They Never Stop Waiting

They never stop waiting for their mothers to come back.  They cannot be with us because they are always 3 or 7 or 10 years old, sitting on a railway bench, or standing on a street corner.  “My mother told me to wait here until she comes back.”  And so they wait, or they go looking but they will not find her, yet they never stop looking.

Two nights ago, one of our girls left in the evening, in the pouring monsoon rain, thunder and lightning, barefooted, to find her mother.  She climbed a ladder and spread the rusted barbed wire, and was gone.  By midnight Seema Gupta and I were trudging through 2 ft. of water to get to the road, and then to the local police station. We had pulled together her files, written a formal letter for the police, and printed out recent pictures of her.  By 2 am we were back home.  The other girls were devastated and frightened for her.  We didn’t know why she had gone.  We worried especially because she is particularly vulnerable.  We each scanned the day for a hint, for what we might have said that set her off…. I think we each took her leaving personally.

The Officer came to Shishur Sevay at 9 am to search the premises and see how she got out.  He told us we need more cameras outside and a higher boundary wall.  He was worried about someone coming in as much as one of the girls leaving.  He interviewed us all. And he took it all seriously.  Being in our home, he was even more puzzled that she had left.  Few people really understand the children who wait forever.  Ten minutes after he left we got a call from another police station about a girl they had picked up in the night, asking whether she was ours.  She was.  She was safe.  She had given a false name.  She was now housed at the government home, and would be produced the following day at the Child Welfare Committee and we were to appear with all her papers and a copy of the police filing.  Dispositions would be made.  I wasn’t even sure what I wanted.

We all met in the Committee room.  She stood stoically near me and then began to silently cry.  I  asked her why she had run.  She said, “My mother,” and I understood.  For ten years she has drawn the same family picture, and told the same story about being left…. She doesn’t want to leave Shishur Sevay.  She just wants to see her mother, see if she is OK, tell her she is OK.  The children whose mothers have died are freer to move on, and they are not haunted by abandonment, or, “why was I left?”.  Today in the CWC room we also saw an adorable three or four year old who had been found sitting in the train station.  She was waiting.  Her mother told her to wait there and left with a man.  Her mother didn’t come back.  If a woman remarries the new husband usually does not want her children.  It is an ugly custom, and ugly how it happens because the children never stop looking.

A couple of years ago we talked with all the girls about searching, and put bindis on railway stops they remembered. But then they became unsure of what they wanted. They were also afraid of not having the security they have here.  So we put the map away and tomorrow I will take it out again.

Today we went back to the local police station to give them the reports, to withdraw the request, and for them to meet our girl.  She was frightened, but was so warmly received she relaxed.  And then the same Officer got on the phone and made calls to people in the town she remembers.  He will also help us with other searches.   She was also clear with CWC, and today, “My mother is Dr. Michelle Harrison, but I have another mother and I want to find her.  I just want to see her.”

We will try.  Maybe we will find a familiar place.  Maybe starting at the bus station she will recognize a road…. we will walk around.  The police will help us.  We have the support of the CWC now.  I used to tell the girls that one day we will hire a big bus and travel to all the places they remember.

What are my hopes?

  1. To find a place and people who are familiar or known to them or related to them, a place they can find again.
  2.  To know they have our full support in helping them connect with their past.
  3.  To help them sort out what they want and to see it as a long term process in which they may have differing feelings at different times.
  4.  To help them move back and forth in these worlds and to honour their decisions but provide safety and protection at the same time.
  5.  To help them find some peace of mind in weaving together past and present so they can move into the future.

This is the little girl I saw waiting on a corner in 2001.  I’ve never stopped wondering.  I hope she stopped looking.  She is a part of the history of Shishur Sevay.

lost girl 2001

 

Raising Ganga – A Middle Chapter

“Raising Ganga” should be a book one day.  This is just a middle chapter.

Today we were driving to Apollo Hospital for Ganga’s check-up, I kept thinking of the harrowing and frightening drive there just eight days earlier, late in the night, as Ganga had thrashed, cried, kicked, yelled, and could not be soothed.  Whatever lingering doubts I still had about having wanted her in the hospital have now disappeared.  Ganga was clearly back with us, with her naughtiness intact.  We had some answers, but even more important, she was better.

