Wilson PonA life changing experience.
May 6th 2008 02:22
The day my life changed forever.
Ours by choice
We are guilty
of many errors and many faults,
but our worst crime
is abandoning the children,
neglecting the fountain of life.
Many things we need
can wait. Children cannot.
Right now is the time.
His bones are being formed, his
his senses are being developed.
To him we cannot answer
“Tomorrow”.
His name is “Today”.
- Gabriela Mistral.
I awoke from my bed in a Colaba guesthouse near to the Gateway of India. My eyes were still as large as saucers, my heart pumping with anticipation of another eventful and unpredictable day in this country of wonders. I arrived in Mumbai from Goa two days previously and had booked into a cosy, yet relatively expensive little room for four nights. The day before had been spent wandering around the Colaba district. Two landmarks are quite prominent in this area, which makes it quite difficult to get lost. The Taj Hotel sits facing the seafront - a luxurious multi-storeyed structure doubling as an attraction in itself. In front of this large building, the Gateway of India fills up the sky as you look out towards the Arabian Sea. An etching carved at the top of the archway signifies a regal visitor in a bygone age. Around the base is a bustle of activity. A man wanders by selling roasted nuts of some description. They are coated with a red spice, the scent of which drifts toward the nasal passages and causes one’s mouth to flood with a reaction of over-stimulated saliva glands. Another man sits on the concrete, the road at his back and a small seafront wall in front of him. All pedestrians on this stretch of footpath must walk by him. He has the tools and abilities to give your shoes an immaculate clean and shine. My tattered and cracked leather sandals could get by without a polish for at least another day or two.
The senses can often be fooled when walking through any average Indian street. The array of colourful materials and powders rush at the eyes and creates an excitement to well up in the most desolate of infertile imaginations. Various spices not only set the mouth watering, but occasionally cause the eyes to moisten as well. Underneath the bright, vibrant sights and scents of exotic eastern flavours lies a slight aroma of the ever present filth from the polluted streets and septic waterways.
The tourist strip is lined with salesmen vending wares of all descriptions. Cheap electronic gadgets, T-shirts, toys, souvenirs, jewellery, trinkets, music CD’s, DVD’s and books are all on display, being pushed by hardcore salesman who readily inform you of how empty your life is without them. Two or three men walk up and down the streets with balloons the size of an average man. I stop and buy a few packets of ten balloons. The man initially quotes an outrageously inflated price for the merchandise. I counteract by quoting an outrageously deflated offer for his wares. We banter back and forth for a few minutes, I walk away, he calls me back and eventually we settle for a sum which is great for him and affordable to me. We both walk away satisfied. I later remove one from the packet and blow it up. The balloon is only a quarter of the size of the one’s he had been carrying around with him, but still large enough to please my young nieces on my return to Australia.
Street beggars are everywhere, mostly children. They come up with their hands out to grab your attention. As soon as they have eye contact, they bring their hand to their mouth to assimilate an eating motion. They do not talk, only mime. It doesn’t matter what your native language may be, their gestures are easily understood by everyone: “Feed me, I am hungry!” I never give money to these street children, but I will often give them food. I signal to a young child to come with me to a nearby shop which sells snack food. The child suggests a different shop. I know this trick – as it had happened to me before. The beggar child knows a certain store owner who will sell a food item to a tourist for an extortionate sum. The child will take the item and return later to sell it back to the store owner for a smaller amount. The goodwill of the unwary tourist is abused and a profit is made by the greedy proprietor. Some money is given to the child – likely to be taken by some child-herder, who profits from his many young street slaves. I will only buy untainted food items that I know the child will eat.
