Im wondering aloud...Where am i?

Returning home was always going to be a little strange. Basics such as climate change i was prepared for, and God Bless the woolen jumper and the casual denim jeans, how I've missed you my old friends!

However i was not prepared for how empty i would feel.

For the past six months I have filled my daily life with an assortment of tasks, that naturally led me to observe some of the most horrific things in existence in a developing country like India. Abject poverty beyond words, i could not with the whole dictionary at my fingertips begin to explain the alarming numbers of families who are at risk from starvation and illness living on the streets of Calcutta.

I did however see alot beauty, amongst the people i met.

I have said it before but truly the people with nothing are those who wear the biggest smiles. Their sense of community and willingness to support one another in the direst of circumstances humbles me greatly. I have returned to a society which appears to me somewhat fractured and is missing the great sense of community that i have admired and been apart of for six months.

I miss the jubilant smiles, the dancing in the streets, the protective touch between a sister and a brother, the peoples strong sense of belonging and cultural resonances, a mothers laughter whilst at play with her children, the shouts of the street vendors, the general hum as the city beats it's unfamiliar rhythm of horns and cries and i miss meeting the security guard Anup in the morning, who would always shout, 'Good Morning' at the top of his voice as if i had been pronounced deaf upon arrival!

I feel uncomfortable in the skin I'm in.

I love my home, my family and my Friends, but i do feel like I've just slipped off earth plummeted for miles through the atmosphere and woken up on Mars! People keep saying to me, nothing much has changed here, life moves slow in the valley, but it has changed for me, i see things differently. i have become somewhat impatient with the woes of others, my relative understanding of suffering reaches far beyond what i consider to be a unnecessary falling out between friends. I do not profess to be a martyr, hold some higher power, and i respect that everyone suffers in relation to their own relative understanding of what that is.

I'm content for the moment with being lost.

Someone asked me not so long ago what it meant to me to be British? I sat for a while contemplating my answer, wondering aloud why it was so difficult for me to answer the question. I asked them to let me think about it and i would tell them the next day. Before leaving, they asked me another question, what does mean to be Indian? The answers rolled off my tongue, as though it were a speech I had prepared long ago for such an occasion, though i assure you there was no pre thought involved. I began listening the answers i was giving realising that community lied at the heart of my answers.

In the UK i belong to many communities, but ask me if i were starving, would my next door neighbour bring me some food?

I lived in India for six months, i knew my next door neighbours, (though a couple weren't very friendly, no matter how much i smiled), i knew the people who ran the shops down my street, i knew the little old lady who would carry around her wears in plastic bags, i knew the laundry man, i knew the lady who lived two apartment blocks up from mine who taught English at a Bengali state school, i knew the men who worked in the carpentry shop across the road, i knew the man who always wore the faded white t-shirt and always was looking for his wife, i knew the man who would come at 8.30 every evening to the shop across the road just to have a chat with his Friend, i knew the little girl whose father doted on her and always bought her a handful of sweets on Friday evenings, i knew them all, to talk to, to smile at, to sit in silence with.

I've lived in Little Frieth for 15 years and i don't even know anything about the people who live a couple meters away from me. I hear them roaming around the house, hear the lights click on and off in their bathroom, hear their radio, but i know nothing about them.

So i present the question again, if i were starving would my neighbours bring me food?

Humbling thought isn't it. India taught me how to spend my time, and how to spend it well. Time is precious, but better spent i think making a difference and investing in what matters to you and those around you. We build the walls insisting on our privacy, our rights to seclusion and isolation, that's fair enough, and some would say to have everyone on top of one another is unhealthy. However if i were starving in India, living on the streets, the women next to me, would share her rice with me.

There's this little old lady

Who wonders the streets beside and beyond my apartment.

"Heh Didi!" she shouts as soon as she sees me.

The little old lady is dressed in a fraying purple Sari, her hair dreadlocked from years of neglect, is pinned loosely against the back of her head. The vermilion she intends to put on her brow, secretly creeps down onto her forehead and in her absence of mind, she wipes the red powder so her forehead is streaked with brilliant red blotches. She stares intently at you her big brown eyes boring into the very heart of you. In both her hands are plastic bags, her treasures that she carries with her. She showed me once what she had found that day scavenging in the rubbish, a broken lipstick, a dilapidated eyeshadow set and a nearly empty perfume bottle. Everyday i see the little old lady and have come to think of her as a Friend. She always asks me 'where have you been today, Didi?', or 'Where are you friends, Didi?'.

As Durga Puja approaches i have noticed how the city has blossomed into even more colour than normal, how people rush through the streets with their newly bought saris and salwars, awaiting the beginning of the festival (Bengali Xmas).
I don't think the little old lady has any family to speak of, she wonders alone, though is an important part of the community i live in. She asked me only two days ago whether i would take her to London so she could see the city and whether i would buy her a pair of red Capri trousers. Much deliberation was taken over what colour trousers she wanted, she sat for almost five minutes with myself and my next door neighbour and finally said, 'Lal, didi, lal!'

