legs down. She loved the sounds, following the rythmn, not with words but with her unique Deepa sounds. I let go of her legs. “Oto paaaaa – namo paaaaa – oto paaaaa – namo paaaa”. Huge smiles. As I stood grinning at her as she followed my sounds with her own confident voice and allowed her body to explore the possibilities. She lifted her legs from the ground and began to move oto and namo and sure enough allowing the momentum to follow. She had figured out how to swing herself.

After many duets of otos and namos I asked her if she wanted to “go to listen to the birds tweeeeet tweeeeeet.” She stopped, and thought and stood and took my hand and began walking towards the tweeeeting. Then she turned to me, pulled me around and walked straight back to the swing, and sat back down, and began again – legs up; legs down.

As the sun shone down her, I thought back to Lao Lang – the tiny tranquil paradise island I had been fortunate to find myself living on last year after leaving Kolkata. I thought back to how I would sit on the beach swing, which was constructed from drift wood and rope and facing the infinite seamless sea. I would swing myself so high in the sky that sometimes I would brush my hair against the bark of the coconut tree from which it was hanging. Forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, thinking of Deepa, and how I wished she could be free to feel the sand, the sea, the freedom of swinging high in the vastness of the sky.

I am proud of her for realising these small freedoms. For making these small choices – of where she wants to go, and that she has the power to play in the way she wants and how she wants. Small freedoms for ninety minutes a day. I am proud of her for developing her communication skills. For listening to my voice, and acting accordingly. She is communicating with me; through her body and through her moods. I know when she is happy, sad, angry and frustrated. And she also knows when I am happy, sad, angry and frustrated. Today when she threw the Tibetan singing bowl on the ground and I scolded her, as I bent to pick it up, she dived her head into my lap, and hugged my waist. She was saying sorry. Perhaps we are finding our own way to talk, to share, to experience the little piece of the world we are able to feel. Together.

City Chicken

2010-02-18T16:52:00.003+05:30

I found a city chicken today. It was a little lost, even though it was in the city I think it was looking for its field of mud and grass. People walked by, stepping over the old chicken. Rickshaws spun past, covering the chicken with even more dust from the road. Taxis brooomed and auto rickshaws beeeeped. Hand human rickshaws rinnnnged and hand pulled carts 'yaaaahed'. The lost chicken was scared. Beeeep, Brooom, Rinnnng, Yaaaah, Swush, Swish, Step Ta Ta. The lost chicken was flustered as it pecked and scratched in the concrete of the pavement. Exhaust fumes and stove smoke whirled around her, as if giving a smell to the continuous commotion. The madness of the moving street. But the pavement seemed to have a little compassion for the lost chicken. The pavement silently called to the chicken. The chicken fluttered and scratched and clucked and clacked clumsily over to a patch of broken, jagged stones. The pavement was a border for the traffic (although the road was not a boundary for pedestrians) but it was also broken and holey, rubble and stones, dirt and brick.

The compassionate broken pavement invited the chicken to keep digging, to keep pecking, and the old lost chicken did just that. Scratching, and pecking, and digging and flicking aside tiny fragments of concrete. Dig, peck, scratch, scratch, peck, dig. Frantically and furiously, the chicken was searching for familiarity. For protection. In the middle of the pavement, in the middle of the feet, in the middle of the city, in the middle of the day, the chicken was successfully digging herself a home. Despite her fear, and the noise and the chaos, and no other live chickens anywhere near her, the lost chicken made her nest in the broken concrete of the pavement and fluttered down to cluck some more.

Free to Eat

2010-02-17T13:47:00.003+05:30

Deepa didn't want to eat lunch today. An hour before she had drank a cup of chocolate milk and eaten a huge Bengali sweet. Even tyeing her bib on was impossible; immediately she would find the string, pull and throw. I gave up and put over her legs in anticipation of the chaos to come. Next came the spoon game. As a way to tell her its lunch time, we usually play with the spoon before. Its a good way to fill the time, and Deepa has become much less threatened by the instrument of toddler torture. After only seconds of making it balance on her nose she picked it up and 'Ding!' dropped it on the floor – again and again and again – although she would alternate in which direction she would drop it, so there were close misses with her neighbour Netu's head, and the water nymph. It seemed particularly ironic that neither of her victims could do anything about the continuous bombardment. Baby Netu can not see the flying spoon coming, and the water nymph is tied to her chair, every moment of every day. In fact the water nymph is tied so tight that the rope marks her tiny stomach and ensures that she can not escape or dodge out of the way of shooting kitchen utensils.

Lunch arrived and Deepa reclaimed her tea spoon and successfully fed herself several small spoons full. Her food is still liquidised. I do not know why. When I asked the Sister she told me that it was not liquidised. I think she was confused with the pureed food which the severely disabled kids are (force) fed. Anyway, the liquidised food makes it even more of a challenge for her to keep the meal of (liquidized) rice, daal and some veggies (the same combo most days) on the little spoon.

Liquid dribbled down her mouth which she tried to wipe away with the back of her hand and then promptly spread all over her clothes, her hair and me. Add the fact that today she simply was not interested meant that the games quickly began.

Deepa was amusing herself by picking up the spoon and then slamming it down in the bowl. I guess a baby game she missed out on, and one which was bringing grins to her face and sticky yellow stuff all over my trousers. I tried to sing encouragement to her, but she just wanted to sing, so would again throw the spoon down in to the puddle of mush and tip her head to one side to listen a little closer. When I manged to convince her that picking up the spoon again was a good idea, she would put it carefully in her mouth and then gently bite down before quickly pulling it out, releasing left over food into a jet spray all around her (us) while simultaneously exploring the pressure of the metal against her teeth and then against her lips.

Deepa lazily stretched her legs into my stomach as I held the bowl in front of her, as she enjoyed the pressure of my body against her straightened legs. Continuously winded I tried to ask her to stop, while balancing her bowl in my hand. I still have to hold the bowl for her, as she is not yet allowed to eat at the table with the 'active' kids. Even if she was, the table is too low for her and the distance between the bowl and her mouth would equal an 'unacceptable' mess. So she continued to avoid lunch and instead leaned her head down towards the bowl. A clever tactic; forcing me to move it to the side while she would then search for my hands to try and make me clap her a tune. Both as stubborn as each other I would try and lift her back up into her little seat and wrap her hand back around the tea-spoon, but the same charade would continue and considerably more food was on me than in her tummy.

A million 'visitors' came in. It is always disconcerting when a large group of visitors appear. They usually stare at the children, are more interested in asking about where I am from or how long I have been here than about the children, or whip out their cameras – for what I am not entirely sure; nor do I want to know. The visitors today were French, they watched as Deepa covered me with food. I commented to one who seemed particularly fixated that she can feed herself, but today she just doesn't want to. He looked sceptical with pitiful eyes. It was the look I needed to say a 'sorry' to Deepa for trying to make her eat when she didn't want to. I picked up the glass of water and told her 'pani'. She reached her arms out and took it, gulping down the liquid. She doesn't drink enough. Her lips are always cracked. But without words she will only drink when and what she is given.

I take her bowl back to the massis and say she isn't hungry – “too many sweets before lunch” I tell them. The reply? “Bring her here”. Not more than five minutes later I am called back to look at Deepa's empty plate. She had been fed her lunch. The massi stared at me expectantly, waiting for a congratulatory look, which didn't come.

The point was not that she could not eat – the point was that she did not want to. Everyday I have worked so hard to give her the confidence to overcome the trauma of years of force feeding by allowing her the freedom to put the spoon in her own mouth. Speaking from experience of years of set meals, at set times and school restrictions, I know how destructive control over food can be. The power to feed yourself is symbolic of so many more liberties. Yes it might be messy, yes it takes patience, and yes it is a freedom that apparently still needs to be fought for daily.

Anonymous Obituary

2010-02-14T16:18:00.000+05:30

Time has passed since you passed

Days, perhaps a week or more.

I wanted to write about you,

But you weren't important.

I didn't know you, I will never know you

But you died on my doorstep.

Invisible in Life, Invisible in Death,

The world around you continued, without a pause.

Perhaps it was minutes, or more likely hours

before a mutual friend stopped to help you.

Too late. Like this Obituary,

For life had left your eyes, your body, your invisible life.

People walking,

Rickshaws spinning,

Dogs sniffing.

Perhaps a glance, but you were nothing in life,

Why then should you be noticed in death?

Perhaps I saw you, stabbing your skin with the syringe,

Escaping your reality, your body for one final time.

But I would have glanced, perhaps pitied and then forgot.

You were one of too many.

Will anyone miss you?

Will anyone notice you have gone?

A few thoughts to wonder Who you were.

A few thoughts to wonder who you could have been?

I wonder what your childhood dreams were?

Was there a time you belonged somewhere?

With a mother or a father, a lover or a child?

Where did the short journey of life take you?

An anonymous death, killed by survival.

The Wonders of Music

2010-02-12T12:21:00.003+05:30

The wonders of an ipod. I can't imagine how impossible it would have been sharing the universal world of music before the digital age. Even with the cd player in the orphanage, the music which Deepa is exposed to consisted of crackling church songs, old Hindi tunes or children's rhymes on a continuous loop. There is little possibility for melodies to be examined or pitch explored. Instead, the music crackles from the speakers and Deepa will usually find a space to dance, and if she has a pair of hands to hold onto all the better. But the ipod contains hundreds of songs from every genre; world music from classical to hip hop at a touch of an (invisible) button. Witnessing Deepa's reaction is incredible, especially as she hasn't made the connection between the ipod and the music, but rather has been woed by the mysteries of the headphones.

The first challenge is finding a place out of the grabbing curiosity of the other kids and the suspicious eyes of the massis, so our rudimentary 'music therapy' has been incorporated into our park visits. We do the usual routine where I try and encourage Deepa to take the lead; from the squeaking sea-saw to the fluttering birds and back to the singing merry-go-round swing. We then sit on the big swing for four people (or a dozen kids if it is Sunday playtime). As soon as she feels the plastic wires of the headphones she will quickly try and stuff them into her ears, immediately relating the object with the sound but unsure of exactly which part the music comes from. I try and pry her fingers away from the wires and her hands from her head, as she buckles into herself to guard against potential sabotage. If I am tricky I am able to maneuver the ear piece towards her ears, and then she will let go of the wire and instead place her palms flat against the sides of her face, securing the ear-piece to ear connection.

Sometimes she has grabbed the headphones before I have selected a song. As soon as the relevant piece is in the correct place and all she hears is silence, she will throw the headphones down as if she has been purposefully deceived. I will then have to coax her to try again by turning up the volume so she can be reassured that it is playing, and then she will allow me to reconnect her. As I do so, she remains incredibly quiet. Her eyebrows knit into a frown, as she protects the headphones with one hand over each of her ears. She concentrates incredibly intensely, and does so with all of her attention as I sit by her side diligently preparing her play list, to take her on a musical adventure across time and space.

Her musical repertoire now includes the Beatles, the Beach Boys, the Monkees, the best of David Bowee, REM, Queen, the Cookie Monster (a real winner), Blasted Mechanism Empire, Manu Chau, Flamenco, Salsa and Ray Charles. However, her strongest reactions have been to Bach and 'The Pianist' by Janusz Olejnicza. The first time she heard Bach her stillness was broken as she opened up her body towards the sky, straightening her spine, tipping her head back and grinning. This initiated a series of crazy rocking movements as her whole body followed the rhythm of the music.

When I fade out the last song, Deepa will wait, fingers still securely protecting the headphones and her ears. Eventually, she will remove her hands and let them fall down. She looks as if she is abandoning them for not keeping their side of their bargain and sharing their wonderful sounds with her. If I try a poor attempt of singing a melody that she is familiar with more or less immediately, she will join me. She doesn't necessarily make the same sounds as me, but she will follow the rhythm and the tone.

