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
