THE SHELTER
I literally sank into the sofa. I was trying to regain my composure. Three of us had ventured out to do some thing meaningful for society. We had heard of this place called “The Banyan” a home for destitute, mentally imbalanced women. And all of us felt, due to some reason, that the time had come to go out and do something for the socially downtrodden. We drove ourselves to this place. With idealistic (or is it purely selfish motivation turned inside out) thoughts of spreading love and peace amongst the destitute, we entered the impressive gateways of the institution. Nothing had prepared me for what happened next. Hordes of women lost in their own worlds of heaven or hell sat staring at us. Some were smiling, some laughing, some muttering, some were utterly blank. To me it seemed that a common bond tied them together: they were totally cynical and were laughing at us. A knot of intense fear started growing in my tummy. Only the thought that I should not let my friends down kept me from turning back to the security of the car.
As we were led into the temporary security of the lounge, a young man breezed in. “I am Lazar”, he announced in a self-effacing fashion. We asked him to let us know exactly what was required of us. He told us he had been asked to show us around the place. And he led us upstairs to the second floor. My initial feelings came rushing in on me. Behind grilled, locked doors stood a bunch of disheveled looking, frightening women. “This is the first stage,” Lazar was explaining, “After picking them up from the streets they are kept here under observation. Sometimes they get violent. That is why we keep them locked up. After medication: general and psychiatric and counseling if an improvement is noticed we take them into the second phase.” One of my friends indicated she wanted to go inside. We walked in. All the women surged towards us wanting to shake our hands or touch us. I saw Maya smiling calmly returning their greetings. I tried to do the same but could feel my smile becoming more watery with dumb fear. And then there was chaos. A girl came running towards Maya crying, “Get me out of here. I am not mad. My boyfriend deserted me here”, as she prostrated herself on the floor. A woman came, running and shouting, towards Kavie. Kavie turned around and said she wanted to get out of the place. She has bouts of claustrophobia and as soon as she lost sight of the woman who had locked us up she lost her calm. Somebody was shouting for the ayah. Feeling extremely ashamed and extraordinarily relieved, I followed Kavie outside. She had a medical reason for coming out. I had none.
Then we were taken to the second phase. I could feel the disgrace that was tangible in my friends’ sympathetic looks and in the social worker’s complete ignorance of my presence. Again I followed Maya inside. This time funnily they seemed less fearful. Somebody came and shook my hand and asked, “How are you?” Normally a question like this would have elicited an almost reflex like answer. But now I found myself muttering incoherently, “Good very good, fine, nice”. Her next question had me glowing, “Where is your Amitabh Bachhan?” And when she told me “You must promise to pay Rs15000” I found myself jokingly respond, “For that I have to work extremely hard”. Maya brought a girl to me saying I might be able to understand her as she speaks Bengali. I started asking her questions, her name, where she stayed, was she married, where were her parents, etc.
Gradually the “bunch of disheveled looking and frightening women” had crystallized into one extremely lost and frightened woman who for some reason had boarded a train “just like that” and traveled from the heart of Bengal to Mogappair in Chennai. Immediately Lazar handed me a paper and said, “Write”. But Boba (for that was her name) refused to divulge any thing the minute she saw the paper.
As soon as we were well out of sight I wrote down the scraps of details that Boba wanted to erase from her life; but which the institution required to rehabilitate her but had been unable to do as she spoke a language, which nobody had understood. Lazar then led us to a huge conference room. He sent us those women whom he thought we might be able to understand, to place them, so as to help them in their rehabilitation. We were more than willing to oblige. Thus for nearly one hour I spoke to Kalpana. She had been found loitering at night by the police. She sounded completely sane but destitute nevertheless. She had taken to prostitution to provide for her family after having been married off at the age of twelve. Sometimes I found her story meandering with justifications and gaps. But she did give lots of addresses. If one of those helps speed her homewards I would know that I had been meant to be there at that particular time. Even otherwise, to be a part of a movement began by two courageous women, to give shelter and succor to physically abused and mentally scarred women is itself an eye opener. Because at The Banyan they believe that “behind every shadow there is light”
Situated in Mogappair a few km away from Chennai,‘The Banyan’ is a center for women by women. It was started in 1993 by the commendable efforts of Ms Vandana Gopikumar and Ms Vaishnavi Jayakumar, who were then in their twenties. It is a home for the mentally disturbed, destitute women found roaming in the streets. They are brought into this institution. Through medication, counseling and other therapies they are then rehabilitated into the families they had temporarily forsaken or had been forced to leave.
