Extending a helping hand an article about Udavum Karangal unit at Thiruverkadu by Eves Touch Magazine
“Good morning, Aunty!” pipe up a chorus of voices as you step into the cool confines of the large hall. Tiles line both floor and walls; furry toys and feathered animals perch on every visible shelf. As pet parrots screech and pretty Pomeranians bark their displeasure at new arrivals, a host of small children surrounds you, draping themselves onto your knees.
At Thiruverkadu, home of the Goddess Karumari Amman, divine mother to the whole world, the scene seems idyllic and eminently soothing to those who have been given a raw deal by the world.
“Your watch is nice,” compliments one. A fair-complexioned tot holds out both hands, waiting patiently to be picked up.
“Ansari, get down. You know better than to disturb guests,” says Bhanumathi, my guide. Ansari doesn’t seem to care, and does not let go of me until I have given him a comprehensive hug. His face is wreathed in smiles when I finally leave him.
Bhanumathi grins as we walk out of the hall. “Papa is always so kind to them, and they’re used to being petted by anyone who arrives,” she explains. ‘Papa is none other than Vidyaakar, well known for his services to the lesser-privileged of society.
Bhanu, an eminently capable young woman, is in charge of the administration of the entire section. She is intent on to showing us as much of his vision, Udhavum karangal, as possible. A great deal is known about this institution dedicated to improving the lot of the under –privileged, those who’ve been given up by uncaring and narrow-minded individuals.
Udhavum Karangal has been doing a great job, so far, of caring, offering them help of every kind, and producing model citizens who are a credit to society. But reality, when you actually visit its residents, hits you even harder, and you become aware of exactly how onerous a responsibility is its founder’s.
At Shantivanam, we enter Sishu Bhavan, home to children up to 10 years – and Bhanu leads me to the Infants Section. A tiny baby girl, fair as a rose, sleeps with her mouth open on a fluffy pillow. Her right leg is curved like a candle and flops on the pillow. A roly–poly baby crawls around his mattress after his lunch. Volunteers are all around me, feeding other children, who seem happy, playful, and curious about my presence. Bhanu points to another little boy, whose mother, she explains, is also a part of the Udhavum Karangal unit. He has two sisters as well, and was born at a bus stand.
“The husband just upped and left,” adds Thriveni, who is the housemother of this section and had just finished a hurried lunch. “The mother came to us and begged to be taken in, as she had nowhere else to go. She now works with us.” Thriveni herself has been here for more than 10 years, as she loves infants, and being with them. “ To watch them grow, take their first steps, say their first words and guide them in their first few years of life - can you really ask for anything more?” Her wizened, wrinkled face relaxes in a smile.
Bhanu steers me towards a large blue-white building. Several women wearing night- gowns sit outside. Some look vacant; others alert, and brighten up on seeing a visitor. One or two raise their hands in a salute. Inside lie several women and teens, obviously resting. It is obvious that their disorders are of a slightly higher degree.
“This is Athmashanti -- we house women with mental disorders and problems here,” explains Bhanu. Having introduced me, and greeted practically every single person there, she selects and drags out a cheery young girl to the forefront. “This is Jyothi,” she says, looking expectantly at the girl, who blushes furiously.
Bit by bit, though. Jyothi opens up. Raised at Udhavum Karangal ever since she was a child, Jyothi has now finished her 10th Standard, and is pursuing a course in computers. She has definite hopes of charting a better life through education. I ask her how life here, in Thiruverkadu is, as against what it was like when she first arrived here. Abruptly, Jyothi’s eyes fill with tears.
“Things are so good, now,” she elaborates, wiping away tears as they course down her cheeks, “When I was a child, only one meal was guaranteed. Often, we would get leftovers from the airport, or the TVS canteen. Sometimes, Papa would wake us at 1 AM in the morning to feed us. But now, we are given three meals a day and other comforts too,” she almost whispers.
