The Writer is Out There.

It’s a weird sensation, making myself impart knowledge with an assurance of it, and my place to do so.

I mean, I KNOW all the stuff I’ll be teaching; I’ve used it all, and I’ve taught some of it to others. But I’ve always had either a pre-made course to follow, or a completely informal setting to advise folks. Now, I find myself preparing to get up in front of people and tell them ‘I’m experienced… You should do things this way’, with enough authority that they don’t try to back out of it.

I wouldn’t DREAM of trying it in the UK, but here, it’s the best chance that people have.

25th October.

** Speaking to your sister on the phone, somehow makes everything alright. Just so you know** 

Phoning home is a mammoth effort; first, you rely on there being power when a) you are able to get to the phone and b) it is not an ungodly hour at the call-destination. This is hard enough. Then you have to ensure that you are calling early enough to ask Sanjay to unlock the phone (or wake up the entire staff, since every noise you make can be heard anywhere on the 4 floors), as apparently there’s been past misuse of it.Insert time differences, incl for odd places (jn case you were wondering). You have to dial fast, or the phone assumes that the destination number is only 5 figures long, and complains that ‘you are an idiot; there’s no such number’. You battle with a line so remote that you’ll get 4 announcements of ‘your call cannot be placed because of congestion on the line’, before you get through to an engaged tone, and have to start again. And when, finally, you struggle to the top of this lot, you have to hope that the line is decent enough to hold a 2-way exchange, and that the power stays on until you’re done, or it’s Down the Snake and back to Sqaure One. 

Happy Birthday honey. I’m sorry I can’t be there to wake you up with smells of a delicious Mystery Cake rising in the oven. I’m sorry that I haven’t posted your present yet (or bought it, if I’m honest). I’m sorry we can’t get drunk on nasty spirits before heading into town for more. And I’m sorry I can’t reach out for that strange bounce-around-the-room embrace we always seem to manufacture for important things. I hope it helps that I’m missing all this too. Have the bestest birthday. If you’re stuck for ideas, here’s how… 

Step 1: Track down the mailman and open presents; relish the fact that there’ll be another on the way, long after you’ve forgotten opening the first lot. 

Step 2: Step out into the hallway and ensnare the first person you see in a bounce-around-the-room embrace. Fall around laughing at their reaction. 

Step 3: Lay your hands on some nasty spirits. Take off the lid and swig. 

Step 4: If nobody’s had the forethough to provide you with a cake, make your own – of course, this is much more fun after a few attempts at Step 3. You might like to try standing a candle in soft cake batter, then eating the whole lot with a spoon, careful to avoid the lumps of candlewax. Of course, in student digs, cake ingredients are rare. You could try candle placement elsewhere, which is an amusing activity itself. Think buttery-toast, or bag-of-frozen-peas or least-favourite-flatmate’s stash of chocolate/ favourite mug (you can’t eat it, but if you leave the candle long enough, their chipping-at-wax activities might amuse you for hours). 

Step 5: If none of the above has cheered you up, take out another loan (at student rates, of course) and phone me! 

Step 6: Having become bankrupt on a call to India, head out into town with nothing but shrapnel in your pockets. See how many drinks you can scam off people using ridiculous ploys ‘I left my wallet in the Himalayas’ ‘buy me 20 drinks? No, alright, 10 then? How about 5? It’s my final offer!’ ‘I used the rent to phone my sister’, or ‘it’s my birthday’. I mean, come on, what sort of a reason is that?!? 

22^nd  October

It seems all I am doing at the moment is extending my thanks to people you’ve probably never heard of, and apologising in varying degrees of silence for my shortcomings.

 

Today, apart from watching the Sunday movie with the kids – it might have been Wishbone, but it was dubbed in Hindi apart from the occasional word, and I can’t be sure – I spent a blissful day in hibernation. For this I won’t apologise; the last few days have been insane, and I needed the chance to pull into my own world for a while. All day I read bits of the 3 books I have on the go, flirted with the idea of actually learning devangari script, picked up the whistle at whim, and wrote when power allowed. At times, I simply curled up into a ball on my bed and drifted between thought and comfortable blankness, where I existed only in my steady breathing rhythm. And when the sunset faded, I sat in the dark with my music and my thoughts, contemplating writing by candlelight but never quite stirring, until the power came back on 40 minutes later.

 

This evening, in between bursts of inspired text-creation, I viewed the photos from my trip so far. All the ones I have with me, from the first day in Damascus, through to Diwali celebrations. And somehow, each photo took me back to a forgotten private place I shall always be grateful for.

 

You know what I’m going to say; there’s no need to utter it. Thank you.

We wake as early as ever, and although I try to stay in bed and enjoy the warmth of the sun which I’d longed for last night, it’s too hot way before 8am and I have to retreat inside.

