Yoga Class

I am now at the two week mark of being here in Kolkata and sometimes it feels like I just arrived and other times it feels like I have always been here.  It's strange when you become so comfortable and settled into a routine that you forget there was another routine, another life, another world before this one. How easy it is to forget there was a time when your surroundings were strange and new.  I find it even more strange that I am still surprised by this realization that happens every time I settle into a new life since my life seems to be a series of temporary existences moving from contract to contract, show to show, school to school, city to city.   Some times I feel like the Phoenix, constantly burning my time out in one place and being born new into another.

When I first arrived in Kolkata and the culture shock was so completely overwhelming I would repeat a little mantra to myself, "My name is Meghan Brideen Doherty-Scannell.  I am from Steep Falls, Maine.  My mother's name is Deb, my father's name is Tom.  I have two brothers TJ and Jack.  I leave Kolkata on May 1st.  I do not live here."   I won't pretend that I didn't steal this from The Hunger Games, but it was a great little trick that would help calm me down and remind me that all of this insanity was temporary, it was not my real life.  

I am happy to report that it has been over a week since I have had to use that little trick.

The best word to describe how the work has been going at Daya Dan is erratic.  There has been great progress in many aspects.  A week and a half in and I think the more coherent boys have begun to realize that I am more than just someone who will breeze through.  I am constantly reminding myself not to underestimate any of them.  My friend Mukul is a great example of why.

I met Mukul on my second day at Daya Dan.  He is probably about eleven or twelve years old and again I'm not too sure of what his diagnosis is but at first glance he is vegetable who is mobile.  He does not have good control over his body but he is able to walk, although his arches have fallen and he is incapable of straightening his knees.  He back is hunched and he drools quite a bit.  We sat through mass on Sunday rocking back and forth, holding hands, him drooling and me wiping it up.  After observing him for a while, I noticed that he drifts in and out of (for lack of a better word) consciousness. It reminded me of another boy I had babysat for years ago, who had seizures.  I was alarmed when his mother told me of his condition  and had a visual of this child dropping to the ground and convulsing, but in reality he would simply check out and shake a little, nothing more than a shiver, and then come back to life just as animated before.

  

As I sat wiping Mukul's mouth, I saw a similar glazed look fall over his eyes as he slumped retreating into darkness of his mind and then he would jerk up right, look around,  swallow and a smile would blossom over his face.  When he was animated this boy was so endearing. From far away these kids are needy, dirty,  smelly and covered in God knows what.  But as I get a closer look and begin to figure out the puzzle that is each of their brains I grow ever more fonder of their idiosyncrasies.

 

The programming at Dayan Dan can be a bit inconsistent depending on the skills of the volunteers.  When I started there was a young woman from Spain who had been doing speech therapy with the children.  She left a work book with us when she left so that we could continue her work.   Last week we filed into the meditation room, I flopped down onto the cushy mats eagerly anticipating whatever was next.  I cant say I was actually ready to spear head a speech therapy class, but I certainly was going to shirk off the responsibility when it was thrust upon me.  

The good things about all of these challenges is that I am getting to know these kids so much better.  There is Joahkim who has the sweetest face but sounds like pure gibberish when he talks, Rama who is is shy but bright and affectionate and John who screams like a gremlin till you want him to talk and then he is ever so bashful and down right coy.  Then there is Shubashi who just wants you to talk to him, Noel who can't use his left side and just wants to be held or Benny who has down's syndrome and the craziest extensions.  He nearly kicked me in the face when we were sitting on the floor during mass and he was sitting cross-legged.  Then there is Baskar.  I thought the mashie said his name was Butters (I still call him that) when we first met.  He is eight but he looks about four. He also has down's syndrome and is deaf as a post.  He clings to you like a koala, is covered in boogers, is constantly peeing, rips your hair out, and sits cross legged cross eyed with a grump frown and I love him.  When he latches on to your hair you tickle him then he will let go  and he squirms and giggles and coos.  He is the most adorable thing that you have ever seen. These boys are beginning to open up to me and know me when I arrive and miss me when I'm not there.  

  Since I am here  for so long I have the privilege of being assigned to a child as a tutor.  We are to work on very basic things such as math and basic reading and writing.  The boy I have been assigned to Dilip, (pronounced Dee-leep) and he is tough.  From what I have observed he has autism and obsessive compulsive disorder or OCD.  He spent most of our first lesson perfectly sharpening pencils and then braking them.  He also can get violent.  When I wouldn't let him color he proceeded to rip down some of the posters that decorate his cubicle and take the top of his desk and repeatedly slammed it into the wall.  But I think sister assigned me to him because I don't take crap from anyone, even disabled kids.  He can't really hold a conversation and has problems with his speech.  He is not the cutest, he is not the sweetest, and he is not my favorite but that doesn't mean that he deserves or needs me any less.  

