The school — founded some years back by two buddies, one muslim, one hindu, both blind — resides in a characterless erstwhile apartment complex of hard-grey concrete at the end of a peaceful street featuring, almost in succession, a mandir, masjid and church.
It was a buzzing, jostling, sometimes stumbling crew that was ushered onto the bus in the still dark and unseasonably cool morning. The kids called out names of friends to sit with and by the time the bus finally grumbled and lurched its way onto the road, it was filled to capacity. Almost immediately a harmonium appeared and the school's resident Stevie Wonder expertly massaged religious and bollywood standards from the smallish, rocking keyboard. The rest of the kids lent their voices or smiled and swayed in appreciation.
I was apprehensive about finding a line of communication with the kids. Not speaking a grain of Gujarati and only sub-standard Hindi, language would likely be an issue in many (if not a majority) of the settings I would find myself in over the course of the coming year. I had already discovered this barrier could largely be overcome with physical humor, ad-hoc gesturing, or with illustrations scratched in the sandy earth — but none of these approaches would be of much use with the blind children.
Our first stop was at a major temple where the children formed a shuffling line, hands to shoulders of the one in front. We were allowed to circumvent the queue and pass right to the front of the shrine viewing area (I wondered to myself why the blind kids would appreciate this). After circumnavigating the shrine the children gathered in a small patch of sunlight that had found its way to the temple floor. They belted out a holy song at maximum volume, garnering attention beyond the usual pitying stares of strangers.
On the return walk to the bus I was paired with Asha, a mute girl of maybe seven or eight years of age with mild mental retardation. Her greasy, disheveled hair was bunched under a woven, maroon-colored cap which partially matched her dirty, well-worn, button-up sweater. I operated as her eyes as we slalomed past all manner of vehicle and street debris, including the occasional large or sharp rock. Despite the variety of dangers posed to toes and soles, a large number of the kids walked barefoot.
A simple joy permeated the act of scanning the ground on Asha's behalf and my worries about connecting with the children were scattered like the faint plumes of dust which billowed forth with each step from her ill-fitting chappels (Indian flip-flops). Over the course of the day, she would come to discover that she could avoid walking altogether by slumping back into me and standing atop my feet.
Waiting to reboard the bus I squatted and formed a chair with my thighs for Asha to sit upon. I bounced her horse-riding style and then spread my legs to let her fall to the ground. Instantly captivated, she pressed me for additional rides. She delighted as I varied the routine by thrusting her skyward with one leg or the other to produce a super-jump.
We ate lunch at a nearby ashram where I broke the previous day's fast with Viren-bhai's homemade pasta (saved from the night before on my behalf). Food is triply satisfying when prepared and eaten with real intention.
Out next stop was a relatively clean flowing river where the boys disrobed to varying degrees and splashed about like banshees. A rather plumpish, bare-chested brahmin got royally soaked and held up his hands in protest to no avail. Meanwhile a curious goat kept the girls occupied where they waded in the shallow water.
Back to the bus for the last leg of the journey to Ajwa's Water World.
At Ajwa's — a glorified carnival sans wheels — I was paired again with Asha, who took advantage of the situation to have me carry her for the greater part of our stay. One high-flying, twirling ride, in particular, was truly thrilling (as in life-and-death thrilling) as Asha began to slip off her seat and under the protective bar. She clung to me for life, and vice versa. I got a first-rate abdominal workout being tensed for the entire spin cycle. She delighted in the park's single water ride as well, a creaking roller coaster that ascended slowly to afford a view of the surrounding plains before plummeting into a trough of water. We got entirely drenched, but none of the kids seemed to mind, even in the increasingly cool evening air.
At snack time, Asha camped out between my legs, using me as a de-facto lawn chair as she happily munched away. We were heading out to take more rides, when one of the volunteers warned me about getting too close to any of the kids, as it is too tough on them emotionally – or so the theory goes.
Begrudgingly, I parted ways with Asha and headed with five boys to the bumper cars. As two of the sighted staff members struggled to get their car in motion, the blind drivers were already speeding about with unfettered glee and relishing each new collision.
Dinner was sponsored by a young local couple who had been moved by the tsunami to look for ways to share their material well-being. The wife explained that she felt wrong about attending lavish New Year's Eve parties when so many were suffering. She started to talk about tsunami relief with friends and they had decided to look for local service projects – hence their sponsorship of dinner for the blind school's big day out. She, her husband, and friends personally served each plate of food.
Our meal concluded at well past 10 o'clock, with a profusion of stars sparkling overhead.
On the bus ride home we took the newly-minted American-style highway (or "dream track" according to official signage).
One by one, necks and knees went limp as kids collapsed on one another in contented exhaustion. At the front of the bus, Nipun and I chatted in the dark about the day's events, and pending adventures. After a few minutes, Asha, seated toward the back of the bus, rose from the dead and began to work her way methodically toward the front, pausing at each row of seats to feel the legs of our fellow passengers. I wondered what she was looking for.
When Asha finally advanced to where Nipun and I were seated, she briefly took his extended hand, then continued to reach out. He guided her hand to mine, which she explored for a moment before dropping her hand to my leg. Her hand slid to the side of my track pants which sported three raised stripes along their length. Her shoulders relaxed and she clambored onto my lap where she quickly fell asleep after relocating my hand.
We spent the duration of trip this way. Hand in hand. In love. Although my buttocks screamed with pain from my inflamed sciatic nerve, it could not compel me to shift in the slightest... I wasn't going to miss the rare honor of providing Asha with a comfortable nest somewhere on the dream track back to Gandhinagar.
