In India
Like many Children in the Orphanage, Mohan has scabies. The wound on his left hand is infected; his fingers are very swollen and hot, causing a great deal of pain. Earlier this week, based on the Doctor’s instructions, we soaked his hand in a bath of hot salt water and then vigorously scrubbed the wound with an antiseptic soap in an effort to push the puss out. Yes, push out the puss. Then John, the Director of the Orphanage, crushed several tablets of Penicillin and asked that I press the fine powder into the open wound. I’m fairly certain that this was an alternative form of Penicillin application as Mohan’s reaction was extremely disturbing. Tears of torture. Misery. The wound was foaming. A memory I’d rather soon forget. Given that Mohan’s left hand is out of commission with the infected scabies wound, his right hand has now become his substitute “dirty” hand, eliminating his eating hand. And so I feed him. Every meal - breakfast, lunch and dinner - with a spoon. Sounds easy enough.
I should preface this post with the fact that eating in the Orphanage is a competitive sport. A race. A sprint. A very serious event. One serving of rice is given to each child at breakfast; however, there are second servings for a lucky few given on a first come first served basis at lunch and dinner. Still, in order to receive seconds their first serving must be finished. Completely finished, no rice remaining on their plate. Mohan is clearly at a disadvantage for a second helping because I am feeding him with a spoon. Poor kid. Not to mention that we’re on the same team, but don’t speak the same language, so there’s no strategy or words shared in this challenge. All of the other Children are shoveling rice into their mouths with their hand and Mohan is at the mercy of me and this tiny aluminum spoon. It’s more like a sword than a spoon. Nothing like the cutlery I’ve experienced in the States. The word spoon carries a blunt connotation and the edges of spoons here are sharp enough to cut fingernails - not joke, I’ve seen it happen.
Spoon-feeding a nine-year old sounds simple enough but don’t be fooled. It carries the intensity of an Orphan’s hunger. He focuses on the spoon, refusing to make eye contact with me and allow the opportunity for an error, a clumsy exchange of rice from spoon to mouth. A split lip. A bleeding tongue. Just as fast as I can fill the spoon, his mouth is open and ready. I’m trying to balance the aluminum plate full of his rice swimming in rasam (broth) in one hand, while filling the spoon and gently hitting his mouth with my other hand. He looks around at the plates of those in line near him and throws me a glance, as if to say hurry Sister. Faster Acca. I’m sweating, feeling the pressure of performing so that this little Fella can have a second helping of rice, hunger pleading in his eyes.
Children are finishing their first serving and beginning to jump up and run towards the huge pot that holds the 60 plus servings of rice. I’m literally chasing single grains of rice around his plate with the spoon, afraid that I’ll miss one and he’ll be turned away from more food. He sees grains remaining and begins urgently pointing, coaching me in the homestretch. Great, hand signals. We catch a rhythm - a pace. One, two, spoon to mouth. Okati, rendu, moodu. Open mouth. Close mouth. Swallow. Done. He grabs the plate from my hands and runs towards the pot, obviously practiced in the art of keeping all of the remaining rasam on his plate while sliding into line for seconds. He waits, eyes focused on each second serving of rice that meets the plates in front of him. The cook is scraping the pot, not a good sign. I hold my breath and refrain from blinking. I fear I’ve failed him in a most basic way. I don’t know how I’ll meet his eyes if he’s turned away, too late for more food. I’m quite certain they won’t let me substitute my dinner for his second serving. He shifts from one foot to the other. He’s next in line, bordering bliss. I close my eyes and rely on the sound of metal on metal - serving spoon against pot - to signal our success. I open my eyes as he sits back down in front of me with a proud smile on his face. Content. Ready to slowly savor the meal in front of him, the reward for the race we ran.
Like many Children in the Orphanage, Mohan has scabies. The wound on his left hand is infected; his fingers are very swollen and hot, causing a great deal of pain. Earlier this week, based on the Doctor’s instructions, we soaked his hand in a bath of hot salt water and then vigorously scrubbed the wound with an antiseptic soap in an effort to push the puss out. Yes, push out the puss. Then John, the Director of the Orphanage, crushed several tablets of Penicillin and asked that I press the fine powder into the open wound. I’m fairly certain that this was an alternative form of Penicillin application as Mohan’s reaction was extremely disturbing. Tears of torture. Misery. The wound was foaming. A memory I’d rather soon forget. Given that Mohan’s left hand is out of commission with the infected scabies wound, his right hand has now become his substitute “dirty” hand, eliminating his eating hand. And so I feed him. Every meal - breakfast, lunch and dinner - with a spoon. Sounds easy enough.
I should preface this post with the fact that eating in the Orphanage is a competitive sport. A race. A sprint. A very serious event. One serving of rice is given to each child at breakfast; however, there are second servings for a lucky few given on a first come first served basis at lunch and dinner. Still, in order to receive seconds their first serving must be finished. Completely finished, no rice remaining on their plate. Mohan is clearly at a disadvantage for a second helping because I am feeding him with a spoon. Poor kid. Not to mention that we’re on the same team, but don’t speak the same language, so there’s no strategy or words shared in this challenge. All of the other Children are shoveling rice into their mouths with their hand and Mohan is at the mercy of me and this tiny aluminum spoon. It’s more like a sword than a spoon. Nothing like the cutlery I’ve experienced in the States. The word spoon carries a blunt connotation and the edges of spoons here are sharp enough to cut fingernails - not joke, I’ve seen it happen.
Spoon-feeding a nine-year old sounds simple enough but don’t be fooled. It carries the intensity of an Orphan’s hunger. He focuses on the spoon, refusing to make eye contact with me and allow the opportunity for an error, a clumsy exchange of rice from spoon to mouth. A split lip. A bleeding tongue. Just as fast as I can fill the spoon, his mouth is open and ready. I’m trying to balance the aluminum plate full of his rice swimming in rasam (broth) in one hand, while filling the spoon and gently hitting his mouth with my other hand. He looks around at the plates of those in line near him and throws me a glance, as if to say hurry Sister. Faster Acca. I’m sweating, feeling the pressure of performing so that this little Fella can have a second helping of rice, hunger pleading in his eyes.
Children are finishing their first serving and beginning to jump up and run towards the huge pot that holds the 60 plus servings of rice. I’m literally chasing single grains of rice around his plate with the spoon, afraid that I’ll miss one and he’ll be turned away from more food. He sees grains remaining and begins urgently pointing, coaching me in the homestretch. Great, hand signals. We catch a rhythm - a pace. One, two, spoon to mouth. Okati, rendu, moodu. Open mouth. Close mouth. Swallow. Done. He grabs the plate from my hands and runs towards the pot, obviously practiced in the art of keeping all of the remaining rasam on his plate while sliding into line for seconds. He waits, eyes focused on each second serving of rice that meets the plates in front of him. The cook is scraping the pot, not a good sign. I hold my breath and refrain from blinking. I fear I’ve failed him in a most basic way. I don’t know how I’ll meet his eyes if he’s turned away, too late for more food. I’m quite certain they won’t let me substitute my dinner for his second serving. He shifts from one foot to the other. He’s next in line, bordering bliss. I close my eyes and rely on the sound of metal on metal - serving spoon against pot - to signal our success. I open my eyes as he sits back down in front of me with a proud smile on his face. Content. Ready to slowly savor the meal in front of him, the reward for the race we ran.
Hey Carly! Found out about your blog through Alan and Sally. Love your entries, keep them up! Gosh, I miss all of you so much! You and everyone are in my thoughts and prayers. Please say hi to everyone for me! Many blessings..
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