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 being tutuored by
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...
* Fieldnotes by Levani
