Pilgrimage to Orphanage

My heart feels heavy and pounds so loudly that I’m sure everyone around me can hear it. My palms are clammy and sweaty, and my fingers are gripping soft carpet like material of the bus seat so hard my knuckles are almost white. I keep my eyes peeled to the window, peering out to see if anything looks familiar. “Look for a park with beautiful, big, red roses and hedges in the shape of an elephant,” I quickly say not realizing words just came out of my mouth. As the bus driver keeps going down the dirt bumpy road, and we hope to be getting closer with every mile, a smile creeps across my face; I become jittery inside like the feeling you get when you kiss a boy for the first time.

            Everyone asks me questions to help them know what to look for.  I’m trying to recall more details, in order to make it easier to locate the building. All I keep hearing myself say is, “look for the park with the roses.” They all just laugh, making jokes, but I only hear a murmur and think about the sweet smell of the roses and how the petals tasted like candy. I feel like everything is in a fog. Then all of a sudden, I see a sign that says “Holy Cross” and I yell “there it is.” It feels as if a balloon had just burst inside me. I turn my head to look at Sarah, but neither one of us says anything; just by looking into each others eyes, she knows exactly what I’m thinking and feeling.

            I walk off the bus; my heart is beating so fast and feels as if it’s going to pop out of my chest.  I look around and sure enough the park is still there but not so alive, plush, green and beautiful as I remember it. Instead it looks as if it had turned into a dump; no beautiful big red roses or hedges in the shape of elephants, just brown dirt, paper, plastic, bottles and dead trees. I think to myself, “was it always like this?” Or did I just imagine it to be a magnificent garden that one would only dream about or see in movies like the Secret Garden? Or was it because I was exposed to a world far richer than this, where parks and gardens like the one I imagine do exist?

            Maybe my exposure to the new world tainted my memory of what I stand before now. I guess, when you are six years old the imagination takes you to a place, where you leave behind the realities, and even a brown, dirty, run down park can seem absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.

            We walk past the park in the direction of the building; everything seems to be spinning and in a blur. I feel as though I have been planning a surprise party and am now waiting in anticipation for the birthday girl to arrive. I approach the building and realize everything seems much bigger when you are six years old. I look around, my eyes bulging as I take everything in. I’m finally back - fifteen years later.

The last time I was here I was six and hoping a loving family would take me to a home. An unfamiliar woman approaches us. She is wearing a typical navy nun uniform which seems to engulf her small structure. With a warm gentle smile and a look of utter joy, she gives me a hug. I place my arms around her tenderly so as not to crush her fragile frame. She is the new head nun.

As we enter the building, I look forward to being in her presence. My eyes look around the main room, but she is nowhere to be seen except for the picture on the wall that depicts her beaming smile and says “Sister Herman Joseph”. I remember her so well; sweet with a big heart full of love. She really was like a mother for five months of my life. My heart aches as all the memories came back.

I move my gaze from the picture of the German woman, with white hair, pale skin and a strong jaw line, back to the room. As I am longingly looking at Sister Herman Joseph’s picture, the head nun, in her thick Indian accent says “She passed away not too long ago.  She was a wonderful woman.” She then asks me, “Does this look the same as when you stayed here?” I reply “yes.”  I look at the small square brown table before me and tell the others in my group, “I remember eating one cookie after another off of this table.” They all laugh not surprised because they all know I have a sweet tooth.

 We partake in formal conversation and everyone’s attention is on me talking to the nun about my memories of being in the orphanage and where I am now.  She listens intently and her eyes look glossy but no tears fall down her delicate face. She glows with happiness knowing I am in a much better place now and there is hope for the other orphans.

She asks the others about there experience on this trip and inquires as to what motivated them to study for a month in India. Many say they love it and are learning so much because it’s a country far different from theirs. The nun asks if we would like to go upstairs. Without any hesitation and a surge of excitement, the word “yes” leaves my mouth before she could even finish her question. Most of my time was spent upstairs playing hide and seek and causing mischief. I think back to one night in particular.  It was a hot sticky night and Radika (one of the other orphan girls I had become friends with) and I, quietly snuck into the kitchen after everyone was asleep to get some sugar. I believe our mission was accomplished successfully, although I can’t remember exactly. I’m thankful my sweet tooth has not caused my teeth to rot.