My first day with Dilip I looked through his work book and surprised to see some rather advanced math and some full sentence writing.  He is eleven, but with their schooling being primarily left up to volunteers I wasn't sure how far along he would be.  With any child it can take a while to figure out their learning style and you can spend a fair amount of time spinning your wheels.  With the added complication of autism and tutors changing so frequently there can be a great deal of time that it lost on trying to put the puzzle together.  And when we sat down to attack the first lesson I had planned out I was disappointed to find out that Dilip had not retained much of the information his last tutor had worked with him on over the period of two months.  We sat in a small cubicle both frustrated and feeling quite inadequate. It seemed that he was simply memorizing items on flash cards and not actually being able process the information.  He could put the flash cards in order to spell certain sentences but if I asked him to find the cards that started with B he couldn't.  I felt lost and quite perplexed.  We spent the rest of the lesson writing out the ABCs to build motor skills. Clearly I was going to have to approach this differently. 

After a few lessons, I has picked up with the flash cards that his last teacher worked with him on.  We did some numbers and we were starting to find our rhythm. Dilip was smiling and seemed to enjoy our lesson.  There were no outbursts and no temper tantrums.   I have realized the that he loves animals and colors and I remembered that when I was a kid that my favorite game to play with my mom was memory. So I made some flash cards that had color blocks on them and then the color written out in the corresponding color, then a set with just the word written in the proper color and lastly another set written in black.  We went through the flash cards sounding them out.  He doesn't seem to grasp the concept that letters translate to sounds.  Then we matched up the words written in color with the ones written in black.  When he seemed to be understanding that we moved on to a game of memory. This was actually down right fun, once he understood that he had to wait his turn and not just turn them all over.  We we laughing and as it seemed, learning! Success! I was so proud of Dilip and proud of myself.  

Then like all good things, it came to an end.  What I have learned in my years of working with children is that they want to test the boundaries and figure out what they can get away with.  In the midst of all of our silliness and fun Dilip started taking the flash cards that I had spent the morning making and ripping them in half.  The fun was over.   I immediately took the rest of them away, explained why that was wrong, why I was furious and hurt and got out his boring work book making him write letters over and over.  No more songs, another more colors, no more smiles.  

I knew I had him when after a bit of writing and coming down on him for his posture and form he began looking at me and flashing broad big smiles.  At first I found this alarming.  I thought he was have some sort of fit.  After three with no reaction other than puzzlement from me, he grabbed my arm and turn his head to the side and flashed his ridiculous over smile.

 

"Are you trying to say you're sorry?" 

He nodded, sort of.  I told him that if he was going to be rude and a stinker that we wouldn't play games.  Games are only for good nice boys.  I think he may have understood.

We may never get there, but we are taking steps.

The First Day

It doesn't matter how old you get, how cool you can be or how worldly you are the first day of anything is always awkward.  You break a rule you didn't know existed or perhaps you don't have anyone to talk to, or maybe you even forgot your lunch money.  In my case, it was all of the above.

 

I rose nice and early on my first day (still a little jet lagged) at 3:00 in the morning.  Which gave me plenty of time to get to breakfast at 7:00. I needed to try to check out of my hotel early or arrange for a late check out that day since check out was at noon and that's when the morning session ended.  When I got down to the front desk however, there was no one there.  A petite older man wrapped up like he was facing a Siberian winters guards the front door and tells me in broken English, "8:30 Madam. No one till 8:30." 

 I needed my passport to be able to register for the volunteer work, so of course no one would be there.  And of course it didn't occur to me do this last night.  So, with a little chagrin I marched out the front door knowing this afternoon was probably not going to be a breeze.  

The walk was easy, I did not get lost.  I was able to find another volunteer and actually struck up a nice conversation on our way to the Mother House for breakfast.  She was an interior designer from Barcelona and she had just four more days in Kolkata. We were some of the first to arrive at the volunteer breakfast which consists of bread, bananas and chai.  I can't eat bread, I don't like bananas but I do love chai. I take two bananas and a glass of chai and find a spot to sit.  There are a number of small benches in the volunteer room.  The room is long, almost in an L shape and down a half flight of stairs from the main floor of the mother house.  The floors are concrete but everything is clean.  Well, this is Kolkata so comparatively speaking everything is sparkling clean.  (This is one reason I like the Mother House.) As I sit down, people start to file in for breakfast and socialize with one another.  An older Irish gentleman sees me and insists that I am Irish and when I open my mouth he is quite shocked to hear that I am American.  We talk about my lineage briefly and then he makes his way over to a group of people from the UK and Ireland.  As people settle in to spots I started to notice the different groups of people and see the different clicks.  There is a large group of French people sitting with a nun in her shockingly traditional habit and a young priest.  There is a group of Spanish speaking people,  Italians, Asians, Australians, two very bohemian looking west coast men are philosophizing.  A very pretty young English girl talks about how she is too small for some clothes that she bought and two plump kind faced Canadian women talk to a trio of very southern girls.  The moderately sized room becomes very crowded and in the middle of all of this hub-bub I look around and realize that I am in the antisocial ginger group.  Quite literally, I am on a bench with three other redheads all just looking pasty and sitting and eating and drinking and not talking and certainly not finding this ridiculous.  I sit back and decide to also not talk about it and just settle in, enjoy the awkward and pray that someone is watching this scene and finding it as funny as I am.

