An Eye on the Children

In my first few weeks in India I experienced episodic surges of maternal instinct every time I encountered local kids in the suburb of Mysore where I was staying.

There was a boy and a girl, both about 8, across the street from my apartment, who always greeted me when they saw me. They never said anything more than a “Hi” – a very pronounced and decisive “Hi” that commanded my attention – but their twinkling eyes spoke much more than that. I’d take my camera out if I had it and capture their sweet smiles, the kind of smile that has the instant effect of brightening your day.

A short walk away, in a more densely populated part of the neighborhood, there was another boy about the same age. He had a dark complexion, protracted chin and timid eyes, giving him a slightly more mature look than his peers. His shoulders were hunched and he lived with a younger sister and a mother whose hair was shorn (in the traditional fashion of Indian widows). He was always doing some kind of chore when I saw him, carrying a pail of water or a bag of knickknacks, but like the other kids there, he’d look at me curiously – though non-intrusively – when we passed each other. He’d pause a bit, looking like he was gathering all his strength and courage to say something. I’d also stop to allow him time and space to do just that, and a moment later he was able to vocalize what he wanted to say – a very softly spoken “Hi”.

My heart would melt a little.

And as I walked further out onto the main street, I’d see more kids, often still in their uniforms in a school bus or crammed in a three-wheeled motor rickshaw, or playing cricket in a vacant lot, or riding their bicycles. It reminded me of my own childhood in a small town, when life was simpler, the outdoors were vast and friends lived just a few doors away. It made me feel good about life in general.
It must be because I live in Jakarta, in an apartment building where not only do I rarely see children, but the ones I do see in public are always coddled by their babysitters, seemingly neglected by their parents, or acting all bratty with their flustered parents.

Being out there “so close to the elements” (that’s my new favorite phrase, by the way) during my travels reassured me that things were not all gloom and doom in the world of middle-class children. Outside of my own milieu of mall rats back home, of 12-year-olds in 100-dollar sneakers and of those more versed in the latest  BlackBerry models – the phone – than in the shape and taste of the actual fruit, children still bike to school and play with their neighbors.

The bourgeoisie of affluent children in Jakarta is something I often take issue with, but I know most of the time their parents can’t help it. When there is no comfortable public space or park, when the kids attend a private school an hour away from home, when they’ve been raised on a staple of chicken nuggets, parents have no choice but to take them to the malls on weekends, after waking them up at 5 a.m. to get ready for school and sending them to the nearest McDonald’s when they’re cranky or hungry.

Traveling often also gives us a chance to glimpse another life. This life I know exists at home, but I’ve never really accessed it before except as an impassive journalist.

So I volunteered to teach yoga to kids at an orphanage in Mysore. These kids weren’t necessarily orphans; they were girls from as young as 3 to their late teens who were rescued from the sex trade. Many had been raped or had worked as prostitutes, but you wouldn’t know it to see them. These were some of the nicest and most well-behaved kids I’d ever met.

In my first class, of about 14 girls aged 6 to 10, I began by leading them through a breathing practice to center themselves. Then I introduced them to the courage and characteristics of animals that inspire many of the yoga poses. I made them pair up to build poses to encourage unity, then I got them to sit and meditate and lie down to relax for a few minutes at the end of the session. All this worked like a charm in the first class, and I applauded myself for being such a good teacher.

The next class, however, was completely different. The kids were cranky, less attentive and more violent. They were still trying to behave well by me. When I asked them to stop hitting each other and to give me “five minutes of silence”, they’d apologize and calm down, but a moment later they’d started hitting each other again. I’ve taught problem kids before – mostly just overly pampered kids who tend to be lazy or those who refuse to follow instructions – but this was beyond my scope. Their troubled pasts had branded them with a violent streak.

One lovely girl, Preeti, about 10, was so agitated that her friends weren’t paying attention to me in the class that she started yelling in anger at everyone. She looked spent from being so angry and frustrated. I hugged her and assured her it was OK to be angry, but also that she didn’t need to feel responsible for her friends’ misbehavior. She smiled and said, “Thank you so much, sister.”

I felt sad for them. Their lives were just beginning, yet the structural damage inflicted upon them still manifested itself.

But at the same time I was heartened that in spite of what they’d been through, they now had a chance to grow up healthy and happy with the affection of their friends, caretakers and volunteers. They have the advantage of being young, so I know they’ll be OK.

Now, if I can only have the same optimism about the bourgeois kids back in Jakarta.

+ Devi Asmarani

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