Chennai: The girl who lives in silence.

We left the seaside villages and headed back to Chennai and proceeded to visit the children’s home and shelter for women. The evening was still hot. We meandered past cows, three wheelers, cycles, motorbikes, mothers-with-babies-on-their-hips walking, dogs dodging, black crows crowing, trash burning, incense floating, jasmine selling, chai brewing streets.

We arrived at an open compound. Secondary school children were sitting in the grayish light on a concrete platform doing their tuition[1][2] with a teacher. Upstairs were the babies. Babies waiting for homes. They had been abandoned. Many had no record of family members or anyone who could claim them. Little lives who enter the world with challenges.

In the far corner of the room, were very tiny white bassinets. The caretaker cradled a baby in her arms. The baby seemed to weigh about four pounds. I recalled the Anne Geddes image of the baby being held in the palm of a hand. Every baby in this ward was a premature. And without family.

I don’t know what I felt at that moment. Happiness, that these babies had been given a safe home, bewildered at why they were left behind, and sad wondering if they were strong enough to survive.

The daughter of the director took me to the home for unwed pregnant mothers. The shelter was renting a home where these women learned crafts, received counseling, and made plans for how they would re-enter society. I brought chocolates and handed them out—knowing that would break the ice. As we all chewed on our chocolate éclair candies, I listened to the women speak their names and their histories.

One young girl sat and did not say a word. “Her name is Saina, she hasn’t talked since she has arrived,” said the house caretaker. I asked why. “No one knows. We think she might be Bihari and we have had people come and talk in her local language. But she doesn’t want to speak. We don’t know who she is, we don’t know about her background, or where she is from.” “How long has she been here?” I asked. “At least two months,” was the reply. I smiled at her. Knowing that dance is a universal language, I asked the girls to do a dance. They brought out the tape player. They spun around, and did folk mutras [3] with their hands to scratchy, static-filled cinema songs. The spectators were very happy with the performance and we clapped.

I will not forget Saina’s face. She had the face of an angel. Like the others, I wondered where she came from and what brought her to the shelter. Before I left the house, I turned, smiled, and said: “Saina, I’ll think of you and hope that the next time I return. you will speak.” The girl who lived in silence, turned and smiled back at me...

 

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