 

The day gets started with a the ringing of light bells, a little prayer and song and them some announcements.  They call forward and say goodbye to the people who are having their last day.  Then a garage door at the far end of the food table is thrust open letting sunlight pour into the room as the day commences.  I approach the sister and tell her about my inability to check out and get my passport.  She hands me a three day pass for Daya Dan and I tell her that I will have my passport tomorrow. 

I step outside and find my group.  We hop on to a bus that is painted in a bright and almost psychedelic way.  I sit down next to a young indie looking American girl who was corralling our group.  Her name is Claire.  She is here for a few weeks and has been back packing through the country since the fall.  She's from Long Island, studies yoga back in the states, is a massage therapist and has been doing physical therapy with the children at Daya Dan.  She travels quite frequently.  I begin talking about my visit so far when a man puts some sort of clicker in my face.  "Oh, it's 4 rupees for the bus," she says.  I start looking through my money belt and come put with only dollars, very American dollars.  I realize I have left my Indian money back in my hotel room.  Ugh, how embarrassing!  But fortunately this good souled New Yorker is swift and pays for my ride when I curse my stupidity under my breath.

 

The first day jitters.  It can make anyone screw up.

We hope off the bus a few minutes later disbursing onto clusters of three and four to ride the auto rickshaws or tuk-tuks.  These little buggers looked like they jumped the fence at some amusement park.  I chuckle at these kelly green and gold trikes as I hop in and then proceed to experience the real life Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.  The driver takes off like shot gun and we are barreling down the road swerving back and forth to avoid all the many obstacles that pop into the road.  I now feel like I have entered a real life video game.  The little three wheeled vehicle races along the road and I imagine the point system for this game.  You loose points for breaking, gain points for every additional passenger you are able to fit in and every near miss.  Extra bonus points if you are able to touch get close enough to steal fruit off of stands and/or are close enough to other tuk-tuks to high-five the other drivers.  

One thing that you must understand about Kolkata is that the drivers are crazy.  Everyone functions like the people on scooters in Rome.  Everyone including cabbies, regular motorists, tuk-tuks, cyclists, pedicabs, bus drivers and why not throw in some regular old toothless dude running in front of them rickshaws just to spice things up. There are no traffic laws, or perhaps it just seems this way, and they all do whatever they want.  Head lights are optional, there are no stop signs and very few traffic lights.  Seat belts and traffic cops could be categorized with big foot and the leprechauns.  You've heard about them, people claimed to have seen them, but where is the proof?

The joy ride on the tuk-tuk stops to let us out in the middle of the road near an alley that leads to the entrance to Daya Dan.   Claire had the foresight to give me six extra rupees for the ride, thank goodness.  We all head down the alley to Daya Dan.  

 

I am anxious to get here.  I have seen pictures of this place from when Kate was here.  This is one of the places that she volunteered here and it's where she met her now little brother Sudeep.  This home is filled with disabled children who need love.  I am not sure what to expect to see or feel.  We enter and (like most places here) take our shoes off.  I walk through the main room on the first floor.  The walls are painted bright and cheerful with happy pictures of children with the sisters and positive sayings in primary colors.  There are a few very energetic boys who are dancing around to "YMCA" and a few who are a bit more subdued on the floor or in their wheelchairs.  I follow the other volunteers in, grab an apron and head out back. 

We walk out to a narrow but long outdoor space where many local women are starting the laundry.  At the house there are these women who are referred to as "Mashies" (pro pounced mah-shees) who serve as the care takers here along with the sisters.  They wear their saris and hardened expressions as I approach.  They set up the laundry system (which is done by hand) four large metal buckets set up in a row.  We all soak and scrub, rinse and wring, then toss to the next bucket.  Now, at first when I see these women, I think they a a little harsh.  This is not the loving welcome I was hoping for. But after a while I begin to understand them a bit better.  These few women are there all the time for these children and serve as nurse, house keeper, cook and teacher for these children.  It's very easy to think they are rough on these kids but I imagine it can't be easy with all these fortunate pampered sunny faced volunteers waltzing in and out and only spending five hours a day with them while they pick up the slack.  