Though i could not take the little old lady with me, i could dress her in a new sari for the festivities. I bought her a red sari with a collection of red bindies. The little old lady, cried with delight, her eyes streamed tears of joy, she held my face in her hands, and blessed me. It cost me five pounds to bring the smallest of gifts and to bestow it upon one of the many of the forgotten generation living in the city. No one takes care of the elderly, and they are as much at risk of starvation, illness and exploitation as the young.

I saw the little old lady yesterday on my way to the office, showing her friends her new sari and when she caught sight of me, rushed over to me, she held my gaze with her toothless grin and said, 'where you going, didi?', i said 'to work didi, you want to come?' She said 'no I'm going looking for more treasures' and off she went with her two plastic bags and her vermilion streaked half way down her brow.

I Often Wish I Could Forget

I live just beside a government hospital. To say there was a view, would certainly be true, questionable however, whether it is a view you would wish to see everyday from your kitchen window.

There are drips flung from the windows, empty water bottles cascading unto the floor below, any forms of unwanted food begin to make a patchwork of rubbish from the ledges to the ground, and of course least forgetting the crows and rats that feed on the discarded matter. I try not to look, imagining that i were looking out of my window at Frieth Court, seeing the kites flying overhead, hearing the dogs prowl the perimeter with their friendly barks.

You cannot always escape though, especially when you hear the screams and cries from the people inside.

At night i hear them most, sometimes anguish is uttered in muffled sobs, and sometimes i hear the most blood curdling of screams, as though the bearer had, had their hearts riped out.
I wonder to whom do the voices belong? Is it a mother screaming for her child's loss, is it a husband crying for his wife's demise, is it a sister weeping for her brothers illness, is it a grandmother watching her child suffer?

I begin to imagine the state of play just a few meters from me, i try to distinguish between their differing emotions by listening to the volume and pitch of their unease, speculating about the cause of the disturbance. I catch myself doing this and think I'm a rather morbid person, curiosity claiming the better of me. You cannot however block out the noises or the smells, it's part of your environment, and as you lay exhausted in an air conditioned room, you begin to question how fragile human life really is.

I've always taken the NHS for granted: yes that rather impressive but highly critiqued institution we have in Britain. You would think it a marvel though if you had ever stepped inside a poorly run Indian Hospital. Allow me to just clarify, many hospitals in the city are clean and well maintained, but there is no quality assurance in place to ensure all hospitals are maintained to a high standard.

So by accident i found myself in a government hospital in India, i cannot quite put into words, the smells emanating from the wards, something between a strong iodine and the smell of rotting flesh. These people were dying and receiving the limited means of healthcare available to them. If at any point in my life have i ever though euthanasia a good thing it was in this moment. How i wish i could have wielded the hand of God and stopped so much suffering, but all i could do was watch and place a hand over my mouth to stop the bile rising in my throat. In that instance i forgot how to place one foot infront of the other and continue to move forward, i was so consumed by rage, fury, sadness, emptiness, sorrow, feelings that cannot be contained by merely words alone.

I've never seen anything like it apart from on the t.v. and then it's never quite so real is it? We are able to move from our chairs, turn the t.v. off and go about our daily business with little thought for the atrocities we've seen, but when it's real, inescapable, the images flow freely into your dreams, becoming permanent nightmares.

Harrowing? Most certainly. Real? Absolutely......unalterable? No, Of course change can happen but it will take time and care.

Aren't we all special?

"Tumi Narcho?", absolutely, you should always dance as if no one were watching.

Inhibtitons are an alien term in this line of work, your enthusiam and willingness to try anything, no matter how bizarre is what seperates you from the more convential type of teacher. I always believe you should never ask of another what you would not be willing to do yourself.

So we danced; we learnt the tango, the waltz, a little salsa, and then only what i can describe as a fusion of street and Hindi dancing. Children with Downsyndrome are renowned for being loving, enthusiastic and friendly, even so Chotto was an exception. Everytime i walked into the room, this bundle of sunshine would launch himself into my arms "Hi Aunty", he would say. Slowly he would life my bag from my shoulder, carefully undo the catch and pull out the assortment of goodies i had roaming around in there.

Chotto would pull out bubbles, ribbons, feathers, pencils, crayons, until he found what he was looking for, my ipod and he would then attach them to the quite resilient computer speakers i take with me everywhere. Chotto would chose a track and then that would be it for the next hour, we would dance until our clothes were soaked through, our breath caught in gasps from pure exhaustion. We danced like our lives depended on it, as if every second were as precious as the last, and as the hour drew to a close i would always catch the faintest sense of saddness lirking behind his eyes, but as soon as i thought i had seen it, it was gone replaced by the most brilliant of sparkles.


