Saturday, October 13, 2007
A Global Day (Mumbai, India)
October 7, 2007 was what had come to be called, “A Global Day.” My peers and I had visited Elephanta Island (where majestic Hindu sculptures are carved out of the cave's bedrock), the Sisters of Charity Orphanage (Ashadaan), and still managed to see a Bollywood film at a local theater. Despite the plentitude of emotions and experiences that coins the phrase, my heart still lies with what I found in the middle:
The children were just finishing up a birthday party when we came. The music resonated throughout the room and their chocolate-smeared hands clutched empty candy wrappers and packets of stickers as they laughed and played. Standing on the outskirts of the medium-sized room, one-by-one they eagerly invited us strangers to join their games. After weaving through the smiling faces, being dragged here and there, making animal sounds-galore, and swinging children around so they could jump to the sky, I found her.
Like many of the children who were mentally and/or physically handicapped, so was she. I didn't realize until I picked her up but (oh, how do I say it?) she had only one arm and no legs. I would be lying if I said it didn't faze me for a second. Still, I picked her up. She knew little English but had an assertive point. Instantly, I was under her command, going willing where ever she wanted. We ventured outside, wandered the premises, and played London Bridges Falling Down with the other children. After about 30 minutes of carrying her and participating in such activities, my arms started to ache. But to put her down? That meant putting her back in her crib; it meant doing something you just do not do. So instead I tightened my grasp and she followed suit. Her gentle arm clung to my neck and her soft lips pecked my cheek. I continued to twirl and dance. I hummed in her ear and we swayed to the fading laughs and the nurturing breeze.
Dinnertime came and I followed the supervisors leading gestures. I grabbed a plate of the rice-porridge concoction and a spoon and plopped down on the floor with her resting on my lap. In the pool of other children, I began feeding her. She obliged willingly, but soon her keen mind found other tasks to pursue. She found an empty spoon and other mouths in need. She found thirsty children by making the water sign, a tight fist and a protruding thumb. Again, her dynamic personality surprised me. Here, I tried to feed her while she scolded the children that didn't finish their food.
Soon, the nuns and helpers indicated it was time to go. They brought out their mops and buckets and began bolting the doors. But again, how do you even talk about leaving? Grudgingly I put her back in her crib, and she stared up at me with a pleading and questioning look. Oh, how unfamiliar she became! But she knew the schedule, and although I was the one leaving her, she left without complaint.
Her name was Maraht . Or was it Naraht ? Like all foreign sounds, her name has slipped all too easily from my mind. But I walk down the streets and lie in my bed, and still I feel her weight. Her frumpy little body fit so perfectly in my arms.