The laundry is good hard work.  Scrubbing and rinsing and wringing out the many sheets, towels and clothes in the very cold water is a really nice physical reminder of what I am doing here.  It's a good thing that I was way too lazy to carry my laundry down four flights and to the super scary laundromat with the cracked out homeless man as it's mascot when I lived in Harlem.  I am rather proficient with doing laundry by hand.   I find this scrubbing and rinsing quite therapeutic and social.  I get yelled at by one of the mashies.  She is small and stern.  Her face is completely frozen in a protective judgmental expression.  You can tell that she probably hates all of us.  She doesn't speak, well really she yells and only in Bengali and gets very mad at me when I grab the wrong pile of laundry and then start to do it not following her system.  She rips the laundry out of my hand, throws it on the ground and then adamantly points to a different pile.  I do as she wishes and when the other volunteers start to leave the laundry I decide to stay till it is all done.  I may not be perfect but at least I finish what I started.  I hope this earns me some bonus points with her.

Today is Saturday and so we take the children to the park for the day.  I am told to take a young boy in a wheelchair.  I am not certain what his diagnosis is but I think it maybe cerebral palsy.  As it turns out, he is quite intelligent.  He moves quite slow and is incapable of really speaking but he has a bright happy smile.  His name is Bernard.  I like Bernard.  He has a sense of humor and even takes the buckle of his seatbelt and jams it into the spokes of his wheelchair as a prank.  He is laughing at me as I am trying to figure out why his chair won't move.  We play an extensive game of "does you wheelchair sound like (insert most ridiculous sound you can think of)?".  As I we stroll around the park I meet a few other volunteers.  There is a young Australian woman named Miriam visit on her summer holiday with some college friends.  I meet an older Irish woman named Monica and one half of a young Spanish couple from Barcelona who decided to travel because they graduated from university and there were no jobs.  There are two very tall and ridiculously handsome Argentinian men.  Tall, handsome, charitable and good with kids?  Wow.  

My morning quite frankly is highly enjoyable.  There is a boy named Manu who is very handsy and yells quite a bit.  "We got a belter on our hands!" I yell and realize mid sentence no one knows what I am talking about.   

Part of me thinks that this is somewhat of a soft option, for my time here. But I am posed with the question, what would these children's lives be like if they were born somewhere else?  I learn that while many of these children were orphans who were moved here from the regular orphanage some actually have families but were given up because their parents could not care for them.  Their ailments range from mental retardation and autism to being nearly vegetables.  Bernard reminds me of a girl I went to elementary school with.  She had her aides and a motorized wheelchair and a specialized program for her education.  She had parents whole were a constant source of love and positivity.  Here the children have a constant revolving door of teachers and caretakers.  But at the same time, here are these kids getting to go to the park and getting hugs and love.  That's not so bad, but it's not a happy story either.

After our outing at the park we make our way back to the home for some physical therapy and tutoring.  I spend the rest of the day with Bernard and talking with the other volunteers.  I see one of the guys I had seen philosophizing that morning.  His name is Callum and he is from Vancouver. I was right about his west coast vibe, even if he is Canadian.  Cal teaches disabled children life skills back home.  He is even tempered and patient.  We all get to know each other a bit more as we take the metro back to the Sudder Street. 

As I walk back to my hotel I prepare myself to get out of another night at this over budget guest home.  As I'm walking I cross in front of this car that is attempting to turn on to a street of completely stopped traffic when the driver takes his foot off the brake and gentle runs into me. I proceed to yell at him and then not so gently punch the hood of his car.  I'm from New York, I didn't just fall of the turnip truck.  I'm prepping myself for a fight with the hotel people, don't get in my way.  As I steam about this latest aggravating encounter I hear someone yell my name.  I look up and see Kate at the end of the street.  An overwhelming sense of relief comes over me.  I run to her and throw my arms around this non stranger.  I have been doing fine here on my own but still, Kate looks like home.  She is followed by two locals who she obviously knows from her previous trips here.  We swap our horrifying arrival stories and I find out hers was very similar to mine but they are settled now on Sudder st and the kids are attempting to nap to adjust to the schedule here.  We decide to meet at her place so that Josh can help me get settled into a hostel.  I bid her goodbye as she heads off to go find some Internet. 

I return to my hotel and find no argument from the man at the front desk.  This is a good omen I decide.  Things are looking up and I am finally starting to feel settled.  I check out and head over to Josh and Kate's place where I sit and chat with Josh more extensively about their arrival.  The two little ones nap while Ray plays on the iPad.  I am so ecstatic about seeing familiar faces.  We talk about where I am going to stay and Josh tells me about some good places to eat.  I still have eaten anything here yet.  Kate returns and Josh helps me get settled into a hostel and then takes me to a place where I can call my folks. I have yet to speak to them.  It is five in the morning but I know that my mother could not care less, she will just be so happy to hear from me.  I update her and assure her that I am feeling much better about everything. Its good to hear my mom's voice but I need to continue on my way and finish moving in.  

