Shishur Sevay

Bubbi is afraid of bugs

The vet has come to Kolkata to talk to me, as Bubbi has some health and infertility problems.  But as an aside, I learned that she is afraid of bugs.  I had asked if she was getting fresh grass, as I've learned that although everything may look green in the fields, there may not be much grazing space.  The young man taking care of her said they cut grass for her and bring it to her....   A few weeks ago they took Bubbi out to graze in a field.  As they were standing there, she saw a large bug, probably a dragon fly and became terrified at the sight and dropped to the ground.  When she got up all she wanted to do was to go home.... and not go out to the field again.  So now she has her fresh grass brought to her.

I was planning to post on this blog a story that my children are all "spoiled" and now it seems my cow is spoiled too!  It seems to run in the family, as this was true of my two kids, one stomach baby, one adopted, and now my kids here and my cow.  Let there be no doubt that I am an indulgent mother, and I do not discriminate.

What do I mean by spoiled?  In the following pictures, Sonali is being soothed.  One of the massis (caretakers) tried to put her down, but she prefers to be held.  So, she started crying, and the caretakers went into "indulgence" mode.  Sonali loves her thumb, and loves to have cloth waved across her face.  At night we hang a strip of sari over her because she loves to reach for it and wave it across her face, or suck on it, along with her thumb.  So, in these pictures they are trying to soothe her by waving the cloth across her face.....  It was just a moment of realization for me of how spoiled my kids are, and how I actually enjoy that.  There is something so special about taking a baby who barely seemed to be aware of her environment or people, and helping her become demanding of her needs being met.  It just feels good, good enough for me to be this way, and good enough for me to have staff who will indulge the children too.

As for Bubbi's health problems, she has a recurrence of nasal polyps (associated with infertility), which she had when i first got her.  So we will treat again for that, and then put her on vitamins and on some other meds the vet recommends as her uterus is "boggy" and retroflexed.  (I feel like I'm back on the GYN floor of the hospital.)   We are also discussing the matchmaking aspect -- what breed, crossbreed, insemination, etc.  It's OK if she doesn't get pregnant, but I want her health to be good, and it would help the family if she had milk and anyway there is always something life-affirming about babies of any species.

News on the Shishur Sevay front -- aside from cow news:

1. Chicken pox has passed, with eleven of twelve girls getting the pox -- but the four little ones only getting some rash and no fever at all.

2. The school year is over and our girls have passed with high marks.  We have begun preparing them for the next year during this month interlude.  We are also having fun...  I'm so proud of them!

3. The handicapped children will start school 15 April, as starting was delayed 2 weeks by the school. It is exciting.  I used to laugh at the mothers who mourned before their kids started kindergarten.  Now I am one of them, worrying what it will be like here without them all day.  My current life gives me lots of opportunity to laugh at myself.

4. I have submitted the renewal of license forms, and I believe after a preliminary meeting that there will be peace with the government.  I have cleared the air with the critical official.  I am the eternal optimist.

5. The government (different department) has asked us to take more children.  We have agreed to take three more orphans when the government is ready -- presumably end of this month.  We can then start them in the same in-house program as our slower students and teach them here until they are ready academically and socially to go out to school.

6. Bubbi lives not far from where we took our non-orphan to live with her mother.  The young man here today said he ran into them a few days ago at the market.  They knew each other from our visits to Bubbi and the exchange was friendly.  Our girl is looking good and happy to be with her mother.  I really don't think she misses us.  Orphans are different, and she wasn't ever one of the group.  She had a mother who wanted her; her mother learned that she wasn't as bad a mother as she thought.  It is so amazing that they ended up within a circle of places and people I know here.

I write this on a Saturday afternoon.  The girls are in class, one hour of math, and then one hour of games with the teacher, a Saturday treat for her and for them.  A little while ago I looked up and saw the physiotherapist working with Sonali.  I couldn't resist taking a couple of pictures -- her hanging cloth, the people who care about her, work so hard to help her reach her potential, to be the most of who she can be, and the happiest that is possible for her.  Remember, she was the quietest of the four we took that day -- the one I held and at least reassured myself that she knew what human touch was -- that some part of her sought tough and comfort.  Now she pulls herself up, sits, cries when she is hungry, cries when she is put down, laughs when she hears our voices -- and learned to train us to meet her needs.

Happy Baby

Rusi B. Gimi -- Application denied

About a month ago our government official suggested that we apply for the Rusi B. Gimi Award for our NGO.  We had 48 hours to do this.  Well, I had 48 hours to do this.  I needed to write about our contribution to society and I created a piece that I knew represented the best of what we had accomplished to date. I also knew I needed something like this, whether for an award or not.

Our instructions were that it be on one page, of half foolscap size.  (I was clueless.)  Wikepedia showed that this was a size related to a watermark that went back 400 years to European paper production.  I could not find foolscap anywhere.  Finally I found paper just half an inch wider than required, so I thought I'd solved the problem, but IT WOULD NOT FIT IN MY PRINTER.

Here is a picture of me cutting the edge of the paper so it would go in my printer. 

Remember, one of my goals here is to learn what it takes to open an orphanage in Kolkata.

I learned a few days later that our application didn't make it through the department of Social Welfare and was rejected by the same person who has held up our license before.  It's to be expected.  But, the report is one I'm proud of.  I have not figured out blog mechanics.  One day one of our visitors will help me,  But for now you can see it on the Asha for education website that lists Shishur Sevay as a project of Central NJ ASHA for Education: http://www.ashanet.org/projects-new/documents/885/Progress-Report-in-Flyer.pdf  I'm sure there is a way to put this, and the general ASHA project listing in the margin.  My technical skills still run closer to cutting paper margins on the floor with a straight edge razor.

                                                                                                                                          

Chicken Pox

I don't even know where to start; I have been up for two four nights now.  Crises come in bunches.  Thursday late morning we noticed tiny blisters on one of the girls.  This is the time of year here;  it's going around the neighborhood.  We don't have a sick room, just not enough room, and there's no reason to try to prevent the others from getting it.  But the little ones, the handicapped children need to be protected.  For them it's potentially dangerous.  We decided to move the classroom downstairs and move the little ones to the classroom where they could be totally isolated.  I hired a night nurse and a day nurse, because now I'd have children living on two floors, and because I needed people with some understanding of medical care-taking and isolation.  My plan was to have one nurse and one massi (caretaker) so one could leave the room without their being alone.  I really worry about the little ones... their wiring and their lungs are at risk.  And of course there are always voices in my head asking, "Am I doing all I can to protect them?"  I hold myself to a level of care as I know it in the US. That puts a great strain on me and those around me, but I can't bring myself to say, "Nothing I can do, it's Kolkata."

But trouble is in bunches, and now three days later, we have had a complete staff turnover. I've been sleeping on a mat at the bottom of the stairs so i can be close to the big girls and available to the nurse upstairs.  It's hardest on the little ones who are used to being downstairs, and used to my sleeping on the mat with them.  The hardest part is that the big girls can't help with the babies, although they are pitching in everywhere they can.  They are cooking and cleaning, and so far there is only one with the pox.

One of the girls has had a terrible stomach ache which had me worried about appendicitis, but that has come and gone, and right now she is outside playing ball.  Another girl, one I worry about a lot, screamed in her sleep this morning and stayed in a trembling terrified state for a long time after she was up.  I couldn't figure out if she was having a seizure or hallucinating -- policemen were beating her and beating her.... she kept seeing them all around her....  I called Seema to come quickly as it was an emergency.  Our nurse doesn't know any English.  The girls were helping in trying to find out about the terror.  I needed someone here with me in case I was headed for the hospital.  I slept in my sari last night, ready to go wherever I had to.... Lots of floating tension.

Friday night I discovered that early that morning our security guard had locked the gate, taken the keys, and gone to have tea!  This was akin to announcing to the neighborhood that we had no security, and that our security company was worthless.  Security has been a major problem since the beginning.  During the renovation, while I was still in the US, the builder and his local buddies "moved in" and used this place as a club house.  I was unable to get them out until I actually had children here.  They claimed I had legally abandoned the building. Then they wanted me to hire them as security, which I refused.  Our very first security company turned out to be a fake company.  Now we are calling around to others.  Seema is doing this as my American accent makes my English useless even to the few English speaking people around.  One company has women guards, but it is more than double what we pay now.  it's a morass.

The application for license renewal is due before the end of this month.  I've started working on the papers I need to submit.  The application calls for the audit, which is an impossibility since it takes about six weeks after the fiscal year ends, which is 31st March.  Instead I've been told to submit the un-audited accounts, up to day of filing application.  I started bringing everything up to date last week, but the papers stayed strewn on the couch since the chicken pox arrived.  Today the accountant arrived, as a total surprise as he has been MIA for about two months, which is to say he makes appointments and then doesn't show.  This is a common practice here, that I'm still not used to.  He also dragged out the time.  So I offered him twice his price if he would finish the whole thing today.  He thought for a while... I told him I didn't want to think about it anymore, that I'd hire him or just do it myself.  He did it, and much more quickly than he thought.  Part of what slowed me is that I computerized the financial system.  I got ripped off by the first company, who installed the software, as they charged me full price but gave me an "educational" version that has to be re-authenticated every three months or it doesn't work.  But, the accounts are up to date and now I know how much money i have to raise in the next five days!  I'm under a lot of pressure.  I can't use international funds -- not even my own, until I get clearance from Delhi, and I couldn't apply because our license was held up.

These are the obstacles, the hard parts.  But the hardest right now is the separation of the "normal" and handicapped children.  It so alters how it feels.  The downstairs feels empty.  The classroom, where the handicapped are, feels like a room for handicapped, like a separate institution.  Somehow in the big environment the girls seemed more normal, as their interactions were so much a part of the moment to moment life here.  Upstairs they don't really "have a life" even though their teacher comes.  They aren't privy to all the talking, playing, phone calls, workmen, cleaning, kids playing, learning, fighting....  I really hate the room, the feeling of isolation for them.  I think about some children who lived like this in a single room waiting for two years to be adopted.  the big girls miss the little ones.  they came up one by one to look in....

Water crisis, which isn't a crisis, just another scam to get money from me --  There is a general shortage of water in this area.  We use a lot.  About six months ago we set up a system to get water.  The local construction/ club leaders had suggested it.  Then we were fine.  About a month ago, some fake government officials (we didn't know that then) came with the plumber who had put in the system, and threatened to close it down, and shut off water, and send us to jail.  So I paid the Rs. 4000 plus more under the table to have the pipe made larger, which they did, only it made no difference because the pipe was in the wrong place (naughty pipes here) and anyway there is a general shortage.  I figured all this out Sunday as I was having the kitchen faucet fixed and asked about the water supply.  And then all the pieces fell together -- including that I had to give the money to a plumber I'd thrown out of here previously for putting water valves backwards so the water stopped instead of coming out.  I had a confrontation with some of the club men about it Sunday also -- said no one was getting one more rupee from me, and if they slit my throat they still wouldn't get any money so not to bother.  (Yes, I am tense!)  You see, in order to carry this off, all of them had to know, because they pretended their houses were inspected and they weren't.  It was all lies.  No one else paid one rupee for water work.

I remain exhausted.  Everyone tells me to relax or I'll get upset.  So I try to remind them that when things are good I'm very relaxed.  I don't know how to be relaxed with chicken pox, vulnerable kids, staff changes, scams, needing to raise money this week, and most of all how hard it is for the little ones.  Rani misses her didis; she bangs her head.  Bornali cries when she sees the others.  Ganga cried when she heard prayer time downstairs, so I grabbed two gods and we had parthana upstairs.  Sonali is doing well.  In fact she is making great strides in eating solid foods.  So, as long as she is held, she doesn't cry. 

The little ones haven't gone potty in two days -- too much change.  This morning we put them in their potty chairs and i sang to them, and we sat around talking to them... It was fun but nothing happened.  Now I sit here writing, which makes it easier for me... I feel the isolation too, of spending time in that room.

Last night I called another doctor, Rani's doctor at the hospital and talked to her about chicken pox.  She thought it worthwhile to immunize the handicapped children even though they might still get it.  I liked that idea because it will allow us to take them out of isolation in a day.  So this morning we took all four to the hospital to get their shots.  The girls loved being out of the room, among people, riding in the car... back to "having a life!"  Then this afternoon I went to the bank to deposit checks and get an updated statement.  I came back exhausted, ready to cry because my body was so tired... I napped and then the accountant came.  This is the current pace.  Sometimes I just want to cry with exhaustion.

Six days have passed since I started this post.  The other girls didn't get sick.  Today we will move the handicapped children back downstairs.  They will be together.  Rani will sing for us again.  She sings and sings and sometimes it's irritating... but now I miss it, and I feel her silence.  It's much too quiet downstairs. 

This morning in google chat my younger daughter asked me how I manage all this.  I told her that when it gets bad I sit down with the kids, and I act silly, and we sing, and make faces, and I see their joy in being, and I'm renewed.  Yes, it's hard sometimes, but it is also wonderful.  We are an oasis in a difficult world and there is no where else I would want to be.

I do forget to write these things.  I have been doing parthana (the prayers) with the kids upstairs.  Yesterday Rani was on my lap waving her hands.  When we were done she eyed the electrical wires from the TV, and I said "NO!" and she looked away.  Then she looked again and I repeated myself.  So then she got mad and started spinning, so I started spinning with her and she was shocked, but grinned, and then she hit the floor with her hands and started drumming and I drummed with her.  Sometimes I followed her; sometimes she followed me.  Bornali squealed with laughter and kicked and kicked her feet.  Ganga just grinned.  Staff was laughing and laughing and Rani noticed and played for the audience.  We connected.  Rani connected.  I know how damaged she is, but sometimes I look at her and  I think she will just "snap out of it" and come and join us fully.

There is no place else I want to be.

Now we are twelve

Our non-orphan has gone with her mother.  She left smiling, and not looking back.  We had packed her school bag but she only took clothes.  The teachers and a few of the girls cried.  She didn't.  This is the difference -- as she never really wanted to be here;  she always wanted to be with her mother.  The decision came because her mother did not want to stay around long enough to arrange a boarding school.  She had places to go, people to see, and she said she would take her daughter and leave her with her sister.  She would have just walked out the gate, but we said we would drive them to her sister's.  We wanted to know where they were going.  Whatever non-attachment the girl had, she was our responsibility.  I wanted to know for ourselves, for the other girls, for anyone who asked, where she had gone.

So after lunch, Bijoy, Gibi, Das Uncle (a neighbor and Board member) the child, her mother, and I piled into the car, with me taking pictures of course.  We knew the general area where we were going, as it was not far from where Bubbi, my cow, lives with Bijoy's wife's family.  After two hours we passed where Bubbi lives.  Then about fifteen minutes later we turned left off Diamond Harbor Road and I said to Bijoy, "Isn't this the road with the cows?" meaning where we had gone to look at 'boy cows" for Bubbi.  But he didn't recognize it.  The mother had told us this was a very dangerous area, where we could be robbed at any moment.  She clutched my arm as we walked, as she said the car could go no further.  Bijoy stayed with the car.  We walked on.  Gibi worried, wondering where this woman was taking us.  I was relaxed as I've been in so many village areas like this -- just peaceful people living their lives.

Suddenly though, Gibi stopped and said, "Look, look, the doctor's house!!!!"  Yes, the house of the cow doctor was in front of us, and his wife was staring at us.... As we were about to pass, I stopped and called inside -- as I saw the cows too,  The doctor came out smiling, thrilled to see us again and we told him where we were going, that this was one of our former children -- our non-orphan.  So then he joined us, and we promised his wife we would stop on the way back, which we did.  I am often teased that I seem to know everyone, or someone everywhere.  This was an incredible coincidence, as nothing in how this girl came to us would suggest we would be back in this village.

We were well received in the sister's home, and our girl took off, like a deer set free.  This is all she ever wanted.  When she came they said she was six or seven.  Probably she is 13-14 years old.  We rescued her when she needed rescuing.  It's a complicated story.  Will she be OK?  Probably not, but there is not much to do about it.  We had little impact on her life.  I'm a realist.  I've taken care of girls like this.  I have a 100% failure rate.  When I thought this months ago, others thought i was just being cold-hearted.  It's a learning process for each of us who tries, and I respect each person who wants to try.  Each teacher had come to me, charmed by this child's manner, and each tried.  Sometimes there is nothing we can do.

