Irony's Nest

“They don’t have chronological ages, they have mental ages.” Replied Major Khare to a query raised by a candidate about the children’s age group. It was the venue of practical exams for B.Ed. [Special Education], a missionary resident school for the Mentally Retarded in a posh location of Bhopal. My mother was one of the examiners. I was her driver. All candidates were supposed to present their teaching skills in front of the evaluators. As there were as many as sixteen of them, and it was to take time, my mother asked me to have a look around. Sister Divya, apparently a senior teacher at the school, was only too obliged to be my guide to the place.

It was only after a few steps through the clean corridors, admiring the orderly arrangements of things and those innocent sketches that hung through the notice board when I met the first resident of the school. Kamal, however, was not a student. He was an employee. His duties ranged from waking the children in the mornings to dressing them up for classes to tucking their beds and washing there clothes. On listening to this, I was at once surprised and shocked. This factotum of the school was mentally retarded. He was, infact, an ex-student of the same school and belonged to a rich family in the North Madhya Pradesh. After the brief introduction, all Kamal could mutter was a polite ‘Namaste’. I returned his greetings and we moved forward. I could not keep myself from asking Sister Divya that why, if Kamal’s studies are over, he does not go back to his family? Why does he still stay with them? The nun preferred to remain silent.

Before I could repeat my question, assuming to myself that she didn’t hear it, we were in the boy’s playroom. It was a small classroom where close to fifteen children of the age group 5 to 10 played with stuff like colored discs, wooden blocks etc. As we entered the room, there was a roar of “Namaste”. Perhaps that was the only word these kids could speak clearly. Everyone was excited on having the motherly Sister Divya around. All of them wanted to show her their drawings, their buildings of wooden blocks and what not. Amidst this hullabaloo, there sat a little boy quiet and lonely. As he saw me seeing him, he waved his hands to call me. When I reached him, he moved his hand on his cheeks, as if stroking his moustache and uttered something resembling “Pa”. At this I took a start.

“No, I am not your Pa.”, I hesitated. But he kept repeating the same gesture. The incharge of the play room, a woman in her 40’s, noticed this. “He is not calling you his papa.” She said. “He is asking whether his father has also come along with you to see him? These children are very young to live in a hostel. They miss their parents. They keep asking for them.” Utsav kept listening to this intently without understanding any of our words. At the end of this dialogue he again started repeating the gesture – this time, a lot more violently. The incharge and others tried to calm him down –only to make him cry even louder. When I could not bear the pain in his eves any longer, I rushed out of the room.

Sister Divya followed me to the corridor. Somehow she knew what was going on in my head. “It’s even worse than what it looks like.” She said as a matter of fact. “Some parents come to pay money to us to keep their children here even during the summer vacations. What they don’t realize is that these children are not lunatics. They are just mentally retarded. They are SPECIAL – in more ways than one.” Now it dawned on me that why Kamal still stayed in the school even after so many years of ‘passing out’.

Before ending the excursion, Sister Divya took me to another heart rending story. In the girls’ dormitory - which was predominantly empty as all its occupants were attending classes – there, behind a corner bed, stood a little girl bewildered at the presence of strangers in her room. As we moved towards Kaushal, she lowered her head and started staring at the floor in order to avoid an eye contact. Sister tried to introduce me to her but she seemed to be uninterested. She was 5 - mentally, even younger. So young, that the school found itself incapable of deciding a class for her. She always stayed in her dormitory - occasionally visiting the playroom.

For the brief amount of time we were in that room, Kaushal raised her head only once, to look at the stranger encroaching at her dormitory. It was that single look after which I gave up all hopes of being friends with her. It was a look which clearly said that she didn’t need friends. She didn’t need teachers; neither did she need the perfect arrangements of that school. What lacked in her life was that warmth which only one’s parents can give.

As we prepared to leave, I tried to compliment Sister Divya by saying that hers’ was a difficult profession and that it was amazing how they managed everything. “It is not a Profession dear, it is a service” she replied. Despite of all that umbrages I had for the negligence of careless parents, I realized that the Almighty has after all sent these children to the right hands. It is true that they still lacked a lot of love they deserve. Its true that they still live in a world where nothing reaches them and they reach nothing. It is also true that no one, as, or even more dedicated than Sister Divya, can take the place of their parents but still, Kamal, Utsav, Kaushal and their friends have learnt to smile, to play, to help one another and to care for each other – thanks to Sister Divya and her Team. Hats off to them!

~Kinshu