I have dinner that night with the Tucker family.  They are energetic and fun as well as knowledgeable reminders of home.  It is interesting to cruise down the streets with them and their double wide stroller.  I feel like I am part of a parade or some sort of celebrity the way it attracts attention.  Small children follow us fascinated by the stroller and white children. I'm not sure they have seen anything like this before.  But they are rough little fire crackers and when Ray has had enough he pulls the sun guard down to separate himself from the grabbing inquisitive children.  But eventually after dinner it's all been too much and I let the family go to bed.

The Hotel Paragon

Someone once told me that in terms of dating I have ridiculously high standards.  Well let me tell you something, in terms of hotels I have ridiculously flexible standards.   When I checked in to the first place I stayed in on Sudder Street I remember thinking that this place was cheap, cramped and unimpressive.  That was before I ever laid eyes on the Hotel Paragon.  As I look around the dorm room I am staying in with five other people I think, "This isn't so bad.  I can do this.  It's just like summer camp .../prison ... / abandoned mental institution."  This place looks comically and frighteningly similar to many places that have been investigated on Ghost Hunters.  The walls are all painted the same peeling and chipped faded mint green color.  There is at least two decades worth of dust on the ceiling fans.  The ceiling is open in the hallway.  Mother nature is the maid here.  The bed sheets all have HP written in sharpie written on them.  I think of Harry Potter naturally and a bemused short cackle bursts out.

 There are some typical Indian bathrooms and well as a western style bathroom stall that would cause my Nana to contact vomit if she saw it.  And the showers you ask?  Well there is hot water only in the morning from 7:00 - 10:00 and in the evening from 6:00 - 8:00.  You take bucket, fill it with the hot water and then take a bucket shower.  Just like Cinderella I tell myself, sort of.  But when your paying two dollars a night For housing what can you expect.

The good news is my roommates.  I am living with four other girls who are volunteering and one guy who seems to only sleep.  My friend Claire from Long Island is one of them and I am introduced to another girl named Hannah who is from Berlin.  We get along swimmingly and I have spent a great deal of time with them since.  Another girl is leaving soon and this other is Rachel who is from Washington state.  She's chill but volunteers in the afternoon so I don't see her except right at bed time and on our morning walk.  I have found a group and already I am beginning to feel that these next few weeks while Hannah and Claire are still here will be wonderful.  And when my mother offers to help pay for my housing after looking up the location online Claire forbids it until she is gone.

 

"We have a really good room right now," she says " you can move after I leave."

It's good to have friends.

Transitions

It doesn't matter how old you get, how cool you can be or how worldly you are the first day of anything is always awkward.  You break a rule you didn't know existed or perhaps you don't have anyone to talk to, or maybe you even forgot your lunch money.  In my case, it was all of the above.

 

I rose nice and early on my first day (still a little jet lagged) at 3:00 in the morning.  Which gave me plenty of time to get to breakfast at 7:00. I needed to try to check out of my hotel early or arrange for a late check out that day since check out was at noon and that's when the morning session ended.  When I got down to the front desk however, there was no one there.  A petite older man wrapped up like he was facing a Siberian winters guards the front door and tells me in broken English, "8:30 Madam. No one till 8:30." 

 I needed my passport to be able to register for the volunteer work, so of course no one would be there.  And of course it didn't occur to me do this last night.  So, with a little chagrin I marched out the front door knowing this afternoon was probably not going to be a breeze.  

The walk was easy, I did not get lost.  I was able to find another volunteer and actually struck up a nice conversation on our way to the Mother House for breakfast.  She was an interior designer from Barcelona and she had just four more days in Kolkata. We were some of the first to arrive at the volunteer breakfast which consists of bread, bananas and chai.  I can't eat bread, I don't like bananas but I do love chai. I take two bananas and a glass of chai and find a spot to sit.  There are a number of small benches in the volunteer room.  The room is long, almost in an L shape and down a half flight of stairs from the main floor of the mother house.  The floors are concrete but everything is clean.  Well, this is Kolkata so comparatively speaking everything is sparkling clean.  (This is one reason I like the Mother House.) As I sit down, people start to file in for breakfast and socialize with one another.  An older Irish gentleman sees me and insists that I am Irish and when I open my mouth he is quite shocked to hear that I am American.  We talk about my lineage briefly and then he makes his way over to a group of people from the UK and Ireland.  As people settle in to spots I started to notice the different groups of people and see the different clicks.  There is a large group of French people sitting with a nun in her shockingly traditional habit and a young priest.  There is a group of Spanish speaking people,  Italians, Asians, Australians, two very bohemian looking west coast men are philosophizing.  A very pretty young English girl talks about how she is too small for some clothes that she bought and two plump kind faced Canadian women talk to a trio of very southern girls.  The moderately sized room becomes very crowded and in the middle of all of this hub-bub I look around and realize that I am in the antisocial ginger group.  Quite literally, I am on a bench with three other redheads all just looking pasty and sitting and eating and drinking and not talking and certainly not finding this ridiculous.  I sit back and decide to also not talk about it and just settle in, enjoy the awkward and pray that someone is watching this scene and finding it as funny as I am.