It is moments such as these that I really feel I am communicating in a very direct way with her. The other times, it is so difficult for those not familiar with her facial expressions and body language to realise that Deepa is finding her own way to talk – perhaps it is not the most valued way (as we all use body language, but tend to reply more on verbal communication) but she is definately very adept at using her body and facial expressions to say what she wants. The challenge now is trying to help her to tune into speech – to realise that what she says does matter and that eventually words will have a meaning for her because those around her will respond to them. Perhaps it is because she does not trust words; because even her actions of trying to fight off food she does not like makes no difference, or her attempts to explore the objects around her are controlled and their function left unexplained, or because the languages surrounding her are random and actually have no meaning, as “la la la” and “ba ba's” fill her head, along with random baby noises. She also has to filter through the direct and (usually) indirect languages of the volunteers' Spanish, French, German, Japanese, Korean and English, the Massis' Bengali and the Sisters' Hindi. A melody of sounds with little relevance.

I often try and image what it would be like to understand the world from Deepa's perspective. To never have seen the source of sounds, and often restricted from exploring them through touch. To have a very different measure of 'normality' as her peers are mostly physically or mentally disabled, and her carers are continuously changing.

Just try – think of how you learned about the meaning of objects (through show and tell), the function of objects (through watching the cause and effect), how our verbal communication only represents a tiny percentage of our actions, attitudes and experiences. Just think of all of the gaps that are left blank if you cannot see our world, if there is no one to explain it to you, and if you have yet to fully tune into the common perception of reality.

Hug

2010-02-09T16:21:00.001+05:30

This evening many people have been asking me how my day was. Perhaps they do this everyday and it is so routine that I just give an automatic reply. But today, the question seemed to stick to me, sinking further into the journey of my memory and raising one stubborn image which was partly a figment of imagination and partly a recent reality.

This morning I arrived at the orphanage and began to find Deepa some shoes and a woolly hat. She was immediately reactive and and began to stroke my wrists to confirm my identify, before playing with the toys of my watch strap and retired hair-bands. The shoes today were imposters into the 'everyday' cupboard, and belonged to the 'special occasion' cupboard. The special occasion cupboard contains all the shiny white trainers and polished leather shoes, as well a pair of white Clarks shoes, with a buckle Deepa likes to flick and a little pink flower which she carefully traces with her fingers. Deciding that everyday should be a special occasion, and that shoes were made to be worn, Deepa balanced her hands on my head while I bent down to tap each of her feet to let her know which to pick up so that she could be fitted out with the white flowered special shoes. They fitted perfectly.

As we maneuvered our way out of the orphanage I was distracted a million times; leaving Deepa standing, outstretched arms searching. Firstly the girl with the most beautiful smile in the world was signing for her recorder, which thankfully I had remembered. She received it was arms outstretched as she stood strapped to the wall. Then after I gave it to her little bow peep with her head of curly hair, grabbed it out of her hands, and stepped back out of the girl with the most beautiful smile in the world's reach. I went to retrive the recorder and in my sternest voice possible (which isn't very stern, especially when facing a extra cute and smiley little bow peep) in order to safeguard the girl with the most beautiful smile in the world's morning entertainment. My reprimand was to backfire as I glanced back to see the girl with the most beautiful smile in the world taking her revenge by battering little bow peep with her musical weapon.

Once out of the room and on the stairs the water nymph who is always tied to the chair had miraculously escaped. The massis say the little girl is 'pugli' as they motion to their heads....'pugli' means 'mad', and as a result she spends her days and nights tied to either a high chair or the bars of her cot. The real reason is that the water nymph has a fascination with water, and whenever she can she will run to the nearest tap and pour water over her entire body. The massis will find her dripping from head to toe, and as a result she is 'controlled' in the prison of her high chair. With an escaped convict (even if it is one unfairly judged and receiving disproportion punishment) in my midst I again had to abandon Deepa pleading with her to hold onto the bannister while I caught the little girl and deposited her back in the orphanage (although no where near her prison chair).

When I return to Deepa she was angry. She pushed me away and then searched for my hands and pulled me back to her. Then she began to cry, in fact she began to scream. Nothing I could say, sing or clap was able to calm her down. She found the wall and pushed her body against it, again and again, refusing to walk with me. The frustration inside of her and her anger was bursting out – uncontrollable and all consuming. Tears poured out of her closed eyelids, leaving their glistening trails behind them as evidence of Deepa's rising emotions. Frustrated at what? At not knowing what is happening around her? Of beginning the routine of going to the park but being left without a word searching the darkness for guidance? Frustrated at not being able to do what she wants when she wants? Or perhaps the nappy she shouldn't be wearing was too tight; the shoes uncomfortable; perhaps she was hungry, tired, thirsty, feeling unwell...whatever the reason, the result was clear. Deepa was ANGRY and would scream and kick about it for as long as it took. Aware of the danger her screams would activate from curious massis and Sisters, I did something I rarely do and that was to pick Deepa up so that I could quickly carry her down the stairs and into the park.

I bent down to pick her up, and held her close to me in case she began to fight. Immediately she stopped screaming. Pure Silence. Shocked at her response, I held her tightly as she placed her head on my chest and allowed me to carry her down the stone stairs. Hoping that no-one would see me (as carrying the children is forbidden) I watched as the anger inside Deepa evaporated, replaced with a calm peacefullness.

Entering the park I went directly to the swing and sat with her as my legs dragged along the ground in one direction and hers sat in the sky in the other. She moved her head closer to the centre of my chest – perhaps listening to my heart beat like she used to do last year, but I sat with my arms around her, feeling incredibly privileged to have her trust while aware of the calming and soothing effect our friendship was having – on us both.

When I think back about my day today; I think of the hug which I witnessed from above, and which I felt with all of my body. When I think about my day today, I realise that Deepa feels safe with me and I feel a fear of betraying her.

City of Colours: the diversity of reality

2010-02-07T13:33:00.006+05:30

Part of the financial success of Mother Teresa's charity, depends on depicting Kolkata as nothing but cholera infested slums ravaged with teeming millions of beggars. Aroup Chatterjee, who published a extensive study of Mother Teresa's works, estimated that Kolkata has lost a total revenue of $2.4 billion through lack of tourism, as her vivid images of the hordes of destitute camouflaged the rest of the city. The millions living below poverty do exist, and the living conditions for many are totally unacceptable, but it is also important to open our eyes to the beautiful aspects of this historical city, of what was once the jewel of the British empire. Kolkata is proud of its cultural history; home to the first Asian Nobel Prize winner, Rabindranath Tagore, and the highly acclaimed, Oscar winner for life, Satyajit Ray, Kolkata, as well as the progressive and highly influential social economist, Amartya Sen. The city has a vibrant cultural scene, reflecting its love to pick and choose from Western influences and create a truly unique centre for learning through entertaining...

The Dover Lane Music Conference started at eight in the evening and went on all through the night. Bands of classical musicians proudly took the centre stage in front of a huge stadium which had the potential to seat 3,500 people, until seven in the morning. I do not know of many cities in the world where all-nighters involve listening to vocal and instrumental Hindustani and Carnatic music. The festival was followed by the Odissi Dancers' Forum performing a expressive mix of classical and modern Indian dance; including a traditional dance to Mozart. The Attakkalari Centre for Movement Arts from Bangalore also put on an incredible performance of contemporary dance, set in the grounds of a beautiful old manor house in the middle of Kolkata. The dance troop literally danced through the house, taking the audience with them, ending in the flower fringed garden. The second floor occupants of the house looked down from above, as atmospheric sounds were dispersed through speakers suspended from the trees. The dancing was wild, free, expressive and expertly choreographed in homage to the German dancer Pina Bausch. Later this week a three day dance competition is being held aimed at revealing and supporting the up and coming 'Stars of Tomorrow'. Entrance to the venue to free and the programme centres around Kathak – where the rhythm is spoken by the dancers and is done so with incredible precision. The beats are simultaneously accompanied by the jangles of the globular bells worn around the dancers ankles, and accentuated by the accompanying orchestra.

Other regular events include alternative film showings by the Goethe-Insitut / Max MuellerBhavan and activist gatherings at the Earth Care Book centre. Exhibitions by local, national and international photographers are held at the Seagull Arts and Media Resource Centre. But an annual highlight is Kolkata's international book fair; the 34^th of which has just ended. The book fair is the fifth largest global gathering of literary lovers and was held for a duration of twelve days. The book fair covered a huge area – 25,000 sq meters including over 500 different book stalls which had been constructed out of plywood specifically for the event. Despite local criticism of power failures, inadequate fire safety and garbage removal, the tickets were a only five rupees (10 cents). This reflects the drastically reduced price of books in India – just a quick walk down College Street (the book market of Kolkata) reveals every possible title and every possible text book for as little as one fifth of the price in Europe. (I even know medical students who fly to India just to buy their course books.) Indian publishing is huge -there are over 16,000 publishers, and the numbers continue to increase. One of the reasons for the growth of the market is the rise in the literacy rate. At the time of Independence it was estimated that the national literacy rate was around 30 percent, but now it is almost 65 percent. This is reflected by the estimated 2.5 million visitors which this years book fair attracted, from the young and old, and from a fairly wide spectrum of economic classes.

Another of the city's cultural centres is the Ramakrishna Mission Institute Of Culture. Founded by Sri Ramakrishna's chief apostle, Swami Vivekanda, committed to the motto Atmano mokshartham jagad hitaya cha -“For one’s own salvation and for the welfare of the world”. The Institute runs the largest orphange in Kolkata as well as being dedicated to disaster relief during floods and famine. Apart from its philanthropic mandate it is committed to developing educational and cultural activities based on the Vendanta philosophy of the unity of human life. The institute has a beautiful public library, and through the access to information, presses for intercultural appreciation and understanding. Philosophical lectures and talks on Vedanta are regularly in both Bengali and English.This commitment to such a broad spectrum social welfare is a stark contrast to the Missionaries of Charity.

Basically, there is loads going on in Kolkata, much of which is easy to miss if you keep you eyes turned down to the pavements rather than to the events which they lead to. Many times it is more comfortable to pick one of the extremes – social work verses cultural exploration – as a foot in both camps highlights the inconsistencies. I often have the rather uncomfortable thought that some volunteers simply do not want to see the beautiful (well funded, well educated and definitely not in need of picking up and praying for) aspects of the city. Yet at the other side of the coin, I have read reports from foreign business men, who have flew in and out of Kolkata, taking with them nothing other than its fancy hotels, luxurious restaurants and rich cultural history. I am aware of my own role in portraying an 'image' of Kolkata as close to the reality as possible, but then again it all depends on ones particular reality, which is why I am enjoying broadening my experiences, despite the crazy contrasts of spending the afternoon bandaging the wounds of men with nothing but the clothes they wear, and then sitting next to stunning sari clad women, dripping with jewels and shimmering with gold.

Perhaps if more tourists were to visit then the government would be encouraged to become more committed to solving rather than ignoring the poverty. Kolkata could proudly show off her love for the arts, science and literature and become the diverse, cultural and secular city it used to be, and for a small percentage of the population, continues to be.

The more you look, the more you see, the more you see, the less you understand...especially when you are looking with foreign eyes. And often it is easier to see through the shaded veneer of sun glasses, but reality is never black and white. Reality is a ever changing mosaic of contrasting, merging, fading and exploding colours. This city makes me smile and cry - laugh and scream; often simultaneously. Perhaps that is why, when I am not complaining about the insidious pollution, or the continuous noise, or the perpetually staring eyes, I find this city continuously fascinating.

