Of course I couldn’t go too many weeks without a repeat visit to Prema Vasam. So here begins the continuation of where Prem resides….
Only a few Sundays have passed since my first visit to the beautiful orphanage on the outskirts of Chennai and I felt an overwhelming draw to return. The group of British volunteers I had originally met would be departing in a few weeks – a perfect opportunity to say good-bye and see the children. This time I opted for the public bus ($0.25) versus the luxury of private taxi ($8.50). The kind citizens of Chennai assured I hopped off at the correct stop, but not first without ensuring I was meeting someone as it is a “no good neighborhood” they said. No good neighborhood? I began wondering why they were so worried about this. In actuality, the neighborhood is not bad – much better than the slums I usually frequent and in reality, I have never felt unsafe in the slums. I reflected over this morsel of advice and it dawned on me - I have received the same commentary almost every time I request a bus stop within a poverty-stricken hood. It’s not that the slums are abhorrently unsafe – danger lurks anywhere. The issue stems from the uncommon nature of a westerner visiting these neighborhoods. Essentially, they are attempting to safeguard us from the scenes. This in fact is a common misconception even staff at MCCSS hold. They assume slum surroundings are too harsh for westerners to manage and shelter us by simply not escorting us into certain slums. Not all staff subscribe to this belief, and we are working to dispel the myth that we need to be babied from the real slums. Either way, I assured the overbearing bus passengers that I would be fine and jumped off the bus as it rolled to a stop.
Only a few Sundays have passed since my first visit to the beautiful orphanage on the outskirts of Chennai and I felt an overwhelming draw to return. The group of British volunteers I had originally met would be departing in a few weeks – a perfect opportunity to say good-bye and see the children. This time I opted for the public bus ($0.25) versus the luxury of private taxi ($8.50). The kind citizens of Chennai assured I hopped off at the correct stop, but not first without ensuring I was meeting someone as it is a “no good neighborhood” they said. No good neighborhood? I began wondering why they were so worried about this. In actuality, the neighborhood is not bad – much better than the slums I usually frequent and in reality, I have never felt unsafe in the slums. I reflected over this morsel of advice and it dawned on me - I have received the same commentary almost every time I request a bus stop within a poverty-stricken hood. It’s not that the slums are abhorrently unsafe – danger lurks anywhere. The issue stems from the uncommon nature of a westerner visiting these neighborhoods. Essentially, they are attempting to safeguard us from the scenes. This in fact is a common misconception even staff at MCCSS hold. They assume slum surroundings are too harsh for westerners to manage and shelter us by simply not escorting us into certain slums. Not all staff subscribe to this belief, and we are working to dispel the myth that we need to be babied from the real slums. Either way, I assured the overbearing bus passengers that I would be fine and jumped off the bus as it rolled to a stop.
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I zigzagged through the neighborhood and meandered my way to the end of the road. When I walked through the gate, I saw no one outside. Where were the kids? I soon discovered the weather had become too warm in the early afternoon to play outside, so the children were forced to hibernate in the indoor playrooms for the afternoon. Unfortunately at an orphanage, playroom is a misleading word. There are no toys; instead four walls coop up too many children leading to unreleased energy and pointless punches, as nothing else is available to occupy their young minds. The volunteers attempted to combat this situation by purchasing coloring books and crayons, however in a society that never has enough, survival not sharing, is a trait learned at an early age. Crayons are hoarded and coloring sheets are shredded as little hands grab for everything. Orphanages are always fun and games the first time. After that, you remove your rose-colored glasses and learn what effort it truly takes to make them function.
I zigzagged through the neighborhood and meandered my way to the end of the road. When I walked through the gate, I saw no one outside. Where were the kids? I soon discovered the weather had become too warm in the early afternoon to play outside, so the children were forced to hibernate in the indoor playrooms for the afternoon. Unfortunately at an orphanage, playroom is a misleading word. There are no toys; instead four walls coop up too many children leading to unreleased energy and pointless punches, as nothing else is available to occupy their young minds. The volunteers attempted to combat this situation by purchasing coloring books and crayons, however in a society that never has enough, survival not sharing, is a trait learned at an early age. Crayons are hoarded and coloring sheets are shredded as little hands grab for everything. Orphanages are always fun and games the first time. After that, you remove your rose-colored glasses and learn what effort it truly takes to make them function.