 

The other 3 are restless; it’s too early to get ready. I don’t mind. It’s like Christmas morning, when you’re up before everyone else; you know you can’t start without the others, but you don’t mind, because there’s that buzz in the air regardless of the wait.

 

We go downstairs, to watch a Hindi movie with the kids; it relies on slapstick comedy, so even us foreign folks can sort of follow it, and it seems to be about Puja, in a loose kind of way. Shiv Kamar snuggles next to me for a hug, as though he’s stunned by yesterday’s events. He’s a boisterous lad, this isn’t him at all, and it has me kind of worried. He has further seizures, which is to be expected, and Maggie and I have to prize excitable kids and carers away from him once more.

 

The prizes for sports day are presented, and then there’s puja.

 

Puja’s the religious bit. I wish I could explain it all, but there were so many people that it was hard to tell exactly what was going on. As far as I can gather, prayers are made over the waving of a flame upon an offerings-tray. Offering are made, and red bhindi, with rice is applied, particularly for men and boys, and all participants are blessed with a lucky red braid of string.

 

It’s awesome. There’s an air of partnership as friends anointed each other, and carers helped the kids go up to our beautifully crafted shrine. I wished I were an integral part of it. Perhaps by next year I will be.

 

Everyone – guests, kids, carers and house/ grounds staff ate together, on the floor of the main building’s foyer. Food is awesome! There’s an aloo curry, with a richer flavour than before, there’s a slightly sticky, beautifully fragranced (clove, saffron amongst other things, I think) yellow rice, with fried potato, paneer and vegetables combined. There’s fried roti. There’s the beautiful fruity spiced rice-pudding, and our gulab jaman.

 

By two o-clock we’re all tired. Thankfully, there’s time to rest before we’re whisked away to Usha Kiran Palace for some royalty-treatment.

 

We – the volunteers at least – were a little dubious when we were told that the children were invited for a ‘visit to the palace’ with ‘high tea’ afterwards. We had visions, for no reason at all, of traipsing through the buildings on some kind of tour, trying to minimise damage caused by Tornado Snehalaya. In actual fact, however, it was incredible. Staff had laid out the same white chairs and tables as the RAF crew had, and a hot buffet was laid on. The kids romped in the open space, a couple of them marvelled at the fountains and perhaps even noticed the beautiful palace. They swung on the swings. They took full advantage of the free-flowing soft drinks, and then the food. Several of them – including the ‘unsociable’ (can you see the contempt on my face? Sorry.) boy who suffered a week of non-stop seizures – danced to the music pumped from huge speakers. The few kids with limited mobility were supplied with a thick white-sheeted mattress, and the smiling spa-staff rushed out to entertain them. Every single face amongst them had a grin from ear to ear. Everyone was impeccably behaved. And when it grew dark, and the firecrackers were lit before we had to travel home, every single child was caught up in the moment, enraptured and excited.

 

Enormous thanks go out to Usha Kiran and all the staff there, for creating happy memories.

: 20^th: Had a really weird day today; a tumultuous day with so many highs and lost that I feel I’ve spent the day on stormy seas, heaving at the rigging to ensure we survive it.

 

 It started off woken by the bloody geese, with a headache caused by sleeping in our stuffy room (chased inside by gigantuous rain drops and rolling thunder). But after a glass of miraculously cold parne – water – the early morning was a relaxed affair. I actually found time to read, in daylight hours!

 

We set off at 10 to GCH, where, whilst the girls headed to market, I split and went to the e-café. On the way, our driver’s attention lapsed and, in one horrific movement, a cow lurched out into the road. Its head snapped sideways with a horrific thunk as its huge, javelin-horns scraped the 3-wheeler’s side, inches away from my arm, which, until that moment, had gripped the outer side of the bars. The driver hardly flinched, except to pray for the sacred beast as he drove on.

 

Miraculously, the network/ pc/ internet connection functioned exactly as it should for the 3 hours I was there! I managed to whizz through emails AND formulate a blog of sorts! Still, it’s a shame that someone’s been using my messenger account to terrorise my friends and family: If you’ve been hit I apologise.

 

I made it back to GCH in time to make a phone call home at the ISD booth – which was open and working!!

 

And then we all met up and headed for Mercy home, oddly cheerful in the Divali spirit. My heart was twisted, wrenched at, plunged into a spin-cycle then wrung out and left, desolate in a sunless sky to dry. By the time we left an hour later, I was indignant and reproachful, close to tears, and at the same time as sober as I’ve ever been. It affected all of us; hardly a word was said on the way home.

 

For the first two minutes, it’s all so surprisingly good that we’re all grinning. The lad who we’d all thought half-dead a week ago was running alongside the bus with a smile to greet us. And most of the older boys were serviceably clean.

 

One of the two young boys who we’re appealing to the Civil Surgeon to hand over to us, is in desperate need of a wash, but apart from that they both seem okay, and in reasonable spirits.