Inside the Singing Bowl

2010-02-05T17:44:00.000+05:30

The air feels thick with sound. Invisible vibrations waving and spiraling, pulsing as they diffuse and consume. Deepa delicately places her hands around the cool thick brass. The dented vibrations run through her fingers. I place her hands under the bowl and together we carefully lift it off her legs. I gently tap the rim and watch as she soaks up the sounds as they transform and grow and then fade all around her. She straightens her back and tips back her neck, lifting her head up towards the sky. It is the reverse action she does to when she feels threatens and curls into herself. Instead, she opens herself up to the world around her, only when she feels confidence, excitement or joy. Her lips pull back into a strained grin and then she exhales her self back down towards the source of the sounds. The same tone but different waves, playing with her ears as she turns her head slowly in differing directions. She is exploring. I ding again (although a 'ding' bares no reality to the melting echo of the song).

I hold the wooden stick close to the sides of the bowl and then slowly move it around and around and around. Pressing as hard as I can without pushing the bowl off of Deepa's hands. The sound transforms into a sonic hum. It grows through the air, drowning the silence with a quiet shrill.I placed my hand under hers and lift the bowl up, sending a new wave of vibrations down over her head. A frown buried between her eyebrows. Total concentration. The initial smiles replaced by a dedicated commitment to absorbing. The shrill was now a warble of colours, only visible with closed eyes and complete concentration. Not only audible but absorbable. I remove the wooden stick and allow the sound to return the silence to the air. I wait. Deepa continues to listen. I am studying her reactions as she studies the texture of the air. I am in no doubt she can still hear what I can no longer. Meditation, being present. Being conscious of every sound and distracted by no other thought. She was still listening. She was still hearing. She crouched even further down, as if trying to hide herself inside of the source; inside of the bowl of colours, vibrations, waves and spirals, of endless songs, silent and thick, powerful and free.

Birthday Presence: Tigers and Butterflies

2010-02-02T13:42:00.000+05:30

A perfect day for the beginning of a new decade. After years of trying to avoid my birthday, my thirtieth was definitely worth the recognition – besides I think somewhere deep inside I had never expected to reach what had previously seemed to be such a huge age. But time comes and goes in a seamless ribbon of events, rippling from one to another as we ride the short length of the stream of infinity. Time carries us along with each breath, until age has worn the body, and experience battles with the forgetfulness of the mind.

I had tried to remember each year of my past birthdays; Thailand, Oxford, Palestine, Nepal.....but the memories are not clear and recollections of celebrations have become clouded with the criss-crossing of events and friends. My memories are faded with only certain smiles remaining: The smiles of snowboarding for my twenty first; or dancing in the streets of Darwin for my eighteenth, a friends parents taking me out for dinner on my sixteenth, the three flavours of ice-cream that I would have to choose to share with my boarding house as friends would line up with their mugs at the ready. I remember when I turned six, and it felt like I had reached a milestone of childhood – waiting for my little friends to arrive for cupcakes and pin the tail on the donkey games as well as the overwhelming stacks of presents which preceded them. The first birthday I think I can remember, although I can't remember how old I was, definitely involved a magician...magic birthdays...

My first Indian birthday involved copious amounts of music, noise and dancing – all at the orphanage. Even the walk to Shishu Bahavan involved an escort by a brass band, the members of whom where wearing bright pink shirts and joking with the crowd as they danced into waiting pedestrians amused at the cause of their delay. Behind them chugged an old van, filled with people and smiling children. On the front there was a polystyrene heart proclaiming the marriage of two veiled faces. I stopped to collect the one hundred misthi which I had ordered from a sweet stall tucked between the butchers of Alimuddien street. The Bengali sweets consist of mouth sized balls of soft deliciousness soaked in syrup which effortless melts in the mouth as escaping liquid needs to be rapidly licked up. The workers joked with us as we took photos of them peeking out of the roof and then proudly standing next to their collection of multi-coloured freshly made trays of sweet treats. Free samples were distributed, and I found my new favourite – a warm mixture of sweet thick curd served on a crispy brown leaf, shaped into a bowl with the help of a tooth pick.

In Sishu Bahvan I handed the clay pot full of misthi to a massi who swiftly removed them for later consumption – which I hope won't be too late. Meanwhile, a friend from Modern Lodge - a Swedish sitar player – tuned his hand crafted instrument in the stair well, while I tried to coax the active kids into the inactive section, so all would be able to listen. The Swedish musician with his Indian sitar sat on the floor as the kids began to edge around him. He began to pluck the delicate strings with his taped fingers (a sure sign of his commitment to mastering this beautiful instrument). The temptation was too much for the children and as soon as the Wide Eyed Boy had broken the imaginary barrier between performer and audience, little hands were every where. The children were drawn to the sitar like bees to honey. The Swede and his sitar began to retreat backwards in a slow bum shuffle, and eventually the concert had moved across the entire floor of the orphanage. Trying my hardest to protect the sitar and fight for enough space for the Swede to actually move his arms, but it was like trying to pry super strength magnets from super charged steel. The Little Chinese Boy with his low vision eyes even climbed on his lap hugging his arms around the sitar. The closer he was the more the source of the sound was revealed. Eventually the brave Swede surrendered and sitar was hidden. The replacement calvary included the blasting beats of popular hindi songs which crackled out of the speakers. Armed with a packet of face paints we began to decorate the faces of the kids, who soon were piling on top of us, in front of us and rolling over our backs, pointing to particular colours and body parts which they demanded should be painted. Protecting the paints required immense concentration as fingers appeared from no-where trying to take ownership of the treasures. The Little Chinese Boy crept up and blew some of his famous raspberries on my arm – a sure sign of appreciation.

Meanwhile, the sitar-less Swede was dancing with Racki – a little autistic blind girl who I think must believe that all volunteers are toys for her amusement. She was holding the Swede's hand and twirling and turning around and around and around as he stood next to her like a needle from a record player. Bruno was sitting face to face with Deepa cradling a baby 'Gibtone' guitar. Deepa was tapping out the tunes onto the guitar while Bruno strummed – two pairs of hands on one instrument. I watched as she leaned closer and closer until eventually she had placed her lips on the strings...delicately feeling each vibration as the sounds flowed through the surrounding air.

A group of kids had gathered in front of class room door. The door is 'protected' with a large plastic sheet. The kids were dancing so that they could watch their reflections and more specifically their newly decorated faces – as they pointed to their moving shadows temporarily disguised as tigers, cats and butterfly's. Giving me inspiration I picked up the Girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world and took her over to the mirror. She clapped her hands together and flipped her body forwards and backwards as her face spread even further across her face.

The Sister in charge was surprisingly miffed that I hadn't told her it was my birthday, and insisted on adding to the celebrations by decorating me with a pink plastic garland and then presenting me with an enormous stuffed tiger. Meanwhile, the massis and active kids sang Happy Birthday followed by an enthusiastic rendition of 'God Bless You', sang in both Bangla and English. The Little Chinese Boy came to grab the birthday tiger, but was shooed away by the Sister who insisted he would rip it...but I have a suspicion that a Tigers den will soon be lurking under the cots. Deepa won the packaging – a plastic bag which she crunched and crushed, twisting it as she listened to the sounds and felt the slippery texture.

I left feeling incredibly elated, full of childish energy, and happy that I had an excuse to have a party with the kids. Walking back down the street with my face painted with a green foliage and two '30's one on each cheek, while a tiger peaked out of my bag. On the way home The Man Outside found me, and when presented with the Gibtone began to play a tune – always full of surprises – just like the time when handed the keys to a bicycle he jumped on and peddled off, leaving no trace of his belief that he was kidnapped from London and brought to Kolkata by a helicopter. We went for dinner in the Taj Continental. The waiters discussed whether the tiger was Bengali or African. The Man Outside watched warily as the waiters insisted on posing for photos with what was eventually decided to be a foreign tiger. As I walked home the taxi drivers contagiously sang 'Om Namah Shivaya' – presumably mistaking the '30's for sideways 'OM's but unwittingly singing the mantra of Anusara yoga. I walked home stepping into the flow of the currents of Grace – the beautiful ribbon of life which time accompanies us through year after seamless year., brushing over the past with faded memories and reminding us of the importance of living fully in the present.

Birthday Wishes

2010-01-30T13:11:00.003+05:30

Turning 30 in Kolkata. My dreams of heading off to the mountains for a few days have not materialised, so instead I will celebrate at the orphanage. Friends have volunteered to play some music - a little bit of traditional sitar, some tabla, and a mini guitar. I have invested in a brand new pack of face paints, and a bucket load of Bengali sweets soaked in syrup which should keep the massis and Sisters happy. As for birthday wishes - I have one at the top of the list - that Deepa will talk soon. She is making loads more noises and clearly becoming more confident in her sounds, but her random words are still random, and not a clear reflection of her comprehension. After a wonderful donation from a friend from Bali, I have managed to secure a Bengali speech therapist to come to Sishu Bahavan for an extra day a week for the next four months. Thank you! Although his talents will be spread out between all of the children, at least Deepa and the blind babies will have more of an opportunity to learn the value of words.

Meanwhile, I continue to have inspiring dreams of musicians, music lessons and dance classes but at the moment they remain dreams. If anyone could help me to realise these, opening up the world of Deepa and the other blind children through sounds, it would be wonderful. I need an MP3 player, I need ideas, contacts and traveling maestros! Any more donations to extend the speech therapist beyond a weekly session for four months would also be incredible. Am I expecting too much? Not at all...dreams are dreamt to be realised, and after nearly 30 years of surviving and loving life on this incredible planet, helping an incredible being step into her power can surely be brought into realisation - especially with a little help from friends....Thank you all for your encouragement, thoughts and ideas. Now and always...

If your far away, please have a little dance for me and Deepa - if your near, dancing, singing and magical music sounds are at 3.30pm at Sishu Bahavan tomorrow. In Solidarity. X

Walls

2010-01-28T17:50:00.002+05:30

Feelings. Wanting to make a difference. Idealism. Stupidity. Defeatist? Stopping occasionally to wonder about motivations but propelled by sight; nurtured by a love for life, and for a belief in a common humanity. That surely we can all share this wonderful world – full of beauty and pain, a delicate balance full of experience. A small bamboo tattoo hidden from sight reminds. Freedom from repression; freedom to live; a endless freedoms and a infinite meanings and fears are not enough to defeat, but enough to cast shadows of disillusionment. History teaches some rich lessons; determination and the prevalence of the truth despite the concrete walls as solid as granite moulded by heat, and whittled by weather, still suffocating life from the sun. Moss continues to crawl. Others have overcome far greater challenges; blatant injustices have been buried, and lost freedoms re-won. At other times, corruption and greed seem to prevail. Protected by fake morals and contradictory ideals. Our species seems to have continuously taken foolish choices; propelled by the self interest of the powerful. Rich knowledge of our indigenous peoples has been left to bleed into the soil. Even now when 'we' acknowledge past actions of cruelty – stupidity do 'we' refuse to change our ways. Electric numbers dictating choices, as life is devalued to beyond meaningless. So many have far too much and far more have far too little. Waste, greed, perpetuating beyond rational, hidden by smiles and hypocritical gestures. I wonder about human nature – about 'our nature'. Nature nurture, nurture nature. Some actions need no choice, and yet there they are hidden from view, veiled by excuses. Reason should prevail. Should shouldn't exist. A sinking feeling of defeat deep in my belly, fought with a stubbornness which might be foolishness. What use is it to keep hitting the wall, if it is continuously being reinforced, minor superficial changes preventing revolution. Meanwhile, the suffering of 'us' continues through lost lives and irreversible damage. Defeated? Enlightened? Making the world a better place, or making yourself feel a little less useless? A cog in a matrix of a universe. A speck of dust. Determination surges through my heart, along my chest and down my arms as my fingers burst with ideas. Life for a second of this infinity which is clouded in unanswered probabilities. But actions speak louder than words and the days tears continue to sting my eyes red as frustrations have to find a way to escape. Subdued. Defeated. Tired. Continuously privileged and 'entitled' to the freedoms I can realise, its all too easy to turn away and be surrounded by a shallow beauty of life and colour, as darkness steals through the shadows.