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After the coloring fiasco, it was feeding time. We resorted to the kitchen to collect lunch for the special kids. I carried up a plate of soggy rice and vegetables and was pointed in the direction of a new child this time. He was confined to a bed-ridden life on his back due to his disease. I positioned myself on the corner of his bed and balanced the hot plate in my lap. I couldn’t help but notice his out-of-place t-shirt that seemed more an unintentional cruel joke that read, “Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most.” I couldn’t even make this up if I tried. Sometimes in those situations, all you can do is laugh, shake your head and continue on. Humor is a god-sent gift in a developing country. I carefully rolled up small balls of rice and veggies and secured them in his mouth. He didn’t possess the ability to chew with his teeth, instead using his tongue to break down the food. He was incredibly more difficult to feed than the child I had tended last time…until I enacted my secret weapon – the airplane feeding game. With rice ball in hand, I maneuvered my hand around like a gliding airplane with sound effects and all. He laughed so hard, but between giggles would always open his mouth to accept the rice ball. I was hoping this newfound game wouldn’t wear out for a few reasons: I wanted him to finish his plate to fill his little belly and selfishly because his innocent laughter was irresistible. I soon found tears dotting the corners of my eyes as his contagious laugh made me double-over in laughter with him. By the end of the meal, we managed to find rice hidden in our hair, under our necks and inside our ears…well worth the extra clean-up duty.
After the coloring fiasco, it was feeding time. We resorted to the kitchen to collect lunch for the special kids. I carried up a plate of soggy rice and vegetables and was pointed in the direction of a new child this time. He was confined to a bed-ridden life on his back due to his disease. I positioned myself on the corner of his bed and balanced the hot plate in my lap. I couldn’t help but notice his out-of-place t-shirt that seemed more an unintentional cruel joke that read, “Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most.” I couldn’t even make this up if I tried. Sometimes in those situations, all you can do is laugh, shake your head and continue on. Humor is a god-sent gift in a developing country. I carefully rolled up small balls of rice and veggies and secured them in his mouth. He didn’t possess the ability to chew with his teeth, instead using his tongue to break down the food. He was incredibly more difficult to feed than the child I had tended last time…until I enacted my secret weapon – the airplane feeding game. With rice ball in hand, I maneuvered my hand around like a gliding airplane with sound effects and all. He laughed so hard, but between giggles would always open his mouth to accept the rice ball. I was hoping this newfound game wouldn’t wear out for a few reasons: I wanted him to finish his plate to fill his little belly and selfishly because his innocent laughter was irresistible. I soon found tears dotting the corners of my eyes as his contagious laugh made me double-over in laughter with him. By the end of the meal, we managed to find rice hidden in our hair, under our necks and inside our ears…well worth the extra clean-up duty.