 

The day gets started with a the ringing of light bells, a little prayer and song and them some announcements.  They call forward and say goodbye to the people who are having their last day.  Then a garage door at the far end of the food table is thrust open letting sunlight pour into the room as the day commences.  I approach the sister and tell her about my inability to check out and get my passport.  She hands me a three day pass for Daya Dan and I tell her that I will have my passport tomorrow. 

I step outside and find my group.  We hop on to a bus that is painted in a bright and almost psychedelic way.  I sit down next to a young indie looking American girl who was corralling our group.  Her name is Claire.  She is here for a few weeks and has been back packing through the country since the fall.  She's from Long Island, studies yoga back in the states, is a massage therapist and has been doing physical therapy with the children at Daya Dan.  She travels quite frequently.  I begin talking about my visit so far when a man puts some sort of clicker in my face.  "Oh, it's 4 rupees for the bus," she says.  I start looking through my money belt and come put with only dollars, very American dollars.  I realize I have left my Indian money back in my hotel room.  Ugh, how embarrassing!  But fortunately this good souled New Yorker is swift and pays for my ride when I curse my stupidity under my breath.

 

The first day jitters.  It can make anyone screw up.

We hope off the bus a few minutes later disbursing onto clusters of three and four to ride the auto rickshaws or tuk-tuks.  These little buggers looked like they jumped the fence at some amusement park.  I chuckle at these kelly green and gold trikes as I hop in and then proceed to experience the real life Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.  The driver takes off like shot gun and we are barreling down the road swerving back and forth to avoid all the many obstacles that pop into the road.  I now feel like I have entered a real life video game.  The little three wheeled vehicle races along the road and I imagine the point system for this game.  You loose points for breaking, gain points for every additional passenger you are able to fit in and every near miss.  Extra bonus points if you are able to touch get close enough to steal fruit off of stands and/or are close enough to other tuk-tuks to high-five the other drivers.  

One thing that you must understand about Kolkata is that the drivers are crazy.  Everyone functions like the people on scooters in Rome.  Everyone including cabbies, regular motorists, tuk-tuks, cyclists, pedicabs, bus drivers and why not throw in some regular old toothless dude running in front of them rickshaws just to spice things up. There are no traffic laws, or perhaps it just seems this way, and they all do whatever they want.  Head lights are optional, there are no stop signs and very few traffic lights.  Seat belts and traffic cops could be categorized with big foot and the leprechauns.  You've heard about them, people claimed to have seen them, but where is the proof?

The joy ride on the tuk-tuk stops to let us out in the middle of the road near an alley that leads to the entrance to Daya Dan.   Claire had the foresight to give me six extra rupees for the ride, thank goodness.  We all head down the alley to Daya Dan.  

 

I am anxious to get here.  I have seen pictures of this place from when Kate was here.  This is one of the places that she volunteered here and it's where she met her now little brother Sudeep.  This home is filled with disabled children who need love.  I am not sure what to expect to see or feel.  We enter and (like most places here) take our shoes off.  I walk through the main room on the first floor.  The walls are painted bright and cheerful with happy pictures of children with the sisters and positive sayings in primary colors.  There are a few very energetic boys who are dancing around to "YMCA" and a few who are a bit more subdued on the floor or in their wheelchairs.  I follow the other volunteers in, grab an apron and head out back. 

We walk out to a narrow but long outdoor space where many local women are starting the laundry.  At the house there are these women who are referred to as "Mashies" (pro pounced mah-shees) who serve as the care takers here along with the sisters.  They wear their saris and hardened expressions as I approach.  They set up the laundry system (which is done by hand) four large metal buckets set up in a row.  We all soak and scrub, rinse and wring, then toss to the next bucket.  Now, at first when I see these women, I think they a a little harsh.  This is not the loving welcome I was hoping for. But after a while I begin to understand them a bit better.  These few women are there all the time for these children and serve as nurse, house keeper, cook and teacher for these children.  It's very easy to think they are rough on these kids but I imagine it can't be easy with all these fortunate pampered sunny faced volunteers waltzing in and out and only spending five hours a day with them while they pick up the slack.  