60th Republic Day

2010-01-25T17:44:00.002+05:30

Today is Republic day. India adopted its own constitution sixty years ago. In celebration today was declared a public holiday and brass bands took to the streets, marching around the major cities. In certain areas free food was given to create a street party atmosphere. Here in Kolkata, it provided the children and massis a few minutes of entertainment as the beats of the drums and bellows of the trumpets called people to attention as they rushed to the windows to see the annual event walk by. Deepa sat in her chair, momentarily distracted from the task at hand (finding the bowl with the spoon and then making the journey back to her mouth). The tricolour flag of orange, white and green with Gandhi's spinning wheel in the centre, was raised throughout the city. Small poles where erected in the middle of roads, and many were accompanied with little decorations, including one flag flying high over a makeshift battle field, where toy soldiers and tanks fought amidst the small puddle of sand.

India actually obtained independence on 15 August 1947, after the British colonial powers relinquished its authority, unable to continue to justify its occupation, especially in the face of Gandhi's effective and peaceful push for liberation. The real celebration is therefore in the summer, and today's was a smaller reminder of India's historical achievement, as the adoption of its own constitution reaffirmed India's commitment to democracy. Despite the grafting of the political system and the gradual implementation of an inclusive electoral mandate, the democratisation of such a huge populas was and continues to be a hugely ambitious achievement. Sir Anthony Eden, the Prime Minister of Britain (April 1955 to January 1957), called the creation of an Indian Republic 'brave' with secondary democratic knock on effects for its neighbours:

"Of all the experiments in government, which have been attempted since the beginning of time, I believe that the Indian venture into parliamentary government is the most exciting. A vast subcontinent is attempting to apply to its tens and thousands of millions a system of free democracy... It is a brave thing to try to do so. The Indian venture is not a pale imitation of our practice at home, but a magnified and multiplied reproduction on a scale we have never dreamt of. If it succeeds, its influence on Asia is incalculable for good. Whatever the outcome we must honour those who attempt it.”

Now with a population encroaching one billion India proclaims itself as the world's largest democracy. Part of India's success is through devolved power to state governments, although providing a sense of valued representation to its rich and varied cultural, social and religious groups requires continuous readjustments. There are more than a dozen states who continue to lobby for the creation of a separate state, such as 'Gorkaland' in West Bengal and Coorg in Karnataka. However, there is no doubt that India's economy is carrying her into the global age of high technology and international stock markets, which has the potential to gradually erase deeply entrenched socio-economic groups left over from the traditional caste system. In the meanwhile, the poverty gap continues to widen, while tension with Pakistan threatens to breed fear within the population and whispers of religious discontent. This leaves the central government in a difficult position of 'protecting' against possible terrorist attacks, while continuing to calm any religious tension between its Hindu and Muslim nationals. As a refuge to the Dali Lama, with a large indigenous and refugee Muslim population, as well as home to Hinduism and a scattering of Christian communities from the day of the Portugese and colonial missionaries, India is setting the example of how a secular state, can work to erase tension on religious grounds. Perhaps the external threat of attack is a means to achieve this, as heightened terror alerts have becoming increasingly frequent, especially since last years Bombay bombings. Republic Day has brought its own terror alerts, and around the country security was stepped up and extra precautions taken. This even included a rather bizarre threat of a likely terror attack by paragliders so paragliding has been banned for 15 days around Mumbai.

Republic Day provides an opportunity to touch base with the ideals which the modern nation was founded upon, and a renewed commitment to continue to work towards them – paragliding or no paragliding...

Praying for Serenity

2010-01-24T17:08:00.008+05:30

Furious. That was my initial title for today's blog. But determined to control my emotions and learn from each and every experience I wrote my heart out and then re-worked and re-worded, until I arrived at a compromise between how I feel and how I aim to feel...Today I was told not to work with Deepa anymore. I am not sure how direct this threat was but the very motivation for its verbalisation has deeply upset me. But I will start at the beginning...
Another morning in the playground and even this is becoming tedious. We go on the slide, the monkey frame, the singing sea-saw, the small swing for two and the merry-go-round swing for one. We listen to the twenty four birds as they sing for freedom in their cage full of wires, and when necessary avoid any shoves and pushes from incoming orphans from the 'normal' orphanage. Depending on Deepa's mood, she will either fly through the distractions or hang onto my arm, waiting for me to lead her rather than take the initiative. Today she was in the former mood – happy to be outside, and enjoying the swing.

Nearby there was an Italian couple, well dressed with nervous excitement spilling out of their actions. They were busy entertaining their son to be. Actions spoke louder than any of the few words they had in common and they each produced potential toys, eager to please the subject of their attention. He was an older boy – maybe around Deepa's age and without a doubt he was overwhelmed and happily followed his new parents lead, gratefully receiving the toys and expectantly hanging off their every look or action. His new father was blowing up balloons for him, which would disappear with a smile as it was quickly taken on a brief tour of the playground. The boy and ballon would then return as if scared to leave the source of such individual attention for too long. These were his parents. An expression previously unknown to him.

Without words to explain, gestures and actions had to suffice, and smiling seemed to be the common formula. Grins welcomed his return, and kind eyes calmed any insecurity. I couldn't stop thinking how terrifying it must be for both the new son and the new parents. The new son would be leaving all that was familiar to him – faces, clothes, culture, food, language and be entering an entirely new world full of different standards and perspectives. He would have to trust his new parents who he still could not speak to and learn their words fast. He would have to hope they didn't tire of him. It will take time for him to understand their triggers, their likes and dislikes, and hopefully his transformation towards their expectations will be relatively smooth. On the other-hand the new parents will have to learn to love a child they have just met. To accept any personality traits they don't like, to live with the temper tantrums, and adjustment problems that might never dissolve. As the child grows up, they will have to answer uncomfortable questions that perhaps they don't know the answers to. They will all have to stay present, let go of expectations, and enjoy the dynamics of a new family. As always, a sense of incredibly wellbeing floods through my body as I see parents meeting their children for the first time. The union brings hope, and although that I know Deepa's adoption is only a distant dream, perhaps there is a chance that someday, someone will free her.

The new son with his new balloons was encouraged to share his new toys and directed towards us. He held the balloon out in front of Deepa, who unaware of its presence stayed still, waiting to respond to my next move. I guided her hands towards the bright pink ball of plastic. She grabbed it and then cradling it like a huge teddy, gently rubbed her fingers over its surface, feeling its dry stickiness and enjoying the slight and random squeaks that her strokes would produce. The new son experiencing the joy of karmic sharing, gleefully ran back to his proud new parents. Wanting to increase the feelings of good-will the little son began to blow up more balloons – with huffs and puffs - floating spheres were released into the air. Some bubble-gum pink, some midday sky blue and some sunflower yellow; their vivid colours contrasting to the faded shades of the swings and climbing frames, lighting up the bleak and grass-less ground. The ballons bopped and bounced as they were blown across the compacted mud; carried by the slight breeze. One by one their journey was gradually curtailed; first by a net of wire protecting a stunted tree, another by the shelter of the swings and finally by a 'bang' as a leafless bush assassinated a sole survivor. The new son continued to blow and blow, producing his own production line of ballons, as the new father walked around the playground picking up the plastic remains of the once self-propelled and perfectly sealed colours of air. It was strange to see someone taking ownership of selected pieces of rubbish amidst the few discarded sweet wrappers, a broken plastic chair and a rotting ball. Here rubbish collection is someone else's job (usually the rag pickers), and dropped items are rarely retrieved. Notions of environmental responsibility appear to have grown from different standards as despite the mass of plastic bags which clog the drains and pollute the rivers, India continues to possess one of the highest rates of recycling in the world, as need prevents waste and it is the poor who picks up other peoples garbage. Perhaps it would be easier to teach a boy from the orphanage – who had previously had no personal possessions, and whose movements were always monitored - about the importance of picking up rubbish. I guess it would be a different challenge with a street kid.

The tiny school in the playground opened its bolted door and a handful of children ran out. Protectively, I took my place by Deepa's side, ready to fight off any incoming taunts but the sprinkling of colours were more of an effective magnet. The new son didn't have a chance to share his presents as the floating ballons were swept up by possessive little arms. With not enough arms satisifed, attention was then turned to Deepa, who continued to protectively cradle and stroke her bubblegum pink teddy bear of a balloon. Picking her up above the searching hands, her balloon was saved and we retreated back into the orphanage. Smiling a smile full of good luck and admiration, I nodded a goodbye to the new son and his new parents and walked back through the courtyards and up the stairs. Deepa continued to explore her new toy – an invisible centre of sound and texture. Certain that a sighted child would not remain so mystified by a balloon, Deepa again taught me a lesson in sensitivity to our senses. She was totally focused on a rubber ball of air - one which for her contained so much curiosity, full of different sounds and pressures.

Walking into the orphanage, Deep's new toy was immediately attacked by the little Chinese boy. I managed to retrieve her ballon with speedy reactions, which took both me and the little thief by surprise. Handing back the treasured balloon to Deepa, I turned to put her shoes back in the cupboard. Deepa screamed. Looking back I saw that the wide-eyed boy had stolen her prize possession; her gift from her invisible friend and which had allowed her to explore new sounds and sensations. With revenge on his mind, the little Chinese boy charged at the wide-eyed boy and 'POP' went what had been nearly one hour of entertainment for Deepa. Deepa was still waving her arms in front of her searching for her lost treasure. The screaming which commenced was impossible to stop. She wanted her toy back and she did not know where it had gone; she did not know that it no longer existed.

The Sister in charge told me she didn't want me to work with Deepa. She said this while Deepa was crying. She said I was making Deepa cry and that she 'felt so bad to see her like this'. I tried to explain that Deepa was often upset everyday – sometimes for no reason, sometimes because the nappy she shouldn't be wearing was too tight, sometimes because someone had burst her balloon, sometimes because she was hungry, most times because she didn't have a clue what was going on. But then I had a realisation. I realised I was talking to a woman who didn't seem to really care. Who simply didn't want to know about the progress that this incredible amazing girl has made. Who didn't want to know about my ideas to facilitate this progress and those of the other blind children because they didn't include the children who are not blind. Who didn't want to know about her staff's mistreatment of the children. Who didn't want to know that her predecessor had requested that I work specifically with Deepa. Who seems blinded to the reality of the children in her care.

Shaking with anger, disappointment, frustration - at the inability for reason to prevail - I took my emotions into my own hands and with no alternative, calmly walked away, leaving Deepa crying and the Sister watching.

There is a prayer in the Mother House. Logistically placed for careful consideration. So far, I am still considering.

Searching for Dreams

2010-01-20T15:27:00.003+05:30

I have never been as ill as I am when in India. It is incredible. In Bali I was teaching yoga every day, practising a million times, farming, flying, full of life, and yet after a couple of months in India I have been plagued with an onslaught of debilitating viruses and infections. Even though I have been nursing headaches which feel as if they are hacking away my brain from its bony housing, while tissues and muscles ache as they battle bacteria trying to invade and conquer, the irony is that it is impossible to complain. I have even surprised myself at my silence, and despite the constant fear that this time I am an actually really ill, and the very last place I want to go for help is the local hospital, at least I still have access to medical care. I also have a bed, which is in a quiet room, with windows that might not close but a down sleeping bag which certainly provides a cosy cocoon. I also have as much food as I need to recover, and I have even finally waged war on to the freezing icicles pouring out of my inside water tap. I have invested in a low tech water heater (although this did short-circuit the entire top floor of 'Modern Lodge' while melting two home made adapters) and eventually it worked and professionally heats a entire plastic bucket of water within half an hour. However, I know that the people who enter the dispensary have no expectations. Many have been walking around with severe infections, eating their bodies from the inside and out, for not days, weeks or months – but according to the registrar – for years. Few complain or even wince when pus filled wounds are scooped clean, and all give a thankful 'namaste' with both palms to their head in gratitude, for what is barely a solution but the closest they can get to real medical attention. Often I think we are providing false hope – dressing wounds and thereby delaying the search for emergency treatment, but then again, it is incredibly difficult for homeless, street-bedded patients to be admitted into a hospital and receive treatment.