Many memories of recent experiences rush through my mind as I awake with eagerness of what will befall me today. I have planned to meet with a friend who is a Mumbai native and has offered to take me to a Mumbai branch of the Sisters of Charity. (I knew of this more commonly as ‘Mother Teresa’s Orphanage’). It is still quite early and a lot of the homeless have not yet risen from their slumbers. I step around their immobile shapes as they lie in various sheltered areas along the footpath while I make my way to a well-renowned coffee shop. I have seen many homeless people sheltering in doorways and dark street corners in cities of developed countries, but never have I seen whole families gathered together on a large piece of card board (mattress) on the hard concrete pavement, covered by one or two rags that once used to be a blanket. One of these sleeping people even has a monkey sleeping at his back, taking some of the blanket to cover itself. I see a Porsche parked against the curb, which brings home this crazy Indian world of contradictions. The route to the coffee house is simple and just as I turn into the street that leads me to the premises; I notice a body lying on the street in between two parked cars. It is the motionless form of a man. His skin colour is ashen grey and his eyes are slightly open and glazed. I have been unfortunate enough to have seen a few dead humans, as well as numerous deceased animals in my short life, and this was definitely one of those times. I look up and around. People are walking by, either pretending not to notice or choosing to ignore this tragedy that occurred at my feet some time recently. I wonder if the man was lying there before the cars were precariously placed on either side of him. He had no visible signs of injury and I ponder as well as to his cause of death. He does not look at peace and the activity slowly awakening around him; without him, makes the scene a little more depressing and tragic. I continue to walk to my destination, not knowing how I should react under these circumstances. I walk up to the counter of the café and inform the manager who tells me to sit and order my breakfast while he takes care of the situation. (I am not sure who he contacted, or indeed if he had called anybody, but the deceased mystery man had disappeared by the time I walked back past again.)
The experience of death did not affect my appetite in the slightest. The coffee was a perfect compliment to the full English Breakfast which I engulf with great enthusiasm. The egg is a little too runny for my liking, but the bacon, sausage, hash brown and mushrooms make up for this slight imperfection. I sip my coffee slowly, relishing the flavour while my breakfast eases itself comfortably into my stomach. I observe the traffic of early morning customers whilst glancing through my English-version copy of the Hindustan Times. A second large mug of coffee closes the deal and I make it back to my cosy little room in time for my friend to come and collect me.
Two hours later, I am sitting in the comfort of a new model BMW driven by my friend’s cousin. They are a well-to-do family who had worked hard, made the correct decisions and are now prospering in the poultry and processed meats business. A lot of their success they attribute to God and to charity. Their good fortune is shared generously among the homeless outside their residence, as well as many hours of voluntary work at the orphanage. Most of the donations are of food from their business, such as chickens and eggs, as well as a small slice of their profits from their company. I am forewarned about the orphanage as we drive along the chaotic and hazardous roads that take us there. He jokes that if he can drive in India, he can drive anywhere. I tend to agree with him. I am a little hesitant about what to expect. I did not realise that a visit to an orphanage would come with a warning. Something awakes inside a deep pit in my stomach as he explains that what I am about to see may be quite emotional. This will prove to be an understatement.
He pulls into an area surrounded by high meshed wire fencing. A large metal gate is open and he eases his BMW into a vacant space of the gravel car park. The yard is immense, with three large warehouse buildings immediately visible from where the car is parked. My friend informs me that photographs are not allowed, which seems fair. As I get out of the car and stretch my legs with nervous anticipation, I notice a young Western woman walking back to the car park. She is trying hard to contain her emotions, but without success. She weeps silently, but openly. She stops once to try to regain her composure, before wiping her eyes, blowing her nose and continuing down the well-worn dirt path towards us. She has obviously noticed us, but does not attempt to make any eye contact due to the awkwardness of her dilemma. The little feeling in my stomach intensifies and transforms itself into a large knot. We walk towards the nearest metal warehouse and through a regular sized door. On the right as we walk in is a crude reception desk with a nun standing behind it. She offers a warm smile and greets us with enthusiasm. My friend’s cousin is obviously well known to her and she acknowledges me with a welcoming greeting as I am introduced. I only glance at her briefly as my attention is taken away by the enormous open factory-style floor covered with little cots that are home to hundreds of abandoned children.