We threw a party for him last Sunday night, before he left Hope to join his new home. I grew so very attached to him, as i have with all the special needs boys i work with. I could not however be consumed by sadness, i went with him to his new home and its perfect, surrounded by countryside and people with a great understanding of his particular needs. He will be well looked after aswell as the other boys from Hope who are accompanying him, but i would be a liar if i did not admit, i will miss them all greatly and that i am secretly wishing i could have gone too.

Sing not for your hearts content

'Excuse me M'am may i come in?' it took me a few seconds to realise the young girl dressed in the blue salwar was talking to me, i felt myself flush, and quietly said in response 'of course you may'. After the fourth time this occurred i thought to myself "Seriously I'm no lady of consequence", i stood lounged against the door frame and ushered the remaining ten children in with a quick wave of my hand, sat down in front of them and grinned like a Cheshire cat.

I am in adept at dealing with this kind of admiration and respect, though flattered i believe it is not warranted. Now i was the main spectacle, 'perform' a little voice in my head began to say. Hmmm i thought, every eye was now on me, so i began to sing. The only songs i know off by heart are from the musical Les Miserables, i remember growing up adoring this musical and suddenly from this ramshackle classroom, i transported twenty children, a teacher and myself to 1815, right into the heart of the French barricades.

I love music and song, because it transcends language, you do not have to speak in the same tongue to understand the sentiment and feeling behind the words. One's pain is another's relative understanding.

I began to think though i really know nothing of the pain of men, i know nothing of sacrifice, i know nothing of poverty, i know nothing of hardship, i know little of this world i am apart of. All i know is that i feel humbled to be here and i embrace everything about this city and its people.


"M'am please sit" said the gentleman in the blue flannel shirt, whilst pointing towards an empty seat in front of me. Unexpectedly a small silver sign engraved with red italics caught my eye, upon it was written "Ladies". How quintessentially English i thought there is a separate section for ladies on the train. It's curious the things that have survived the country's move to Independence . The behaviours of the people mar a bizarre culmination of English reserve and Indian eccentricity. How can i aliken such behaviour?

Imagine you began a conversation with a stranger and instead of beginning with 'Hello, how are you?' you began by saying 'goodbye it was lovely to meet you'. All the right words were said, the right level of politeness was conveyed, but the way in which it was put together was just utterly disorientating. There's something so familiar about Indian culture, as if parts of it stayed preserved, as if it were bottled in a jar and displayed in a museum for all to see, and then other times it appears so alien.

I find i difficult to comprehend so many of the daily images i store, sometimes without even a consciousness of how deeply they have affected me. It is not until the night, when i am deep in sleep do i begin to see the things that haunt me most about this city. I often wake drenched in a cold sweat, and fear to go back into a sleeping state, wondering what other horrors i have hidden there. It is not always this way, and though it perturbs me a little it does remind me that i am aware and constantly questioning, permitting me to be in anyway desensitized in this environment.

People often say experiences such as these have a great impact upon a individual, perhaps they can even prove to be life changing. I do not feel i will totally appreciate that until i return home, and the things i used to consider to be important will pale into insignificance. I can already feel though i have a better understanding of human nature, it's weaknesses and its strengths. I work in the area i do because i have a natural curiosity to be consistantly challenged and educated. Everyday i learn something new about a culture, that a couple of months ago was completely foreign to me, whilst also learning many new things about myself in context. I thrive for these experiences.

At peace those red soled feet

I saw them creeping silently into view, swaying precariously amongst the bustling traffic. Stunned and slightly intrigued i kept my focus, unperturbed by the two kamikaze auto drivers ahead who were planning to race down the rest of the street. I don't think I'll ever forget the image of the red soled feet, covered in a garland of white lotus flowers. To whom did they belong? I did not know, whether the bearer was old or young or male or female, i knew nothing but the soles of their feet. I followed the red soled feet until they disappeared from my sight, turning off towards Howrah. I already knew the rest of their journey, the place they would rest before a flame was set to them, i knew the ashes would flow down the holy river and they would be as they had been in life, part of Calcutta's deep woven Tapestry. I couldn't help but think of the red soled feet, considering how real death was in that moment, so unlike my experiences of closed affairs and private grief. No one stopped to let the hearse by, no one slowed down, no one hung their heads in a sign of respect, the red soled feet were part of the city, part of its rhythm, part of its flavour, ever part of the mounting chaos. I smiled to myself, unconcerned by the city's collective indifference, i thought that finally the red soled feet had found their peace in the city of madness.

