Small English, big heart

We depart our temporary home in the hills for our next port of call, having changed our plans at the last minute. Instead of going to the beautiful beaches of Goa, we’ve opted for the much more rewarding experience of visiting Karunai Illam children’s home in Nilakottai, Tamil Nadu. Pete’s parents are friends with some of the trustees of Illam, so we’d emailed the centre before we left New Zealand, but hadn’t heard back from them until yesterday. 

The Karunai Illam Trust, as it’s officially called, is a New Zealand incorporated charitable trust that also supports a primary school and vocational training community college, in addition to the children’s home. The aim of the trust is to look after and educate children and youth from disadvantaged families across the region, and its initiatives are managed on a day-to-day basis by the Trust’s local partner, the DHAN (Development of Humane Action) Foundation, a leading development organisation operating in 12 states in India. 

We google-map Illam to see if a visit is feasible, and realise that we’re only 50 minutes away by car. We can’t possibly pass this opportunity up – especially after the heart-warming email we receive from Mr Khader, the Magaing Director of the home: 

“My Dear Peter Barnett. Greetings from DHAN Karunai Illam and its collectives. We have been informed by Mr Sankar that you are interested to visit our Illam and enjoying the activities. We are extending a warm welcome to you and your friend,” it reads. 

The email includes the details of where we can find them, and it’s singed off: “With happy greetings and anticipation from Children. Thank you, yours sincerely, M. Khader”. 

Yes, that’s right, happy greetings and anticipation from Children. Children with a capital C, even! Oh, imagine the guilt if we don't go. We definitely have to now. 

We tell Mr Khader we’re not far away, and by the time we arrive, there’s a room ready for us. Mind you, it’s a room with just the one bed for the two of us (three-quarters the size of a double), a bucket for a shower, and geckos crawling up the bathroom walls. But it’s a room nonetheless, and we’re grateful for the hospitality, even if it means top-and-tailing in our sleeping bag liners for the night, or staying awake to ward off creepy crawlies.

Mr Khader greets us a short time after arriving, and he tells us more about Illam’s work. The primary school is for younger children (up to around the age of 10), but the 35 children (24 girls and 11 boys) who live at the home are aged between 11 and 18, so they attend other schools nearby – the girls go to private schools, and the boys, public. During the day, when the children are at school, local women come to Illam to take courses at the community college, known as the LIFE (Livelihood Initiatives with Functional Education) Centre. We stop by the LIFE office and meet Deva, who enthusiastically tells us about the courses Illam offers in clothing, tailoring, embroidery, beauty therapy, jewellery making, and computers – to name a few. 

Poor Pete gets a lesson he’d probably rather not have in the various types of waxing, bleaching, threading and facials that they teach here. The one to three-month Illam programmes cost between Rs. 1500 and Rs. 2500 – much cheaper than other comparable courses in the region. Deva tells us that a full Indian wedding make-up and henna session would earn one of the girls more than Rs. 2500, so the course is relatively inexpensive, considering they earn the total cost of their tuition back on their first job. 

Deva or diva?

Deva then shows us the wedding jewellery he and the students have made, and he tries some on himself – laughing it off as if he’d never seriously wear it. His obvious love for the sparkly jewels suggests otherwise. Noting my pearl earrings and bracelet, Deva kindly gifts me a necklace to match – a string of yellow pearls with a pendant made of fake diamonds and rubies. It’s not something I’d usually wear, but it would have been useful when I dressed up for the Bollywood-themed young professionals’ ball last year. I graciously accept his kind gift, though, and wear it right away, pleasing the students in the beauty therapy course we meet shortly afterwards. 

We introduce ourselves to the girls, and as I’ve found in India, no-one here can say ‘Rebecca’. Being a classic, biblical name, and a relatively common one (I was one of four or five Rebeccas at my old workplace), I’ve never had a problem before. But it’s a different story in the Subcontinent – my name is totally perplexing. They seem to get ‘Peter’ okay, but I get endless blank looks as they repeat variations of Roooopika, Rubooka, Rubka and Reeeepka. One of our drivers even said, “Ohhh, like rrrupees! You must be verrrry lucky!” 

