Love is Blind

The forty or so blind children at the school in Gandhinagar don't get to go on field trips very often, perhaps once a year if they are lucky enough to find a sponsor. They were so amped up in anticipation of the trip to Ajwa's Water World that they rose as one an hour earlier than the six am departure time. The school resides in a characterless erstwhile apartment complex of hard grey concrete at the end of a peaceful street that features, almost in succession, a mandir, masjid and church. The blind school was founded some years back by two buddies, one muslim, one hindu, both blind.

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 the bus was filled to capacity when it grumbled onto the road. 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 along 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 trip. This barrier could usually be overcome with physical humor, ad-hoc gesturing, or with illustrations scratched in the sandy earth--none of which 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 kid's 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 slightly retarded girl of maybe seven or eight years. Her greasy, disheveled hair was hidden under a woven maroon cap which partially matched her dirty 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. Incredibly, 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 scattered like the plumes of dust under her ill-fitting chappels (Indian flip-flops).

Waiting to board the bus I squatted and formed a chair for Asha to sit on my thighs. 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. I varied the routine by thrusting her skyward with my thigh to produce a super-jump. Somehow, over the course of the day, she discovered she could back into me and give me all of her weight and avoid walking altogether. We ate lunch at a nearby ashram where I broke my 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.

Next stop, 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. Back to the bus for the last leg to Ajwa's Water World.

At Ajwa's, a sort of glorified American 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 for life to me, and vice versa. I got a first-rate abdominal workout being tensed for the entire spin cycle. She delighted in the one water ride as well, a creaking roller coaster that rose slowly to afford a view of the surrounding plains before crashing free-fall style into a trough of water. We got pretty soaked 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 snacked away. We headed back out for 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. I parted ways with Asha and headed with five boys to the bumper cars. Two of the sighted staff members struggled getting their car in motion while the blind drivers sped about at breakneck speed, colliding with unfettered glee.

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 parties when so many were suffering. She started to talk about tsunami relief with friends and they decided to look for a local project as well–hence sponsorship of dinner for the blind school's big day out. She, her husband, and friends did the serving as well. Dinner was over at close to ten thirty and the stars were out in force.

On the bus ride home we took the newly minted American-style highway (or "dream track" as coined by one official sign). Nipun and I chatted in the front of the bus about the day's events, and the trip to come. One by one necks and knees went limp and the kids collapsed on one another in contented exhaustion. After a few minutes Asha arose from the dead tired and began to feel about in our direction. She took Nipun's hand and but continued to reach out...he directed her hand to mine and she felt for the stripes on the side of my track pants. Having identified me she flopped over on my lap and felt for my hand again for reassurance. We spent the duration of trip this way. Although my rear ached with sciatica the pain took a distant second to providing Asha with a comfortable nest somewhere on the dream track back to Ahmedabad.

A-bad Goodies

John and I rolled in to the A-bad train station after a sleep-deprived stretch in Singapore and Mumbai. With a swarm of competing, cursing rickshaw drivers in tow, we finally were identified and rescued by Anand from IndiCorps. Jubilant reunions with Nipun, Guri and Viral followed apace. We took two Sumos to the Gandhi Ashram where we were greeted by a gauntlet of five or six dozen brightly smiling kids. Recognizing an opportunity to hog the glory I sprinted down the two lines administering semi-high fives to the utter delight of the children. Nipun and the others saw their brief window of fame shutting and rapidly followed suit, producing new waves of laughter from the children (but not as loud, almost forced).

At the head of the lines we were garlanded with homespun khadi and given bindis by Lakshmi--a radiant youngster with 10 kilowatt eyes. She is an exemplar of the amazing work that is done by Manav Sadhna at the ashram. Survivor of an abusive past she is flourishing under the loving care of the volunteers and staff at the ashram. I was lost in the swirling admixture of empathy, joy, remorse and compassion when she proudly showed our group her neatly organized locker with toiletries and school items. We were given a tour of the Mahatma's quarters including the privelage of meditating in his simple room which featured a mattress and spinning wheel. Gandhi's quotes adorned the structure throughout and you could almost hear his original utterances faintly echoing off the walls still today. Certainly his spirit is kept alive by the amazing work done at the site.

Later we had dinner with the kids and I, along with Nipun, had the unique honor of serving them a circular bread biscuit that is made in-house. The bolder children quizzed us repeatedly, "What is your name?" With a couple of attempts they eventually were able to nail the pronunciation, while I myself struggled with their often unfamiliar-sounding names. After dinner we hung out with the kids and I removed my thumb multiple times before astonished eyes. "Again, again," they insisted, but I was firm about not re-enacting the drama of the disappearing digit until the following day. Too much "paining" in the thumb!