After a brief conversation with the nun, we are on the move. We walk past many empty cots. I notice a large padded area on the left which resembles a stage. There are quite a few children rolling around on the mats, lying there smiling, or just sitting there motionless and seemingly oblivious to all that is going on around them. A few nuns supervise or assist the children on the mats. I glance around the room and notice a few more nuns, along with some volunteers acting as temporary parents for the many children. A young child drags itself along the floor to my feet. She tugs at my clothes and I sit down to be closer to her level. She shuffles onto my lap and hands me a book she has been holding. She is a lot more active than most of the children in the large room, but has obviously lost the use of her legs. I attempt to read to her, not knowing if she understands, but my soft voice appears to soothe her. I am sure that she just craves some attention which is hard to share with so many. Another girl hobbles over on crutches. She is one of the lucky ones. She was found abandoned with a deformity to her left leg. The problem is not a permanent one and she recently had an operation to correct it. She is bright, intelligent and healthy and her time at the orphanage will prove fruitful. Other children lie in their cots, some with faces so badly deformed that it is impossible to recognise any distinguishing facial features. It is hard to look at them and see a person, as all that is visible is a blob of moving flesh. It is about this time that I feel my lips quivering and the onset of tears building too rapidly for my own comfort. I take a deep breath and concentrate on the book. The emotions subside temporarily and I get up, lifting the young crippled girl as I stand. I walk around with her, absolutely regretting the fact that I didn’t think to bring any toys, books or something to stimulate these unfortunate children. It is painful to stay there, but I have no desire to leave. I feel like I am out of my depth. There is nothing I can do to make this situation any better. Eventually it is time to go. I have to wrench myself away from some young children with big eyes that appear distressed to see me go. I walk over to the nun I had met at the reception. I have some questions.
“I have seen so many children in this place who will never be capable of looking after themselves.” I state, before I ask “What happens when they are older and have to move from this section?”
The nun answers matter-of-factly “Most of these children will not live beyond the age of twelve. Many that you see here will not make it to the New Year. All we can do is to offer them a quality of life that they would otherwise not have had.”
“But how are they like this?” I add, somewhat angry that life can be so cruel. “How did they become so deformed?”
“We have three ambulances that patrol the slum areas in Mumbai. We have one out there now. They give free medicine and advice to those that need it, as well as rescuing infants that we so often find abandoned on the side of the road.” The nun informs me.
My friend’s cousin then contributes to my query. “A lot of these children were born to young, uneducated and unwed mothers. When they discover they are pregnant, some ingest chemicals in the hope of aborting the foetus. Sometimes the foetus survives and you will see evidence of that here. These are the fortunate ones whose lives have been extended a little. Luckily they were rescued before the dogs got to them.”
I am shocked. I look at these more privileged casualties of the cycle of poverty and try not to imagine how many were never discovered. We walk out of the warehouse. I leave my heart behind with these children. I am almost sick with grief and sympathy, yet I am also calmed with the knowledge that wonderful people exist who commit their lives to helping these unfortunate souls. The words of the nun run through my mind to console me: “…quality of life that they otherwise would not have had.” We walk back towards the car. I step out of the way as another car reverses. One of the few more able-bodied children has snuck out of the warehouse and is running towards us with her arms outstretched. She does not see the car reversing. I run towards her and scoop her up out of harm’s way and walk back into the building. I place her down near the reception and she starts to cry.
The nun smiles at me and whispers “Thank you.”
I ask “Do you accept donations?” I already know the answer and grab my wallet from a pocket in my shorts. I empty the contents and give it to the nun. I happily accept a receipt. The donation is not much, but it will help. The receipt signifies the best money spent in any place I have ever been. I only regret that I had no more to give.
The car trip back is quite reflective. I have never witnessed anything like this. I have never experienced such a depressing sight, yet at the same time being exposed to so much positive energy. Once again these contradictions continue to surface.
From this day I have changed. Whenever I feel that life is cruel to me, I reflect on that orphanage. Nothing that could befall me will ever compare to what I saw and experienced in that brief period in October of 2003.
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Comment by AmyHuang
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I think everyone is born kind and decent, but living in societies like ours mean that we grow up not being aware how lucky we really are while we continue to complain about things we don't have, like a bigger house, a better car and the latest mobile phone.
I too, went through a transformation since visiting Vietnam, and have since been to Peru and Bolivia where I experienced similar things. I admire your change and hope that more people are like you, to travel and widen their knowledge of the world, and to come to the realisation that - they don't need an iPod to be happy. Simply the thought that - I am still alive today, makes them more fortunate than a lot of others in this world.
Thank you for sharing your experience.
Amy
Comment by Patricia
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