Bhanu seems unruffled by her emotion, but I am shaken. We try to comfort her and walk away, as Jyothi composes herself and grins for a photograph. “Some women are violent at first,” she offers of her own volition, about the patients for whom she’s the house – mother.” They are mostly women driven out, women with schizophrenia, and given up by their families; some of them have chronic depression. Half their problem is in not being treated as even human. What is the point of having a family if you are not a part of it?”
“We have two psychiatrists and a GP coming in regularly,” Bhanu says, as she leads, towards the dining-room. The clamour of dozens of children can be heard, as plates clink and tumblers clatter. “Two nurses are in residence, and the psychiatric patients are given medication every morning and evening.” Her face takes on a pre occupied look. “They cost so much,” she murmurs almost to herself. “But we’re coping,” she smiles.
The patients of Athmashanti aren’t just left to their devices; once patients recover, after a course of meditation, physiotherapy and soothing care, many are re-routed to serving the other patients. As they improve, they are taught crafts and arts, and put into vocational training. “They need to be kept occupied,” says Bhanu. “Or they will regress. This way, can see a gradual progress in their mental state.”
We tramp across wide pathways, and well-maintained lawns. As we peek into the children’s dining room, cheerful voices reach us, while Lakshmi, the house-mother in charge of meals, steps up. Considering that she, like Jyothi, has been here for many years, her shyness is comical. She twirls her duppatta and vanishes behind Bhanu.
“It’s not difficult at all,” she answers, when I ask her about what it feels like to be in charge of feeding hundreds of children each day. “Very small children need to be fed; slightly older children need only very little management.” She appears delightfully nonchalant about it, arousing some envy in me, and as a batch of laddoos appears, promptly takes leave … “The children will be waiting.”
Bhanu cuts across the compound, leading me to Shakthivanam, reserved especially for male patients, where boys above the age of 10 wait patiently for their meals. “You can’t be normal if you work here,” boldly proclaims a placard, as we enter the dining hall for the mentally ill male patients. Long, low dormitories house the sick, while in another room lies a frail old man, his mental faculties intact. He talks to us about making provision for some girls in the institution for an upcoming occasion, and despite being bed ridden, his voice is sure and steady.
“Until recently, he used to work in our reception area,” clarifies Bhanu. “Now he’s feeble, and we’ve put him up here, where he can still be a part of everything.”
Farther still is Gokulam, the area which houses girls above the age of 10 and the women. This particular block is almost residential in its structure, with little flats, halls, bedrooms and bathrooms. The house–mother is in the hall, preparing the mid – day meal. As a bell rings, the girls clatter upto the hall, chattering animatedly. I ask about the numbers now occupying Udavum Karangal.
“As of now, we have around 1800 residents,” Bhanu replies. While the spastic children attend a special school, Jeevan, the rest go to Ramakrishna Vidya Niketan, nearby. My thoughts wander to the question of these children, women and men being here in the first place, the children, most of all.
“Mothers,” says Bhanu wryly. “Most of the children here were born to girls who became pregnant before they were ready for it – or they delivered sickly, deformed children and didn’t have the courage to bring them up. Did you know that one particular mother actually threw her baby girl into a dustbin, and a dog chewed a chunk off her leg?” The statement induces shudders.
“Some of these children are better off here, with their house-mothers,” Bhanu continues. “They might not have had their biological mothers to bring them up – but I sometimes think they’ve got a better bargain. Our house-mothers take care of everything; may be even more than their real mothers would.”
We walk towards the reception area, where Bhanu is promptly engulfed in a gathering of women who want to know how and when they can put in some social service of their own. Bhanu herself, she explains in an aside, is a volunteer who travels an hour and half each day to work.
I spy a comely woman in a salwar-kameez gather several 6-year olds around her, in an attempt to play ring-a-ring-o-roses. As they all converge on her, she hugs them, laughing. I feel a distinct twinge of envy.
“Perhaps we might not earn as much as others,” says Logeshwari diffidently, a care-giver at Atmashanti. “Perhaps we might have better chances if we took jobs outside. “She pauses. “But there’s a sense of satisfaction in our work here. We’re giving back something to society. I think that counts more than anything else.”
As I walk away from Udhavum Karangal, I can’t help but echo her sentiments.