The latest set back has come back to haunt me after several years. An old cycling injury became infected causing a abscess bigger than a ducks egg and far more aggressive. Thankfully my body has learned a few lessons in self-healing, and with debilitating pain and much patience the 'egg' finally cracked and the infection released. Unfortunately this has meant staying immobile for most of the week, but again one week is nothing compared to a year or more. One of the main reasons my patience has lasted and my complaints have been mere murmurs is because I knew I would be ok. But what of those one the streets? How much fear must they have? Many who I treat, seem comparatively (and impossibly) fearless. And how incredibly high their tolerance must be as they break super human pain levels? Does it gradually feel normal to have huge infected ulcers in the leg? Or is this one of the reasons why the homeless drug users line the streets in the evening and the day time; it is not uncommon to pass a dead man – overdosed and finally free from suffering. Ironically, it is often extremely hard for the homeless drug addicted or drunk to receive medical treatment. (The Sisters at the dispensary are adamant that they don't receive treatment.)

Delirious dreams led me to Deepa, and after reading a book about Cherokee Indians, I fall asleep imagining her running in a vast open expanse, full of flowers of every shape and size. She runs through them as they brush her legs and tickle her face, she runs past still glisenting lakes, magical mountain trees and under rainbows which melt their colours into the sky, turning it into a rich melody of fantastical colours. Behind her rise huge snow-capped mountains, which shelter her with a protective aura. She feels and hears everything and life rushes through her. Every texture, every breeze, every sound. She is completely part of the nature which in reality she has never known. The sun is shining all around her, lighting up the colours in the sky and she continues to run and run. She isn't running from anything, but she is running with everything; with the fresh air around her, dancing with the vibe of nature, every step full of life leading her towards a huge leap taking her high into the blue sky. She flies up into the clouds, higher and higher and higher, her face transforming into a pure smile, before 'splash' she falls into the ocean. A shoal of a million fish of all shapes and colours surround. She is laughing and singing to them and they start to sing back through air bubbles full of songs and sounds. They guide her safely to the shore. She lands on a sandy golden beach. She cautiously touches the sand, rubbing the grains between her finger tips, catching hand fulls of it and holding the heat between her palms. She lifts up hand fulls into the air allowing it to fall through her fingers and over her head. Then she begins to dig, and she digs and digs and digs until she totally disappears. Suddenly I am there, but I can't find her, and her hole begins to fill up with sand as if it is an up-turned egg timer. I watch as the sand follows her down into the ground and then covers up, as if she had never been there. I shout for help but all I hear is a continuous echo, which instead of fading grows louder and then silence. It is as if she had never existed. There is no trace of her. No record of her life.

Awake and my dreams are of her freedoms and independence. But unable to leave my room, my thoughts begins to be consumed by sensations of apprehension. Reading a stack of 'Philosophers Notes' leaves me worrying about my worrying...why do I worry? After all Deepa has been on her own for the majority of her life? Well I guess because over the past months she has made definite progress and feels comfortable and confident to do this by my side. The friend who have visited her in my absence remarked that she has recoiled back into her corner – next to the plastic buckets and 'ting ting' lever of the window frame. One morning my friend gave her a broken toy keyboard to play with and when another friend went to visit over six hours later, she was still sitting banging and flicking the tuneless plastic keys. It takes time to build Deepa's trust, and these periods of absence my set back our work and her progress. Moreover, I have been worried that if I am not there she will be force fed again – unable to be allowed to feed herself. Again, friends stepped in to cover her lunch and I know that she has been supported to continue to enjoy this freedom.

All of this has not only been a test of patience, but a reminder of the need for a more permanent solution to Deepa's progress. I have emailed speech therapists, special needs teachers, international and local organisations working with blind children and charities proclaiming that they fight to provide equal opportunities to blind children in developing countries. The few replies I have received have been empty apologies. So what is the solution? What am I searching for?
I am searching for a way to provide Deepa and the other blind children at Sishu Bhavan with a means to learn life skills, develop and progress until they have fulfilled their potential. The future of the children who are unable to look after themselves will be transferal to another of the Missionaries of Charities homes; many without the intervention and distractions of the volunteers. At the very least, I am searching for a way for them to be able to express themselves and to continue to explore life, even if it is from the confines of institutionalisation.

Death of a Hero - Hero after Death?

2010-01-19T14:43:00.004+05:30

"State Hero" is how Jyoti Basu will be remembered. Bengali, Hindi and English language newspapers across the country have dedicated entire national sections to his record tenure in Indian politics. Basu died on Sunday and Monday was declared a state holiday. Volunteers laid eighteen sandbags over pot-holes to smooth the road for Basu's last journey as his body was carried through the city, with a escort of over one hundred car and motorbikes. For an outsider it would appear that Jyoti Basu was not only Kolkata's most famous politician but also the most popular. But as is so often the case, death seems to cast a shadow over imperfections and emphasise more remarkable traits. In this way the dead are often immortalised as Saints or Heros, as historical memory is swept over with rose tinted recollections.

Jyoti Basu began his career before the end of the British Raj and spent a formidable seven decades in politics, living to the incredible age of 95. Born in what is now Bangladesh he moved to England, and like many a determined politician studied law. Basu returned to Kolkata as a staunch communist. He was involved in Kolkata's more militarised plans for achieving independence and became a prominent figure in India's fight for sovereignty. In 1977 Basu became the Chief Minister of the Communist Party of India (Marxist) (CPM) in West Bengal, which he remained for a record breaking 23 years. In fact he was on his way to take his seat as Prime Minister until his party changed tactics, in what Basu described as a 'historical blunder'. Superficially, his leadership of the CPM provided the democratic fodder against the Nehru's Congress party, but on closer look it appears to be a strange kind of democracy that would allow a leader to stay in power for nearly a quarter of a century. So exactly what was his legacy?

Reading through the endless printed pages attributed to his life and career, broad spectrum commentaries write about his meetings with prominent statesmen such as Gandhi, Fidel Castro, Yasser Arafat, Nelson Mandela and the Chinese Premier Zhou-en Lai. The Chinese connection refers to an interesting relation whereby Basu supported China during the Indo-China war of 1962. As a result of his communist views Basu was arrested and spent a short period in prison. In a overview of his life, S.K Dasgupta (West Bengal's Jyoti Basu: a political profile) touches upon his once extreme unpopularity by recalling that effigies of Basu's were burned in public demonstrations. But with the victory of the left in West Bengal, accumulating with the creation of the CPM, Basu quickly resumed center stage. He became popular for his proclaimed secular ideals, preventing him from being drawn into religious clashes, imminent especially during the partition of Pakistan in 1947 and later through the creation of Bangladesh in 1971. Despite this the CPM's headquarters were (and still are) situated in a predominately Muslim area (Alimuddein Street) giving strength to the rumour that this was a strategic placement, reflecting the CPMs covert pro-Muslim stance.

Basu is glorified as pacifing the demands of a Gorkha state by joining them to fight for specific rights such as for Nepali to be the recognised as their mother tongue, over the imposed alien language of their state's capital – Bengali. However, more recently, the Gorkha's demands (described as a 'thorn in the side of West Bengal') refuse to be dampened, and one of the hill stations main criticisms of the CPM is that it takes far more in revenue in taxes than it provides in public services. This is an echo which can be heard throughout the state, and gives clues to previous criticisms of the fallen hero. An interview with a local entrepreneur, R, reveals a totally different character from the Basu described in the papers. The words "corruption" and "stagnation" dominate our conversation, and it soon becomes clear that despite appearances much skepticism surrounds the leader, especially in regards to his commitment to the needs of the people.

Until 1911, Kolkata was the former capital of India. It used to be one of the four main metropolitan cities in the country. Once famous for its fine buildings, public schools and rich agricultural land, Kolkata's reputation has been transformed from a symbol of the splendor of the Raj to a haven for Mother Teresa from which she could 'save' the multitudes of dying and destitute. West Bengal is now among the poorest states in India and ironically it is the poor who form the largest base of the CPM's support. Abhijet Sen writes in The Times of India that Basu was responsible for a policy which transformed West Bengal from "being a famine-prone area" to a "leading agricultural producer.” Even though these reforms have been criticised as outdated and in need of revision, Sen also argues that this “paid electoral dividends and laid the foundation for the rural support base of Basu's party."

During the Bangladesh-Pakistan War 1971, the massive influx over the border of an estimated 10 million refugees, inflamed Kolkata's huge problems of over population. The refugee issue has continued ever since as severe flooding and cyclones continue to plague Bangladesh. With an infrastructure designed for a population one six of its present size, and additional problems of rural to city migration, Kolkata is now bursting at its bustees. The informal estimation of Kolkata's current population is over 15 million people. One could argue that by opening its doors to all those who are in need, the CPM has set an example for all to follow. However, R, disagrees: He argues that the CPM allowed refugees to flood the state for all the wrong reasons, and as a result public resources have been stretched leaving decent health care and education to be a provision only for those who can afford it. With the same mother tongue and with a common history, it is relatively easy for Bangladeshi refugees to receive Indian citizenship. According to R all it takes is a little baksesh, or at least a promise of a vote; and perhaps this adds further fuel for the continued electoral success of the CPM. Interestingly, R agrees that Basu was a legend, but a "legend for all of the wrong reasons; he was a business man and his business was politics. Basu understood and knew how to work the system and this is how he managed to stay in power for so long. History could have been very different."

I am writing this as I sit in a coffee shop which is still being in the process of being built. In between the flying chips of wood and through the din of the constant hammering, I ask one of seven men watching the implementation of a cappuccino machine what he thinks of Jyoti Basu. “Jyoti Babu” he replied affectionately “is a hero”. Why? I ask. “He just is and now he will always be a hero; history will remember him as a hero.” Indeed, yesterday thousands of people took to the streets to wish their farewells. There was no mass hysteria nor outbursts of emotions and as Mani Chatterjee in The Telegraph reported “some of them had never voted for the CPM in their lives, and many had ceased to vote Red in recent years.” Yet with Basu's death “an ear had come to an end...and they had come to make their tryst with history”. After a full life of nearly one century, witnessing his country's independence, partition and then entry into a global era of technology, booming business and then a dramatic and ever increasing poverty gap, Basu has lived a full life of change and development with the only constant being his position in power.

Confused Determination

2010-01-16T17:19:00.002+05:30

It is so confusing trying to figure out the most effective tactics to coax words out of Deepa's mouth. At the moment she is incredibly receptive but very possessive. It is a fine line to tread; and one which I am continuously aware may be creating expectations on both sides. This time one year ago I was heart broken to leave Kolkata. More specifically, I felt that I was abandoning Deepa, and as anyone who spent time will remember, my desertion weighed heavily, invading the then present and fixating a little of my consciousness right here in Kolkata.

One year later – precisely because I left, gathered support and ideas, refreshed and renewed – I find myself back in Sishu Bahavan, and working back within the Missionaries of Charities institution but with my own personal mandate. With incredible gratitude to the flow of Time for bringing me on this return journey, I still find myself immersed in the familiar and uncomfortable emotions of confusion and self imposed responsibility. The more time I spend with Deepa, the stronger the connection between us grows. Especially due to the absence of sight and speech, we have developed an intricate system of alternative communication. We have a routine of exploring the roof top or park each morning. On the roof Deepa will pull me over to the ledge, climb up the three steps which bring her to my height and then confidently swing her body in front of mine as I am forced to sit with her hanging off my lap. Total trust. If I am not where she thinks I am, she will fall to the ground. This is a game she loved last year, and one which never failed to end in uncontrollable laughter as I hang her upside down and pull her back up again.

