Another Indian Day

At the orphanage, there are about 80-95 girls. Ten feet beyond the entrance, a sign reads “All Men Prohibited beyond This Point.” My project was switched on me last minute, and I was originally meant to be volunteering at an orphanage that has only 15 children. My guess is that this one is shorthanded, but I could be wrong. Yet, I think that this one is a bit more luxurious since it is larger. I was told that some smaller orphanages and homes have an outhouse style bathroom, and need to be flushed out with a small bucket. I can’t really speak for the cleanliness, but it really is nice to have a toilet that flushes.

Our room here is large, yet it still manages to stay hot, even at the cooler times of the day. There is a large bed and one single, all shared between three people. The mattress is a thin comforter on top of a piece of plywood. Girls constantly walk in and out in the mornings while I dress to see if anything interesting going on.

Angelie, 8 years old

The girls here call me “Sanne Didi” which means “Older Sister Sanne” in Hindi. We play for hours at the park adjacent to the orphanage. I run with them and play soccer in the humid heat. By the time playtime is over, my clothes are drenched in sweat, dirt and grime. The girls "awe" and "oo" when I play Billy Idol on my old laptop, then I let them clack away at the buttons, making me a bit nervous.

I let them paint my toe nails, which I realize is a mistake when I look down at my feet which has polish everywhere but my nails.

Prianca, 10 years old

Mealtime is an experience. At first, I felt like a barbarian or an animal, eating on the dirty floor with my plate inches away from bare feet. It's not so bad anymore. The room is falling apart, with pieces of plaster and white paint that has chipped away with time. There are small posters of Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse affixed beside the door leading to the hotter than hell kitchen. Girls submerge fatigued and sweaty with their hair clinging to their faces.

For Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner, small runner rugs are placed around the room and through the center. Right before they eat, they sit upon the rugs, and pray. Small voices chant echoing throughout the entire orphanage. They then eat on the ground right where they pray. Metal plates are handed out and those who are on kitchen duty come around, crouching down to serve rice, chapatti, and daal, all flavored with masala and Indian spices like turmain and cumin.

They are quick to discipline each other around here, smacking and hitting when they find it appropriate. Instead of crying and falling to the ground, they giggle and clap their hands. Then they fight back. My efforts to stop the fighting are pointless, because I know little Hindi and because they simply don’t care. I’ve realized that fighting amongst small girls at this orphanage is not seen as a terrible thing. If a girl is hit too hard, their bawls last no longer than five minutes and then they resume their playing as if nothing ever happened. If only life were that simple.

Failed jump attempt