I’d intended to post a blog when we brought her home.  I wanted to thank all the people who had written and messaged us on FB, and who sent their wishes, prayers, and told us of crossed fingers and toes.  Ganga loved hearing about their messages.  And I was immensely strengthened by the support.  Well, WordPress disappeared the post after I’d worked on it for seven hours. It’s taken me this long to put it together and add what we have learned.

CPSS-1542_WAs background, Ganga originally came to Shishur Sevay by the West Bengal Child Welfare Committee on 22 February, 2007 along with six other of the girls.  She was said to be 3-4 years old and weighed 7 kg.  She was floppy, unable to use her limbs or lift her head.  We received no medical information or history, other than the name of the hospital she had been prior to the government institution. Posts about her are listed in the Category “Ganga”

Last Wednesday Ganga became incredibly agitated and could not get through any of her classes.  She would be kicking, calling out, thrashing, laughing, crying…. and she was like this more of the day.  She didn’t want to use her eye tracker.  She was just miserable.  A few months ago we had started treatment for absence seizures.    Three years ago the neurologist disagreed even though the EEG showed changes indicative of epilepsy.  It took trips to three hospitals before anyone could sedate her enough for an EEG. Then a few months ago we started with new doctors, and initially she had major reactions to two of the medications, and was not any better.  So a month ago we took her off all meds, slowly, and she was relatively good for three weeks.  She again became miserable and irritable.  Then last Wednesday night we were totally unable to calm her down.  She had been unable to sit through classes, even Bengali class which she loves.   I felt helpless and afraid, knowing it wasn’t so simple to get medical care in the night. I didn’t want to be carrying this alone, and I was afraid I was missing something.

Ganga’s neurologist was out of town, but we were able to arrange for an admission, (we thought) which would mean we could have an EEG the next day.  We have no insurance, and the hospitals are eager to fill beds.  Once there we discovered that the ER team had to do their own evaluation.  After exam and routine blood tests they told us to take her home, that she was just irritable, and come back to OPD the next day.  I argued for her admission, and they said they could keep her for 24 hours but it would be in a general ward and no one could be with her and since she was thrashing about they would have to put her in restraints.   That refrain still haunts me, that they would put her alone, with no one she knew, and no one who could communicate.  So we got ready to leave for home.

Ganga and her Didi in the Emergency Room. Ganga was alternatively angry, frightened, and thrashing about.

Ganga and her Didi in the Emergency Room. Ganga was alternatively angry, frightened, and thrashing about.

Then the ER docs reached the doctor who was supposed to be the admitting doctor.  He told them that she had to be admitted to the PICU for 48 hours and in restraints.  No one could be with her.  No, we couldn’t have a private room.  Again, I said we were leaving.  The doc said, “We can’t let you take her.”  In the US this could be literally translated, so I asked whether he would call the police if I tried to take her out. “No, we won’t but you will have to sign that you are taking her against our advice.”

“I’m signing nothing.  I’m paying my bill and leaving with her.  An hour ago you told me she didn’t belong in the hospital, and now you say the PICU for 48 hours and NOTHING has changed except who you spoke with?”  I asked for the ER bill and then amazingly, they said she could be admitted to a private room and one person could stay with her.  I  lifted her off the bed just to demonstrate my ability.   In the end though, Purnima Massi and I both stayed.  The admitting officer gave us two passes, and we ended up on the Platinum Wing.  I was really worried about the cost, but I put the deposit on my American Express Card, and we were in.

Ganga thrashed in the night. They started an IV and said someone would have to hold her hand all night to make sure she didn’t take it out, AND, to make sure it didn’t bleed on the linens.  By 3 am they started a new anti-epileptic drug IV.  She just kept thrashing and moaning.  I would hold her hand and doze off through the night.  Sometimes she thrashed and called out.  I was grateful we were there.Holding her in the night, making sure she didn't rip out the IV.  There was a couch in the room, and Purnima slept there. By about 5 am we were sleeping and no one really bothered us for a few hours.

Morning rounds had a surprise for us.  The pediatric cardiologist who had evaluated her some years ago at Medica, and who had taken care of Tuni came with the other doctors.  He had been in the labs in the morning and heard someone talking about a patient named Ganga, and he thought it had to be our Ganga.  I was really thrilled to see him and his knowing us changed the atmosphere.  Now they understood about Shishur Sevay and about me.  The doctors all laughed now as i told my stories of how I had challenged the ER docs.  They apologised, and the head doc said, “I’m just sorry it happened to you.”  I said, “Don’t worry. It’s OK.  It’s my karma.”