The other girls were sad that she was so happy to leave, but they were also relieved.  Then they asked if we could try to get more of their friends from the government institution.  I said, soon... soon we will try.  I find myself with renewed energy. 

One down, more to go...

Gibi and I visited a school that takes in street children, teaches them, houses them --- a school noted for the quality of its education, and its mixing of paying and non-paying children.  The "but" is that our girl would not be able to visit us, nor us visit her -- we would have to cut ties.  The Catholic nun who runs the school could not understand why the mother wouldn't give up parental rights so she could stay with us.  She also was sure the mother was scamming me, that she wanted something else, like money.  Maybe so, maybe not -- she hasn't asked for money, and if I were her I wouldn't give up parental rights.  That's how children end up being adopted out of the country... parents sign them into a school, and poof, they are gone. 

This girl is ours in the sense that we accepted responsibility and she is part of our home, our family, even though she doesn't quite fit in.  That seems to me all the more reason for her to stay in the lives of our other girls, and for them to stay in hers.  Kids attach, in spite of themselves, and it would not be good for anyone for her to disappear from our lives.

I have a call in to another place, and discovered that one of my teachers here knows the head well, as I do too.  She boasted that he calls her "Auntie" and I said he calls me "Mother." So this week, Mother and Auntie will talk to him about taking our girl.  As of six months ago he wasn't taking older girls, but apparently that is changing.  And three years ago when he was starting he was also insisting on disconnection with families.  I knew he had started to relax that.  It seems to be the impulse, one I understand well, but it's not good for the children. 

One of the reasons people do this in taking poor children, or street children, or children of sex workers, is that parents sometimes come back to take children out of the home to put them to work.  Or, they demand money for allowing the children to stay.  I know places that have stopped taking children because of this, that it is too painful to see a child blossom, learn, have a future, and then be pulled out to be a servant, or child bride, or prostitute.  One girl I "sponsored" for several years after I first started educating children here is now working on one of the bridges, lined up with the others...waiting....

Our first summer in India, in 2000, my Calcutta born daughter wrote:

Pulsating pink, luscious lime, tempestuous tangerine

The head-turning spectrum of saris

Mysterious figures

Sitting on the railing like

Crows.

Endless rivers of raven hair

Flowing in braids.

Radiant red lips and bold black eyeliner

Stunning skin of silky sand, mahogany and sienna

Emphasize the vivid hues of cloth.

Waiting for a customer

To ravage the reddest rose

The thorn pricks the skin

Like the shock of beauty lost.

Waiting for a man who will turn

Fairness into business.

This is the ugliness of these women’s lives.

This is the repulsiveness of reality.

                  

                                     Cici Harrison

I have the poem because it was among the papers I brought here when I came.  The poem was published in her high school literary magazine.  The girl who now waits on that bridge spent a lot of time with us.

Cici jokes that she and I have traded lives.  I live in Kolkata; she in NY.  Two days ago the juxtaposition was so clear.  She phoned me as she was walking home at night from band practice.  She plays drums with two bands now.  She was on the cold streets of NY, rain falling, walking from the subway to her apartment.  I was also walking, but I was carrying a bag of vegetables I'd bought from a cart.  So here I was, walking in the baking sun, along a dusty broken road, saying hello as people looked... nodding... smiling... mother daughter, worlds apart and tied together.  Well, life is strange, for sure.

When an orphan isn't an orphan

One of our girls is not really an orphan.  She was our first child, and we were lied to.  After that, we only took orphans directly from the government.  She is more like the girls in most "orphanages", namely children whose parents, usually the mother, can't keep them, for a variety of reasons.  We learned pretty early that she was not an orphan, but on the other hand we rescued her from a situation that was not good at all.

Orphans and non-orphans are different.    This child does not want to be here.  She wants to be with her mother, but her mother did not want her.  We tried unsuccessfully to reach the mother so we could get papers for school.  And we couldn't get any papers because she is not an orphan.  In India the father is the guardian, no matter what he has done to the mother, and in this case he was brutal in his treatment of the mother.  We have police filings on this now.  The mother has appeared, after more than a year.

I'm writing this in the midst of trying to figure out what we do.  I have many reasons for being unhappy with the mother, but she is a child too.  She was married at 14 in the village.  Her body is scarred from torture.  The daughter of a close relative in that village was burned to death.  Mother-in-law torture of women is common.  Our child's mother does not want her daughter raised there.

I asked about the current dowry rate.  It is one bicycle, Rs.6000 (about $140), Brass plates, Finger ring for husband, gold bangle and earrings for the woman -- what she brings to the marriage.  Often a father decides to sell a large tree for dowry.

A few days ago, at the first visit, our girl was crying, she wanted to go with her mother.  We think she is about 12-13 years.  One of the other girls said, "Why are you crying?  My mother is dead."  Another girl told her that in two months her mother would have to send her out to work as a servant, that she was better off here.  How do these kids mix?  Well, our non-orphan is an outsider, in part because she sets herself aside -- and probably wishing at times she were an orphan.  But she has a self-confidence that comes with still having a mother -- of not having ridden in a police van to one institution to another, not being locked up with no exit in sight -- not that core sense of alone that our orphans have.  It is different.

What will we do now?  We have scheduled a meeting tomorrow with a local elected official.  If we get his endorsement we can legally keep her.  What do we do with the mother?  She is probably more comfortable with the other girls than with her daughter.  They crowd around her and she reaches out to them.  She is staying nearby tonight, and I've asked if she wanted to come and help us tomorrow, spend the day with us.  She does... we will see how it goes.  I feel we are in such unchartered waters here.  The "should" would be to send her away and limit visits.  I had offered to pay for schooling if she wanted to take the girl, but she said she cannot give her a good environment.  She must work all day.

I think about even hiring her.  Then I think I must be nuts, that I'm just looking for trouble.  But keeping staff is very hard.  And some people are so jealous of what the children are getting, everything from the good food to the education...

It's ten pm, and I should go to sleep.  The children have been asleep since nine.  Tomorrow is a school holiday.  It's a special puja day, with a ritual involving putting water on Shiva's head... and the objective is to find a good husband.  It is practiced more by the less educated, and ALL our girls are excited to take part.  I was asked if I would allow it.  I said, "Of course, I have 13 husbands to find." 

So, these are the thoughts that rattle in my mind.  Tomorrow will unfold in its own way.... and I try to follow and steer at the same time.  Another haiku from the past:

   Pulling and yielding--

   Always playing tug-of war...

   The seas and the moon.

Pads, T*mp*ns, and Giggles

The title of this post is explicit, because if you are a boy reading you may decide to skip the post.  On the other hand, if you are a boy you may want to know more about a relatively hidden aspect of girls' lives particularly in India.

Nine o'clock last night, as I was at my computer, three girls tip-toed into the room.  The oldest one was whispering "pad" but I didn't get it.  I kept asking.  Then I said, "Ah, drawing books!" and I pointed to where the newly purchased books were still piled on the couch.  They all giggled.  More, "Pad, pad..." and I got it and said, "Oh PADS????" and pointed downwards.  I'd been thrown off because only one of the girls gets her "mens" as they seem to say here, and she is usually so shy and secretive about it I didn't know that the others knew.  Well, nine at night, bedtime for them, and she was out of pads.....

I try to keep a few hidden for such emergencies.  A recent visitor had left behind for us all of her unused toiletries.  They were still in the clear plastic bag she had left.  We went to the cabinet, and by now probably most of the girls were crowded around.  I found four.  I asked again whether they younger ones knew anything about this.  I'm really surprised that they don't.  They have each seen more than their share of naked bodies, and what they do, but menstruation is so hidden they had no idea.  So, in English, with their now knowing a bit of translation -- like blood -- I tried to tell them about menstruation.  It was comedy hour as they were truly incredulous!  When i said something about babies inside, and the blood helping babies grow, they were even more incredulous

They noticed more in the bag, three boxes of o.b. tampons.  "Ma, What is this?"  "Oh BaBa!!!!" I said.  The only translation I can think of is "Oy Vey" from my Yiddish speaking grandmother.  "Oh BaBa" is said while hitting my forehead for emphasis -- which alone can bring giggles.  So I took out a tampon -- and unwrapped it.  It's really funny looking, or rather bullet looking out of context.  I guessed at the next set of giggles when i tried to show were it goes!  Then we tip-toed into the kitchen, drawing the curtains... appropriate to the conspiratorial nature of our new adventure, and put it in a bowl of water... showing how it expands with water (would -be blood), and the string for pulling it out. The girls weren't sure about all this at all.  We stealthily went back to the cabinet, and put the bag back....  tampons... for another time.

End of story? No.  Stories I tell, stories I live, have a way of recycling, or of being recycled.  More vignettes...

Johnson & Johnson makes the o.b. tampon, as well as other brands of pads.  Part of my responsibilities as Worldwide Director of Medical Affairs was in the safety of these products, and the consumer and professional education related to "sanitary products."  I actually wrote the tampon safety warnings that became the industry standard worldwide.  I funded research related to safety; I organized international meetings.  I presented this industry position at European Union meetings in Brussels.

But o.b. tampons have their own special story.  They were developed in post war Germany by industrialists who were no longer permitted by law to manufacture munitions or cigarettes.  Having seen an ad in an American magazine for a Tampax tampon, they went about designing one that could be made with the combined machinery of munitions and cigarettes.  Thus the German tampon is made from cotton pressed into a bullet form, and wrapped with a thin covering with the cigarette machinery.  This is probably more than anyone ever wanted to know about tampons.  Of course, the marketing of the o.b. did not say all this.  Instead the young woman doctor, and soon-to-be wife of the industrialist was credited with being the designer, thus the campaign, "Designed by a woman gynecologist."    Ten years ago or so I was talking about tampons at a meeting of the European Commission.  Last night I was unwrapping a tampon to the giggles of my orphan girls.  This is the life I want, the life I missed.  In that life I always felt something was missing.  In this life I have what was missing, and my life is full and blessed, and full of giggles.

Oases and Mirages

Another haiku:

The beaten believe

Oases are mirages.

They build their cocoons.

I gave this one to the English/Bengali teacher this morning.  She talked about it with the children, explained the words -- an exercise of many meanings...

I look for ways to tell the girls I understand them, difficult at times without a shared language.  I also look for ways for the teachers to understand their behaviors, their mistrust, their defiance at times.  And I look for answers as to why we do not beat them, when it seems to some that a good beating would change behavior.  The haiku, the use of literature is also an exercise in shifting from the concrete to the abstract, from the literal cocoon, to ways they protect themselves.

Cocoons are easy for them to understand as we visited Science City last week and saw a house full of cocoons.  Oases are easy for them to understand as we have been watching Ten Commandments, and they saw the oasis in the desert.   Mirages -- there is actually a Bengali word which I've forgotten, but it was described to me as when you think you see the sea before you and you run towards it, and it isn 't there. 

I'm told the girls really enjoyed trying to understand the haiku.  Two of the girls who often are in trouble took note, and did not try to doze through the class, as they sometimes do.  We try and try, and give them time, time in a place where they are not beaten, literally or figuratively.  We all work very hard psychologically.  They are at work constantly trying to find "evidence" that we will betray them; they challenge us to beat them; they relax, have fun, go on guard again.   -- For our part, we work hard too, because to be honest, our agenda is to change them -- to change the direction in which their lives were going.  And we want them to want to change!  We want bad language to stop, fighting to stop, moodiness to stop -- harps and bulldozers, Heaven and Earth.  It is our dance, and we hope that love will help, ours and theirs.

Move Heaven and Earth

I really wish I could blog more, mostly because I think about what I want to write, and then the time disappears.  I feel like I'm living in the midst of a miracle.  I look at the house full of children, and think about the empty broken down place we bought almost two years ago.  I look at the kids, and think about what their lives were like before they came to us.  I look at all the people here, teaching, taking care of kids, cooking, cleaning -- all this life and energy that didn't exist here before.  And I look at my life now, so full -- my life that seemed so empty just a few years ago.

It is not a sacrifice for me to be here.  I have created what I needed too.  This is my home now, filled with all these children, and all this life.  Just a few years ago I had a beautiful house in New Jersey, but it was empty.  My kids were out of the nest.  We talked on the phone; they came to stay sometimes, but their lives were elsewhere.  And, my husband had left me for another woman's nest.  I kept looking at the New Jersey house, wanting it filled with children I was already sponsoring in schools in Kolkata.  I had to face that they were not coming to New Jersey, so it was pointless to hold onto the house.  And they were not orphans.  They had families, ones I was helping also, but no one was coming to fill my house. 

I sold the house and moved to a rented apartment... a first downsizing -- thinking I would be back and forth.  But in that next year, I spent more time in India than in New York.  And when I was in New York, I led a fairly solitary life.  I walked my dog (whom I truly loved, and still love) in Central Park; I saw my kids when they were free; I walked along Broadway noticing babies and old people -- the baby nannies, and the old people nannies, strangers called in to take old ladies and old men for walks, help them buy groceries, be their companions.  The babies and old people were white; the nannies were brown, off-white, Hispanic, Asian - paid companions, caretakers, pretending this wasn't "just a job."    In India I felt relevant, needed, contemporary.  In the US I felt more related to who I was in the past, but not in the present.  My life lacked the kind of meaning that had always sustained me.   At seventeen I'd written a school essay about being touched by the plight of Korean orphans.. work undone on my to do list.

I've written here before about hearing the voices of the girls calling to me from a dumpster, calling for me to free them.  I think now that was also a call, a voice, to free myself.

I did a lot of writing in that time, the poetry and haiku that continue to define my life, here too.

One haiku..

The invitation

Offered a new assignment,

Move Heaven and Earth.

That sounds a bit like opening an orphanage in Kolkata, moving Heaven and Earth. 

RSVP:  Accepted

Blessed and lonely, with an injured thumb

This is how it is, existential and mundane.  The mundane is that I cut off the tip of my thumb cutting vegetables -- just too much commotion in the kitchen as I was demonstrating use of a "mandolin" cutter that my daughter and son-in-law brought, and it slipped.  The relevance is that my typing is slow and awkward and if i try to hit "n" i get the space bar and have to go back.

We are bothered by the big and little simultaneously.  I'm distracted trying to avoid m and n.

I am blessed and lonely, at the same time.  I am blessed because I lead the life I want, taking care of the children, building, learning, creating this home.  I am blessed because when I heard them calling to me two years ago as I walked down Broadway in Manhattan, I was able to come her, to move from the thought, the call, to the creation of this family-like group.  Even in my most lonely moments I do not want to leave here.  I just wish the distance was less.

What do I miss?  Well, first of all, I have to explain that loneliness is not new to me.  I don't make or keep friends easily.  I am in my head a lot of the time.  And I'm "different" in ways that seem to separate me from others.  This probably is also why I could do this. I'm not very social.  I prefer time alone to write, take pictures, muse... These are not social activities.  So some of the loneliness is just part of being me... But the major difference is that I miss my kids terribly.  I miss just hanging out with them.  We talk frequently, by phone and by internet, but it's not the same.  I want a hug!  I want to give a mommy-hug.

I  miss my aunt, the relative I am closest to.  We talk on the phone too, but it's not the same.  If she were younger she would come to visit.  She loves to hear about the children.  I send her prints through Snapfish.  I miss visiting her, talking, playing with Lily, her beloved cat... I miss knowing her life better, as she has moved since I came here -- a new place with new people, as well as the old.  She has friends from her childhood -- she is good at keeping people close.

I miss the freedom of life in the US.  I miss walking, long walks, streets, parks... browsing in bookstores.  I guess I miss the places I went while I was also feeling lonely.  Here, I miss that, but I have the 'blessed" part and if I start to feel bad, I go and play with the little kids.  Rani is always happy to wave her hands as I sing to her, or dance.  Sonali, blind, loves to be held as I whirl around.  And of course Bornali and Ganga, our "Art-Medalists" love to be talked to.  Or, I go upstairs to the classroom, and sit in... which makes kids and teachers happy.