Another favourite game of hers is to dance; whenever there is any rhythm she will sway from side to side, reverting into her straight legged rhythmic step which will increase in length depending on whether she is dancing solo or hand in hand with a volunteer. She loves to hold hands – perhaps because it is another source of entertainment, as she repetitively flicks the strap of my dive computer, and pokes her finger into the small loop of my worn spare hair-band. Perhaps it is because this is really the only contact she has with others. Or more realistically, perhaps its because hands are her eyes – if she follows carefully she won't walk into walls, or trip down steps. But if she is hand to hand she feels safe and with an incredible degree of courage which I know would be impossible to achieve with a blindfolded sighted person. For example, Deepa will grab my hands tightly and twist under my arms, demanding to be bent fowards, picked up and spun around. Ultimately she will find my feet with hers and step on top of them, forcing me to waltz her across the floor. Again it is her unwavering trust which is humbling although it is easy to forget.

Deepa still finds no interest in 'playing' with the other children. This might be a result of her previous traumas, as kids come and inadvertently 'steal' her toys, which she has little defence against apart from screaming and holding on tight. Indeed she will usually scream very loudly well aware that once out of her grasp, unless the toy is musical, she will have little chance of retrieving it. Maybe this is why she will push away any attempts of the kids to include her in their games. However, her aversion to playmates has taken one step further. I walk around the nursery holding baby Netu's hands as she lurches forward into the unknown, and loves every minute. Deepa will be holding onto the tales of my apron and seems happy to follow. However, if Netu demands too much attention, Deepa will reach around and attempt to disengage our hands. Totally unaware of the sudden attack, Netu will let out a furious screech and stomp the little legs which she is still learning to completely control.

However, the nature of the nursery – and in particular the inactive section of which Deepa is still resident – is not particularly conducive to child to child interaction. The majority of Deepa's neighbours are chair bound and dependent on volunteers to lift them out of the chair and into the cot or onto the mat. They spend most of their days staring around the room, or fighting off the continuous round of food and drink. Meanwhile, volunteers 'play' or rather entertain the children in a very isolated way – rarely interacting with each other. It is therefore logical that Deepa feels much more comfortable in my company then with any of the interlopers from the 'active section'. Meanwhile, the more we work together, the more responsive Deepa is becoming.

For the last three weeks, Deepa has fed herself lunch every afternoon. This may not seem like much of an achievement for a six year old, but for Deepa this is huge. Previously, I have had to take her hand in mine and guided each spoonful into her mouth – and this was the result of hours of persistence to break the habit of being spoon fed every meal at a super fast rate. But today – over the duration of a miraculous hour – Deepa carefully ate an entire bowl of rice and daal by herself. After every mouthful, I always sing a 'well done Deepa!' or an 'Amazing Deepa', or 'Deepa is so amazing, clever, super smart' – you get the picture – not just to try and urge Deepa towards the empty bowl finish line, but to advertise her acheivements to the disbelievers around me. In fact my dedication to Deepa's lunch is always so intense, and my cheer leading chants so persuasive, that the massi's have began to restrain their usual shouts for us to join their fast food race. As time has continued Deepa has been left to finish her lunch at her own speed, and even the usual protests against my extended morning session have dried up. Now I usually manage to continue my one woman fan club long after the other volunteers have left for their own lunch, otherwise a massi would come and take over, and it would be back to Deepa sitting like a goldfish – opening and closing her mouth in order to consume the food being ploughed in.

Each day I am so proud of Deepa, and feel that her confidence to feed herself is an incredible achievement of the past two months of work. It is an indication that she is progressing, and perhaps my tactics are actually having some lasting results other than a morning of laughter and sound exploration. But with it, I realise that I am again in total awe of this little girl, who lives so bravely and courageously despite being blind to the reality around her. I want to help her to my fullest potential, and yet I know I can't stay here forever, and even if I could, I am no expert. Ironically, even though it is Time who carried me here, I know that eventually it is also Time who will pull me away with the lull of future plans and alternative loyalties. I am continuously swinning in the confusing philosophies of the impact of social work and of course by the race of life, itself whispering its mantra of 'too much to do and too little time'. The larger reality is that my efforts to help Deepa own her space, and unlock her voice are met with baby babbling, or more often then not silence. My frustrations that she is wearing a nappy go unheeded as apparently there is no time for potty training. The system she is owned by, tightly guards the space for freedom of creatively which perhaps may allow her to flourish. Instead, I am left feeling an incredible admiration wrapped in a sentiment of respect and love while not knowing what to do to really make a fulfilling and lasting improvement to her quality of life? The variables for improvement seem so extensive and complicated that even if I had unlimited funding and expert knowledge perhaps it would still not be enough.

Can Deepa take control of her life while growing up in a tightly controlled and preoccupied environment? To what extent are the Missionaries of Charity prepared to facilitate a future for her; as without their consented efforts am I just trying to build a castle out of sand? Despite these doubts, what I do know is that I have a wonderful six year old friend, who may lack eyes, but who possesses incredible potential which I – unlike many others - refuse not to see. I am just not sure where to look for the solution.

Voices of Angels

2010-01-15T18:02:00.001+05:30

Today I gave the Sister a cd from an Angel. I would have done it before but I was told the orphanage did not have a cd player only a tape player. I guess its another reminder that the truth is never what it first appears. Anyway, when a message really needs to be sent, it will find a way; despite the hidden obstacles, and this morning the voice of an Angel found its way across the ocean from the beautiful island of Bali into chaos of screams and shouts of Sishu Bhavan.

During my time in Bali I was blessed to cross paths with truly beautiful beings. Those who were generous and loving, wise and truthful. While I was exploring the direction to take – between living my life to fulfill my dreams, and fighting for the dreams of others to be freed, I began teaching Blindfold Yoga. Now it sounds pretty crazy when I attempt to explain to other volunteers who are working at the orphanage that I was trying to share Deepa's experience with others – after all how do I know what she experiences? Apart from the frustration which at times she screams out, flinging her body around the nursery, not caring if she hits the walls, or if she finds the metal bars of a bed – biting down hard, but it is extremely arrogant of me to imagine that I know what or how she feels. However, Deepa continues to teach me about our potential sensitivity to our world – to sounds and to touch, to communication without words, even though I still have no idea as to what she feels in response to her increased sensitivity. Through the Blindfold Yoga I wanted to try and share her courage by inviting people to experience life without sight – just for a couple of hours.

Indeed, everyday I continue to be astounded by Deepa's courage to trust to be guided, to climb, to play, to allow me to spin her around and around and to turn her upside down. During the blindfold yoga, music played an important part in guiding the participants through various emotions and experiences. Again this was a tribute to Deepa, as everyday I witness her response to sound and in particular to rhythm. During the workshops, an Angel volunteered to sing...while the participants were still blindfolded, she would lull them out of a yoga nidra, and into kirtan – a call and response singing. The 'response' was indeed incredibly powerful, with many people allowing their voice to awaken amidst the darkness, joining their previous isolation with the invisible beings around them, who they could not see but who could hear and feel the group energy and a group voice sealed through sound. During the workshops the Angel would end with a song for Mother Teresa and for Deepa. I remember the power of her simple words as they were transformed into magic spells inhaled to evoke unexpected emotions. It was if the energy was travelling from the studio across the sea to the craziness of Kolkata and back again, bringing with it Deepa's power and beauty. It was as if Deepa was in the room with us, sharing her vision and gifting us with her formless presence.

Another reason why I had so persistently continued with the Blindfold Yoga was to try to somehow take the support and thoughts of all of the people I had met during my travels with me; to bring the power of solidarity from those who I had told about Deepa and who had learned a little from her courage and from her silent fight. Today I felt the reverse. As the voice of the Angel filled the nursery from the crackling hissing speakers, it was as if light and love had filled the room. Immediately tears moistened my eyes – proving that location is irrelevant and that music holds the key to unlock emotional memory, bringing a ghostly reaction beyond rational control. The Angel was singing a song for Mothers – for Mother Teresa – but it wasn't the words which were affecting me but the indescribable power which accompanied them. It was as if colour were flooding the room, calming the atmosphere, absorbing the breaths of pain and freeing stagnant imaginations.

Again, I have no idea what Deepa was thinking, but she was clearly listening. She stopped her movements and bowed her head forwards – as she always does when she hears a sound which interests her. I watched as she stopped all fidgeting, even with the three bracelets which she had been protectively cradling on her wrist all morning. The shrill dinging of the bell broke through the magic. Its vibrations were calling to the volunteers that the kettle of morning chai was waiting for consumption on the stairwell. It was impossible to leave Deepa. She was totally absorbed by the music. I thought back to the reaction of the Angel when she had first learned about Deepa. During her meditations she had visualised herself in Kolkata, singing. At other times the Angel told me she would practice blindfolded – opening her voice to a new heightened sensitivity. Now I listened as Deepa and the Angel spoke – one silently listening, receiving, as the other sang her – their - power.

For once I was thankful for the replay button, which played the cd about four or five times until ultimately Deepa was swaying and twirling and dancing feet-on top of feet with me. The Angel continued to share her wisdom as she sang to Deepa about the magnificence of the oceans. Even though Deepa has never felt the power of the sea, nor heard the energy of its waves, nor tasted the saltiness of its scent, perhaps it was the closest she has come to the water which separates her from all the wonderful support I know is singing and dancing - away from her sight. Now all that needs to happen to continue the link which has already been bonded, is for the Angel to visit the city of her dreams, and to sing for the children who live the legacy she was – for some reason – initially inspired to sing about.

I have a friend who beleives in Angels. She believes we are all surrounded by our Angels, and all we need to do is to speak to them when we need their help. They are always listening, and they are always with us. Even though we may feel incredibly isolated and alone in this World, our Angels are always dancing in our shadows, singing their words of wisdom which we just need to open our ears to hear. We are never alone.

Street Walking

2010-01-14T17:21:00.002+05:30

Stiff lumpy hands play awkwardly with a shimmer of steel coins. Attempts to order and to control. To pile neatly into a palm that needs to be convinced to comply. Thick fingernails eagerly 'counting' the meagre collection. Mission accomplished and the counter continues on his way, stepping forwards into the moving human stream feeding his calculations. An old man, cleanly shaved and with comb-toothed hair shelters a fresh skinned infant who watches from the ledge of a bony shoulder. Watching the purples and reds, blues and whites, browns and yellows of the passing people programmed on a predestined route of routine. A wizened white haired and stingy bearded barber holds court around a rickety wooden chair. He leans close to his subjects as the chatter bounces from one to another and back to the compare in the centre. The barber talks as he works, theatrically snipping the air to emphasis his views before freeing the blades to continue their professional mission; as invisible strands of hair are disconnected from another talking head. Amid the debate a small hand mirror is held for affirmation, reminding of the history of barber stalls – where expert eyes are yet to be replaced with reflective glass. Past and future customers sit on stools animately discussing, continuing the argument long after the initial participants have departed – hair trimmed, cheeks liberated from ancestoral clues, eyebrows plucked to order with string.

English words are shouted out as a waving arm reaches forward. It is only a brief distraction before the desired state of passivity is returned to but a reminder that the watcher is always watched.

The morning bakers have transformed into butchers as the afternoon market centres around stalls of hanging beef. Hearts and brains are nearly arranged on the table, as creamy offal hangs in a never-ending ribbon. Unidentifiable organs sit in a discarded pile, while waiting dogs watch eagerly from the gutters. Men stand up and squat down, like the keys of a human accordion, while puddles of urine collect at the edges of the road, lazily searching for the iron grids hiding under soggy lines of old news and recycled roti packets. A nimble man steps down from a tabacco stall, carefully placing the folded green leaf into his cheek, which bugles in acceptance. He jumps into the stream of shoppers, walkers and talkers, as his blue tartan lungi stretches to reveal his skinny bones. He bounces up the opposing step, straight into a conversation with the butcher boy. A chubby kid sits on the shop floor, with his legs dangling into the street; flip flops fighting gravity as they cling to his dirty toes. To his side he is playing with a string of gristle, cutting deep ridges into the meat with a small steel blade.