I climb up the narrow twisting staircase and follow the nun into the baby room, with half the group following behind me. The sound of babies crying surrounds us before we even enter the room. As I step into the room my heart skips a beat. I remember this isn’t a hospital baby room where mommy and daddy will take them home in a day or two. These babies are orphans found in garbage cans, dumpsters and left on the streets to die until the police bring them to an orphanage. It’s hard to fathom how a mother and father could possibly do such a thing to their baby. I can only think of two feelings that come minutely close to what I feel, as I stand in the room of abandoned babies. Those feelings are having your heart broken and loosing a loved one.

Two more nuns, who are the primary caretakers of the babies, welcome us. In the back of the room stands a woman with long dark hair and a crooked smile which surprisingly appears to be beautiful. She looks at me and for a moment I feel like six years old again. Then I remember she was here when I was an orphan. She gives me a long look and smile, and without saying anything she acknowledges; she remembers me. She approaches me and asks if I remember her. This moment doesn’t seem to be real. I feel like I am dreaming.

  The baby room is small to begin with, and with five grown adults standing leaning over the baby cribs itching at the opportunity to hold an adorable baby, it seems even smaller. I want more than anything to take each and every baby home with me. The caretakers inform us some of the babies are mentally retarded and have brain damage because they have been beaten. There is only a slight chance that one or two may get better.

I cradle five month old Adiana, who has brain damage and no sight of getting better. She looks at me in her blue and white shirt and a smile on her face. She giggles as if to say, “Please love me and take me home.”  My vision becomes blurry as salty tears run down my face. I think about my own life experience. I suddenly become full of sadness and anger recollecting the papers my parents had gave me right before I left for this trip. How could my real mother have just left me here at the orphanage? Just because I was stricken with polio, did she not want to take care of me? Did she not love me?

Then I thought to myself “No, she did love me and she wanted the best for me, so she decided to bring me to the orphanage.” She knew I would not be treated right in this country because people that are disabled have no chance at life; they are seen as the lowest class. She wanted a loving family to adopt me and give me the best life, because I deserved to have a chance at life.

I plant a soft kiss on Adiana, as I put her delicate body back in her crib and hope she is as fortunate as I have been. By now the rest of our group is in the room each one holding and playing with a baby, and uttering they want to take them home. This experience makes them decide they eventually want to adopt.

It’s feeding time for the babies and we head back downstairs, where we are greeted by thirty little orphans. Many of them are girls but a few are boys. Although it is hard to decipher between the boys and girls because they all have bowl haircuts just like the one I had in order to prevent lice. They all are fascinated by us Americans, although I look like them so, they try and talk to me with no such luck of hearing a response in their tongue. They climb all over us chattering and clinging on almost as if to say “please take me home.” This makes it difficult to know we have to leave them all behind.

Our time here is almost over and as we head back to the main room, the children are following still clinging, laughing and smiling. I sit down to look at my records which the nun has finally found. The page is open to a black and white picture of me, I look like a boy with my bowl haircut. The page has the same information on it as the paper my parents had given me. I read it again even though I knew what it said. It gave the reasons my mother left me here at the orphanage. This time I’m not as sad to process the information because it doesn’t come as a shock.

I try to get up, but the little girls just keep pilling into my lap, giggling full of curiosity. I wonder if they think I’m a new orphan. Or if they realize I once was. We say thank you and good bye trying to pull the orphans off us. As I take one last look back, I  notice the children are pulling out mats and getting ready to watch Sunday cartoons I smirk and realize that not much has changed as far as routine, because I remember watching cartoons on Sunday too, it was a real treat.

Once we get back on the bus, everyone is talking about taking all of them home. The rest of the ride is mostly silent. I wonder to myself, “What is everyone thinking?” Are they thinking, “Rajee was once an orphan just like the ones we just hugged, held and played with?” Did this make it a reality for them? I believe it did have an impact because many of them tell me how much they admire me for the life I have gone through.

I take one last look at the orphanage. My eyes rest upon the park across the street and for a brief moment I smell the beautiful big red roses again and crawl through the cool plush green grass which is swaying from the slight breeze that gives me goose bumps on a hot July day. I glance at the large hedge in the shape of an elephant it’s so green and full of life almost as if it’s real.  The rest of the ride I think about how lucky I am and how privileged I have been to have such a loving family adopt me knowing I had polio. Yet, they still wanted me and took care of me; because they made sure I received medical care upon arriving in the United States. I have a better life now, than if my biological mother had not gave me up for adoption, because I would have probably been thrown out in the street, crawling begging for food. I thank God for giving me such a fortunate life and such a wonderful family