Then there is the other part of mundane... trying to keep order in my workspace... but I usually write instead...

Here I am, writing instead of making order... in the area you don't see.  But Ganga wanted to stay with me, and I couldn't straighten up with her on my lap.  But those few pieces of paper on the table are still there (here) as I don't know where to put them. And in fairness to myself, this IS the office, an area of about 5X10 ft of a room 12X10, where the kids also hang out, and I could send them away but I don't because I love having them here, underfoot.  This is my life -- blessed and lonely, a sore thumb, and children underfoot.  My life is very very good.

 

Sit and Draw

"Sit and Draw" competitions are as common as sports events here, and sometimes there is also a Quiz competition too, or a Math competition.  Today was a "Sit and Draw" in the local park, and the organizers made sure to make us feel welcome.  Our girls had never done anything like this.  But they were enthusiastic, well behaved, and yet a bit lost.  For sure they will  never blow off a drawing class again!

You can't tell from the pictures which are our girls... that's the whole point, to give the children a chance to just be part of the community.

But Bornali wasn't intimidated at all.

Neither was Ganga.

But once done drawing, she was impatient with the festivities and made it clear where (and with whom) she wanted to be.

Guardians are not allowed to talk to the children during the competition, but this mother was yelling to her child,  "Green! Green!"  Moms are the same everywhere.

In the evening we went back to the park to receive awards. 

THE WINNERS WERE:

GANGA with her assistant Seema, and BORNALI with her assistant Bijoy.  Everyone cheered, and we came home to celebrate them, and to put their two prize plates in our showcase.

Post script:  As I write this, two of the girls are sitting here in my work area drawing... mostly repititions (with improvements) of their drawings from Sunday in the Park.  They are already talking about next year's competition.

Report Cards - January 2008

The State of our Education at Shishur Sevay:  Well, six girls came home with the Bengali equivalent of "A" for their January round of examinations.  One girl came home with "C" but it's not a real C because someone else did her exam for her.  What that means is that one of our girls (I know which one) did her exam and then did the second exam for our "C" student -- so I guess she should really have an A+.

But truly this is so exciting!  It's validation for them and for us... for the intensity of the teaching, for their work and self-discipline.

So, here is the breakdown of our teaching right now....

There are three groups:  One group (6 girls) goes to school at the government school and comes home for six more hours of school.

One group (3 girls) is being educated entirely at Shishur Sevay.  There are multiple reasons for this... but they have classes beginning at 8 am, and then at 11 am join the others for another six hours of class.

One group (4 girls with handicaps) has classes four hours in the morning. Part of that time is spent in the regular classroom with the other girls.  In the late afternoon another teacher comes, from 4-8, and works with them again, everything from cognitive development to feeding and potty training.  If Ganga and Bornali are awake after lunch, they also join the English class from 2-4.

The schedule will be changing for the handicapped girls.  Their  morning teacher is leaving for another position, but will continue to come in the afternoon for a while to continue working with them.  The four children will begin attending classes at Indian Institute for Cerebral Palsy on a daily basis from 9am to 1:30 pm.  Tomorrow morning we will take them there for one of several evaluations for class placement.  The children are known to the staff there as we have attended the outpatient department there, and each was thoroughly evaluated there in May 2007.

The handicapped children receive physiotherapy almost every day.  Next week they will be evaluated for speech and language and we will start treatment as recommended.  I tried to get the speech therapist to start this week but he was getting married yesterday....

Ganga is most aware of school, wants to be with the older didis all the time, and wants to stay at school when we go there in the morning.  She seems to understand that she will be starting school, and that she will have a uniform and school bag.  She squeals when we tell her.  Ganga is also the one who knows she is different, knows the others are doing things she can't do.

The IICP is not trained for the blind, but Sonali is not yet three and they will work with her in several modalities.  We will see how it works out.  Bornali loves action and will be thrilled to be moving about.  Rani (Poomina), well we never really know...  Speaking of her though, yesterday she actually sang a line of Baa Baa Black Sheep... then wouldn't repeat it, but she has the rhythm!!!!!!!!.  Little bits open up... make it through the slow brain waves to join us in music and rhythm.  The sounds are beginnings, moments to build on, circuits to build on.  Rani loves music, waves her arms, sways, joins us, soul to souls.....

I do feel a sense of wonder at having the children.   All the usual words seem sappy.  I was telling Cici it's like first seeing the Earth from the sky, and looking at masses of people, and then coming closer and closer, and the masses become individuals, and then the individuals become a small group of very special people in my life, children I love, children who look the same from afar, but each so different, so special, so unique, so much my children, all of them.  And having said that, a part of me is already missing the handicapped children who will be gone at school most of the day come April.  I'm hopeless.  I laugh at myself.

Ganga tried to talk to Cici Didi on the phone today.  Ganga was in her standing frame when Cici called.  Ganga hates the frame because it is hard, so hard for her to hold herself up even with the frame and leg braces for support.  But she also loves praise and responds, so when we tell her how good she is standing, she grins and tries even harder.  Remember, less than a year ago she could not hold her head up.  Cici called while this was going on, and I asked Ganga if she wanted to talk to her.... I'm not sure what she understood but she knows Cici's picture and knows "Didi" means big sister.... so I held the phone to her and she grinned and tried so hard to speak.  She mouthed words, but no sound came out.  She has listened on the phone before, but this was the most excited she has been.  She was so happy.  And Cici didi was so happy that she had made a difference.

Small things in our lives... islands of peace away from the turmoil.  I know people have all sorts of wonderful descriptive words for what I'm doing... but frankly from inside, I'm just hiding out from the big bad world with my little family of orphan children. The sun shines a lot here, even through the inevitable monsoons of life.

Pictures of a Sunday in Januay, Part II -- KABADI

KABADI, KABADI, KABADI, KABADI, KABADI, KABADI... and so on, until you are out of breath!!!!  Gibi, our co-founder, aka Mrs. Jasvinder Kaur, is the clear champion of this game!

Well, this was the morning, the Sunday morning in January, that happened also to be the birthday of my mother... a day I thought about her, what she might be thinking if she were alive and knew about my life now.   Part III to follow... the afternoon with our visitors.

Pictures of a Sunday in January - Part I

Mime Sir setting up the scene center stage while others wait in the wings.  He is explaining that the girl is pregnant, which brings giggles.  Actually it led later to the question of whether a girl can have a baby without being married... a discussion for another time.  Our girls have a combination of innocence, or rather ignorance, while also having knowledge of sexuality that children of any age should not have.  It's a real knowledge split... the reality of their lives, and their childness.  I want them to feel safe as children first... a first step in strength and understanding.

OH NO!

IT'S A GIRL!!!!!!

Gibi's daughter Preety (Harpreet), fifteen years old, wrote an email to me a few months ago:

Dear Mummy,

How are you?  This is for you and the girls.

Love, Preety

I am a girl.
   Who am I?
I am a girl,
    Born in this world.
>
Am I a mistake?
   Yes they say so,
   They call me a mistake.
>
What is my future?
    Not the future,
      Which they see for me,
But what I see for myself.

**********************************

Grandmother tells her son-in-law that he is wrong.                                                                                                                            

Stressed out, he goes to sleep.

                                                                                  The Fairy comes to him in his sleep.  She scolds him,     and enlightens him.... girls and boys, all of us, the same, the same worth, the same to love.

(From the Author -- I give up... this is taking hours.  I'll just post some pics....)

The audience

Mother and Child

.

    

END OF THE FIRST PART.... KABADI... KABADI... KABADI...TO FOLLOW

Technical Difficulties

I have been trying to post for a week!!!  I am serious.  Last Sunday, 20 January 2008, I decided to document a day, especially since it was a really fun day. So I kept the camera close and took many pictures.  In the morning Mime Sir came, and we had the little ones playing the part of babies in a mime about a woman who is pregnant, and her husband wants a son, and then she has a daughter.  He is upset, very upset, enough to fall asleep so a Fairy comes and tells him that girls are good.  He wakes up and tells the story of his dream, and filled with remorse, he goes to his wife and embraces her and his daughter (well, after she at first doesn't trust him and shields the baby from him).  We did it several times with different girls, and babies, playing the parts.  Then, since we had all had so much fun, we danced, all of us.

Next, and still before lunch, Gibi  and the girls played a game similar to tag.  The difference was that you had to take a deep breath and could only tag as long as you had the breath to keep saying kabadi, kabadi, kabadi.....  Once you ran out of breath you could be tagged.  Gibi was fierce!!!!!  It was wild and fun.  I took pictures.

Lunch was uneventful.

In the early afternoon a group of five volunteers came from AID-Kolkata to spend time with the kids. (more pictures).  The girls wanted to go to the classroom first with the visitors.  They have been learning rhymes in English and Bengali, and enjoy reciting.  Two of the girls (weak on rhyme) danced instead.  Then the visitors did some recitation too.  Oh, and then they wanted me to.  I led us in "If you're happy and you know it clap you hands."  Next we headed for the roof.  This time it was skits, mime, running around, sitting around, and then the volunteers (with some urging) did a skit too.

Finally, as promised, we all went to the park!  We all went, handicapped children too.  The kids (our girls and the volunteers -- not so far from being kids themselves) played on the playground equipment, wandered around, sat on the swinging seats, and kept the little ones in their arms.  We were a wonderful procession there and back. 

The playground is a real treat.  We only go when there are enough of us to keep an eye on the girls.  Girls don't play outside much here.  And without a lot of us around, teenage boys will start hanging around and making us uncomfortable about staying there with the girls.  Girls don't do much by way of sports for the same reasons.  In the US I'm used to girls' soccer, baseball, volleyball....  Actually, women don't even go out as much, even to markets -- I know it's changed in many places, but not here.  Actually, even the fish market in the morning is all men out shopping.

But, back to the technical difficulties.  I started that evening to put the pictures up on the blog album pages.  Then my broadband quit for a day and my dial up is too slow for pictures.  Then the broadband was fixed, but the typepad album kept dropping the pictures.  And then broadband quit again.  I have to remind myself this is Kolkata and everything that works is exported.  Well it was like that, and then I had to travel to Bangkok for three days and came back yesterday.  I started again last evening to try to put up pictures.  Today I spent about five hours... I'm not exaggerating... but the pictures that are listed are not the same as the ones that show up and the captions got lost on some..... So, I will try to put some pictures into the blog itself and see how it works.  But I won't try to do much by way of captions, you will have to guess... 

It's a rainy day today.  Some staff didn't show.  We sent the big kids to Seema's to see the Republic Day Parade on her TV, and to spend the day, which they and she treasure.  So, I'm at the computer... and happy to be home.  I'll post this so if anything gets lost in trying to put up pics, at least this is posted... with the reason for my silence... Technical Difficulties.

Early Mornings.. and shades of skin color

I enjoy the mornings most of all.  I love waking up at five, Ganga's smile ...

Well, that's how i started this just a minute ago, but instead I'll write about what just went on, because it's how things are here, moment to moment, with these children... basically with any children. Class was just over.  One girl (Girl A) came down first and stood next to me, gave me a hug, said something I didn't understand, but it was just nice babble.  next think I know, just as I started writing, is that Gibi is bringing her to me, and the others are all coming too.  (no one wants to miss a good scolding of someone else).  The first girl (A)had called another girl (B) cross eyed (some truth) and said she would hit her, and lifted her hand in the threat.  Gibi heard the whole thing.  We don't know the provocation, but Girl A if often more predator and Girl B more vulnerable.  Some of this is directly related to shades of skin color... which we struggle with in terms of ingrained prejudices.   Anyway, I heard the whole report (I'm the judge) and said Girl A had to say she was sorry, and touch Girl B's feet.  Girl A was crying by now, and did what she was told.  At that moment Girl B put her arms around her and wiped her tears, and hugged her and the two of them went off arm in arm.

I don't know what it's like as reader, and maybe it's my own blindness to my kids, but they see so NORMAL.  Because they are orphans, their behavior is much more examined.  They have some very bad street language, but other than that, even the extremes of their misbehavior are within range of what I've seen in the peers of my American daughters, children of friends, professionals and non...  Recently I saw a listing at the bottom of a yahoo group for help with misbehavior -- something to effect of "dontscream?"  but it listed behavior problems, spitting, biting, hoarding, hitting, tantrums.  It's not that my kids are deserving of "best behaved children of the year" award, but they are so NORMAL!

They were very moody when they came.  One incident would define the rest of the day.  But that's changed... there won't be remnants of today's skirmish... each seems to want her moment of justice, of being heard, and that's it.....

The skin color stuff will crop up again... it never goes away.

Well, back to the morning... the girls no longer walk like ducklings.  They walk in twos or threes, sometimes holding my hands or Seema's... just ordinary school girls on their way.  These days Ganga comes in my backpack, and she is truly our ambassador of friendship.  People stop to ask about her, take her hand, say tata...  She makes people smile, which is what she does at five when I open my eyes, and she is waiting for me to see her, and then she smiles... 

Interrupted again... now late in the afternoon.  Here is what happened:  Girl B (the dark and vulnerable one) came to Gibi crying.  Girl C hit her.  I sent Girl C to the corner after yelling she was never to do that again.  Now we had two incidents.  The "provocation" was that Girl B was cleaning her dish too slowly and Girl C wanted to start washing the floor.  (The girls have regular cleaning chores).  I remembered back several months, near the beginning, when the girls got together and announced that they all wanted to leave, to go back to the institution where they had been.  I interpreted this as their wanting assurance they wouldn't be sent back.  We all talked about it, and on individual polls, only two wanted to go back... Girl A and Girl B.  I wasn't surprised about Girl A as she was accustomed to be praised for reporting bad behavior of others.  For instance she once complained that another girl had belongings of yet another girl in her locker.  So I asked her what she was doing in her locker.  Are you the police?  "That is not your locker."  I sent her to the corner for going into someone else's locker.  She had been in a system where you got points for reporting bad behavior of others.  Here I ask, "What your business?"   Girl B said she wanted to leave because Girl C was hitting her, which we did not know at all.  We made it clear this was not acceptable, and would not continue.

Girl C has never hit anyone else.  Clearly others have provoked her.  Girl A hit two of our staff people, our darkest skinned childcare workers.  Of course we dealt with the color issue, which is that I yelled at her that she thought she was better just because her skin was lighter... and this was disgusting.  (I"m sure experts would suggest other things to say). 

On this same day I was chatting online with my younger daughter in NY, my Indian daughter.  She said, "Mom, an odd thing happened to me today.  I was having coffee with a (white) friend of mine, and this man (white) came up to me and said, 'Are you untouchable?  Do you want me to fix that?"  She was upset... and the next morning was still upset.

So Gibi and I talked with Girl C, and I actually asked if she had ever hit anyone else, and she had not.  I talked to her about skin color, and untouchables... and interestingly Gibi translated the same word as dark, and untouchable.  We had a long talk.  She seemed to understand.  She was shocked when i told of my daughter's NY experience.  I let her know this is everywhere, and terrible.. and why, and about worth of human beings... all the stuff we tell our kids when we try to instill our values, and counteract those they get from outside.  I have no idea if it helped, except she knows that hitting Girl B is something that comes with a lot of discussion afterwords.

Girl B: What is her contribution to being hit?  Well, from my perspective, NONE.  She can be difficult, irritable, fight at times, compete as they all do.;.. but there is no behavior that other's don't have in some form.  I don't think she "invites" it.  This is all about believing the consequences for hitting a dark skinned person are less than hitting a light skinned person.  I don't know if we can make a dent.  But we all try with our kids because it's too terrible not to even try. When our children are under discriminatory attack in some way, they can at least know, "Mom says that what is happening to me is wrong."  And when our children are the perpetrators, they can at least know that they are going against our moral values and teaching.  Mom says it's disgusting.

2008 Begins

I'm leaving for Tamil Nadu in two hours -- still to pack -- but this is normal for me no matter how long I plan.  I will be away three days.  We have shown the girls a map of where I'm flying, where I'm taking the train.  But this morning I discovered that some thought I was leaving for America.  They constantly assume they will be left. 