After feeding time, it is time to nourish staff and volunteers and we all met downstairs to sit in a feeding circle for lunch. A huge pot of rice and spicy, sambar sauce is passed around the circle and you spoon the food onto your plate. No silverware is needed in India since they eat with their right hand only; the left hand is used for dirty duties. Before lunch began, the founder recited a small prayer of thanks and welcomed me back to the orphanage. Unbeknownst to me, they had purchased a small gift to welcome me back and show I was now part of their family. He waved to two small girls waiting in the doorway, whom excitedly skipped toward me, pulled up my pant legs and secured silver kosulus (ankle bracelets with bells) around each ankle. Almost all the women of India wear these and it was a symbol of my acceptance at Prema Vasam. The generosity of the South Indian people never ceases to amaze me. Consistently, those who have nothing to offer are always the first to give me the shirt off their back or the last serving of their meal…
After lunch I caught up with the UK volunteers who would soon be departing. It is always interesting to listen to the stories they have accumulated and the mishmash of feelings one encounters when departing. So many intense experiences happen on a daily basis when you push yourself outside of your comfort zone and into extreme circumstances. How do you describe all the emotions to friends and family? What will happen to the children? How do you find words for the powerful events you’ve witnessed? Why them and not me? Will there be food to eat tomorrow? What does the future hold? The truth is it’s difficult to return to the simplicity of our daily lives after seeing the daily struggle in others’ lives. You always wonder what more you can do…
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After some afternoon reflection, we headed upstairs to gather some of the special children for a special outing. On my way up, I noticed the explosion of laundry hanging on the rooftop and I stopped. It was only another realization of the massive undertaking to maintain life at an orphanage. Remember, there are no washing machines or dryers at the orphanage or the majority of households in India for that matter. All this laundry is washed by hand and hung to line dry…everyday! I don’t know the last time you hand-washed, but imagine doing it for 170 children on a daily basis. Bucket washing is back breaking work. The special kids alone go through numerous outfits per day as diapers are unaffordable on a tight budget. It is barely possible to keep the children properly clothed as they grow faster than weeds and hand washing takes a toll on the garments. The problem is evident as I noted children running around with flooded pants, broken zippers and swiss cheese t-shirts. Yet again, in a society where there are never enough resources, you make do with what you can… a delicate art to comprehend.
After some afternoon reflection, we headed upstairs to gather some of the special children for a special outing. On my way up, I noticed the explosion of laundry hanging on the rooftop and I stopped. It was only another realization of the massive undertaking to maintain life at an orphanage. Remember, there are no washing machines or dryers at the orphanage or the majority of households in India for that matter. All this laundry is washed by hand and hung to line dry…everyday! I don’t know the last time you hand-washed, but imagine doing it for 170 children on a daily basis. Bucket washing is back breaking work. The special kids alone go through numerous outfits per day as diapers are unaffordable on a tight budget. It is barely possible to keep the children properly clothed as they grow faster than weeds and hand washing takes a toll on the garments. The problem is evident as I noted children running around with flooded pants, broken zippers and swiss cheese t-shirts. Yet again, in a society where there are never enough resources, you make do with what you can… a delicate art to comprehend.
We rounded up seven special children and headed out the front gate, but not before excitedly blowing kisses and waving good-bye to the gate keeper. The little ones walked barefoot down the hot, rocky roads and you can’t help but feel guilt. It doesn’t hurt their tiny soles, as after years of practice their feet have grown accustomed to this behavior, but somehow this doesn’t console your mind. We headed to one of the local shops and showered the kids with small candies, baby bananas, mango juice and other tasty treats. We didn’t spend more than $1.00 and the smiles were priceless. The villagers were surprisingly accepting of the unexpected behaviors special kids often exhibit and a few villagers even chipped in to buy a sweet snack or two. By the end of the outing, crumbled crackers, wrappers and mango juice ended up all over the floor, but the shopkeeper just smiled, shook her head and waved us good-bye. We held hands as we all walked home together. The first time I visited the orphanage, I didn’t quite agree with the term special kids, however, being able to spend additional time with this group made me realize they really are just that. They are special. It has nothing to do with their handicap or their disability. It’s the pure joy they find in the small things around them that is truly amazing and their ability to remind those of us who forget.
As the day drew to a close, so did my time. I needed to reach Chennai by dusk since the streets become full of shady characters after dark. I take my curfew cue from the local, Indian women who are safely tucked inside home well before 9:00 pm. I thanked Selvyn for another amazing day and promised him next time to sit down and more thoroughly understand the inner workings of orphanage life. With his hand over his heart, he bowed his head and welcomed me back anytime with open arms.
Leeza - I am a friend of your mothers and have been following your blogs. Leeza you have a great gift of words which helps the rest of us better understand the environments of which you visit. The journey you have chosen is not an easy one but more fulfilling than anything I can imagine. God Bless you are your efforts.
ReplyDeleteDiane Mabry