I think the medication was helpful and Ganga was calmer when she woke in the morning.  Later on Thursday she had the MRI.  I was allowed to go in, and then invited to sit with the docs and watch through the glass and see the images.  Out in the hall they had said I couldn’t and Ganga looked at me fiercely.  I whispered to her, “Don’t worry.  If they insist on no, I’ll squeeze under the door or up over the ceiling and I’ll be there, even if you can’t see me.”  She grinned.  She understoodOn the stretcher about to go into the ambulance between MRI and EEG..   And what I said to the doc was, “I’m really asking you please to let me go in. I’m 72 years old and I’ve decided that having some peace of mind is really important.  I know she will be fine, but I will be at peace if I’m there and I won’t be if I’m sitting in the hall worrying.”

Friday morning she got her “naughty” back.  The nurse came in while I had her up sitting on the bed.  The nurse put the thermometer under Ganga’s arm, and turned away.  Ganga immediately raised her hand, watched the thermometer fall, and grinned. She had her naughty self back.

By now we felt there was nothing acute going on and it was time to try and talk with her by Tobii (her eye tracker device).  Purba came early with Ganga’s Didi, and they set up the Tobii.  Ganga usually prefers I not be involved.  She wants to talk to others.  So first on Tobii she chose all the people she wanted to come and visit.  She did NOT want to go home but definitely wanted everyone to visit her in the hospital.  The message bar at the top of the screen shows thumbnails of all the people she had chosen to come and visit.

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And then the doctors came on rounds while she was on Tobii, and so she spoke with them.  She asked, “Where do you live?”

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She next asked, “What do you do? “The doctor explained his work taking care of children.  It took him a while to understand she wanted to give him her hand, but he finally got it.  She is a patient teacher.

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When she then said, “Come again,” he laughed and said he thought it was time for him to leave.  What he said about her was that it wasn’t that Ganga wasn’t ready for the world, but that WE are not ready for Ganga.  He said she would have to teach us and I said, “that’s why she is here.”  He seemed startled and I just said, “Yup.”

We used Tobii much of the day, simply used the time  as a teaching opportunity.

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Most of the time Ganga seemed fine, but sometimes she was just miserable.  I have some thoughts about it all.

The MRI was essentially unchanged from three years ago.  For the EEG we only have a preliminary report that there were no spikes, unlike the one three years ago.  That’s good, if true, but even more important it means there is nothing neurologically major going on right now, and that is a huge relief.

They would have preferred we stay til Saturday morning, but I really wanted to get back to Shishur Sevay.  She had started the oral medication and was doing fine with it.   I wanted us home, in bed, waking up for Saturday morning Dance & Movement. We reached home by midnight.

A week later I’m even more certain about my thoughts.

1.  Since starting the medication she has had no staring spells or fearful looking at the distance.   So I think she was having absence seizures and this is the right medicine for her.

2. I’m certain she has Pseudobulbar Affect:  PBA is a neurologic condition characterized by uncontrollable, disruptive laughing and/or crying outbursts that are often contrary or exaggerated to the patient’s inner mood state.   Ganga still has bouts of uncontrollable laughing or crying, or a mixture.  Rani bit her hand and she started laughing and then crying and laughing, and couldn’t stop.   This has gotten worse over the past two years, but I’ve not been able to get the attention of the doctors on this.  Now I have their attention.  There is a relatively new medication, Neudexta, cleared by the FDA, and available in India.   PBA was part of what was going on last Wednesday.  We will begin treatment for this.

3. Ganga has often spoken up when girls have talked about finding their families.  She has insisted on joining the conversation, and what we can understand, she does remember her time before Shishur Sevay and she does want some sort of contact.   When she came, she would become really animated at the sight of any old people in white, reach out to talk to them, and puzzled when they didn’t seem to know her.  Records show she was in a hospital in Digha before transfer to the Government institution, and then to us.  When we were on vacation at Mondarmani Beach, we also went to Digha for a few hours.  She didn’t want to go, cried, pitched her body backwards.  We just thought she didn’t want to leave the beach.  When we finally left Digha, we realized we had been sitting along the water in front of the hospital where she had been that we put it all together.  Some records should be here in Kolkata but we have not yet been able to get them.  It will be a long process of trying to get the government to release the records, but we have to do that.  Searching for Ganga’s roots will certainly be another Chapter of “Raising Ganga.”