In August we went to Ramkrishnapur for a day to visit my cow.  Everyone went, all staff and children.  We took changes of clothes, especially for the little ones.  We thought we had prepared the girls, but as we walked out the door one of them asked if we would ever be coming back to this house again.

This morning I went online and found a picture of one of the people I will be meeting in Chennai and then traveling with by train.  I'm going to an ASHA-India leadership conference in Vishnupuram.  I found a picture of Lakshmi Suryanarayanan, principal of Olcott Memorial School and a picture of the school, and showed the children I will still be in India, visiting a school, and talking about education of poor children.   Our girls want us to have a very big school one day.  Maybe this will be.  We are full of dreams.

Leaving is hard for me.  I don't like being away.  I've scheduled the trip to be away as little as possible.  I will miss the girls.  I will miss the little ones.  I will miss my home and my children.

Well, I'd better start packing or I won't make the plane and I am really excited about meeting to talk about education.

I've started to put up some photos in an album...

Happy New Year -- my resolutions -- for the older girls to be speaking English in a year, and for the little ones to be able to say five words in any language they choose.

Leaving is hard for me, always has been -- I'm a little like my girls in that way.

'Twas two days after Christmas...

'Twas two days after Christmas and I finally have a chance to write.... a short chance as we are leaving for the planetarium later today, but this is a start.

I am struck by the degree of relief I feel having the license.  I sleep better, am more relaxed, funnier, happier.  It was such a terrible way to live.

We had a wonderful Christmas.  The girls' main education about Christmas came from Home Alone 2.  On Christmas Eve they asked Seema why Santa Claus would come to "girls like us."  She said that I had heard them call, and had come from America and I'd brought Santa.  Well, the next morning I really felt bad that there was no manifestation of a living Santa so I took cotton from a roll of bandage cotton and fashioned a very large beard, and a mustache and taped them on.  I was still in my nightgown, but I took our brass bell, put a bag with the books I'd gotten them over my shoulder and called out, "Merry Merry Christmas!"  They were hysterical with laughter.

People came to visit over the day.  Gibi's kids and husband came. There was just a flow.  I'd gotten hit by Christmas spirit unexpectedly so I'd bought some music, and mostly played Harry Belafonte singing Christmas songs... We were Hindu, Muslim, Jew singing Christmas carols....  Our closest Christian friend was on duty and couldn't join us.

I really missed my children in the US.  We talked on the phone.  We just all accept this is how it has to be right now... Mom needs to be here, and they have really come to understand that.

IT IS NOW FIVE DAYS AFTER CHRISTMAS and I have spent hours and hours trying to add pictures, and then a few hours ago lost a long post which I'm trying to reconstruct but will save into draft more often.  After two days, probably at least 12 hours, there are four pictures in an album, 29 December 2007.   My internet, and I already have two providers, is acting like the old dial up in terms of speed.  So I keep losing data because the upload times out and I go to "cannot find server" and I have to start all over again.  Then just when I think I have something right, I discover that the thumbnails have decided to square off again and someone's head is missing from the picture, so i delete (10 min) and start again.  Last night I met with another broadband provider and he will install tomorrow.  He says his is much faster.... why do i still have doubts.  It's frustrating because I feel I'm in the middle of high tech abilities and technology that is for "export only".

We went to the planetarium and the kids loved it even though we missed the Bengali show and had to listen in English.  But we have been studying the solar system in class here so they understood some.  The staff and teachers are pushing for a picnic in the country, just a quiet day... but I have Science City on my "next" list.  Science City here is wonderful for kids, with rides also, and huge picnic areas, as well as IMAX type theater and a lot of hands on activities.  The kids know so little of the world beyond their streets or rail lines, and what they have seen in movies.  And they are curious.

But, the picnic may still win out, because that would take us near to the village where Bubbi, my cow lives, and we would visit her again.  When I have better internet I'll upload some of those pictures.

I've been re-thinking pictures, and i will put some up with the blog.  I've had conversations with people who seem not to understand what can be done for orphans, who hold negative stereotypes, or for whom orphans are just a statistic.  My girls left their friends behind in the institution they left.  I wish I could take them all.  But at least we can talk about the plight of orphans, and the potential for good lives if they are cared for. 

I don't know how our girls will "end up."  But whatever their futures, their present is better with food, shelter, education, fun, discipline, and love.  And it shows, in their smiles and ours.

We are mourning Anjuli (Didi) Woodward

Didi means big sister.  Anjuli stayed with us for ten days in October.  She was born in Kolkata, adopted as an infant from International Mission of Hope (IMH), and loved returning to India to visit and to volunteer.  She loved being in India and she loved being home with her family.  On this trip she bought carefully chosen Christmas presents to bring home to her parents and each of her brothers and sisters.  Anjuli died two days ago, driving to work.  She hit ice, spun out of control, and went into an oncoming truck.  She died instantly.

Our girls and our staff are sad, tears are flowing.  Gibi is especially shaken as Anjuli, like she and others here, were part of the world of IMH.  We have become the unofficial stopping place for adoptees wanting contact with their pasts in Kolkata.  For Gibi, Anjuli was one of her children, as well as a young women she came to know well on this visit.

Our girls have had many losses in their lives.  Last night we talked about that, about holding in your heart the people you loved and who have left.  We have set up a pandal with Anjuli's picture, flowers from our garden, prasad, candles... and on one side of her picture are Lakshmi and Ganesh.  On the other side is a small lighted picture of Mary and Jesus, a gift from one of our teachers.  We had prayers for her last night.  Tonight Seema will come and read two Bengali poems from a collection I found.  One is about the loss of a mother; the other about the loss of a Didi.  Tomorrow night we will have songs for Anjuli, and then begin our Christmas.

We have our license!!!!!!!!!

This is the big news....  We have been granted a license -- for only three months, until the renewal process begins again, but now we are better prepared for the battle ahead.  We received the license because we were able to gain support from high places; some of the doors we knocked on were opened for us.  We are not alone.  And, most important, we do not have to live in fear that the Government will order removal of the children.  I slept very well last night.  For now we are safe.

It is Friday morning, today a school holiday for EID, then school tomorrow morning, and then ten days of vacation.  It is cold this morning and the children are in dresses, sweaters, and leggings.  Last night we sat up watching movies and celebrating.  The children were more aware of the threats than I knew, as one of the staff had told them some time ago.  So last night we celebrated our win, and our safety.  The celebration is still going on this morning, as we slept in late. My older daughter happened to call from the US, and all the girls got to talk to their "Didi."  Classes here will start at 9:30 this morning. (The vacation is only from  their outside school.  We rarely cancel our classes.)  They will have their usual three hours of Bengali, math, and history, then lunch, then two hours of English, and then another two hours of Bengali reading.  In the evening they will have dance.  They will not have homework because of dance class.  There is no time to do it.  But this is their complaint, as the LOVE homework, and ask for it each evening.  Some of our massis have good education, and they help the kids.  I think they really enjoy that.

As for me, I have a big day planned -- things that have fallen behind because of the consuming aspect of the fight for a license.

1. I want to hire a full time physiotherapist -- I have to start the process.

2. We need speech therapy for two of the children.  I have to start that search too.

3. I have to get air tickets to Chennai as I'm going to an ASHA Trust conference in January for two days.  I'm very excited about this as I've worked with ASHA since 2002, and it remains an exciting organization dedicated to education in India.  I've tried online but the sites keep timing out.

4. SHOPPING -- I love to shop.  That's a confession. Well, actually it's the daydreaming I do when shopping more than anything I buy. My list for today: socks/slippers for the kids for use in the house; an exercise DVD for me to do with the kids;  (The little ones especially will have a good laugh watching me.) slippers for me; 2 new bookbags as two need repair; a new hairclip because the one I wear all the time just broke; a CD newly released, Christmas in Kolkata -- done with Indian instruments; and then, Christmas presents.  Christmas is secular as well as religious here.  Yesterday we were invited to a Christmas party at Imrose's school and the kids had a great time. They were on the shy side, and incredibly well-behaved.  Anyway, I've decided to give each girl a book of her own.  They will love this, as they are forever taking books and putting them in their lockers, or hiding them under mattresses.  That's where I look when I can't find a book....  So, this will be nice.

It is 9 am now.  The Special Ed teacher has arrived to start classes with the four little ones.  They have four hours in the morning with this teacher, and then four in the evening with a mother of a CP child, who also teaches them, and works with them, and sings to them. 

The big girls are still watching the DVD, Sound of Music.  I bought it for them when they started learning scales in singing class.  But of course it has special meaning to me, as I lived with the fear of losing the children, and ongoing fantasies as to how we could run, hide, escape those who threatened to put them back into institutions.  The misuse of power knows no national borders.  But then, that is also true of those who protect.

We have our license!  I am smiling.  I am very very smiling.

p.s. a haiku I wrote some years ago:

To defeat evil,

Pretend it is not there,

Act because it is.

I am very very smiling.......

If You're Happy and You Know it Clap Your Hands...

So we clap our hands and stomp our feet and yell Hooray!

That's the song that is often in my head, and then I found it on one of the Barney VCDs that Poomina loves, and sometimes we play it over and over again.  The big girls are learning it now in one of their classes, so sometimes we sing it on our way to school.  Other days they sing Bengali songs from their dance class and I hum along as I try to put the words in my head.  In voice class they are learning scales but with Bengali words.  I got a copy of The Sound of Music, so they heard the scales there too -- as I try to teach them about universality... different parts of the world, same and different at the same time.  A popular song in the nursery school set here is We Shall Overcome, in Bengali.  Our mime teacher took us through the song in English, Bengali and then Hindi.  Same and different everywhere.

Yesterday i went to my favorite bookstore, Crosswords, a smaller version of Borders or B&N.  I found a collection of 500 Bengali poems for children.  I know enough to see if words are simple or not, and this looked like something our children could read now or soon, and others can read to them.  I want them to know poetry, in Bengali, and then one day in English.  I want them to be able to write poetry in Bengali, to say what their hearts say about their pasts, and their lives altogether.  I brought the book back and the Bengali staff loved it, they were thrilled.

Last evening we were filling out their applications for dance examinations, and talking about names.  They all understand about need at school to say, "My mother's name is Dr. Michelle Harrison" because I have to sign for everything, and that's what their papers now say.  But for dance, they only wanted fathers listed so we practiced, "My father's name is Dr. Michelle Harrison."  But these occasions always start discussions about their families, siblings, parents, violence, who has died, who was murdered, who was taken away by police, who went hungry.  Two days ago all the kids got MMR injections.  So last evening one the girls informed me that living on trains you didn't get injections.  She still isn't sure she wants to be here -- is constantly assessing her situation.  She makes me laugh a lot.

Anyway, I want them to keep alive their memories through poetry, words in their mother tongue -- just an image in my mind -- trying to find a way for them to express themselves and make themselves known.  They think a lot.

I also picked up a really nice illustrated encyclopedia of history for children.  They love looking at pictures, asking questions... they are interested in everything they see.  They have a history class for a half hour six days a week.  It's not in their school curriculum, but in ours here.  And i bought a small book about railways of the world, since they love trains... (the place you don't get injections) and several of them grew up on tracks and in stations.

It's Sunday morning at ten.  The mime teacher didn't show.  Some of the girls are watching Lagaan, some are helping in the kitchen, laundry has already been done, and it hanging on the lines on the roof.  One of the massis and I just cleaned out one of the storage closets... just a Happy Day at Shishur Sevay.  So I clap my hands, stomp my feet and yell, Hooray!

The Question of Names and Pictures

So, here is the dilemma I struggle with.... the use of names (easily changed as I've done so far) and pictures -- which I haven't used so far.  I still don't have a clear answer for myself after months and months.  The tensions I feel are between privacy for the children, v. the danger of invisibility.  The same questions come up over the website, which is currently stalled as "Under Construction."

I am generally opposed to the use of any children's pictures online.  So, I use the measure of, "would I put pictures of my two daughters online?"  The answer is no.  In fact, I leave their names out too.  It is for them to identify with what I write, if they so choose.  So why would I use a different standard for my children here?   

Well, I know my readers are interested.  But in a way, so what?  Before photography we wrote stories with no pictures, stories about people that moved us, to feel their presence, to feel we knew them.  As I will write more about the children -- coming out of a period of self-absorption regarding the legal problems -- I must write in ways that serve to connect them with the reader.

ON THE OTHER HAND -- when I am feeling frightened about the government trying to close us, and trying to put the children back into a prison-like institution, then I think, "These children don't have the privilege of privacy, because their lives and futures depend on people identifying with them and caring about them."  A picture is a wonderful way of making that connection, of making the children real.  My mind is constantly busy.

Orphans are invisible -- but then again, I am giving them voice -- a non-illustrated voice.

What about the web page?  Why do I want a website?  We need a website for a certain level of credibility (in perception) and so we can be found easily.  We want a website because we are learning so much about care of the children and especially educating them.  We are proud of what we are doing.  We need a website for gathering support from others interested in the welfare of orphans.  Money is not a critical issue.  I've written over and over, "I am an anxious mother."  As such, I could not have started with without enough money to raise these children.  I hadn't counted on the children with handicaps, but we will manage, and I know many people want to help.  This is why we are small.  At some point, if we want to expand, we will need funds.  But my fantasy anyway is that we will have a wonderful and effective model of care, and others will follow. 

The question I ask myself over and over, to counter my impulse to show off how beautiful they are, is, "How will putting up their pictures benefit the children?"   I don't have an affirmative to that right now.  For the present, I think we are safe.  Right now the children have everything they need.  They are secure, healthy, being educated intensively, and in a quiet way, just being kids. 

Then again.....  and I go round and round.

4 December 2007 - an "average" day

A quick rundown of an ordinary day..............

Up at 4:30 to get kids ready for school.  One massi is usually on duty for the night.  We do this together.  Ganga wakes when i do, and chirps a sort of "chirp-humph" louder and louder until I pick her up.  As soon as others are up she is happy to go with her Didis to watch them get dressed.  The girls do a pretty good job of getting themselves into uniform -- after our hard work of getting them up.  They love their winter uniforms and by the time of breakfast they are in uniform, leggings, scarves, socks, gloves -- all of it.   Shoes stay outside.  I shower and dress while they eat breakfast.  By 6:10 we are out the door.  It used to be 6:am but because of "winter" the time is shifted ten minutes.  This morning we also took Ganga with us in the stroller. 

I love the mornings, the walk to school -- saying hello to head teacher.  i used to be intimidated by her, seemed I was always "getting it wrong" but now we are comfortable with each other.  last week I was made President of the Mother-Teacher's Association, the Indian form of the PTA. 

**********************************************

(Now the next day)

The above is as far as I got last night when I got a phone call about a meeting today, and then made a call to find out yet another avenue, and it seems some meetings on the part of people trying to help are happening today (the 5th) so I was VERY tense.  I'm getting better though.  I slept, interrupted by a sick baby who needed medicine, but then slept the rest of the night.  All of this is what my ORDINARY life is like here. I have constant interruptions, caused primarily by my always being underfoot, or rather at the computer which is the "everything" room.  So I laugh at myself when I get irritated at being interrupted.

Also yesterday:

1. A teacher called Gibi to say she wasn't coming back.  This was a total surprise, and it looks like she is going through some major personal crisis that no one seems to know much about.  So, we will look for another teacher.  Our Special Ed teacher will also fill in.

2. The washing machine takes two hours for a one hour cycle.  The repair man came.  The problem is the water pressure, so we will move the machine down to the first floor today, and put it in the outside bathroom.

3. I posted a blog about the politics here, which affects me a lot -- on my mind a lot.  I'm actually writing a lot about my early life... and politics, and trying to decide what to put on the blog.  I know I have to learn how to categorize blog subjects or an index but i don't have time.

4. I talked on the phone with my older daughter.  It was her birthday in the US and we had sent her flowers.  She works late and calls me from the car on her way home.  We talk several times a week.  I was a single mother, so the phone was always a big part of communication when I wasn't home.  It still is.