Identifying and dodging undesirable human waste – flesh which the dogs or crows haven't retrieved, the hacks of coughing men, the splash of dirty water as it is thrown into the road.

Another two men beging a conversation with a shout and continue with fluent signing. They are conducting their conversation across the narrow width of the street as each one remains stationed in their opposite stalls. Shop neighbors for many a afternoon. Two girls wearing identical bright pink dresses and heeled shoes play in a smooth patch of mud. The intensity of the pink screams out grabbing attention against the backdrop colour of urban decay. A soggy bicycle tyre has been hung on a permanently hibernating tree as a semi deflated ball is successful thrown up and through; street basket ball. A rubbish collector drags his cart to a pile of old ashes, fruit peels and unidentifiable decomposing waste. A packs of dogs are lazily laying over the heap, warming their bodies from above and below as the sun seeps through the smog and the ashes smoulder below. The rubbish collector thoughtfully attempts to persuade them to move before he adds fuel to the make-shift kennel. Further along a rag picker is poking through a similar pile, pulling out straggly plastic bags on the end of her metal stick.

A old woman sits against the wall of the building as she tries to wedge up her tattered sari to change into a waiting piece of cloth. Her efforts are clumsy and her movements of vanity awkward. Her stomach rolls forwards as her nipples are then covered. A man in with a moustache and woolen jumper slows to a stops He lets two shiny coins drop from his hand. The woman hurriedly leans forwards to catch the coins in her joined palms. The power of 'giving'. An older man moulds a wedge of tabacco into his palm, expertly massaging the dried plant into a cheek sized ball. Water splashes out of a doorway, bouncing off the street and appearing to stick to the wall before dribbling down into dirty puddles.

A line of teenagers walk by. The same tactic as always, as one is pushed in front observing carefully placed steps. The boy is quickly dodged as a smile is masqueraded with neutral passivity.

Two women line up outside of a tailors stall.The tailor is surrounded by an air of precision, measured by the long tape hanging over his shoulders and the watchful stares of his apprentices, who are squeezed into the tiny space behind his work table. Passing the mosque, mutterings of greetings fill the hidden silence, as 'Salaam alikum' mixes with 'Alikum Salaam' creating a mosaic of religious sounds and continuous welcomes. Men wearing clean white prayer caps, trimmed beards and crossed legs, carry with them their distorted limbs, as they perch on the window ledges, receiving passing alms, which come quickly and are received with the sending of more 'Allah's' into the thickening air.

The corner is marked with a brandnew shining sign urging witnesses of 'Power Theft' to report to the sequence of numbers it boldly advertises. Behind the sign rises a church - full of statues and slogans but without the busteling activity of its lively Isamic neighbour. Opposite sit the same collection of old men; all wearing thick rimmed glasses, with their patch of territory marked out with a square of plastic or cardboardand their bag of belongings protectively stacked by their sides. The elders wisely consult their oracles of papers from around their city, county and country. The newspapers they hold up towards the sky reflect English, Urdu and Hindi script; invisble news made literally physical in a range of tongues. These are educated, literate men, holders of history who now sit, collecting their keep from the familiarity of their slab of pavement while they wait for time to become finite.

Reaching the intersecting tram line, and dodging the speeding cars and taxi's, which accelerate at the glimpse of potential human contact. An impatient four wheel drive blows out a infinite 'beeeep' as he encroaches upon a rickshaw puller. The rickshaw puller is desperately trying to maneuver his awkward clumsy and obviously heavy wooden cart through the collection of 'brumming' stationary auto rickshaws. His passenger is a small boy, clad in a navy school blazer and surrounded by woven bags of fruit and vegetables, which bounce around following a short delay of logistical negotiation. Another rickshaw puller lurches forwards, running into his worn flip flops as two large women lean back into their open throne, distractedly observing the scenes below them as they enthusiastically share their thoughts.

The street opens up into a road where cars would be able to pass by in both directions if it were not for the lines of parked yellow taxi's waiting for their human car washer to spin through. A heavy Enfield motorbike reves past. As the driver pulls the machine through the confusion, his tiny small blue Tom and Jerry rucksac swings to the right and then to the left – managing to mirror his movements while smiling at all those who pass by. The bike and the rucksac rush past at the same time every day. One of millions of paths crossing the paradigm of parallel lives as children, men and women, Hindi, Muslim, Christian, Bengalis, Biharis, refugees, poverty tourists, historical tourists, diplomats, homeless and housed, materialistically rich and eternally poor...each moving around their patch of pavement, street, road or city surrounded by the clues of its never ending depth and superficial synchronicity.

The more I walk the more I see, the more I see the more the senses surrounding imagination delves into the dreams of reality. What an indulgence to walk the streets of this world.

Searching for Sounds

2010-01-12T17:15:00.002+05:30

Deepa is continuing to respond well to sound. Ad midst the noise and chaos of the nursery it is possible to sneak into the classroom and extracted one of the many musical instruments which seem to be kept locked away so that they aren't broken. One of Deepa's favourites is a big tambourine/drum which can be banged and can be jangled. Today during my search and retrieve mission, the little boy who has a crush on Deepa locked me inside the classroom. Unfortunately for him, the classroom as a clear plastic window so I could see him while he doubled over in anticipation of the joke he had just played on me, alerting the attention of a new massi who – fortunately for me – just unlocked the door and focused her attention on controlling the now disappointed cunning boy. With the tambourine/drum and Deepa's searching fingers in the other we retreated to a corner of the nursery away from the prying eyes of the other kids.

Deepa began to tap the drum beating out a rhythmic sound as I sang random songs. When I began my rendition of 'Indiana Jones' (a long time favourite) Deepa began to tap the beat precisely. I changed to 'Inspector Gadget' (again another old favourite) and Deepa also changed the rhythm to fit. I tried 'Sound of Music', 'Twinkle Twinkle' and finally after running out of familiar songs moved back to the festive jangles of 'Jingle Bells'. Deepa had the rhythm perfected for each one. An inability which I remember my piano teacher becoming incredibly frustrated with me for, and at times, wringing her hands in despairing disbelief.

Later that day as Deepa climbed into her bed I left her singing 'da da da - daaaaaa' to Indina Jones. Small successes, but again proof that music is a way to seal Deepa's connection to the outside world.

I have also been trying to allow Deepa to attend the pseudo in-house school – which seems rather sporadic and involves a great deal of singing along to children's hymns. However, this is precisely why I think Deepa will benefit from it. However, out first attempt wasn't so successful. After succouring entry into a morning session, during which a long term volunteer was playing the guitar and the children clapping along, Deepa immediately tried to search and recover the guitar. Now in order to try and facilitate her return I tried to restrain her – a task I don't enjoy as she has so little freedoms as it is. However, this was achieved by whispering to her to sit down as I sat behind her and clapped my hands in front of her as a minor distraction. Yet my tactic was to rebound as half way through the next song an undercover angry massi (previously disguised as a 'nice' woman), stopped the music and began to complain to the entire classroom that all the 'aunties' (ie volunteers) were too tactile with the children and this made them cry when they left. The rest of the children looked confused, as did the guitarist, while I filled the silence by replying that perhaps if the massis were more affectionate with the children, the gap left by the volunteers departure need not lead to tears. Meanwhile, Deepa was lifted up and put on a chair freeing her from a distraction and of course inevitably leading her to go in search of the guitar....Game Over.

To be Continued...

Wishing Words

2010-01-12T16:50:00.004+05:30

Another morning in the park, and one which has brought a smile lasting for the rest of the day. It began with the usual search for two shoes the same size and two same size shoes which fitted Deepa. It is always a mission as I kneel down searching through the small cupboard as Deepa retains our connection by holding onto my head, and more often then not enjoying to unwrap my head scarf revealing my wiry hair which the tricky lice love so much. Then the activity will attract kids from the active section – usually the little Chinese boy who will jump on me before finding a suitable patch of my skin to blow raspberries on, and a little boy who has a crush on Deepa – or rather finds great amusement watching Deepa's response to the random toys which he loyally and courageously brings for her.

After the shoe puzzle has been solved, and the attention of the mini army of active children re-distributed, the next hurdle is any last demands from the Sister. Today it came with two conditions the first of which was : “Make sure she wears a hat” to which I replied by holding up the blue woolly beanie. And then the follow up “comb her hair before you put the hat on.” I managed to exit without performing this second task, as Deepa no longer has any hair left to comb, after it was all shaved off military style. In fact she is still mistaken for a male missionaries cadet. Trying to put the beanie on as she walked to temporary freedom was hilarious, and I laughed a 'thank you' to the Sister for the amusement. Deepa usually hates anything on her head, but today after pulling it off with lightening speed reactions, she tried an alternative tactic and pulled it all the way over her face. Genius. Her nostrils and mouth were free, and this way she was saved from the cheek pinches from the random Sisters and nosey visitors.

Into the park and Deepa flew up the slide just to sit on the top and listen to what appeared to be silence, or perhaps it was the yells from the bigger orphanage nearby, or the stealth like climbing of the local builders as they scaled the bamboo scaffolding, or the craw craw of the crows. Who knows – but she listens while I try to imagine what she might possibly hear. Her ears continue to be much more attuned to life than mine. Eventually she began to push herself down the non-slidey slide and found my arms at the bottom.

Flicking the small blue beads on my bracelet as she led me over to the sea-saw, the precision of each of her step left me (as always) so proud. Once on the sea-saw today she was super happy...the hinges were singing a high pitched and croaky creaky song, which Deepa hadn't heard before. Sitting back to front with the hat pulled over her eyes she listened as I slowly pushed the sea-saw up and down. When I stopped she protested with a loud and clear order of 'Abar' – 'again'. With immediate thoughts of Climber Woman, while smiling out a 'Hurrah Deepa' and sending her back up towards the sun to the sound track of the sea-saw, I was reminded of the knowledge and abilities which Deepa does have, but only chooses to share, when the time – or the silence is right.

Deepa hasn't said many words since I have returned, but she is continuously making sounds – a big improvement from last year. But her memory of 'abar' was obvious as she successfully gained a little control over her amusement but commanding me to continue. Perhaps it is because the order doesn't always work, or perhaps she lacks confidence in saying the words she clearly has the ability to pronounce and the intelligence to understand. But by providing her with a space to explore the words without pressure is definitely a winning technique and exactly the same pattern was repeated moments later on the swing; as soon as we stopped swinging, the magic words filled the silence as Deepa loudly and clearly said 'abar' - again and again. My cheers and Deepa's words caught the attention of a visiting Swiss man, who appeared to use the momentous moment to share his own victories and frustrations...

The visiting Swiss man was with his soon-to-be daughter. His soon-to-be-daughter was holding her new present of a pink balloon and sitting quietly as her father-to-be pushed her swing round and round. “She doesn't yet understand” said her father-to-be . “My son was easier. We adopted him from the disabled section three years ago. They told us he was 'retarded' but now he is fine”. A promising fable. He returned to speak German to the little soon-to-be-daughter who tomorrow he will take from the orphanage to begin a totally new chapter of her young life, with the only continuity being the new brother she has not yet met.

Later Deepa took me over to the same merry-go-round swing and stood in front of a painted pink seat with a million dried birds poops on. With perfect control over her body language, she stretched her arms out as an instruction for me to lift her up. As I did so she held on to the cool chains and waiting while I began the momentum of the invisible spin. I stood back as the merry-go-round swing continued its job. DDeepa sat, shoulders curling into her body, woolly beanie pulled deep over her eyelashes.

I wonder what she imagines the spinning swing is? If she imagines colour. If she realises why the park is so quiet and the nursery so full of noise? If she knows why I come and go? If she knows the importance of the sounds around her? Talk to me Deepa. I want to know you. I want you to take your power. I want to fight this fight with you. I want to speak with you.

I wish we could speak.