This has been a time of a lot of adoption talk, with Judi Kloper here, and then Reshma McClintock, an Indian adoptee with her film crew as she returned to Kolkata as an adult.  We don’t know what Ganga heard, or what she heard other people saying about them, or about adoption.  Both these issues, her past, and a lot of adoption/birth family talk may be why she is suddenly far more clinging and dependent on me.  We need to set up some Tobii pages for this.  This week all the girls talked about the areas they were found, and one remembered the village she was from.  It’s only taken eight years.  We will be putting up a map of West Bengal with markers from where each has come.  Ganga’s will be Digha.

5. Ganga is not at all at peace with her limitations.  She wants to talk and she wants to walk.  She is angry.  Last week she insisted on walking out the gate (she yelled at the guard to open the gate) and went in the lane and “chatted” with some of the local women.  I have video of it all.  All it needs is editing (and time).  Maybe we can skype with kids who have CP.  She wants a social life.  When she wanted to go to South City Mall, and we took her, she spent the time talking to sales people.  She looked at clothes but didn’t want to buy anything.  She misses school.  I can’t get her into any school here, but we have to find a way to create a better life for her here.  I hope one day to be able to create opportunities for her in the US, or Australia, or Germany, or elsewhere accessible, and more welcoming of people with disabilities.  I say this with sadness, including for the Indians who are equally upset with what goes on here.  Ganga is moving into the preteen years so we are dealing with hormonal changes.   When she was in school she always had a group of girls and boys who looked for her, talked with her, missed her when she wasn’t there.  Ganga wants to get married one day.  She wants a life like others.  In a staff meeting this week we talked about trying to pull together some kids just to take them to the mall once a week.

6. Ganga is a tense and stressed person.  She worries about tests, performance of any sort, and we need to find ways of her relaxing.  Her first real episodes of the PBA and absence seizures were when she was in school and had exams.  She needs to chill, but as we all know, that’s not so easy to do.  We have people coming to volunteer who do yoga and storytelling and I hope that will help her.

Looking back, I was afraid I was missing something medically.  I was just plain afraid.  As I write this, I realize how much I needed respite from sole responsibility for what was going on with her.  I needed to feel that help was a call button away.  And I needed to be able to focus on Ganga completely.    So I guess Ganga and I are both better.  We have some answers, and plans on how we approach her needs, and I have gotten some relief.

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Ganga is here to teach us……

 

 

A Tsunami of Loss

“You are so lucky!!!!”

A Tsunami of Loss
A Tsunami of Loss

It’s a refrain heard almost universally by children who have been adopted, and also by my orphan children here at Shishur Sevay.  “You are so lucky.  You have such a good life!”  In truth the girls would easily give it all up to have their families back.

At some point in the lives of each of these children, every person they knew, every thing they knew, and every place they knew were all gone.  Strangers replaced relatives; institutions replaced homes or tents in the fields, or a corner of the rail station where they had lived.  I’ve watched them grieve. I’ve watched them not wanting to eat because they didn’t know if their siblings were hungry. Sometimes they were more like mothers who had lost their children than children who had lost their mothers.

At Shishur Sevay they soothe each other and thus also themselves.  The bonding and love between them is powerful. I’d had a dream one night during the time we were waiting for our license.

I was sitting near a pond.  It was a quiet place and I was feeling at peace.  Then the words came to me, “It’s a place where a girl can bring her little sister too.”  

One of the girls desperately missed her little sister and brother.  I promised her that if we ever found them, they could join us.  We can’t take boys, by law, but I said we would find a place for him right nearby and he would come and spend his days with us.  When we eventually found her family, we learned that the little boy had disappeared 2 years before.  Her sister was not there either, though the relatives tried to convince her that another child was her sister.   They kept plying her with answers to questions and our girl kept insisting this was not her sister.  These are not lucky children.

Yes, I understand what some people mean that they were lucky to find me, as I was lucky to find them, but it has an entirely different meaning to the orphan child, to the adoptee.  It is not a lucky thing to be born with this destiny ahead of you.  It’s not something we would wish on any of our children.  It’s a loss that they carry forever,  a hole in their pasts filled with questions that cannot be answered and longing that cannot be fulfilled.

It was and is a tsunami of loss.