5. I chatted online with my younger daughter in the US.  She works at night, which is day here, so when she has down time, we chat.  It's funny.  I love her night job. 

6. A homeopathic doctor came to see the handicapped children.  He is evaluating each one, and giving us medicine.  This doctor has taken care of me in my migraines, for which allopathic medicine has little to offer.  Maybe he can help with the spasticity of the handicapped children.... I do use antibiotics for infections, probably I over-use them.  But remember, I'm an anxious mother before I'm a doctor.

In between all this I talk to kids, check exam results for a list, sign exam books, buy fruit from the fruit man who comes each day.  Vegetables I buy in the morning on my way home from school.  I give hugs and scoldings throughout the day.

And i worry, and wonder how to make my "nerves of steel" even harder, how not to worry, how to "let go" at times because others are working on this too.  My eating is OK, but I do not exercise, which upsets me, but I haven't figured out what to do. 

So now it's the end of the 5th December, and this average day was similar.  We had a meeting with the local councilor. I put together more files. The two other meetings planned for today were canceled because of schedule conflicts... (so I wait and try to be patient).   The plumber came and we moved the washing machine downstairs.  A former staff person came to visit.  This wasn't the right job for her here, but she has found a really good job, and I'm happy and relieved. 

As I write now the time is 8 pm, and the night massi has just arrived.  The younger children have been fed and are watching Damu, the Bengali movie about a father who wants to find an elephant for his daughter.  The older girls have just come downstairs from Spoken English class and are eating supper.  Then three girls will clean and wash the classroom and stairs; three others will clean up the kitchen and the downstairs floors.  The remaining three did the lunch clean up.  Then they will all shower and change into night clothes and begin the slow process of going to bed.

 

Kolkata was burning last week

I have so little time to blog... though I want to a lot.  So I'll try to make this short so I can finish it and send it... and maybe add pieces later.

Yesterday's The Sunday Statesman had three articles on the editorial pages, each one having a lot of meaning for me.

The Dual Danger, part 1 by Sandeep Pandey.  I know of Pandey because he was the founder of Asha for Education in the US, a volunteer organization of mostly NRI's with a commitment to education in India.  I've been a part of ASHA for several years.  He writes of seeing a "face of Left fascism" in the operation of the current government.  For me, having grown up in the era of McCarthyism in the US, the spying on individuals, the persecution of communists, Leftists, and the general atmosphere of fear -- "Loyalty Oaths" as entrapments - these are familiar but ominous.

On the next editorial page, the headline read, "CPM's parallel Governance" which proposes there is a "government inside a government" that is actually ruling in West Bengal.  This is exactly what we are discovering as we try to make our way through this nightmare over the licensing and the security of our children.

The last of the three is "Taslima and the Bengali Literati" questioning why the "intelligentsia" of Kolkata were silent when she was hounded out of Kolkata by fundamentalist mobs whose "sentiments she hurt" by writing about women in Islam.  The intelligentsia were not the only silent ones.  In fact, even the liberal left caved in to the mob violence.  That was what upset me most, that people in the government who I assumed would protect her instead conspired for her removal.  She was spirited out of Kolkata by the "government within the government" which was the theme of the first of these three articles.

Well, this is the political atmosphere of my life in Kolkata.  One would think we were removed from all this, but the politics and alliances carry down to the smallest units of governance.  If we had simply gotten our license, and then the renewal, all this would be of interest, but would not feel so critical or relevant to my life.

I am reminded also of Academia in the US and what can happen to Ph.D candidates if they find themselves with a recalcitrant or hostile or jealous adviser.  Their degrees and careers can literally be ended; the truth will be buried under the guise of "non-interference" which is a way of everyone else avoiding responsibility.

Saturday evening Gibi and I passed a small group of women demonstrating on behalf of Taslima Nasreen.  They were standing as a group on the corner of Rash Behari and Gariahat Aves, only partly blocking traffic.  We parked the car and went back just to say hello.  They invited us to join the demonstration.  I said I couldn't as we were on our way to meet someone.  But I can't be in a demonstration.  I am vulnerable myself.  My children are vulnerable. 

Three recent major events have shaken the surface calm of Kolkata:  1. the police complicity in the death of a Muslim man married to a Hindu woman, each educated and professional.  For this the city banded together across religions.  2. the second is the CPM (socialist party) murder of farmers in Nandigram who were fighting to protect their land from forced seizure for industrialization.  This resulted in splits across political parties, but with general non-sectarian alliances in support of the farmers. 3. Taslima Nasreen, exiled Bangladeshi writer, who has been living in Kolkata.  A fundamentalist group was able to stir the passions of some Muslim groups, and this created a split along religious lines and boosted the power of those committed to violence in the name of religion.

In the end, and in a very reductionist way, we have a city torn by police and government brutality, but the only issue that can be "safely" raised is persecution of a woman for what she wrote.  Murder is less crime than truth.  For this, Kolkata was burning last week, to punish the truth.

Friday morning at six

We are walking to school.  I am in the front, Seema in the back.  We no longer walk in line, except if there is traffic.  Rather we become two groups, some of the girls in the front with me, some behind with Seema.  It's a process of natural seclection.  I am a fast walker, so the girls who walk fast are with me.  A chill has come in the mornings, but the girls are dressed as if it were late Fall in the Northeast USA.  They have red sweaters, red head scarves, and red leggings under their uniforms.  This is the custom now.  And our girls, who never had any uniforms before, are certain to put every possible accessory on, whatever the weather.  They love their uniforms.  some of them wake in the night and slip into the other room, dress for school, sweater, leggings, uniforms, scarves, and go back to sleep!

On this morning, as we are walking, we see just off to the side of us, at an intersection, two women and two children, boys about 7 or eight, climbing out of a fancy gray Tata Sumo.  We all stop, looking back transfixed.... the women look discheveled; the boys look weary.  I see one man get back into the car.  it all just looks bad.  Then the car passes us, with four well-dressed men grinning, grinning at us.  I learn later that the group in the back heard the woman protesting to the man, as he gave her money, "Is that all I get?"

For the rest of the way to school we talk about it, and the girls talk with Seema.  They all know what is going on.  They lived on the street.  We tell them this is why they are with us, so this doesn't happen to them; this is why we educate them, so they do not live on the street; this is why we watch them all the time and don't let them out of our sight.  One of the girls tells Seema that the night before she dreamed about her mother and cried all night.  "Is she safe? Is she hungry?"  Seema tells her, and all of them, that they must work to make their mothers proud, wherever they are, here or with the Gods.  She tells them that they will grow up to help other children like themselves, because they know how much pain there is.  Always she/we tell the girls they must make their parents proud.

A poem I wrote some years ago:

There are Cobwebs in my Heart

There are cobwebs in my heart

Where mama used to be,

A room preserved…

Frozen in the moment of her

Leavetaking.

The growing strands of thin floating filaments

Encroach,

From the corners of

Her room,

And gather over time to mark the emptiness.

Enshrouded,

An alter of love remains,

Built long ago to call for God,

-- Just in case he was listening –

A dainty layette,

Delicately embroidered

White on white

Awaits the newborn,

Booties, hand sewn in some distant land,

Where women feed their own

Knitting for the children they’ll never know.

A lullaby plays, the needle jammed --

The cradle will fall.

The cobwebs soften the harsh notes of the broken music,

They blur the searing loss,

And comfort the dying infant

Like gentle shrouds of lingering memory.

Oh mama, if only you had stayed.

Cyclone Sidr veered off to the East

This is a revised post about Cyclone Sidr.  I didn't get a chance to finish writing about the morning we woke to a clear sky, a light breeze, and no sign of the hurricane force winds we had been expecting.    We all had fun laughing at my preparations -- but our moods changed over the course of the day, and then over the next several days as we learned about the devastation caused by Cyclone Sidr in Bangladesh.  Kolkata was braced for the storm.  As of midnight, trains were still canceled.  Much of the Sunderbans was evacuated.  But then sometime after midnight, Sidr shifted East.

I grew up in the US when "atom bomb drills" were common in school, and when people built underground shelters stored with food and water.  Part of my childhood was spent on a farm, where we were often snowed in for days at a time.  So getting food in, making sure we had enough coal, closing windows and shutters against hurricanes, making sure the animals were safe -- these are ingrained routines for me.

My preparations:

1. We brought in food supplies for a several days.  We had plenty of staples, but added vegetables, eggs, and bread -- flexible foods.

2. We made sure we had enough kerosene for the generator in case electricity stopped.

3. Bijoy and I went hunting for warm clothes for little and big girls.  It was raining, and this was the day when local stores are closed.  But we found a lone hawker selling from under a tarpaulin, and bought him out.

4. We got out the wool blankets from last year.

5. Our building is part old, and part new.  I moved us to the newer part, 2 story and a very strong roof.  Most of the girls slept upstairs with massis.  I stayed downstairs with two of the little ones -- Poomina needs her crib, and Ganga just wants to be with me.  The others are happier with the big girls.

6. I had staff stay overnight because in bad weather they couldn't get here in the morning. 

7. Bijoy's wife was sick at home so we brought her here so she wouldn't be alone, without electricity or water when the storm hit.

8. I simply didn't consider the possibility that the weather would be clear, with NO wind or rain this morning.  So I didn't get up to wake girls, check, etc.  So, they missed school today.

I'd shown the girls the red colored cyclone on the weather.com map.  And I'd made all sorts of sounds to describe thunder and rain and wind... making them all laugh, but teaching about Bay of Bengal, and Bangladesh, and Kolkata...   We followed the weather map as late as 8 pm, and the cyclone was still coming our way.  Lowland villages and islands nearby were evacuated.  The next day we looked at where the cyclone had been.... It was all an experience in Time, Place, and Person -- essentials of consciousness, and anchors to reality --

I slept so well knowing I'd prepared.  A few times I woke, aware of the LACK of sound of wind or rain, and fell back to sleep.  I slept right through what should have been the time to go to school, which of course was open.  I felt really stupid.

p.s. Cyclones, hurricanes, and typhoons are more about where they are located geographically than about their properties.  This is my conclusion after Googling "hurricane vs cyclone."

Coming up for air

We are all fine.  We had a beautiful Diwali/Kali Puja/Lakshmi-Ganesh Puja.  I am consumed with work regarding our battle with the government.  I'm working around the clock to prepare a formal history of the difficulties and harassment.  We are still knocking on doors, still trying to find someone who will match their outrage with action on our behalf.

It's exhausting and painful, painful because of the extent of the lies and betrayals.  None of this is about the children.  Everyone knows they are fine and that we are taking excellent care of them.  It is a warped and perverted game of control, in a system that perpetrates abuses of power.

But, we have the children.  That is what is most important.  They are with us instead of living in a government institution.  This is just 'stuff' we have to go through to keep them.

I love thinking about this blog, writing in my head, but until I get all this work done, I may not have the time to make the leap from thought to post.

Why Traveling Cloud

Traveling Cloud, a line from a poem I wrote -- The name, the lines from the poem, comfort me in hard times, if only a reminder of hard times that have been, and hard times that are now, and will pass. as the others have.

Some days are hard and lonely.  Here is the poem:

TO BE IN MY SKIN

If you came into my skin

It would take you a long time to

Get used to

All the trouble,

I am a rooting weed ,

A broken rock,

A traveling cloud

You cannot touch,

I am a bridge,

I am Jerusalem,

The Intefada,

The Holocaust,

Rwanda,

Looking for Redemption,

To be in my skin is

To feel God,

Know Satan,

And make my birthday wish

For World Peace.

MH

12/28/00

The Cock Doth Crow

The cock doth crow
To let us know

If we be wise
Tis time to rise

English class, English rhymes, English language in Kolkata.  Next comes the alphabet:

A is for Ass

This is English in Kolkata, with words we would not use, and probably words the children will never use, unless they end up on the streets in the US, talking about cocks and asses.  As for "doths" they haven't been heard from in a long time.  Where have all the doths gone? 

It just feels funny standing in front of a class of little kids talking about cocks, doths, and asses. 

I write only partly in jest, but also seriously, because the debate about teaching English is at times a volatile one.  To the poor, English being the language of the colonizer is less important than English as opportunity to rise above poverty.  In West Bengal, language is the great divide.

We send the children to a "Bengali Medium" government school.  The West Bengal government had removed English from primary education about 25 years ago, but due to public pressure has just reintroduced it at a minimal level.  One consequence of having removed it is that it is  difficult to find teachers fluent in English, except among the elite. 

Why our girls are in Bengali government school:

1. We had no papers to get them into schools, and we had a local connection with the school, a friend who persuaded to school to take the children. 

2. Our girls had never been in school.  They weren't socialized with respect to behavior or language.  When angry or moody they use an assortment of Hindi and Bengali terms equivalent to cocks and asses, as well as female dogs -- and other words no one is willing to translate for me.  This school was/is a place to start while they learned to behave, speak, show respect to teachers, take turns, raise their hands -- and most important, learn the basic skills of reading, writing, and arithmetic.

3. Mother tongue is the language of thought, emotion and memory.  I didn't/don't want them to lose that. 

4. They must be literate in Bengali, so when they do speak it, even if they learn English, they still speak in an educated way.  They must learn single and plural, tenses, parts of speech,  sentence structure, and the fastest way to learn that is in a familiar language.  Then it can be transferred/translated. 

5. Our girls are starting school very late.  It's harder to do mental math problems when you don't know what the words are. 

"A man went to the store and bought five apples; he gave two to the children standing outside.  Then he went inside and bought four oranges but one dropped and was run over by a bicycle. 

Oranges cost two rupees.  Apples cost 3 rupees 50 paise each.  The man left his home with 50 rupees, but two rupees fell out of a hole in his pocket. How much money did he have left?" It's so much harder when you don't even know what "pocket" means, or "fell out." 

6. We have no idea where these girls will find their places in society, what work they will do, whom they will marry, who will be their circle of friends -- but they should not be alienated from their cultural origins.  Bengali is a lyrical language rich in artistic and literary heritage.  These girls should know that pride in their heritage.  And they do.

I am learning as we go, as are the girls.  What is the future, what can be the future, of real orphan girls, ones who have no families or communities waiting for them?  An orphan's life is hard.  For our girls, English will be critical in their independence and upward mobility.  Whatever they do, whether it be nursing, teaching, taking care of children, having English will set them apart, give them an edge in the economic market.  They will become fluent, but not just yet.  It all takes time.

Ganga was sitting in on the class when "The cock doth crow...." was first being practiced.  She loved it, waved her arms, and called out in sounds she tried to approximate to what she was hearing.   So, in spite of my jest, my funny feelings, I find myself at times on the floor, looking her in the eyes, and enunciating clearly, "The cock doth crow, To let us know, If we be wise, Tis time to rise."  And when I then add, "A is for Asses" she giggles and giggles, somehow knowing that these words do not come easily to me either. 

Navami -- The Last Day of Durga Puja - Then Dashami

Navami, the last day of Durga Puja, is a day of prasad, food that has been given to the Gods for their blessings, and then returned to be eaten.  On this morning, two groups came bearing prasad for us.  We had already begun cooking for the day, but there was also enough prasad so we really didn't have to.  To the children, all this had some familiarity.  To Gibi, it's "of course."  I am forever trying to catch up!

One of young women who came on Astami is in Montessori training.  She had stayed to teach for two hours, and came again on Navami.  She called first to see if we remembered she was coming.  The children were already upstairs in the classroom waiting for her, going through their alphabet drills until she arrived.  Towards the end of the class I joined in and we did "opposites."  We walked in opposite directions.  I drew "same same" buildings and then opposite sized.  We had night and day, sun and rain, boy and girl, elephant and mouse, laughing and crying, quiet and noisy.  Of course, it's not really all that simple, but good enough for now.

For us, it was really just a lazy day at home.  No one was ever naughty enough for punishment.  They even kept the TV at reasonable sound level.  Boro bacchas and choto bacchas spent a lot of time together.