 

The only concerns are for Cha-cha, a long-term resident, with a horrific injury to his finger; it’s dripping a slow flow of blood, and his hand has swelled with puss. The skin is blackening at the edge of the wound. And there’s the nameless elderly woman with TB; her emaciated skeleton left to spoil in her own shit and sweat, the only protection for her tight-pulled, wounded skin against the flies, a grimy towel, thrust across her groin. Apparently the home’s doctor (an incompetent pillock by all accounts) is seeing to the both of them, and because we were elsewhere in the morning we’ve come without the first-aid kit, so there’s nothing we can do but hope that they’re okay until we visit next week. It’s actually a pretty good state of affairs, for Mercy Home.

 

Then I walk into the first of the dormitories; now prepared for the filth, so that it barely makes me flinch. And I see this tiny ball of flesh curled tight beneath one of the frightful beds.

 

I crouch down to see who’s there, to be met with an expression of abject fear which I don’t think I’ll ever wipe from my mind. Dragged out to see me (unwisely, but not maliciously) by Shuban – one of the older residents – is a small girl. I’d guess she is about 7 years old. She’s caked in the yellow-ish mud of the paths; her untidy mop of hair is coated in the same yellow dust. She’s wearing nothing but a woolly t-shirt. She has the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.

 

I don’t understand how she was placed at Mercy home; If a parent dropped her off, I can’t fathom how they could, no matter how desperate the situation were, not there. And if it was Gwalior’s authorities, knowing full well the abusive history of the place, in particular concerning young girls, anyone recommending the placement should be taken out back and shot.

 

Suddenly finding herself before me, she freezes. Slowly, I lift her into a hug, and from that moment until the moment we depart, she clung to one or the other of us. She gradually became cuddly and relaxed, and we even coaxed laughter from her. But she wouldn’t drop her arm from its place around our necks, not once.

 

It upsets all of us, at every visit, that despite seeing the reactions we get from the residents through a little interaction, none of the staff ever talk to them; not one of those kids receives a comforting word, let alone physical contact. Some of them hadn’t had a hug for years before the GCH volunteers took on the home. It hits me particularly hard today. She’s so desperate for affection, so helpless and alone in this world of twisted men.

 

She whimpers, but she doesn’t speak; the staff say she can’t, but it could be that she won’t. She ‘doesn’t have a name’; they’ve been calling her Choti, or small. They’re not forthcoming with any further information.

 

We tried to find her some pants – anything which would afford her a little dignity, and an extra second to get away – delving into the retch-inducing box of clothes (I swear there’s something dead amidst the fabrics, I couldn’t stomach searching for it), but there was nothing which might fit, at all.

 

I want her out of there. We want her out of there. We know what has happened to all the other girls in Mercy home, and I can hardly resign myself to leaving her there, unchecked for a week, knowing full well that her fate will surely be the same. Knowing that, whilst she’s curled up on my lap, she feels at least a little safer, and that I’m going to drive off and leave her in her own private hell.

 

—

 

Once we’re clear of GCH, we allow ourselves to switch our thoughts – you have to, if you want to keep your sanity, want to be able to return next week – to Diwali. The mood and conversation pick up, as we turn to talk of what we’ll wear for the celebrations, whether we’ll have a feast, and how much chaos will reign at Usha Kiran!

 

Sunil tells us that, late this evening, they’ll be making sweets for tomorrow’s celebrations.

 

“We help?” we ask.

 

“No, no.” he gestures, graciously, the white girls needn’t toil away all evening, he means.

“Please?” we beg.

 

And so it is that we find Sunil, Muna, and Naranjan, Millie Maggie, Kate and I in a circle on the kitchen floor, rolling out the dough balls which transform into Gulab Jaman. It’s the most fun I’ve had in Snehalaya; we’re all in such high spirits that at 9.30, we’re scolded for waking M and S, 2 floors above us.

 

And as our mound of dough diminishes, we hear the unmistakable sound of play outside. Expressly forbidden from venturing beyond the safety of the doors, the three of us rush out to join the fun when our work is done. Besides each of the cottage doorways are candles, and with this and the light of the moon, all the carers let their hair down. There’s a kick-about, and a game of badminton in which you could barely see the shuttlecock.

 

Then all of this is broken, when Shiv Kamar stumbles out of the cottage, having fallen from bed in a seizure. He has a massive (I mean, ‘golf-ball and a half’ sized) bump millimetres above his eye. And when he has a subsequent seizure – the kind where a person remains half-conscious, and flips through a range of bold emotions as they’re hit with a seizure – the carers don’t realise what’s going on and try to restrain him. (more training necessary. Balls). Turns out they’d run out of medications, which had not been replaced by the pharmacist. In theory, they’d be delivered tomorrow – too late by a long run, but that’s an issue I won’t take up with you– but as it’s Diwali, no-one knows for sure.