Small Miracles

When dreams die, sometimes it takes small miracles of courage to dream again.

I was just out of college — only 18 years old. I was waiting for the results of the medical entrance exams to be declared. During the wait, instead of idling around the house, I decided to do something useful with myself. I heard from a family friend that a school for special children needed volunteers. I had two months of free time. I was forbidden travel because of a severe back problem. I decided to give it a shot.

This school was very close to my house and its mission is to help physically and mentally challenged children cope with the weird looks and comments of "normal" people. By the time they leave the school, they are equipped with a trade that will help them live with dignity — if they live to finish school. Anyway, this bit of writing is not intended as a PR piece for the school. That's another article.

I still remember my first day in the place. While I was at the gate, about to enter the premises, a vast multitude of children, parents, and teachers made their way in with me. At the building, I was made to wait outside while the children said their prayers. When they were sent into their classrooms, I was shown into the Principal's room.

At the very outset, I was assured by the Principal that this was no "vacation spot". The Principal was a formidable-looking nun. She was rudeness, kindness, mother, and tyrant rolled into one. Her temper was very unpredictable. You could never tell what would amuse or irritate her. Her speech to me was devoid of all tact and my protected, inexperienced, 18-year-old existence had its first brush with reality. Without mincing words, the Principal told me that although they do consider teenage volunteers, she did not see any potential in me. I would have to clear a test. By the time I left her room, I had made up my mind. I didn't want to see such a lady every day for the next two months. I was done with this place. She, in turn, sent a peon out with me to ensure that I was deposited outside the gates of the school.

Her mode of rejection turned me off completely. But till today, I don't know what made me call them up again. A week later, I reappeared at the school. Apparently, I had passed the Principal’s litmus test. She usually greeted teenage volunteers with insults. That was her way of judging them. If they returned, they really meant to do something. If not, then they were never meant for the place. Personally, I did not agree with her. She may prevent really dedicated kids from returning. But somehow, it seemed to work for her.

Training began the next day. We were to reach at 8.00 AM every morning. I was to play with the kids and help them with their games after they finished classes. These games were specially designed to teach these kids shapes and numbers. It was a strenuous, exhausting experience. Special children have unbounded physical strength and energy. Our limited reserves are almost always tested. And I realised this at the ripe age of 18.

Most of the time it was fun, but there were times when you lost patience. Once, a 7-year old kid, Ajit, irritated because another kid was playing with his favourite ball, took to throwing the building blocks at another child. Not knowing how to handle the situation, my friend and I tried to divert Ajit's attention with the help of a chocolate. It didn't work. We tried really hard to coax him into playing another game with us, but no use. Finally, one of the class teachers, who was watching the entire episode, decided to intervene. To our surprise and horror, she gave Ajit the scolding of his life. Throughout the episode, we had refrained from raising our voice (although we were at our wits end) because we thought it was the wrong thing to do. Still worse, it may harm him. We were to be proved wrong.

This was the first lesson I learnt. It was important to discipline these kids. Love them, but treat them like any other child. DON'T tolerate indiscipline. Our role in their lives was to prepare them for the outside world. We are to equip them for survival. There is no room for either indiscipline or pity. When they are outside the safety of homes and schools, they will have to face the harsh reality that everyone will not treat them the way their parents and teachers do. We have to teach them self-control. Throwing tantrums is just not acceptable.

Celebrities were a common sight in the school. The Principal strongly disapproved of their presence. She felt (not wrongly so) that her kids were being used as props for the celebrity to gain publicity. As far as possible, she would ask them to seek appointments so that she could limit their visits and spare the children the task of posing for pictures. Some of them became really cranky after being held and petted by strangers. The only reason she entertained their presence was for the money that they donated. She could put it to good use.

I clearly remember one such celebrity — a film star. He wanted to pose for a photograph while carrying one of the kids. When the child moved into his arms, he held him in a way that made the kid lurch. Instead of balancing the kid and preventing him from falling, he dropped the kid to the floor. Immediately, the kid went into an epileptic fit and started frothing at the mouth. The star, who had not bargained for a mess like this, was horrified. But it was his hypocrisy that made all of us hate him. Sometime in the course of the three hours that it took the school doctor to help the child back to normalcy, the star had quietly slunk out. This is the one single incident that haunts me almost everyday. Before that time, I had never felt more helpless. There had been moments of helplessness before, but none that lingered for so many days. The guy should have been publicly flogged.

There were some extremely touching moments as well. I distinctly remember the case of a mother who had come to drop her daughter to the school. It was the child's first day. Until a few days ago, the child used to attend normal school. Nobody in the family had suspected that the child needed to go to a special school. And when you saw the girl, you would never imagine that she had a problem. Her features were perfect. None of the usual signs of malformation that you would spot in special children. Her mother was close to tears as one of the teachers led the child to the class. She was saying, to no one in particular, that just a week ago, her daughter used to attend regular school. But there, they had to ask the child to leave the school because she was not at par with the other children. 

Medical examination showed that the child had a very mild form of cerebral palsy. Although it was very mild in form and intensity, she would need to attend a special school. It was at this point that I realized that it was the parents who actually needed counseling. The children usually found their friends and created their own space. But the parents, often less educated or uneducated (actually education has nothing to do with it. Even highly educated parents need counseling. Awareness about cerebral palsy is pathetically low.), had to deal with insensitive neighbors and relatives. When this became difficult, they would take to blaming themselves or their fate. They needed proper counseling and advice. Though not all of them would be able to understand, it would make a difference if they were made to understand that THEY did not genetically pass on any illness to their child.

This child, Ritu, and I were to become very close. I liked her a lot for her gentleness and calmness (kids with cerebral palsy can be moody and rough). My best moment came when this same little girl came running to me on my last day in the school with a flower that she had slyly managed to pluck from the school garden. She had got to know from somebody that I would not be returning. The best part of the moment was the peck on the cheek that she gave me. I could have cried. I could barely hold my tears back. Believe me, there is nothing better, nothing more affectionate, nothing more moving than the unselfish, unconditional love that children can give.

Ritu died on January 23, 2000. I did not attend her funeral. It's a human failing that the last memory of a person, place, or thing is the most haunting and enduring one. I did not want to remember her as a lifeless body. I always wanted to remember the happy child who gave me the most memorable kiss of my life. Even today, more than a decade later, I'm moved to tears at the memory.

At the end of two months, the medical entrance results were declared. I had got through to five medical colleges, including CMC Vellore. CMC Vellore was my dream. Now all I had to do was pay up the fees. My dream was within touching distance. All I had to do was reach out and grab it. But no, wait! Don't run away with your dreams, the doctors treating my back problem told me. As per the medical tests, there was no way I could put my back through medical college and be fine enough to practise medicine. It was some kind of cosmic joke. If I was not meant to join medical college why the hell did I get through to five colleges? Could I not have failed the entrance? At least that would have been a small consolation — that I never got through. But to know that you have pulled through and to know that you cannot do it is sheer defeat. And it's very difficult to cope with defeat. For a long time, you continue to think that you're unfit to do anything else.

During this phase, I suddenly remembered the children at the school. I had forgotten how much they had to cope with. If there was anything that I took away from that place, it was courage. I don't know how many people know how it feels to helplessly watch their only dream die out. But the important thing is to dream again. And it takes courage to do that. Dream. Dream on. Dream limitlessly. It can't happen that ALL your dreams are unrealized.