The laundry is good hard work.  Scrubbing and rinsing and wringing out the many sheets, towels and clothes in the very cold water is a really nice physical reminder of what I am doing here.  It's a good thing that I was way too lazy to carry my laundry down four flights and to the super scary laundromat with the cracked out homeless man as it's mascot when I lived in Harlem.  I am rather proficient with doing laundry by hand.   I find this scrubbing and rinsing quite therapeutic and social.  I get yelled at by one of the mashies.  She is small and stern.  Her face is completely frozen in a protective judgmental expression.  You can tell that she probably hates all of us.  She doesn't speak, well really she yells and only in Bengali and gets very mad at me when I grab the wrong pile of laundry and then start to do it not following her system.  She rips the laundry out of my hand, throws it on the ground and then adamantly points to a different pile.  I do as she wishes and when the other volunteers start to leave the laundry I decide to stay till it is all done.  I may not be perfect but at least I finish what I started.  I hope this earns me some bonus points with her.

Today is Saturday and so we take the children to the park for the day.  I am told to take a young boy in a wheelchair.  I am not certain what his diagnosis is but I think it maybe cerebral palsy.  As it turns out, he is quite intelligent.  He moves quite slow and is incapable of really speaking but he has a bright happy smile.  His name is Bernard.  I like Bernard.  He has a sense of humor and even takes the buckle of his seatbelt and jams it into the spokes of his wheelchair as a prank.  He is laughing at me as I am trying to figure out why his chair won't move.  We play an extensive game of "does you wheelchair sound like (insert most ridiculous sound you can think of)?".  As I we stroll around the park I meet a few other volunteers.  There is a young Australian woman named Miriam visit on her summer holiday with some college friends.  I meet an older Irish woman named Monica and one half of a young Spanish couple from Barcelona who decided to travel because they graduated from university and there were no jobs.  There are two very tall and ridiculously handsome Argentinian men.  Tall, handsome, charitable and good with kids?  Wow.  

My morning quite frankly is highly enjoyable.  There is a boy named Manu who is very handsy and yells quite a bit.  "We got a belter on our hands!" I yell and realize mid sentence no one knows what I am talking about.   

Part of me thinks that this is somewhat of a soft option, for my time here. But I am posed with the question, what would these children's lives be like if they were born somewhere else?  I learn that while many of these children were orphans who were moved here from the regular orphanage some actually have families but were given up because their parents could not care for them.  Their ailments range from mental retardation and autism to being nearly vegetables.  Bernard reminds me of a girl I went to elementary school with.  She had her aides and a motorized wheelchair and a specialized program for her education.  She had parents whole were a constant source of love and positivity.  Here the children have a constant revolving door of teachers and caretakers.  But at the same time, here are these kids getting to go to the park and getting hugs and love.  That's not so bad, but it's not a happy story either.

After our outing at the park we make our way back to the home for some physical therapy and tutoring.  I spend the rest of the day with Bernard and talking with the other volunteers.  I see one of the guys I had seen philosophizing that morning.  His name is Callum and he is from Vancouver. I was right about his west coast vibe, even if he is Canadian.  Cal teaches disabled children life skills back home.  He is even tempered and patient.  We all get to know each other a bit more as we take the metro back to the Sudder Street. 

As I walk back to my hotel I prepare myself to get out of another night at this over budget guest home.  As I'm walking I cross in front of this car that is attempting to turn on to a street of completely stopped traffic when the driver takes his foot off the brake and gentle runs into me. I proceed to yell at him and then not so gently punch the hood of his car.  I'm from New York, I didn't just fall of the turnip truck.  I'm prepping myself for a fight with the hotel people, don't get in my way.  As I steam about this latest aggravating encounter I hear someone yell my name.  I look up and see Kate at the end of the street.  An overwhelming sense of relief comes over me.  I run to her and throw my arms around this non stranger.  I have been doing fine here on my own but still, Kate looks like home.  She is followed by two locals who she obviously knows from her previous trips here.  We swap our horrifying arrival stories and I find out hers was very similar to mine but they are settled now on Sudder st and the kids are attempting to nap to adjust to the schedule here.  We decide to meet at her place so that Josh can help me get settled into a hostel.  I bid her goodbye as she heads off to go find some Internet. 

I return to my hotel and find no argument from the man at the front desk.  This is a good omen I decide.  Things are looking up and I am finally starting to feel settled.  I check out and head over to Josh and Kate's place where I sit and chat with Josh more extensively about their arrival.  The two little ones nap while Ray plays on the iPad.  I am so ecstatic about seeing familiar faces.  We talk about where I am going to stay and Josh tells me about some good places to eat.  I still have eaten anything here yet.  Kate returns and Josh helps me get settled into a hostel and then takes me to a place where I can call my folks. I have yet to speak to them.  It is five in the morning but I know that my mother could not care less, she will just be so happy to hear from me.  I update her and assure her that I am feeling much better about everything. Its good to hear my mom's voice but I need to continue on my way and finish moving in.  