I write all this on Dashami, the day of Durga's sad farewell.  Today the processions to the water are to begin.  But if you go out to the pandals this evening, you will rarely see this happening.  Like clinging children, we hang onto Durga, the mother goddess, begging her not to go, and canceling her mode of transportation.  What can she do if her lorry does not show up?  Her gorgeously painted and decorated clay form cannot walk the distance to the Ganges.  So she stays, and stays, sometimes until a city ordinance is passed that she must go to the river.  As children we do not easily let our mothers leave us, and as mothers we linger with our children for as long as we are able.

Astami -- The Worship of Little Girls as Mother Goddess

Astami, this day of worship of little girls as mother goddess.  I didn't know this.  I'd lost the day before fighting with the Government.   We are close to some of the neighbors at Gibi's flat, as my room there was home for me when I was in India.  So some of the neighbors have followed our work, and the creation of Shishur Sevay.  Now they come with gifts and praise for the children.   So the evening before, these friends had called to ask if they could bring breakfast for all the girls, which of course I said yes to.  I imagined one of them stopping by with some breakfast treats.  Had I known this was a day of worship of little girls, I would have dressed them up.  I am not only an anxious mother, but a self-critical one too.

At nine in the morning they arrived, the whole extended family, with shopping bags of food, utensils, and a special plate with elements of worship.  It was beautiful.  They tied a red string around each girl's wrist, and put vermilion powder on their foreheads (mine too).  The food preparation began and we set up in the classroom to eat, bringing choto bacchas upstairs too.   Really, this was how I'd imagined it would be.  In class the children are learning the meaning of "opposites."  This morning was the opposite of their socially isolated and acultural lives in the institution.

It was a quiet home day for the children.  Gibi and her children were with them for the day.  I went hunting for a courier, and then came back to sleep.

Another evening of pandal strolling.... this time our first stop being the pandal close to our home.  The local "clubs" get together to build pandals.  They solicit contributions door-to-door.  So this year, as they came for donations, I reminded them we were an orphanage, and asked, "And what will you do for our children?  We are in your community?"  The response was really lovely.  One club put up a big banner with our name and address, in Bengali, as I'd requested.  Another club took our Annual Report and put it on poster board just outside the entrance of the pandal.  So, on Astami evening, the children posed in front of the poster with their pictures, and again under the banner with our name.  Some local club leaders joined us for pictures too.  It was so good for all of us.  Then we made rounds of other pandals.  Along the way we met one of our teachers, also out for the evening.  The children called out, "Auntie, Auntie," and crowded around her.  We are a familiar sight, the community is familiar to us.  With the local leaders we mention our troubles with the Government.  They assure us we are safe, that no one will come to disturb us.  The community now feels blessed to have us with them.  They feel chosen.

Saptami -- The First Day of Puja

Durga, having arrived the evening before, rises early for her bath.  Her day is spent in rituals of worship of nine plants that represent the Gods who gave their combined strength to Durga in her fight against the demons.

Gibi brought the girls to her home for this day, a special day of celebration.  They dressed in their fine clothes and spent the day with her family.  Her daughter is Didi (big sister) to them, and her son is Bai (brother).  They are with us often when their school is closed or they are not studying.  And I am really grandmother to them.  This is especially important if they are not studying, when a simple call from me will send them immediately back to their books!  Having the girls there is a matter of pride for their family, including their extended family.

I was high on our pandal stroll the evening before, ready to blog about it all.  I had planned a quiet day, and time with the choto bacchas.  The logistics of taking them there for the day were just too difficult, and I had some special ideas I wanted to try out, working on motor and cognitive skills.  Gibi came by early though, to tell me about a phone call she had received that morning from someone "in the know."  After that, I can only describe the day as "lost."  I worked at the computer, wrote and re-wrote documents, letters.  I stopped long enough to visit the girls and Gibi's family for lunch.  In the evening Gibi and Bijoy took the girls for their pandal walk.  I had managed to twist my back while washing a diaper in the morning - one more added stress -- or probably one more result of stress.  But I completed my work, and located a 24 hour courier service for the next morning.

We are getting wonderful offers of support from many areas, but it's just not clear what will be most helpful.   I will write more about that as it gets clearer.

The girls came home from the day at Gibi's and pandal strolling, waving new balloons, eating popcorn, and as usual, went first to choto bacchas to give them balloons and share their treats.  I went over all the documents with Gibi, as I always do, and we agreed I'd get them off to the courier in the morning.  We worry and laugh at the same time about all this, the trickery, the lies, the convoluted stories.  It's all about money and power -- who will control me.  This is really a stupid fight because those close to me would tell you that this is not a do-able task, or at least it hasn't happened yet.  I am very stubborn.

Gibi and I also celebrate, every day, that in spite of the fights going on, we have the children.  They grow, they learn, they thrive, and in that way, so do we.

The Durga Puja

We are in the midst of Durga Puja, the most celebrated holiday in this region of India.  Durga is the "mother goddess" who went into battle to slay the demons who threatened the very existence of the Gods.  She comes to earth for three days each year to visit her parents and to be with us.  After three days she is taken in a long and tearful procession to the Ganges.  She is immersed in the water and returns to the Heavens again.  She is loved and worshiped here in Kolkata, as is her fiercest manifestation, Kali.  Kali Puja will come soon.

But here in Kolkata, "the Pujas" are also secular, in that the entire city, and environs, celebrates, across religions.  Huge pandals are built, temporary temples to the Gods, built of bamboo laced together and covered with thin cloth... Lights shine through the thin cloth so the pandals are illuminated and glow against the dark night. 

This is the major time of gift giving, primarily clothes, so for days before, people begin wearing their new outfits. Thanks to Gibi, we did our Puja shopping early, which I teased her about then, but was very grateful for later.  We knew the girls would be getting clothing from others.  Gibi bought each girl a brass plate, which we have used for our big meals over Puja.  The girls truly love these plates, probably the first things they have ever "owned".  And of course for girls, such possessions evoke the dreams of having households of their own. 

For Durga Puja, offices are closed; the government is closed -- which is why I was unprepared for another round of having to defend myself.  So, for me the first day of Durga Puja was spent preparing documents, letters, thinking through strategies, but having a slightly clearer picture of how the battle is looming.  The following morning I found the only courier service open in Kolkata and sent out the documents to people who will probably not read them until next week.  It doesn't matter.  I have the courier receipts proving that I sent them. Then I took a long nap.

But back to Puja, our Puja -- the evening before the beginning of Puja we dressed up all the girls in their new clothes and walked through the neighborhood visiting pandals.  People smile at us, lift their hands to their foreheads in the greeting, "Namaskar" and I do so in return.  Even in Puja time there are strict social rules about who says hello and who does not, based on caste and class, often reflected in dress style.  Women do not greet or respond back to men they do not know. But as a foreigner, as an older white lady, and as a generally friendly person, I am free to say hello to everyone.  This works well, as it also frees the others to follow the rules, while we still present a friendly face to the community.

That evening we were four adults and nine children -- ten really, but Ganga was tucked into a sling I wore.  Gibi led the group; a visitor took the middle, and Bijoy brought up the back.  I roamed back and forth -- ever the anxious mother.

Off the regular path, down a short street, we saw a lit up pandal. A priest was burning leaves in front of Durga.  This was a family pandal, set up only every six years.  We said our hellos and started to leave.  But then a young woman called out from inside the house.  She recognized Ganga and me.  She is a teacher at the Indian Institute for Cerebral Palsy, where we take the choto baccha, and where they will start school in May.  Then we were all offered sweets. The girls were thrilled to meet a teacher from the choto bacchas' school.  She will visit our Home one day. This is our community.

Gibi deftly guided us then to her favorite pandal, which for Puja is in the midst of a small amusement park set up for the celebrations.  This was all unexpected for me.  We paid tribute to Durga, and then looked around.  Our girls stared at the rides but did not ask.  They watched intently as I pretended to ask Gibi what we should do, as if it were a real question! Then we headed for the rides.  I

We saw first a tame looking roller coaster, without ups and downs, just round and round on flat tracks.  As this was really the night before Puja began, lines were minimal, and soon we were all seated in the line of cars.  After I was seated, an attendant signaled to me that Ganga couldn't go on the ride.  "Baccha na!" he said.  I yelled back, "She isn't a baby.  She is five years old!"  I'm not sure he even understood, but he wasn't arguing with me, and the ride began.  Well, the ride started, and quickly I realized it didn't feel as tame as it looked.  Each time we turned a curve I was sure the car would go off the tracks and we would tumble to the ground.  I kept thinking I was so sorry I'd put us on this ride, so sorry for Ganga -- who, like the others, was grinning away, delighted with every turn.  I really am an anxious mother.

We went on two other rides, one a merry go round, and another nondescript ride we took because I accidentally bought the wrong tickets and they wouldn't take them back.  It was all good; the rides were all good.  The girls were all good.  We hit the junk food, which was also good, and we headed home.

Ants

I have only been injured once in Kolkata, though I know my family and friends worry about my safety.  But my single injury happened last year while I was at the computer, wearing my glasses, just doing some work, and suddenly my eye stung terribly!!!  I mean it was horrible!  It felt like a sandstorm had hit my open eye.  I ran to the sink and tried to wash it out!  The water soothed but the minute I had my eye out of the water, the pain was back. At first I thought it was a recurrence of corneal eye trouble I've had since childhood.  I looked in the mirror and saw a huge black thing on my pupil.  So I rinsed it more, and more, and the black thing stayed, but was in a different place on the pupil each time. 

I called the only doctor I knew in the area and he said to come later.  I couldn't wait.  Bijoy and I set out, just asked people on the street where there was an eye doctor open -- now eight in the morning.  We were directed to a small eye clinic about 3 km away.  The clinic was open, and a doctor was there, as he had come in early that day.  He was kind and wonderful, and quickly saw that an ant had bitten my eye, and it had died holding  on. Usually this happened to people doing ceiling work, looking up.  I was just sitting quietly at my computer, wearing my glasses.

We just never know where danger really is.

The doctor and I chatted.  I said I was here to open an orphanage.  He said that when I opened, he would see the children for free.  So two weeks ago I finally called.  Yesterday I took ten of the children to see him.  One of the boro bacchas needs glasses.  Two of the boro bacchas have squints that will need further investigation. This doctor's speciality is glaucoma and cataracts (and suicidal attack ants) so he had to refer us elsewhere for the evaluations.

Sonali is blind.  I suspected she was, or that she only had some minimal image sight.  Sonali is the baby of our home, about two  years old, the only one we have any medical history on and she has some clear brain damage.    Like the others, she arrived with minimal strength and use of her limbs, and could not hold up her head.  I just thought of her as a sleepy baby.  Now she squirms around the room, exploring everything by touch.  She can stand supported, but can't sit.  She sleeps at odd times, which makes sense since she doesn't know night and day. 

Sonali also used to cry at almost all feedings, but we are learning what she can swallow, and what foods make her cry.  Her food has to be semi solid.  She is so incredibly cheerful.  She giggled throughout the whole eye examination! 

So, an ant attack led me to an eye doctor who saw the girls for free and told us Sonali was blind... strands and connections... how life is here.

One of my goals has been achieved.  All the children have had medical examinations, immunizations, eye examinations, and dental treatments where needed.   And I haven't been attacked by any more ants.

Poomina in Mourning

Poomina went into mourning a day after her mother visited.  She lost her appetite; she cried and cried at bed time.  It took us a day to figure out why she just wasn't herself.  One night she was calmed for a while by playing with the running water in the bathroom.  We walked with her; we passed her back and forth; we lay with her.  The other choto bacchas seemed to know, or at least Bornali did.  She is the one who stopped eating when Poomina was in the hospital.  We had two sad children.  We had someone with Poomina constantly, holding her, singing to her, letting her watch Barney all day, giving her whatever she would eat.  Something deep inside her had connected, some kind of memory that made life different for her.

Friday I took Poomina and Bornali for hydrotherapy.  It was Poomina's first time.  I'm not sure hydrotherapy will do much for her, but she loved the time in the water. She clung to me, just a bit scared as I carried her into the warm water at the IICP pool.  She had fun; she giggled; she has been better since then.  In fact, she has been much better, enough to stir up that hope against hope that one day she will be normal, that her slow waves will get faster, that her encephalopathy will disappear.

Is it good for her mother to visit?  I have no idea.  Is it bad to have a reminder, to mourn?  I don't know.  Maybe it helps heal; maybe it opens the wound.  But it does tell us that her mother is a part of her life in some way, that there is recognition of some sort.  Her mother may find comfort in that.  We don't know; we can't know;  That's just how it is.

Of course, I do have my entirely emotional opinions that it is good for her to see her mother.  Maybe some connections will be made, will become stronger, will help her put thoughts together.  Maybe she will join us fully one day and smile and talk to us.  I have absolutely  no reason to believe this will be.  I am glad she is with us at least, and I'm glad she saw her mother. 

Orphans are Prey

To be an orphan child is not good... the people society expects to be responsible for them are gone.  Whatever the reasons, the orphan child is alone and unprotected.

No parents

No relatives

No community

No one to go back to

No one to give them in marriage

The care of orphans in every country is a matter of national policy.  But orphans are orphans within governments too.  Orphans are invisible; they don't vote; they aren't politically aligned so they lack advocates.

Parents and communities are natural advocates for their children: their schools, their health, their safety.  In the absence of parents, orphan children become a "burden" to society.   The values and priorities of the society will determine how that "burden" is managed.

• Hungry orphans are not an accident.  They represent a decision not to feed them.
• Illiterate orphans are not an accident.  They represent a decision not to educate them.

Orphans are Prey, forever.

A Living Nightmare - Parallel Realities

I'm at a crossroad with this blog.  I intended to keep it apolitical, simply reflective, focus on the positive, on the incredible satisfaction and happiness I have, but kind of write as if I'm floating on a cloud.  That is political too, with the hidden agenda to make this look easy... to be able to say, "hey, come on down and open an orphanage in Kolkata!" 

Well, it is wonderful, and it is hard.  I do float on happiness, but at the same time I live a nightmare, one I try not to think about, or write about.  Whenever I've gone through bad situations, I've always tried to set aside time each day to do something totally unrelated, something to take me out of the pain and fear that go with tough times and situations.  For me, the children provide that.  When things get tough, I get on the floor and play with the kids.  Or, I dance to the video, sometimes Indian dance, sometimes Barney nursery songs.  "If you're happy and you know it clap your hands..." and I clap and the choto bacchas try to clap, and they giggle because I look funny and they know it and so do I.

The government is threatening to close Shishur Sevay and take away the children.  Actually this has been going on for months.  it is a battle that is consuming.  I used to be afraid, afraid of knocks on the door, police coming to seize the children.  I lay next to the choto bacchas at night, thinking of the emptiness of their lives before us.  I want to cover them all with my body.  I told the government they would take my children, "over my dead body."

I won't even try to explain the whole situation because it makes no sense.  The battle is over money, and over control of Shishur Sevay.  Because I am a foreigner I cannot be part of the structure of Shishur Sevay.  On paper I am invisible.   I also can't move my money into Shishur Sevay until the Indian government gives me clearance to do that.  I can't start that application until our tax exemptions are granted from the tax department.  In the meantime the government is demanding that I put money into the account, which is totally illegal.  And they want board representation to control my money.  Once they have the money they can kick me out.

But there is more, and this part is even more ugly.  I've been doing work here for seven years.  Much planning went into what kind of home Gibi and I would create, and who would be here for the children.  We chose love of children, experience, and commitment over "high" credentials. We chose people who would also put their bodies over the children and not let them be taken.  There is a racism, caste ism, and class-ism, at work, not against me, but against Indian people I've chosen to trust with my money and my children.

Today was a new round, an unexpected one on a Sunday morning.  We were suddenly called to a meeting, disrupting all our plans with the children  And now the kids know a bit of what is going on, and I feel terrible.   This morning I was in tears, the flesh and blood part to me, the part that bleeds when I am wounded.  I was told again they would take my children if I didn't turn over my money.  The government had decided, "Mother Teresa gave her house.  You must do the same."  They want the property, Shishur Sevay -- the house, the land.

Gibi and I have been knocking on every door we can find.  Our local support is total, which is critical.  The local officials can actually stop any move against us.  Our local police will not knock on our door at night to take the children.  What a terrible way to live... as I said, a nightmare.