Fourteen Minus One Equals Fifteen, Remainder One and a Half

Monday we went to the CWC, the West Bengal Child Welfare Committee where I expected them to start the approval process for one of our girls to return to her family. https://shishursevay.com/2012/09/11/shes-going-home-to-her-family/  We have 14 girls at Shishur Sevay and I and was expecting to walk out with 14-1, at least on paper until we took her to her family.  But before we even got to why we were there, the Chairwoman, remembering me from when I’d taken Aunty’s starving children there, wanted to know more about Shishur Sevay.

She wanted me to take more.  I resisted, saying I didn’t have the resources.   I told her I wanted to work with the government to make their homes better, not take more children.  She asked, “What else am I supposed to do with these children?”  Then she brought in a crying girl, and  stood her next to me.  I’d seen her in the waiting room, and had told my (home to her family) girl I thought she was there for relinquishment. The child looked to be about eight years, dark-skinned, hair up in braids tied with shiny red, green, and gold ribbon, dressed in a frayed light green velveteen tunic and black pants.  But now she was standing on one side of me and our Shishur Sevay girl in a chair on the other side and the Chairwoman was pleading with me to take her as she had been living on the pavement under plastic.

The child was looking at me teary-eyed pleading, and the woman with her who turned out not to be her mother also pleading with me…   Two sisters from Missionary of Charity were also huddled over and around me.  This was the best of  Bengali Drama!  Would I or would I not save this child who neither Missionaries of Charity nor the Government of West Bengal could care for.  I glanced around to Gibi, Maggie, and Purba, and then I put my arm around the teary-eyed girl and pulled her close.  The curtain fell, but it was only Act I.

Act II was brief.  One of the Sisters  recognized us from when Maggie and I had visited Aloo and Eisha, the babies they had taken from Aunty’s.  I saw her look over at the Chairwoman quickly.  Their eyes met and another plan was hatched.  “Maybe she could take Anu,” the Sister asked the Chairwoman, both of them also looking at me.  Then the Sister explained that Anu was a young woman who had come to Mother Teresa’s pregnant, expecting to give up her child.  But after the baby was born she insisted she wanted to keep her baby. She could not go home to her village.  She had been staying at another of Mother Teresa’s homes, working and caring for her six-month old daughter, but they could not keep her.   They didn’t have the facilities.  I was/am interested but said we had to meet the mother first.  That will happen next week when we visit the home.  The mother and baby are the  “Remainder one and a half” and still to be resolved.  This could be very good, or not, but something I hope will work out.  She could live with us, work, and take care of her baby.  So Act II brought the story along, but we still had the matter for which we had come, our girl who wanted to return to her family in the village, subject of the post just before the last one.

Act III

FINALLY… The curtain rises and the group has only slightly shifted.  The new child is gripping my hand.  To my right is our girl who wants to go back to her village.  To her right is Gibi, and in back of us Purba and Maggie.  More people are in the room now.  Nothing there is ever private, and we are the show of the day.   I offer the Chairwoman a two page report about the contacts with her family, and her desire to return to them, which I support.  I included some pictures from the visit.   The Chairwoman leaned forward, glaring at me, “She wants to do WHAT???”  She went on, saying the family would sell her, or send her to work, or marry her off.  She was adamant, and asked,  ‘You would let her do this?”  I said she was not a prisoner.  I don’t have the authority to keep her against her will.  “Well, we won’t let her go because we will not be responsible for what would happen.”

Our girl cringed.  Then the Chairwoman looked at me and asked, “Well, what to you want me to do?”  I requested she look at the second page of my report and the three things I suggested.  The first was that the CWC interview her.  The second was that we ask her family, the sister and brother in law who would keep her to come and meet with the CWC.  The third was that we would take her to the village if they agreed.   The stage was momentarily quiet and then in a rush, another CWC member entered and the Chairwoman got up to rush off to a meeting (I did get her to stop and give me her card).   We had started to agree that her family would come a week later to meet with them, but suddenly we seemed to be starting over.

This committee member had been present for previous contentious and confrontational meetings with the family.  The CWC had warned us to watch our girl closely as she was in danger of being kidnapped.  Her safety became prime in the choice of school.  The CWC woman asked for another copy of the report, and then “went ballistic”.  “I’ve met your family!  No, this is too dangerous.  I don’t have to meet them again!  Once you are 18 we can’t stop you but not now!”  Ice cold air radiated from our girl who wanted to go home to the village.  The woman went on to ask her what she was doing and what she wanted to do to achieve independence.  Our girl was testy. She had been read the riot act!  She made a commitment to finish school.  She was told she would be given a government job if she passed the Class X exam.   We agreed, though it is not realistic in the next eight months, but Shishur Sevay doesn’t have an age limit.    CWC drew up papers that she would continue to be at Shishur Sevay and that we would enroll her in the NIOS, National Institute for Open Schooling, a process we had already begun.  The CWC agreed to change her records to reflect her true name and age.  We will enroll her with her real age as soon as we get an original of the birth certificate.  It took a while to get all the papers stamped and signed.