As we were led into the temporary security of the lounge, a young man breezed in. “I am Lazar”, he announced in a self-effacing fashion. We asked him to let us know exactly what was required of us. He told us he had been asked to show us around the place. And he led us upstairs to the second floor. My initial feelings came rushing in on me. Behind grilled, locked doors stood a bunch of disheveled looking, frightening women. “This is the first stage,” Lazar was explaining, “After picking them up from the streets they are kept here under observation. Sometimes they get violent. That is why we keep them locked up. After medication: general and psychiatric and counseling if an improvement is noticed we take them into the second phase.” One of my friends indicated she wanted to go inside. We walked in. All the women surged towards us wanting to shake our hands or touch us. I saw Maya smiling calmly returning their greetings. I tried to do the same but could feel my smile becoming more watery with dumb fear. And then there was chaos. A girl came running towards Maya crying, “Get me out of here. I am not mad. My boyfriend deserted me here”, as she prostrated herself on the floor. A woman came, running and shouting, towards Kavie. Kavie turned around and said she wanted to get out of the place. She has bouts of claustrophobia and as soon as she lost sight of the woman who had locked us up she lost her calm. Somebody was shouting for the ayah. Feeling extremely ashamed and extraordinarily relieved, I followed Kavie outside. She had a medical reason for coming out. I had none.
Then we were taken to the second phase. I could feel the disgrace that was tangible in my friends’ sympathetic looks and in the social worker’s complete ignorance of my presence. Again I followed Maya inside. This time funnily they seemed less fearful. Somebody came and shook my hand and asked, “How are you?” Normally a question like this would have elicited an almost reflex like answer. But now I found myself muttering incoherently, “Good very good, fine, nice”. Her next question had me glowing, “Where is your Amitabh Bachhan?” And when she told me “You must promise to pay Rs15000” I found myself jokingly respond, “For that I have to work extremely hard”. Maya brought a girl to me saying I might be able to understand her as she speaks Bengali. I started asking her questions, her name, where she stayed, was she married, where were her parents, etc.
Gradually the “bunch of disheveled looking and frightening women” had crystallized into one extremely lost and frightened woman who for some reason had boarded a train “just like that” and traveled from the heart of Bengal to Mogappair in Chennai. Immediately Lazar handed me a paper and said, “Write”. But Boba (for that was her name) refused to divulge any thing the minute she saw the paper.
As soon as we were well out of sight I wrote down the scraps of details that Boba wanted to erase from her life; but which the institution required to rehabilitate her but had been unable to do as she spoke a language, which nobody had understood. Lazar then led us to a huge conference room. He sent us those women whom he thought we might be able to understand, to place them, so as to help them in their rehabilitation. We were more than willing to oblige. Thus for nearly one hour I spoke to Kalpana. She had been found loitering at night by the police. She sounded completely sane but destitute nevertheless. She had taken to prostitution to provide for her family after having been married off at the age of twelve. Sometimes I found her story meandering with justifications and gaps. But she did give lots of addresses. If one of those helps speed her homewards I would know that I had been meant to be there at that particular time. Even otherwise, to be a part of a movement began by two courageous women, to give shelter and succor to physically abused and mentally scarred women is itself an eye opener. Because at The Banyan they believe that “behind every shadow there is light”
Situated in Mogappair a few km away from Chennai,‘The Banyan’ is a center for women by women. It was started in 1993 by the commendable efforts of Ms Vandana Gopikumar and Ms Vaishnavi Jayakumar, who were then in their twenties. It is a home for the mentally disturbed, destitute women found roaming in the streets. They are brought into this institution. Through medication, counseling and other therapies they are then rehabilitated into the families they had temporarily forsaken or had been forced to leave.
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