But then there is the parallel reality... which is truly wonderful.  I wrote before about Poomina, who was hospitalized with a seizure disorder, and who has encephalopathy -- the slow waves that tell us how ill she is...  Well, today her MOTHER came to visit!  This is the story.  Poomina came to us as an orphan through order of the court.  She came under a different name, with no medical history, simply a bottle of seizure medicine, and listed as five years.  She requires constant care and attention.  Her seizure here began when she put her hand in her throat and gagged herself, then couldn't breathe well, and had the seizure. 

But here is the difficult part of life with Poomina, and why she was given up.  She loves playing with her potty, and eating it, and tossing it...  So she also requires constant soap and water... although we now have her partly potty trained.  Poomina grabs anything in reach, scoots across the floor quickly, and takes apart anything with nuts and bolts.  We have a padded chair for her because sometimes she bangs her head.  We have child-proofed the main room, with everything behind cabinet doors, and all wires high off the floor.  We love her, but she is truly a handful.

In April we took the choto bacchas to the Indian institute of Cerebral Palsy for evaluations and to begin treatments.  Poomina was immediately recognized by the physiotherapist!  In fact he was thrilled to see her.  He used to treat her at another facility were her mother took her for weekly treatments.  He said Poomina seemed well cared for, and he was surprised she had been abandoned.  Thus we started looking for her mother, on the assumption that a family member had probably abandoned Poomina, and that the mother would be relieved to know she is OK.  through the physiotherapist, we found her, and she came today, along with a younger child. 

The visit was beautiful, for everyone.  Poomina played with her mother's hair, kissed her, but was also happy with the rest of us.  For the mother, it was some peace of mind because she never thought she would see her again.  Unable to care for her, after Poomina got out and spread her potty liberally around the neighborhood, she was sent to live with her grandmother.  The grandmother said she had put her in a good home (actually Poomina came through the police to the government home). 

Poomina's mother is an educated woman.  Her husband beat her during pregnancy; then there was a difficult birth; then there was the chickenpox we thought was the source of the encephalopathy.  Poomina will be seven in November.  The grandmother said she had given all the medical records when she gave up Poomina, but none were given to us.

Poomina has a younger brother, who came too, and said to his mother, "OK, now let's take her home."  She also has two older sisters who are studying in residential schools, in Class 7 and Class 4.  They will come to visit over Puja holidays.  Poomina's mother is doing the best she can.

I wondered what it would be like for the other children to have a mother return.  It was good.  They wanted to keep the younger brother.  i think it was good because each one dreams of her mother finding her, or of finding siblings who they would want to also live with us, be fed, schooled.  So it was a visit that fed their dreams.  it also made clear that mothers are welcome, that children can still stay here, that nothing bad happens. 

By six pm I was exhausted, but didn't want to nap.  So I took a long walk into Behala, to the narrow crowded sidewalks filled with Puja shoppers, buying gifts for the holidays.  It was mindless activity.  I bought peanuts and lollipops for the girls for their school tiffin.  I saw a knock-off of a Macy's Bag and bought it for Rs. 25 (about 50 cents).  I stopped at a medical store to get pads for one of the girls.  I chatted with the owner about brands, as I'd been with Johnson & Johnson.  The owner of the shop is a Rotarian, and he talked about the Rotary Club having me talk to them one day.  I talked about the large NRI Rotarian group in New Jersey.  Then I just walked some more, small steps as I was caught in a procession of shoppers, just moving as a mass along the street and the sidewalk. 

I came home, and the children were in singing class.  All was well.  I hugged the little ones, told them about my shopping.  They don't care that they don't know English and I don't care that they can't talk.  We do body language, and expression, and I always make them laugh.

Monday morning i woke with a terrible headache.  I did not want to move my bones, or walk girls to school.  But i got myself going (with some encouragement of Ganga, whose waking smile makes us all feel happy)... and as soon as we were on the road I was hearing one of their dance songs in my head so we all started singing, and soon my headache was gone, and I was writing lists on my palm, lists of who I next had to call, what I had to write....  New strategies were forming in my mind.  We really need to put out a publication of Gibi's and my work over the last seven years. 

I'm able to move back and forth... the parallel realities.  I had little time to write today... and now the day is over, the kids will go to sleep shortly.  I found some old National Geographic magazines at Gibi's and we brought them over for the girls.  They love the pictures.  They ask lots of questions... Ganga is engrossed, and is turning pages.  Our girls are all turning pages. 

One Hundred Thirty Fingernails

One hundred and thirty fingernails... that's how many I cut in a week.  Every other week I also trim 130 toe nails.  Once a day I also check to make sure fingernails are clean.

I was in medical school a long time ago.  It was rare for women doctors to talk about their children except in whispered tones.  Women doctors weren't supposed to have children.  We weren't even supposed to be doctors.  Many of the educational institutions were still influenced by Western European beliefs that we lacked the courage to be doctors, and that our brains were too weak.  Then, if we did have children, our mental activity would sap strength from our ovaries and thus we wouldn't be able to reproduce well.  We were also told that we were taking the place of a man in medicine, so any time we might spend with our children represented society's lost investment in our education.  We were symbols of change; we were also just young women trying to find our way, most of us wanting family and profession.

An older woman doctor advised us, "Have your children early when you are busy with training.  They don't need you then.  Anyone can do those animal things."

So I think of that sometimes, as I am cutting nails, doing those "animal things" -- and that I am happy doing those things.  The animal/mother part of me just likes it; it feels good.  It makes me feel grounded, useful, connected to all the children's fingernails that have been in the past, and all that will come.... my stint on earth. 

As I write, it is a Saturday afternoon, and the children are in class upstairs.  Three of the handicapped children sit in with the others, seeming to understand though they can't speak.

I struggle with the language of what to call the handicapped and the non-handicapped.  Because now that I am mother to handicapped, I have trouble differentiating the groups as handicapped and "normal."  What do you mean, that my handicapped children are not normal?  The opposite of normal is abnormal.  And my children are NOT abnormal!  They just can't do what other kids can do, but they aren't abnormal; they aren't weird!  Fortunately in our situation there is an age difference, the older and younger.  So we refer to the two groups as "boro baccha" (big children) and "choto baccha" (small children) just like Boro Ma and Choto Ma.  The terms are descriptive, not pejorative.  Choto bacchas need to have their food mashed so they can swallow.  Boro bacchas eat their food un-mashed.  Choto bacchas get fish every day because they are weaker.  And their finger nails are smaller. 

As I go on writing today, the children come from class.  They crowd around, talk about the rest of the day and tomorrow.  They ask if the dance teacher will come (yes), and if they will visit Seema Aunty tomorrow (yes).  Then they wander into the big room playing Ludo, showing pictures to the choto bacchas.  The choto bacchas have an afternoon/evening teacher, and she is with them too... just a play time for 13 children, four staff, and as usual Choto Ma taking part in their games, teaching about sharing, about fairness, about counting the dots on dice and moving pieces along the board, and not cheating.  The girls ask to play carrom and set up the board.  They are missing a red disk, so I take a white one and color it with red crayon.  They are happy.

Two girls are being punished for the weekend.  They are standing in the corners, not allowed to participate in games or watch TV.  They were extremely rude and arrogant to the teachers yesterday, so they lost privileges.  A weekend of punishment is a long time, longer than usual.  I hope we can affect their behavior.  We will keep trying.  We have to.  One of the girls complained that the teacher didn't help her as much as she helped others.  I said, "This is life.  When you are nasty, people don't like to help you as much."  Our teachers try very hard, all the time.  They get fed up sometimes. This is life.  Our children need to understand this, as we all do.

I've put a dance DVD on the TV.  We don't have outside TV at all, just VCDs and DVDs.  I have a huge library of Bengali and English discs.  I've been collecting these for years.  I also have a lot of nursery discs in Bengali and in English.  Everything is about education and culture, directly or indirectly.  And, of course, there are lots of animal stories, animal sounds, letters and animals, numbers and animals.  Our children love animals.

New Bonding

I had one serious worry about opening the orphanage.  How would i get them to sleep at night?  That really was a symbolic question, because it was about how we would discipline children who had already been beaten, abused, and hardened.  I also got mad at myself for worrying about this...  Some weeks after they came I stopped thinking that was an odd worry.  How DO you discipline children who have already had everything done to them, and who still are not compliant and ready to relinquish all the behaviors that allowed them to survive.

What a range of antics we have all participated in as they battled to cross boundaries and i battled to keep them contained.

On the first night I told them all to be quiet, and they GIGGLED!  This I had not anticipated!  They laughed at me.  They thought I was funny.  It made me double over laughing and they laughed some more.  What do you DO with a room full of giggling girls?  Eventually we all went to sleep.

The battle over vegetables:  Hand feeding of children, even older ones, is part of parenting here.  Most of the girls refused vegetables on principle.  it must be a worldwide phobia, because once confronted, most of them came to love vegetables.  But principle is principle, and this was a testing ground.  I would go around and "catch" whoever was trying to give hers away, or hiding it under the rice, or just being defiant.  One of the girls got desperate and she crawled under the beds to get away.  So, I crawled after her, with my sari sweeping up the floor, under one bed after another as they were all lined up.  And then I poked my head out just where she was.  Yes, everyone was laughing.. kids, Gibi, staff... but she ate her vegetables.

We have a range of "punishments" including restricting tv, games, time out, keeping out of dance class, or not letting them visit other homes.  Actually they dare us to hit them... trying to see if they can push us past our own controls.  They constantly threaten teachers and staff that they will say they were beaten.  But the two times it actually happened, they didn't tell us because they were protecting the teachers. 

I am the only one they really listen to.  I punish them for not listening to others, but I'm really the only authority they recognize.  I have even pleaded with them to just be bad with me since others get so upset...

Hitting/beating is the big no-no.  I have fired two teachers for grabbing a child so hard her mouth bled.  When one of our girls drew blood in a fight, I had her head shaved. 

Head shaving... and thus the title of this post... A few of the girls have now had their heads shaved for serious offenses.  it's had a range of good effects, and one unexpected one.  They have become closer to me.  My hair is very thin, a result of chemotherapy eight years ago.  It never really grew back well, and the medicine I continue to take continues to take its toll on my hair.  So, in a rare bit of vanity, I put special "hair growing" oil on my head -- when I remember.  The oil was sitting on my table and the girls picked it up and asked about it.  I said it was for growing hair, and offered to put some on their scalps.  Of course they loved it.  And they hugged me, and now every morning before school the punished girls line up for their hair-growing oil.  They have also seen a photo of when I had a bald head, so we are another kind of group, another form of bonding, and a mothering activity each morning that draws us closer.

Ganga Turns a Page

Ganga turned a page today, literally.  We have been unable to find anything that motivates her enough to struggle to use her hands and arms.  She is quite willing to have us move her fingers to a button she presses to make a light go on, or to turn on the music from a toy.  But her heart isn't in it.   In my head I imagine her whispering to me, "Mom, this is so stupid!"

About a month ago a special ed teacher started. I watched as she tried to get Ganga to hold a spoon to feed a doll.  I thought to myself, "Ganga doesn't care about feeding a doll."  Actually she doesn't care about feeding herself.  She lacks the "I'll do it myself" drive. 

Ganga loves serious Bengali movies and Charlie Chaplin.  She hates Barney.  Last week I took her with me in the car for some errands.  She was fascinated by the vehicles, which I named for her, gharie (car), bus, taxi, lorry (truck).  At a traffic stop a hawker came by carrying balloons and toys with whirling lights, but she paid no attention to him.  She is too serious for toys.  She cries when we put on Barney for the other little ones.  But she has to learn to share too.

This morning I brought her to my office area in her chair, and I showed her a big picture book of India, and she was totally engrossed.  She reached out to touch the pictures.  She tried to stroke Buddha's face!  We went through the whole book, page by page, and then I just left it open in front of her, hoping now to get a few moments at the computer.  Then I saw Ganga struggle and struggle to get her fingers to grasp and turn the page of the book.  On the fourth try the page turned.  It was a beginning.

I know a young woman who competes in wheelchair racing internationally.  She said to me once that her mother made her work at what she wanted, and she is grateful for that.  But I also know her drive, what pushed her, and still pushes her to overcome obstacles.

When Ganga first came to us she could not hold her head up.  We had to support her as you do with a newborn.  Both her arms just hung down, with no tone, no finger grasp.  I used to wonder if she even KNEW that she had arms and hands.  Then one evening we had the barber come to trim hair.  Ganga hated this!  While I tried to hold her still she screamed and flung her arms! I cheered for her!  Ganga found her arms.  Today she found a reason to use them, aside from fighting off barbers.

It all happens in small steps, but the processes are really the same for each of us.  We fight harder against obstacles when we care the most.  Sometimes we find strength we didn't even know we had... like Ganga's arms and hands, and now her reason to use them.

Boot Camp

Teacher's Day, 5 September 2007 -- We are guests at the school.  Children offer flowers and cards to their teachers.  Some recite poems; one little girl dances and sings.   She becomes lost in her sound and movement, and finally must be reminded to end.  Everyone laughs, but it is kind laughter.  Our girls perform twice, dancing with flair, still clearly beginners. 

For Teacher's Day there is a handwriting contest for Class I and an art contest for Class IV.  One of our girls takes first place, and another third in the handwriting contest.  I am so proud of them. To me this is better than a thousand fine dances! 

Boot camp was the model in my mind, no time to feel sorry or "make up" for what they had lost.  They HAD to become literate, and it had to happen quickly as the school year was starting in only two months.   So boot camp it was... four hours of class in the morning and then three hours in the afternoon.  Three evenings a week they also had classical dance. I hired teachers and college students as the girls had no idea of what studying meant.  They had to be taught one on one.

Some people thought i was being too hard on the girls, expecting too much, not giving them any choices (how many of us really give our children a "choice" as to whether they want to learn?).  So i wrote on the blackboard one day, in big letters, "CANCER."  You don't ask a child with cancer if they want chemotherapy.  For these children, illiteracy is a cancer.

I had another reason too for keeping this grueling pace.  What else was I to do with these girls?  We didn't share language; in the absence of structure they bickered and whined. it's not as if i could tell them to go read a book!

One day when they were all being particularly moody and difficult in class I had a talk with them -- through Gibi of course.  I waved my arms a lot and jumped around to make my points.  I told them, "Before you came to the government home and then to us, your lives were very difficult and a lot of bad things happened.  But also, you mostly could do what you wanted.  If you didn't like one train you hopped on another.  if you didn't like one station you went to another.  No one told you when to sleep, or eat, or what to do."  Then waving my arms even more, I said, "But now you are on a train you can't get off!!  And, you have to sit in the seats!!!!!" I paused, and stared intensely at each one of them, "No one is getting off this train, and this train is going to education and jobs and a better life.  You are STUCK!" 

it hasn't been easy and still isn't always easy.  Some teachers have not lasted.  Others have put all their energy into the effort, which is why the children can read.  In the beginning I did some of teaching of Bengali. I know the alphabet; I can count to ten and do simple math, but the kids have now totally surpassed me. The girls and i struggle to communicate with my limited Bengali and their beginning of English.  And when we get stuck we just say, "Babababababababa" which means just that... and shrug.  Or we hunt for Choto Ma or Bijoy to help us out.

As I write today, on a relaxed Sunday afternoon, the girls are watching a Bengali DVD of Thakurma Jolie, who recites children's tales of talking animals and witches and people good and bad.   These days the girls DO come looking for books to read. They share coloring books and crayons.  They work on puzzles.  As i write two girls are helping to squeeze oranges for juice for the little ones.  Two are sitting on the floor next to my laptop, practicing handwriting.  Boot camp is over.

Independence Day

August 15th is Independence Day in India.  Our girls danced in the school program.   At other Independence Day celebrations I've been a guest, or speaker, or sponsor.  But this time I was a parent, rushing the kids out the door because WE got the time wrong,  pinning sashes so they wouldn't fall of their shoulders as the they danced, and taking pictures (always).  Gibi arrived in time to cue them from the sidelines. 