The girls in the beauty course motion for me to sit down. They not so much ask if I’d like a henna tattoo as tell me I’m getting one. They try to get Pete to get one too, but he firmly protests. He backs away and slowly but surely says, “No, thanks. No. Allergic. Skin reaction. No.” I ask when on earth he’s had a henna tatt before, and he reveals that when he was volunteering in the Philippines, he and his friends had intricate designs printed on their backs for a bit of a laugh after a long drinking session one day. Sounds like a load of B.S. to me. “Whatever,” I reply, egging the girls on to ink Pete up. 

Inked up

He gets away with his allergy claims (just), and I continue chatting to the girls about their families, their lives and where they’re from. In the meantime, one of the girls whose name sounds something like Daisy copies a pattern onto the inside of my forearm and palm from a photo on her mobile phone. The girls try to tell me something about the materials they’re using, and Deva translates that they’re using their best (and darkest) ink because we’re special guests. I semi-concernedly ask how long the design will stay on my arm and hand, and they enthusiastically reassure me it will be there for at least two weeks. I wonder if it will be longer on my comparatively pale skin. 

Jenny, a physio from the UK (who knows Jean, the founder of Illam, from meditation courses she’s done in New Zealand) is also visiting, and gets inked up at the same time as I do. As she and Pete chat later in the afternoon, they discover that Jenny grew up in the same neighbourhood in the UK as Pete’s Dad, and her parents were great friends of Pete’s grandparents. We all shake our heads in disbelief, and say over and over again what a small world it is. We’re told that “another madam from New Zealand”, Jasmine, is arriving tonight, and we discuss degrees of separation, wondering how long it will take to find a connection.

Smiling for "Auntie"

After lunch, Pete and I visit the nursery and primary school over the road. We meet some of the teachers and the principal, and venture into one of the tiny classrooms where we’re absolutely mobbed by the relentlessly energetic kids. It’s near the end of the day, and we get the feeling that no more learning is going to be done that afternoon. It’s most definitely play time, and like the Indian roads, it is chaotic. The children are extremely cute and we have a ball taking photos with them and listening to them as they yell every single English word they know at us. “Telephone! Watch! Clock!” they cheer. They fondly call me “Auntie”, and Pete “Uncle”. One of the boys gets hold of my smaller camera and runs around taking photos of his mates and us, captivated by “Uncle’s” height. 

Sapped of energy from our school visit, the invite of afternoon tea at Mr Khader’s daughter Banu's house next door comes at just the right time. I feel another Julian and Camilla moment coming on as we sit cross-legged on a mat on the floor eating spiral-shaped biscuits made of egg, coconut milk and rice. Banu shows us her kitchen and Pete surveys the jars of spices while she makes us a pot of tea with hot milk, black tea leaves, ginger, cardamon pods and plenty of sugar. Banu invites her neighbour to join us, and soon Banu’s daughter Najiha and the neighbour’s children (possibly called Karthik and Yuvraj) appear in the doorway.

Ginger tea with Banu and the neighbours

Karthik’s English is exceptional, and we’re told he got first place in his class. He acts as chief translator, because “Banu has only small English”, she tells us several times. Pete entertains the boys with his iPhone, Fruit Ninja being a major hit. One of the boys gets a high score of 299, and Pete enthuses that he’s done very well, but can’t help adding – only semi-jokingly – that they might like to check his own high score. 

We’re shown the family photo albums and hear countless stories about other visitors to Illam, particularly about the legendary Danny a Wellingtonian who’s just finished a two-month stint volunteering there. We have the standard New Zealand conversation with Banu, and after Danny’s visit, she seems to know a bit about our country. “Joe Key. Your President, Joe Key,” she smiles. Banu talks about herself in the third person, and towards the end of our visit she’s saying “Banu love having Roopka and Peter. Roopka – you come back and stay one month with Banu family, yes? Come India again, see Banu?” 

Banu’s English may be small, but her heart is one of the biggest I’ve ever met. We leave Banu’s place the best of friends, and happily agree to return for more tea the next day.