Kids Play

2010-01-10T17:02:00.002+05:30

Everyday I am trying to take Deepa to the orphanage park. After nearly two months of constant battles with the massis, my tactics have improved and success rates soared. I no longer ask for permission to take her the two minutes down the stairs but instead try and find a Sister and tell her we are going. If possible, I will also try and free a couple of the other kids from the matrix of the walls which encase them, and ask some volunteers for assistance. Without the daily visit to the park the kids stay in the room all day and all night – every day and every night. During the past few weeks there have been many memorable incidences, and perhaps it is the escape from the nursery - the noise, the screams, the shouting – which provides a different perspective and the space to reflect.

Last week, a sixteen year old volunteer from New Zealand came with me guiding another of the blind girls from the orphanage. She was speaking to her as if she was a baby, so I mentioned that her new friend was twelve years old. “Only four years younger than me” she kept repeating in disbelief. Perhaps her shock was that her new friend still had not been taught how to use the toilet, that she still sucks her thumb and she has yet to develop any communication skills. The extremely shy and quiet girl warns me of what may lay ahead of Deepa if she does not find the space to learn and to develop.

When I walked into the orphanage yesterday morning, the girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world grinned at me. She brought her fingers to play an imaginary musical instrument in front of her mouth. She was signing for the musical recorder which my aunt had donated and which I have to take home every night. Searching my bag I witnessed her disappointment as we both realised that I had forgotten her favourite toy. The girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world is unable to walk, and spends her days either sitting in a high chair, laying on the floor or strapped to the wall with a faded purple bed sheet. For this reason she is never usually taken to the park, but I figured this would be a fitting apology for my inexcusable absent mindedness. Finding two willing volunteers to help to carry her down the stairs, the girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the World went on her first visit to the park in what I guess has been an indefinite amount of time. The short journey was incredibly long, as the girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world wanted to walk to her new adventure. Every second step would send her sandal flying as the angle of her foot combined with the ageing velcro strap refused to stay put. But upon the arrival of the coloured gate, unlike Deepa, the girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world could see the fun which lay waiting for her and we were all rewarded with the appearance of the most beautiful smile in the whole entire universe.

Meanwhile, Deepa expertly guided me to the park, despite the friendly enemy hands which would appear from nowhere to pat her head or to pull her cheeks before any verbal warning. At times I wish there was some way of forbidding any thoughtless attempts to lift her head for confirmation of her blindness. I can't imagine the frustration of continuously been prodded and poked – but worse, without have any idea who the prodders or pokers are. Watching as Deepa carefully activated the correct steps to maneuver herself down the stairs, through a corridor and across two courtyards is always humbling. I have walked the route hundreds of times, but I would not be confident doing it with my eyes closed. Once inside the park we follow the same circuit as Deepa first leads me to the huge concreate slide, which depending on her daily mood, she will either scale with the agility of a orangutan, or just hang out on by climbing on the first step and then just surveying the playground for interesting sounds from her new platform. After the slide comes one of Deepa's favourite past-times – the squeaking sea-saw. She will usually walk straight into it and either sit down directly or push her weight on top of the plank bringing it down into the hard packed mud at her feet. The sea-saw is too small for me; I have tried and failed. Instead I usually stand and push it down as she rises towards the sunshine she loves to feel, and then back down to the hard mud below.

Yesterday, without her knowledge, she was joined by the girl with the girl with the Most Beautiful Smile in the world who unlike Deepa gains more enjoyment from sharing a toy or a game then or the actual experience. Today was a little different. Today, about twenty children from the main orphanage were in the park. They were all toddlers and enjoying swinging the swings 360 degrees, and moving the broken plastic chairs and tables underneath the monkey bars to make a chaotic but designer den. The games changed as soon as the whispers spread that a blind kid was in the park and within minutes one brave little girl had already made the approach and darted towards Deepa to push her to the ground. The oncoming onslaught was unbelievable, with Deepa having no idea of the direction of her attackers or the reason for their malice just stood silently as I attempted to push them all back while remaining calm. After individually picking up each of the children and taking them over to a supervising massi, Deepa appeared to be 'safe'.

This was the playground. What would the streets be like? How will she manage living a life independently? Or maybe I should be asking when will she be living her life independently. Confined to a routine of nappies being changed, being dressed, being undressed, picked up, put down, force fed and put to bed. A routine fixed in rigidity, without the flexibility to allow the space to learn life skills; without the ability to be warned of danger, or the ability to respond accordingly. Perhaps the daily mission to the playground is a perfect training ground; despite the hidden dangers and invisible challenges. Deepa is Amazing.

Normally Autistic

2010-01-06T18:14:00.003+05:30

I am typing this from the 'Oxford Bookshop' cafe – one of the few places I can use my laptop apart from my room, courtesy of the bhakshi which I paid for a rather dodgy wire to be fitted to the bathroom light (and despite the 'hotels' regulations which stipulate that 'under no circumstances must guests do any business through our staff'). Next to my decrepit laptop, sits a book on 'autism and spectrum disorders'. It found me. It keeps doing that. Each time I stop to look at the section on yoga, for some reason this book waves at me. Perhaps its because it is not where it should be, or perhaps its because its the one word which is spinning around my mind. So now I have taken it on an adventure, across to the cafe, where I am reluctantly flipping through the chapters. Pausing at the sections including definitions and reading and comparing and constructing silent arguments. Why don't I want to believe that Deepa is autistic? Is it because she isn't? Because I want to believe in her – that despite all the off hand comments that compare her to those who have gone before her – that her limited speech development and reluctance to fully participate in the world around her, is a result of her abnormal conditioning.

I re-read emails from the Blind Children's Fund in the USA, reassuring that there is no 'normal' development for a child born without eyes and living in an orphanage. But each day of working with Deepa is so varied and constantly challenging. She is incredible, and will never cease to be nothing but brave and courageous, as she explores the world around her and manages to exist in an environment full of screams and shouts. But at times, I feel I am losing her to her mind. Most of the day seems totally with me. Exploring toys with me, touching my skin as she explores its texture, listening to my voice, pausing if I cough or turn my attention else where. But then she seems to disappear to a place which it is impossible for me to reach. She will laugh loudly for no reason, or flick her fingers on the floor and refuse to stop – possessed by repetition. She detests to 'play' with other children, if she finds my silver bracelet with the bells on she will fight for it until it is on her own wrist, protected by both of her hands, and she care of nothing else other than guarding her prize. Maybe this is 'normal' for a child growing up in a room full of chaos? Maybe not.

Again, I don't want to think she is autistic but why? There is nothing 'wrong' with being autistic, but it does severely limit her opportunities for a 'normal' life if she is. It is hard enough fighting for the rights of a healthy abled child let along one without eyes and working with autism. Everyday I see other autistic blind kids in the orphanage, who have no chance of finding independence, or of making sense of the darkness around them. I read sections of the book and then close it. Denial? Testing myself, I open again and read:

“The term autistic disorder applies to individuals who have social interaction impairments, communication impairments, and repetitive, stereotypic, and restricted interests and activities...Most children diagnosed as having autistic disorder are moderately to severely impaired, having IQ's that fall in the range of moderate to severe mental retardation.”

I close the book again. I feel so sad. I feel like a traitor. I believe in you Beautiful Amazing Deepa.

Infected Humanity

2010-01-06T12:50:00.000+05:30

Perhaps it is my recent trauma after fighting for the tiny baby to be admitted into a hospital, and then the continuing fight to find out the real diagnosis (first it was pneumonia, then bronchitis, then an enlarged heart requiring open heart surgery), but my spirit is heavy with disappointment in our humanity; our united lack of care for individual suffering.

For the last two months I have been working in a small dispensary in Sealdagh station, which is ran by the Missionaries of Charity. The dispensary is incredibly basic. It contains an assortment of medications, but no one qualified to know what to do with them, so the most common treatment is the cleaning and bandaging of infected wounds. The most common 'medication' which is administered is a placebo multi-vitimin which patients eagerly line up to collect. Most of the patients live in or around the train station. Without the dispensary it is unclear what course of action they would take, although I often wonder if we are providing nothing more than false hope with our mask of treatment. The dispensary is only open for three afternoons in the week. This in itself is a disability, as on the streets clean white banadages quickly turn brown and the encased infections put up a vicious attack for total dominance. Regardless of this, there are patients who religiously attend the clinic and others who attend only sporadically, prompted by the increase in severity of their afflications. Most nurse wounds which have become so severely infected that no amount of drug abuse would be able to mask the pain and leaves me unable to pass any judgement on those who walk into the little room glassy eyed and thankfully mentally far away.

Yesterday I saw the hardest 'case' yet. One of the men who had been keeping regular attendance, was already leaning on the entrance long before we arrived. Once inside the Pain-Filled-Man slouched in the corner, with his head in his hands. The pain which he was consoling was seeping out with each juttering movement of his body. Many times I have had tears in my eyes when watching patients not even flinch as I scrap infected flesh off their body, drugs or no drugs, their pain threshold is super-human. But yesterday, the Pain-Filled-Man used his shaking hands to pick up his leg and place it on the low wooden bench for re-bandaging. For several months he has been coming to the dispensary to have an infected ulcer like wound cleaned and dressed. Two days ago he had attended the clinic and although the large wound had not improved, it did not appear to have grown worse. I have no idea what happened in the intermediary time - perhaps nothing more than the loss of the dressing, or a collision with dirty water - but the result had transformed the infection into a deep hole, black in colour, filled with rotting flesh which was falling away to reveal the remaining tendons close to the bone. My first response was to turn away. Turn away from suffering. But it was a reality check – this was far beyond my capacity, in fact it was far beyond the dispensary's capacity to treat. How was it possible to surive such a pain? I could not even begin to imagine having the same cannibalistic hole burning into my own ankle.

It was clear that the Pain-Filled-Man needed to be in a hospital – immediately. From inexperienced eyes it seemed like it would need a miracle for him just to keep his foot, but the pain he was carrying inside his body was too extreme to be delayed. With a line of patients waiting to have their bandages changed, the majority of which housed identical wounds with varying degrees of severity and size, we asked a loittering Sister if she could take him to the hospital. I am not sure exactly what her reply was but it was definately negative. For the Pain-Filled-Man to go to the hospital by himself was totally unrealistic – firstly he had not already gone. What his reluctance was to attend the hospital when his condition was so extreme can only be guessed, but without a home and without money it would probably be accurate to suggest that he presummed it would be futile. As was the case with the little street baby, for a patient to be admitted they first need to be registered and to be registered they need a home address – a platform number will not suffice. Secondly, even though there are no doctors fees for a patient to be treated with drugs, the drugs first need to be purchased. Thirdly, the hospitals are already bursting at the stairwells with patients who have both a home and the necessary money. It is not difficult to guess that such patients would be a priority. Fourthly, working conditions are horrendous; the facilities are filthy and working hours multiplied beyond humane. Perhaps even the most committed and compassionate doctor would struggle to provide adequate treatment to all who stumbled through the doors. Ultimately, the the Pain-Filled-Man was left with a festering wound eating into his flesh and in desparate need of proper medical treatment, a fact which no amount of bandaging would be able to cover up.

Two foriegn women working with street kids walked in. They brought with them a boy with a severe burn on his calf and another with a left forearm full of self-mutilated knife cuts. They left the little warriors with us and agreed to take the Pain-Filled-Man to the hospital. I found out later they had alternatively taken the man spilling over with pain to the Mother Teresa home for the Dying and Destitute; which is most definately not a hospital.

Pro-life or Capital Punishment?

2010-01-05T17:44:00.005+05:30

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

2010-01-04T13:46:00.009+05:30

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

2010-01-03T13:18:00.001+05:30

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

2010-01-01T14:56:00.005+05:30

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

2009-12-31T18:20:00.007+05:30

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

2009-12-29T16:24:00.002+05:30

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

2009-12-28T12:07:00.001+05:30

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.