We knew as soon as we got to the gate in Bangkok on our way to Kolkata that we were on our way to India. As soon as the gate agent made a move to the counter, the crowd jumped up and charged the door. Inside the plane was chaos, too, with people jockeying for overhead bins space and arguing over seats. With much gentle prodding, the flight attendants got everyone seated and persuaded them to put their seats back into the upright position and close their tray-tables. The second the wheels left the runway, the madness started again. The flight wasn't full, so the seat claiming and baggage moving had to be re-done. All during the flight, people were up and down the aisles, socializing and blocking the food carts in the process. Overwrought Bollywood movies played on seat-back screens.
When we began our descent into Kolkata, the infinitely patient flight attendants cajoled the passengers back into their seats and got us ready to land. No soon had the wheels hit the runway than people were out of their seats and into the overhead bins again.
Inside the terminal, we non-Indians went to our special passport control line and had to face the stern and implacable K. S. Dutta, who slowly and critically examined each page of our passports, occasionally glaring up at us, before he ceremoniously inked his stamp, slammed it down on the passport page, and slapped the passport down on the counter without a glance. In India (as in many parts of the world), a man with a stamp is a man to be reckoned with.
At the time of evening we arrived, traffic was not manic but simply chaotic, and we made it to our home in Kolkata, the Fairlawn Hotel, in short order. The Fairlawn deserves an essay all to itself. Staying here is one of the highlights of our trip. Most of the staff have been here for a long time, so we've gotten to know them over the last four years, and seeing them again is like seeing old friends. The hotel is a part of Kolkata history, and fortunately it retains all of its unique character. And if the building is a living piece of history, Mrs. Smith, the proprietress, is its heart and soul. We got in early enough to see Jennie and John Fowler, who manage the hotel, but Mrs. Smith had retired for the evening. We'd have to wait until the next morning to see her.
During our stay last year, Mrs. Smith turned 90. There was a truly jubilant party for her that we were invited to along with her friends of many years from different parts of the world. After a somewhat peculiar magic act, the band got rolling and everyone danced the night away, and I mean everyone.
While I was standing at the lobby desk the next morning, Mrs. Smith made her entrance. She descends the stair with a helper on each arm in a procession that one reporter described as "a slow motion coronation." She stopped and smiled when she saw me, and did a few dance moves right there on the step. There's a party for her 91st in a couple of days and she's ready.
Then we started off for a visit with another family. There's a home called Prabartak where sixty mentally challenged adults live and learn together. Most of these people have only rudimentary speech, though they can make sound. They're people either whom no one wants or whom poor families can't take care of. The three-story home is on a quiet street and is slowly being renovated with new tile and plaster. They were waiting for us as we drove up. I think of them as kids, as they're sweet and child-like. They hold each others' hands when they walk outside, and they help each other with tasks they do. They grasped our hands with endless "hellos" and pulled us into the house. Others stood in the windows waving and calling to us. The program today was to have them draw a small picture and then to make a frame out of popsicle sticks in which to mount the drawing. This turned out to be a very interesting project. Some of the kids have very good fine motor skills and artistic ability, while others appear autistic. But the teachers have worked with them so that nearly all of them were able to make a drawing of some kind. There there's Green. Green actually is a child and is the youngest resident at Prabartak. When they found him, he'd been living in a dark, five-by-five room, where his caretaker (Mother; who knows?) kept him so he wouldn't wander away. He's maybe ten years old, but could be older. He's very small. He seems to have some degree of autism, but the staff have got him to interact with the others and his environment. He was paired off with Willson, the youngest member of our little group. Willson does not possess the best fine motor skills himself, so the ensuing activity yielded a drawing that was half drawn on and half glued to the floor. Green also managed to do some of his drawing on the back of my shirt while I was distracted with my guys' artwork.
Danny, another member of our group, brought along some games that his father had made out of ordinary stuff that you can find around the house. The kids' eyes light up when the see what a few pieces of fiber-board and some nails can become; these kids will not be buying shiny plastic games from Hasbro anytime soon. This time, Danny brought this game: three canvas tote bags are tied by the handles and a long piece of string to wooden dowels that can be grasped in both hands. We put a full water bottle inside each bag for weight and then spooled out the string across the floor. Three people competed; each grabbed one dowel and the contest was to wind the string around the dowel, pulling the bag across the floor, the fastest. The kids got this right away, and every one of them wanted to try it. The runners-up always cheered the winners, and the winners were pictures of pleasure and pride.
We finished the afternoon with music. Again, some of these kids are very musically talented, particularly a young man who carefully pulled out a set of tabla drums. He struck a rhythm and another young man started blowing on a harmonica. With just a little coaxing, the kids got up and danced, a couple at a time, and they were good at it. It wasn't long, of course, before they were pulling our group out to dance, too, which really gave them something to laugh about.
Saying good-bye to these people is a little hard for us. They're thrilled that we came to visit them, and they do get visitors from time to time. I have to believe that even though we come for an afternoon and then disappear, we're helping them to develop their communication skills - Green surprised everyone, even his teachers - and sharing with them an afternoon of fun. The thing that sticks with me is how people who are marginalized by society can live with dignity and respect. I don't think I've ever seen such candlepower in a smile, either.
When we began our descent into Kolkata, the infinitely patient flight attendants cajoled the passengers back into their seats and got us ready to land. No soon had the wheels hit the runway than people were out of their seats and into the overhead bins again.
Inside the terminal, we non-Indians went to our special passport control line and had to face the stern and implacable K. S. Dutta, who slowly and critically examined each page of our passports, occasionally glaring up at us, before he ceremoniously inked his stamp, slammed it down on the passport page, and slapped the passport down on the counter without a glance. In India (as in many parts of the world), a man with a stamp is a man to be reckoned with.
At the time of evening we arrived, traffic was not manic but simply chaotic, and we made it to our home in Kolkata, the Fairlawn Hotel, in short order. The Fairlawn deserves an essay all to itself. Staying here is one of the highlights of our trip. Most of the staff have been here for a long time, so we've gotten to know them over the last four years, and seeing them again is like seeing old friends. The hotel is a part of Kolkata history, and fortunately it retains all of its unique character. And if the building is a living piece of history, Mrs. Smith, the proprietress, is its heart and soul. We got in early enough to see Jennie and John Fowler, who manage the hotel, but Mrs. Smith had retired for the evening. We'd have to wait until the next morning to see her.
During our stay last year, Mrs. Smith turned 90. There was a truly jubilant party for her that we were invited to along with her friends of many years from different parts of the world. After a somewhat peculiar magic act, the band got rolling and everyone danced the night away, and I mean everyone.
While I was standing at the lobby desk the next morning, Mrs. Smith made her entrance. She descends the stair with a helper on each arm in a procession that one reporter described as "a slow motion coronation." She stopped and smiled when she saw me, and did a few dance moves right there on the step. There's a party for her 91st in a couple of days and she's ready.
 |
| Will and Green |
0 comments:
Post a Comment