A Day in the Field

The teacher at this balwadi is 19, and she just got married a few days after we recruited here. She's back in the working-version of her bridal finery, teaching the children rhymes as I sit by and watch.

They stand in a loose huddle as they try to navigate their tongues around the "chukupuku"ing of the rail-vandi. Inexplicably, their repertoire includes English rhymes from I-don't-know-where, although they know them only as a series of sounds randomly strung together. Their enthusiasm for them, though, is apparent:

I seethamoo
An themoo see me
Gawbleff themoo
An Gawbleff me!

Laxmi moonwalks in a corner all by herself, then claps her hands at a painted tomato on the wall. She's already 3 and hasn't started saying more than the simplest words. Her mother is understandably worried but access to a developmental paediatrist is limited when you are living where they do. They all leave her to her own devices, only making sure she's fed or sleeping when the other children are; they cannot understand her but neither will they neglect her. During our Community Orientation Program in our second year, we saw grown women who probably started off as she did: from children to be taken care of, they grew into adults not responsible for their actions. In the economics of survival you can eat if you work; If you can't work and other people must work to feed you, you are a liability. Luckily, the extended family structure that rural neighbours seem to adopt is as rich in support as in censure.

Lunchtime, and the children set to picking their own pet hates out of their food. Little bits of tomato or drumstick leaf gather in heaps beside the plates to be swept away later along with the day's debris. Some ask for more, some refuse to eat unless they're fed and the ayah soon has three open mouths and rapidly-emptying plates in front of her. The others have finished and raise their plates to slurp up the last vestiges of their sambhar. One little girl wheezes between slurps.

Now the mats are spread and they all have to lie down. The teacher sits waving the flies off their faces for a while and soon, the only sounds are those of deep breathing and the occasional snore. Traffic is infrequent at this time and for a while, all I hear are rustling leaves and crows exploring the brightly coloured buckets I brought with me for our sample collection. The government school in the village just broke for lunch and four girls in uniform huddle at the doorway. I turn and smile at each of them and go back to my book, but they still stand and stare - either satisfying curiosity or a mute appeal for attention. I recognise Divya from the last time I was here. Jeyalakshmi seems to be the leader of this pack, and introduces the others as well as herself when I ask her her name. My scant knowledge of Tamil limits my conversation, andI can just stumble through the barest niceties - an exchange of names and basic information, punctuated by profuse smiles and vigorous nodding when I hear a familiar word.

These girls are bright-eyedly lovely. They're too sophisticated and grown-up to come pulling at my clothes or mock-charge me like the little kids, but their curiosity is unabashed. It's amazing how many of the women and the girls in these places only need an opportunity to assume social responsibility to become women who make a difference, in their villages or outside. Several women whom the hospital has involved in its outreach programs or given basic training to are now pillars of their communities, encouraging other women and giving them what seems like sound advice.

A moped just sped by and I can hear the growl of a line bus. Soon, the vehicle from the hospital will roll up and the most tearful of these little study-participants will rush around to shake hands or wave goodbye. I will leave with my assorted paraphernalia, the plastic buckets and little bottles now full. They will go home and come back tomorrow as they have done and will do for so long. I can just hope that what we're doing will actually make a difference to their lives, be a butterfly effect that ripples outwards. Intervention is a strong word and we never know to the fullest what differences we ever make. For now, we will roll away and happy chants will waft down the roads.

Vovezaraad
Vilessabiloo
Suka isswee
Asoaaru!