I have dinner that night with the Tucker family.  They are energetic and fun as well as knowledgeable reminders of home.  It is interesting to cruise down the streets with them and their double wide stroller.  I feel like I am part of a parade or some sort of celebrity the way it attracts attention.  Small children follow us fascinated by the stroller and white children. I'm not sure they have seen anything like this before.  But they are rough little fire crackers and when Ray has had enough he pulls the sun guard down to separate himself from the grabbing inquisitive children.  But eventually after dinner it's all been too much and I let the family go to bed.

The Hotel Paragon

Someone once told me that in terms of dating I have ridiculously high standards.  Well let me tell you something, in terms of hotels I have ridiculously flexible standards.   When I checked in to the first place I stayed in on Sudder Street I remember thinking that this place was cheap, cramped and unimpressive.  That was before I ever laid eyes on the Hotel Paragon.  As I look around the dorm room I am staying in with five other people I think, "This isn't so bad.  I can do this.  It's just like summer camp .../prison ... / abandoned mental institution."  This place looks comically and frighteningly similar to many places that have been investigated on Ghost Hunters.  The walls are all painted the same peeling and chipped faded mint green color.  There is at least two decades worth of dust on the ceiling fans.  The ceiling is open in the hallway.  Mother nature is the maid here.  The bed sheets all have HP written in sharpie written on them.  I think of Harry Potter naturally and a bemused short cackle bursts out.

 There are some typical Indian bathrooms and well as a western style bathroom stall that would cause my Nana to contact vomit if she saw it.  And the showers you ask?  Well there is hot water only in the morning from 7:00 - 10:00 and in the evening from 6:00 - 8:00.  You take bucket, fill it with the hot water and then take a bucket shower.  Just like Cinderella I tell myself, sort of.  But when your paying two dollars a night For housing what can you expect.

The good news is my roommates.  I am living with four other girls who are volunteering and one guy who seems to only sleep.  My friend Claire from Long Island is one of them and I am introduced to another girl named Hannah who is from Berlin.  We get along swimmingly and I have spent a great deal of time with them since.  Another girl is leaving soon and this other is Rachel who is from Washington state.  She's chill but volunteers in the afternoon so I don't see her except right at bed time and on our morning walk.  I have found a group and already I am beginning to feel that these next few weeks while Hannah and Claire are still here will be wonderful.  And when my mother offers to help pay for my housing after looking up the location online Claire forbids it until she is gone.

 

"We have a really good room right now," she says " you can move after I leave."

It's good to have friends.

On the eve of...

In life as well as in books, often we do not know the moment when we are about to embark on the great adventure of our lives. It usually is only through the clarity of hind sight that we are able to discern with appreciative eyes that specific moment.  And I suppose that when I sat in the car with my mother last June I never could have predicted (seeing that she is the second most conservative member of my family) that she would broach the topic of Kolkata, let alone suggest that I go.  I might have realized at that moment that this was it, I don't remember. But I did know that I needed to make a change.  And suddenly as life often does, an unexpected alternative but nonetheless enticing path presented itself. Once I had made the decision to go I was filled with excitement. I immediately began telling people for two reasons. One; to make myself accountable for it, and two; I loved the varied shocked reactions I got when telling family, friends, acquaintances and strangers. However, just like Frodo with his ring, Luke with his lightsaber and Harry with his scar, the gravity of my decision has cascaded over me.

So here I am, it is the night before my departure. I have in no way finished packing, nor have I decided how much I'm packing.  But I have purchased tickets over and back.  I have picked up my visa, bought malaria medication, had $500 worth of vaccinations, and even gone to L.L. Bean to get the strongest damn bug spray they have.  I have said my goodbyes to many people,  shed many tears and I need to sleep.  But I am filled with disbelief, and it is bizarre. It's not fear.  I won't pretend that I'm not nervous at all, but perhaps I'm afraid of the fact that I'm not afraid. I mean come on, this is kind of a big deal.  Perhaps not in the grand scheme of things, but for me certainly it is. I have never gone four months without seeing my family.  I know that I am a very capable twenty-seven year old ...-girl? Can you be a twenty-seven year old girl?  I can tell you I certain don't feel like a woman. I know I am a person, an adult, a broad even, but I am poised on a great precipice ready to take a leap of faith to make me the person I want to be. 

I want so much out of life.  I want to work towards a better existence and I want there to be more compassion and understanding and forgiveness between people.  And I suppose I had best start with myself. I know I have lofty fairytale rose colored glasses dreams. Most likely stemming from too many adventure books and Disney movies, but I won't deny what I want. Mother Teresa has a rather profound and somewhat famous quote "We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop." 

So I'm a drop. I'm ok with that.