They danced just fine.  Always looking to be sure we were watching, they concentrated on holding their fingers in the right positions, tapping their feet at the right time, turning right, or left or kneeling when they should.   They danced with gusto and with pride; they felt glorious.

To celebrate Independence Day means to understand you are part of a country with a history, with a pride, with songs and stories, and great leaders whose names you hear over and over.  Our girls came to us with only vague concepts of India.  None of them could identify India on a map, or understand that Bangladesh and Pakistan were countries that bordered India.  Now they know our home address, the city, the state, the country.  India on the map has a unique shape with special meaning to them now. Time, Place, and Person, the three major criteria of awareness in the mental status examination.  Today our girls know about calendars and about countries, cities, communities.  But "person" or "who I am" remains elusive. 

Remember, they are orphans, so their pasts have to be reconstructed with bits of information, bits of memory.  Some came without names or ages, so before they began school we practiced names and ages, and how to respond when other children, or teachers, asked about their families.   

Part of the community, and outsider too -- this is the duality of their lives, now and probably throughout their lives.  They are insiders until certain questions come up, and then they are outsiders.  To the extent that we, the founders, can be part of the community, their acceptance increases.  But always there is a point of separation, the moment they are asked,

What is your mother's name?

What is your father's name?

Do you have any sisters or brothers?

Where are you from?

Our girls have no birth certificates.  They cannot prove who they are, or even that they are citizens of the country whose independence they celebrate.

Amader Meye'ra

Amader Meye'ra
Floating in the darkened night,
Wailing to come home.

"Our girls"  that's what Amader Meye'ra is in Bengali.  Like everything else about Childlife Preserve: Shishur Sevay, these words are a combination of English and Bengali....

First came the words, and then the picture -- or maybe together.... the outside wall of Shishur Sevay in April 2006 when we bought the house -- and then the words, as time went on and we faced obstacle after obstacle, and yet i felt the girls' presence -- my children out there -- frightened, waiting, wailing.  I put together the words and the picture.  Here was the address where I was waiting for them.  I showed it to people, like opening my heart... but I think mostly people just smiled politely -- and I understand that.

But that's how it felt, like the girls were out there already waiting, that all of this was predestined, that i had to understand that each obstacle, each delay, would still bring us to the place where the "right" assortment of us would all be together at Shishur Sevay.  Sometimes it was hard to remember this.

It was like this when I adopted, 23 years ago -- waiting for the child I knew i was to mother, naming her so she could find her way back to her name, and thus to me.  Now at Shishur Sevay, I was waiting.  I renovated, added a room, made the house more beautiful.    I secretly sprinkled glitter into the cement as the roof was being poured.  I wanted the roof to sparkle in case the children were coming by flying elephant.  I wrote a story once about Sarmu a flying elephant who brought children home to their mothers.  Always I heard my children calling.

Sarmu and Ma Kali brought them home.

Trains in India will never be the same

Yesterday I traveled by train.  I hadn't been at Howrah Station since children came.  Now it was a different place for me, because my girls had wandered the tracks, sat on the platforms and looked up the TV hanging from the steel rafters.  I looked at those TV screens and imagined my children sitting right there on the floor.  I entered the train car and took my seat.  Three waif like children reached through the bars, hands cupped to receive..  I wondered,  "Were they friends of my girls in a lifetime ago?"  As the train rolled,  I looked at the shacks, and the families living on the open hillsides.  My girls talk about living in the open, along sides of ponds, along tracks, wandering, without shacks.

My first trip to Mumbai, (then Bombay) was ten years ago, when I traveled in my corporate role with Johnson & Johnson -- One day I crossed a street toward a hospital entrance, when another waif girl about ten, a baby on her hip, ran up to me, "Aunty, Aunty!" she pleaded with me, hands cupped.  Her skin was the deep dark color of my daughter's, her face not so different -- they could have been sisters.  That could have been my daughter... images and thoughts as vivid now as then. 

The begging children at Howrah Station reminded me of my orphans.  I imagined them showered and dressed, pretty clips in their hair, faces glowing instead of their ashen look of dried skin.   My children's skin has changed since they came to us.  Their arms and legs have many scars, pock marks, remnants of past trauma and infections.  But the skin is softer and smoother now, the the range of colors deeper and more intense.  And the girls don't itch all the time.

Trains aren't the same.  Begging children aren't the same.  We have encounters and then we are changed -- then I am changed, and so on....

My Life in Themes

I experience my life in Themes... coexisting... sometimes seemingly contradictory, each also seemingly with a life and direction of its own. Periodically they converge, and then it seems as if all roads had been leading to this place and time.

Naming:

*I am a mother.

Souls sang to her heart
The winds taking them afar
Her nestlings blossomed.

My nestlings blossomed, now fly on their own, forever bound to me and each other by love.  So, I went in search of the others, their souls still singing to my heart.  Today I mother thirteen orphan girls in Kolkata.  The four youngest are severely handicapped.  I hadn't planned on handicapped children, but then who does? One day I had said to the Indian government, "Today I will take any children you give me."  I love the children.  I am very happy.  To make a new nest I had to form a charitable society which we named Childlife Preserve: Shishur Sevay.  As a foreigner I couldnot be part of the Governing Body or even a member of the Society.  This is difficult.  Our nest is known as Shishur Sevay. 

* I am a white lady.

I am a rorshach, no single answer, but a projection by others of what my white skin means.  My white skin, for which i am not at all responsible, evokes admiration, jealousy, fear, anger, competitveness, mystery.. the unachievable, even with the skin lightening creams and lotions that flood the market.  My girls want to be white, like I am... but so do the women buying the whitening creams.  Lighter is better, a concept ingrained in everyday speech.  Now there is even a baby oil to make skin "glow" which in the illustrations means lighter and lighter each week of use.

* I am a doctor

I had wanted to be a doctor for as long as I could remember.  I also wanted to be a mother.  it seemed to me that doctoring was a form of mothering; that nurturing and healing came from the same energies, from the same center of my self that wanted to mother."       From "A Woman in Residence" Random House 1982

I wrote "A Woman in Residence" when I was a single mother, and the first part-time resident in obstetrics and gynecology in the US.  I have worn many hats as a doctor.  I think about the mind, body, mothers and babies, cancer, fate, skills.  i think about capillaries and energy fields.

*I am a boss

I live at the home.  I employ caretakers, teachers, and other professionals to work with the children.  I do not enjoy being a boss.  I prefer people just do what i want without my having to act like a boss.  But that's not how life is.  I am a tough boss, but I pay well. 

*I am a Spirit

The invitation
Offered a new assignment,
Move Heaven and Earth.

I am not sure what that means.  I am flesh and blood.  I cry.  But I take assignments from a God I talk with often.  I'm here in Kolkata "on assignment."  I try to manage the assignment as I managed many of the jobs i have held, but for this I especially call on my learning in the corporate world.  I'm a Spirit with skills and experience in building infrastructure, marketing, and communication.  Some things I am able to achieve by sheer will (actually stubbornness).  Sometimes I fail, and grow stronger.

*I am a writer.

To create ideas
Clear the brush, and build the nests,
The Herons will sing.

It's what I do.  As I think, I imagine the words written, and i hear them being read. When words do not come, I write about how to find them.  Souls sing to my heart, Herons sing from their nests, and crying children call to me in the night.

Gibi - Our Shared Dream

Shishur Sevay is a shared dream.  Gibi, aka Mrs. Jasvinder Kaur, will one day talk about her life, but for now I'll say simply that she is a woman who retained her humanity through some terrible circumstances.  Gibi is committed to the care of orphans.  For several years she urged me to "do something of our own" but I was not ready.  And we had not defined what to do, whom to take care of, how to do it.  Over the last seven years, with her help, i had been sponsoring children in many schools around Kolkata.  I was here when Kolkata was Calcutta.  We also worked with orphanages which were really hostels, places where poor families put their children for education.

We are committed to the care of orphans because they have no spokespersons, no advocates.  They have lost their ties to family and community.  No one claims them as "mine."  They are mostly invisible.  Girls become absorbed into families as child servants.  Orphans who are found by police go into government institutions.  Younger children are adopted.  Our girls talk about being lined up so families could look at them for adoption.  "No one wanted us because we were too old.  They only take the young ones."  Well, Shishur Sevay takes the older ones, older being over five or six.  These girls are between about 7-12.  We don't really know because the girls come without papers, histories -- only what they remember, and those memories don't include landmarks of age.

Gibi and her family live a few buildings away.  I used to stay with them until we opened.  We chose this home because it was so close.  From our roof I can see into the room where i used to stay.  I am mother to Gibi.  I am grandmother to her children, and i am mother in law to her husband, which is a very important role here.  We are all close.

At Shishur Sevay we are two mothers, "choto ma" (little mother) and "bhoro ma" big mother.   She is my succession planning.  She will run this place one day.  She loves the children, as i do.  In our different ways we understand their lives, their pain, their hopes, their rebellion, their losses, their mistrust, and their gratitude.  One of our "founding principles" is to have fun with our children, and we do.

If God (any God or Gods) were to appoint someone to make sure everyone in the world had food to eat, they should put Gibi in charge.  She cannot bear to see anyone hungry. 

Here Gibi serves as Vice-President of Childlife Preserve, and Superintendent of Shishur Sevay. Our children, and our staff, eat well.

   

Poomina

Practicing winter
Does not blunt the icy shards,
Mother's heart is pierced.

Poomina is about five.  I remember the government officer asking, "You mean you will take Poomina too?"  I'm still not sure why he asked, but she is different from the others.  She used to spin around and around, and bang her head, and wave her arms -- and she didn't seem too aware of what was going on around her.  And she had some pretty disgusting habits, which is probably why her family could not keep her.  But she is a sweet child, and her spinning stopped, and she only hits her head if she feels she is being seriously ignored.  She learned not to pull off my glasses because I yelled really loud!  Instead she reaches and pulls my head down so she can kiss me.  Poomina loves Barney songs, and will watch a DVD for hours, waving her hands.  she has rhythm and sometimes i enjoy tapping with her. She has no understandable language.

Last week Poomina had a seizure that did not stop, and she was in the pediatric intensive care unit at Calcutta Hospital for two days.  One of her caretakers was always with her.  The emergency room took her immediately, and the hospital care was excellent.  Since we had no history we decided to do some investigation, thus the icy shards.

I'm a doctor but in these situations I'm more mother than doctor.  I know this child has no language, little understanding, can't walk because she has little control over her limbs, and can't talk.  She can feed herself finger food, but cannot take care of any other of her needs.  someone once referred to her as retarded and i was so angry.  I remember thinking, "how dare he call her retarded!'  To repeat, I lose my clinical objectivity with my kids, and these children have become My kids."

Then i read the EEG report... slow background waves, encephalopathy.  This is very bad.  How could I not have been prepared?  Knowing, seeing, cutting through levels of denial, the things we tell ourselves.  I wrote to a friend that sometimes i think Poomina will just snap out of her state and talk to me.  This will not happen, I tell myself.

How do I look at her now?  I'm sad.  I want her life to be as good as it can be.  I wonder what happened to her -- probably post measles and/or chickenpox.  And today I found myself wondering about spirit.  Where is spirit?  Is it affected by brain injury, encephalopathy?  She is sweet.  She is innocent.  Whatever her life is, I'm glad she is here.  She is a part of our family; she is one of us.

Why Blog?

I blog in my head all day long.  I mean, I am telling the story as i live it, playing with words and images to paint the pictures of the thoughts and feelings as they happen or as they have just happened.  These days I want to blog about happiness. 

There have been bad moments, many of them, and there will be more, but I tend to forget bad times, like forgetting labor.  I live much in the moment.  It hasn't been easy starting an orphanage in Kolkata.  It's still not easy, but when I'm with the children, or when the community gives us the support I'd hoped for, the hard times fade.  I feel blessed to be living this life.

The morning is always special.  I sleep on the floor with the four little ones.  For Ganga, I am the center of her universe.  If I'm not next to her when she wakes she lets out a howl, and i, helpless to resist, come running to soothe her.  Then she looks at me and smiles.  Her world is good.   She is about three years old.  We have no records on any of the children.  She has cerebral palsy.  Her arms and legs don't work very well.  She chatters and chatters, trying to form words.  We are beginning to understand.  But she is also a force.  She does her best to organize us to meet her needs.  I am her number one need.  But there are certain situations when she leaves me willingly:

to eat, if she is hungry enough

to go upstairs to the classroom and sit in while the older children have class

to watch a good Bengali movie or Charlie Chaplin. 

She is serious.  She doesn't really care for kid stuff.  Her favorite movie is Damu, about a father who searches for an elephant for his daughter.  She talks to the movie, waves her hand, seems to worry, and tells me a long story when the movie is over.  I wrote a story about a flying elephant.  It's a connection on this strange journey of mine.

I am happy walking the children to school, the ducklings I've described.  I am happy when they crowd around the vegetable cart and argue about which vegetables we will buy this day.  I was surprised the first time, the" girls leaning over the cart and calling out, "saag, saag, Mummy, saag."  Saag is spinach!

Finding time to write is hard, but years ago I had a fantasy of being here and writing while children went to school.  That was a lifetime away.

Twenty three years ago i adopted a baby from Kolkata.  I had a ten year old "stomach baby" as they call it here, and wanted another child -- a long story but here i am now, and two of the women who took care of my daughter 23 years ago now work for me here.  In those years after adoption I kept wondering about the women who worked at the orphanage -- what happened to their children as they cared for the ones heading for foreign countries.  I worried about them, about their children.  They were in my mind.  Now they are in my life.

As I write I am interrupted by a teacher calling for help with one of the girls.  She won't do her work.  She has put her head on her desk.  Some days she is like this, and some days she is really good, in behavior and work.  She is smart.  But she pushes limits and frustrates teachers... and likes to see them call me upstairs.  By the time I get there she is behaving.  I make a fierce face and wave my arms and pretend to yell.  She grins.

My laptop and office area are in the small living room, reception room, and often the girls are here too, preferring to study, play, talk nearby.  But today they started talking a bit about their earlier lives.  Several lived in rail stations or along tracks.  Today they were comparing TV screens at different stations.... then they talked about siblings they lost, and parents, one mother died while pregnant; another was murdered; a grandmother was hit by a train; a father was beaten by police.  But interspersed are also stories of celebrations, food, happy times in their families.  And always they are sad when they talk about younger siblings.

I've always loved being a mother.

Mummy, Let's take in the poor

My children are wonderful.  We are in the midst of  monsoon flooding.  Kolkata is almost at a standstill.  We are waterlogged, not in the house, but just outside our steps.  The children have not gone out to their school, but our teachers here have all show up, so it's been a good week of learning.

Two teachers were talking about the flooding with each other.  the children overheard them.  the asked the teachers, "why can't we bring them here?"  the teachers explained we didn't have enough money to feed everyone.  So the girls came downstairs, en masse, and asked me if we could bring all the poor people here.  I said we couldn't, but we would find a way to help poor people.  One of our founding principles was that the children would serve others less fortunate. 

Our girls don't need to learn to serve, they just need the opportunity.  They had hard lives, and appreciate what they have now.

Blogs Go Backwards

Blogs go backwards, so what i write first is read last -- reminding me of novels where i read the end so i can relax through the story.  I write forward and I am read backwards.

Soon there wil be a website to explain more.

But in the moment of Now, I live in Kolkata, which used to be Calcutta.  I live in a small orphanage that started with a vision i had.  I live with 13 orphan girls, aged about 2-12.  The four youngest are severely handicapped, mostly with cerebral palsy.  The others are "normal" with their handicaps being social and educational.  These are all urgent problems so we try to do everything at once.

I sleep on the floor with the kids.  In the summer that is the coolest place.  In the winter we have cots, and lots of blankets.  Recently we had terrible monsoon flooding and so were were locked in for a week -- me and 13 kids and i really enjoyed the time.  I'm not alone in terms of help -- and in the flooding all my teachers came -- anyone close enough to get here, got here.  And we were able to get food in.

The rain is gone for now... the kids are back to school... me and my ducklings walking to school