We straggled out, our sad and angry teenager, the new child holding my hand, Maggie and Purba ahead of us going to the car, Gibi giving our phone number and card to the woman who had brought the child as she wanted to see her again…..We took a picture of her and the child together.   I was happy she knew how to reach us and where we are.   She waved as we drove off.

We decided to surprise everyone at home.  The others went ahead. Then I came along with our new girl.  She was greeted with warmth, smiles, and some jealousy — so normal.  Kalpana was the most put off and refused to look at her.  It was really cute.  All the girls were relieved that their big sister wasn’t leaving for the village.

The curtain came down but there was no applause and the audience did not want to leave.  The drama felt unfinished, so an Act IV was added.

Act IV

The curtain rises on the “office” at Shishur Sevay.  This is a room about 10’x12′ and forms part of the entrance way to the rest of the house.  It’s where we work, talk, and hang out.  It’s also where kids put stuff they don’t want to lose.  It’s clutter center and often we sit on the floor because all other surfaces are covered with stuff.

Scene 1

It’s evening  of the next day and I am sitting on the couch with our very confused and angry girl.  It’s time to talk.  She has been avoiding eye contact.  She is silent so I speak and say we should get her enrolled in classes that would get her out of school as soon as possible, as I assumed she no longer wanted to be a doctor.  Tears streamed…. “No, I still want to be a doctor.”  I tell her I’m thrilled.  I said, “You do the work and I’ll back you all the way!”   She asked, “I’m not too old?”   She hugged me, and then tears and more tears and she dozed off in my arms.

Scene 2

The following night, we are back in the office, this time with Gibi here to call the family and tell them she will not be coming.  Our girl is a bit on the icy side.  I place the call, say hello to her eldest sister, her Didi, who doesn’t sound well, and I pass the phone to Gibi who speaks in Bengali.  Didi is indeed sick, and has been in the hospital with fever.  She is home now but may need surgery.  She told Gibi that this was better, that her youngest sister stay with us, that they barely had money for food, that the neighborhood was bad.  The impulse had been there, the wish to care for her, but the reality was not so easy.  Didi was relieved.  We ended by talking about Didi coming to visit here.  She joked about staying a night and I said that would be wonderful.  I said I would pay her transport and we would meet her at the train station the first time so she could get here easily.  Didi and her sister talked, tears and smiles.  After the phone conversation I got more hugs.

Over the next half hour, more girls joined us on the floor, including our newest.  They are mostly happy she is here, one confessing she was jealous at first. They wanted to know if they had been her size when they came.    They asked her a lot about her past, and also explained to her that they were translating for me, not talking about her.  She had been living on the footpath (sidewalk) and begging.   She is full of contradictions.   She has extremely good table manners and can tell us the  knife is used for spreading butter, but her hair shows the color and texture of starvation.  Something terrible had happened but we don’t know what.  One day she will tell her sisters and then share with me.  She is calmer than they ever were.  I’ve been thinking about that, and wondering how much of their wildness came from living in the government institution where they were frequently punished and tortured.

One of our girls whose family we had found a few years ago asked me if she could show our new girl a picture of  where she had lived. In the past she had asked me to hide them all pictures. Now she wanted this new girl to know that she too came from a bad place, and not to be ashamed.

I noticed the clock, long past bedtime.  The girls got up and headed off, some holding hands, all thoughtful and peaceful  I came to my computer to write.

Curtain Falls, but life goes on.

Play Discussion:  In my previous post: https://shishursevay.com/2012/09/24/beggars-for-life/ I addressed begging by children, and  begging by government dependent on the soft hearts of foreigners who don’t like to see children hungry or crying.  I posted that blog Monday morning just before we left for CWC.  And then it played out, as it had been written.  By the end of the day I had one more mouth to feed and the government had one less.

This morning I came across a new Kolkata story: http://indiatoday.intoday.in/story/pavement-dweller-baby-raped-kolkata-crime-mamata-banerjee/1/222350.html  An 18 month old baby living on the pavement with her mother had been raped.

NO END

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