nothing will prepare you for this experience

The heat is almost suffocating and the stench of rotting rubbish and sewers hits you with an almost tectonic force. I will never forget the first night we arrived in Kolkata. The cacophony of sounds that reverberate against your ear drums, most violently, the enormity of people sleeping in the streets, uncovered, vulnerable as they lay there seeking some rest bite and the scale of abject poverty seeps through every corner of the city as we make our weary way through the streets of Kolkata to our new apartment, which will be our retreat for the next three months. Everyone i meet in Kolkata and those who have visited before me, seem to repeat the same phrase, 'nothing will prepare you for this experience', i can already see that i will become one of these people that further proliferates this view. I was overwhelmed the first day, tentatively stepping out onto the busy streets. The enormity of people is overwhelming, and dodging the ever chaotic traffic is a daily task taken with great care and attention. I have sampled almost all forms of transport, my least favourite being a rickshaw, as i sat next to Kim i was almost certain that on two occasions i was a millimeter away from going right into the back of the bus that was careering out in front of us, i prayed, and i thought i am never, no matter what, getting on one of these things ever again!

In our first two weeks we have visited many of Hope's centres and the partnering NGO centres that Hope fund. There are a few experiences in particular that stick in my mind. Firstly RCFC's orthopaedic centre. RCFC are a partner NGO of Hope's and they treat children pre and post surgery after they have had limbs removed, aswell as providing thrice weekly sessions for young people with cerebral palsy. The staff were so kind and keen to show me their facilities. I was in awe at the level of expertise amongst the staff, in particular how far their efforts went when only the basic of materials are at hand to make casts and mobility aids. I mentioned i teach drama and the young man who was escorting me around, became highly elated and animated, requesting i come back and work with the children, how could resist such a honest request? Many of these children come from outside of Kolkata, some eight hours drive away. Very rarely do their families visit, some not at all, this in particular saddened me greatly. They are all well looked after but there is no comfort like your mothers embrace, especially when you are hurting. I am returning there twice a week to play with the children.

After mum returned from Kolkata, she told many stories of her visit, but in particular i remember receiving text messages from her whilst she was on child watch. This service run by Hope runs three nights of the week, whereby a medic and counsellor go out in the ambulance all around Kolkata looking for malnourished or at risk children and mothers. This evening was by far one of the most emotional four hours of my life, i am welling up as i write this. I saw unimaginable poverty, children between 6-18months sleeping in the dirtiest of streets, children at play in some of the worst living conditions, a mere dirty mat marking the territory of their home, scavenging through piles of rubbish to seek some form of nutrition. Prostitutes waiting patiently down the alley ways, hallow faced and still, but in all this madness there were so many happy faces that greeted us as we lept from the ambulance, songs were sang and dances were danced, that is Kolkata, the poorest of people are often the ones wearing the biggest of smiles. We walked around one of the train stations that night and came across a boy who Hope have been watching for a while, he cannot be more than ten years old, an orphan hanging around with boys much older than himself. This boy is addicted to heroin and solvents, he came to shake our hands, he was completely high. This boy has before intimated he wants help but the medic tells me he is very impressionable and he doesn't want to exchange the freedom he has for a life of routine. One cannot help people if they do not want to be helped, and he is happy and regardless of my angst and sorrow we leave and i make a promise to myself i will come back and see him, just to see that he is OK.

The Crisis centre is just around the corner from our apartment, i keep finding myself there when i have a spare hour, playing with the three boys with special needs. The crisis centre is a temporary home for boys who have come from Howrah train station. Howrah train station is the biggest in Asia, approx one million people pass through there everyday. Howrah contains some of the poorest children, many have run away from home or from the clutches of traffickers, they earn a means of survival by picking up empty water bottles and newspapers from the long haul trains. They embark the trains as they are pulling into the station, many of these young children are addicted to solvents aswell, one wrong footing or misjudgment renders many of them with lost limbs. Those in the crisis centre have been through rehabilitation and many are now in formal schooling or apprenticeship courses awaiting to either be reunited with their families or rehoused. However there are still many young people who are at risk in Howrah. Hope runs a drop-in centre for these children, this in particular was somewhere i wanted to visit, especially as i am working with the young people in the crisis centre, i wanted to know where they have come from, begin to understand part of their stories. Again this was a really emotional visit. There were at least 25 young people in the drop-in centre, which was a small concrete building at the back of the station, many of the young people were on solvents, but they were so delighted to see us. They sang for us and in return we sang for them. As soon as i walked into the drop-in centre i knew i wanted to come back, i wanted to give these young people a sense empowerment and fun. They exist in a fractured community, they live together, but are in competition with one another for their imminent survival. This will be one of the biggest challenges we face, there are many factors affecting these young people, and to me they are amongst some of the children that Hope helps that are still at incredible risk.

Our schedules are almost prepared and this week will allow us to begin laying foundations in some of the areas we are keen to work in. As i already anticipated this will be hard, not only struggling against the unforgiving heat but working with young people who have much to teach us about their lives.