Soon I want to start a childcare, an orphanage, a school or some kind of a mix of the three for the underprivileged children. Toward this, I visited this 60+ year old orphanage in Uttarakhand and worked there as a volunteer to understand how such institutions are run. Here are some notes from my visit.
The Hug
The Hug
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| Morning Hugs |
Each morning after breakfast at 6:30 am, children grab their
bags and leave for school which is a couple of hundred meters within the
mission complex. Clifton, in his early-thirties, who co-runs the mission and the
school (along with his father and Eugene, his partner), hugs every child before they walk towards the school, including his
own. It’s akin to what we do when we drop our children at the bus stop. Every
child looks for warmth and the kids at the mission get it through this morning
ritual. Towards my third day, many children come and hug me as well. And one of
this guy, Raymond, holds my hand and makes me walk up to the school. On the
way, we exchange notes and concur that school is boring. To indulge further, I
offer to play soccer in the evening and he asks if I know how to play the sport. I
reassure him that I coached Messi. A slightly elder girl walking ahead of us
looks back and gives me a ‘stop kidding’ smile. When I press further, I realise
that I am not been taken seriously by anyone, including the eight-year-old who
holds my hand. At the school gate, he hugs me again. As I see him go, I wonder how rarely I go to drop Mishti down to her bus stop.
RS, the Rockstar
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| Rick Shipway, The Rockstar |
Rick Shipway, Clifton’s father, is called Grandpa by most
children. He knows everything from making school desks to fixing a tractor
engine. His ingenuity includes plumbing, handling electrical units, farming,
carpentry and masonry. I spent one of these days painting school desks for
nursery children. At the workshop Grandpa used his tools to bend the rods and
weld them which was then passed on to us to paint. Later at the carpenter shed,
plywood was fixed on to the desks. Under his supervision, six of us created a
couple of dozen desks, in a day from scratch at the cost of approximately of
Rs. 1500 per desk.
On most days I work as his apprentice. Imagine his
frustration working with someone as clumsy as me. Spread across 73 acres of
land, the mission has a couple of buses, a couple of tractors, an orphanage
that houses 75 plus kids in different units basis their age and gender, staff
quarters, a kitchen, a couple of bio gas units, a swimming pool, a cow shed with
a few dozen cows and a full-fledged school where 800 children study. Something or the other needs fixing all the
time and Grandpa is always available. He starts before eight, so much to my
chagrin, and goes on until dark. He must be saving the mission thousands every
month and lots of time simply by being available whenever anything needs fixing.
While the mission provides for everything, his bank account has Rs. 33 and he
draws no salary.
Every child has a story
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| A good girl cutting nails of a naughty boy |
“How long have you been married?”, asks this guy.
I say, “15
years”.
Pause.
“Congratulations!”, he calmly responds.
From where I am sitting,
I can’t see his face. I don’t know if that was sarcastic. But the timing makes
me laugh out loud. He comes over and checks if I know any movie stars. My
answer disappoints him. Then he shares how he wants to be in the army but may
not get through owing to his height. He is nineteen and helps Grandpa at the
workshop. He was not brought here, but left at the gate by some lady, when he
was 3 days old. Last year he became desperate to find out his real parents. The
mission keeps records of every child brought but though his was sketchy, through
some investigation, they found out that the woman who dropped the child that
night lived in a village four hours from the mission. The search team traced the maternal grandfather who was happy to see him and hugged and
accepted him. The woman, who now serves as a principal of a small government
school in the same village, is married with children. She did not show up. Our teenager was shattered. For being
abandoned twice.
Then there is this other girl who was sexually abused by her
step-father and brought to the mission. For years the trauma resided in her. She
did not allow anyone to even touch her. Then there was this nine year old boy who stole to keep
himself alive and was found on the streets and brought to he mission. In the first few days he was amazed that he could eat
as much as he wanted. And there were three meals a day!
Each child has a story, often heart
breaking, that I had only seen in the movies. And there are 75 of them. The caretakers, the other children and the trees and forests nearby bring out a balmy effect.
Everyone gets
better here. They start smiling. Living. They will cheer you up with their innocent talks
and dead pan humour. They are happy and free.
Re-calibrating the lines
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| Ice-cream party |
Think about your bike or car mechanic on the side of the
road. His clothes and hands are greasy. Skin has tanned working under the sun.
His t-shirt, which seems borrowed, sticks to his back as he sweats profusely. Suddenly
he says, “I think the choke has to be changed and the silencer cleaned. It will
take a couple of hours” in decent English accent.
Cut to scene two.
Imagine you taking a walk at a park close to your house and
slum children are playing soccer. Suddenly the ball comes towards you and one
of the kids says, “Uncle, can you please pass on the ball?” Again in good
English.
I don’t know about you but I would be stumped. English is only
for us, people who wear good clothes come from decent backgrounds and live in
decent housing societies.
We, the privileged.
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| Learning to play Risk, a board game |
It’s not for slum dwellers or the mechanics or the drivers.
And definitely not for orphans and their caretakers as they dress simply, work
at the farms or the kitchen or at the workshop.
Now consider my reaction during the first few days of my
stay where everyone spoke to me in decent English –kids, maids, drivers what
have you. Some children spoke better than ours. Change them to flashy clothes
and better setting and you would not be able to make out the difference between
our kind and theirs. The mission has re-calibrated the lines. English is for the under-privileged.
Reflections
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| Reflections |
The aazan wafting
from a distance melded into the quiet. I am sitting at the NHPC canal and
hearing the silence within and its dissonance. Paint bolts on my arms and the
muscle pain after a hard day’s work provoke indignation. But after a while, the
isolation reflects and I am able to discover my role in the larger scheme of
things.
I am here to observe and learn.
I learn that though the canteen turns into a church every
Sunday, the objective is to impart values and not religion. That though most
children are skinny and diffident, they are healthy and most importantly happy.
That love is welcomed but commiseration not. That though Clifton never held a
high position in a formal organisation, he is one of the most sensible and
intelligent person I met in years, with a great EQ and IQ balance. That though
the mission has little trouble getting funds, its office bearers have
practically nothing in their bank accounts. That though the mission was started
by an American and is run by Australians (and Eugene), it is Indian in all
respects. That though there are not many great success stories of children
making it big in their lives, almost all of them, who passed out from here, are living a decent
livelihood. That though I may not agree to some of their ways, at the centre of
whatever they do is the child. That though the mission may not be perfect, but tell me
how many of our families are?
Simply for the warm hugs.
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| At work |
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| The school and the mission |
