by Jenny Feldon
“No, Vimal. It’s OK. It’s probably not something you grow here.”
“Celery, Ma’am,” Vimal replied, thrusting the bunch toward me. “Is yours.”
“But celery has stalks, you know…long. Like sticks.”
“Celery,” he insisted.
I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He’d made my shopping trip so much fun so far. I took the greens. I’d use them for something.
Vimal wasn’t buying my submission. “Smell,” he demanded, setting my basket down behind him and crossing his arms. “Celery.”
I smelled.
He was right. It was celery. But not the long, ribbed stalks I’d been so patiently describing. The leafy, green top part. His vegetable was my vegetable, just turned upside down.
There had been so many moments when I’d expected things to be one way, and had been bitterly disappointed when they weren’t. Every collision between what I wanted and what I got was another reason to lash out at my surroundings, to mark the experience a failure instead of opening my heart to something new.
In that moment, a seven-year-old boy working at a vegetable stand drove home a lesson I’d been struggling to learn for months. I came to India with a whole lifetime of expectations and assumptions about the way the world should work, the way life was supposed to be. Before we left, I’d have been bitterly insulted to be called close-minded—that was a word for bigots and racists, not for a liberal, city girl me. But when you can only accept life the way you’ve always known it, when you fight back against every deviation from “normal,” your mind is closed. It took nine months, a hundred tiny failures, and a shaggy-haired Indian boy holding a bunch of celery to open my eyes to a bigger picture.
Chicken soup for a cold, Indian celery for the soul. I reached down and shook Vimal’s hand. He beamed back at me, pleased with his victory. Wisdom and innocence blended together in his calm brown gaze. It was like he could see straight into my heart, like he knew he’d helped me cross over into a place I’d been longing to be.
“Thank you, Vimal,” I said, bowing my head.
“Welcome, Ma’am,” he replied. “Now friend?”
“Yes, friend. Definitely friend.” Vimal flushed with pleasure and made a silly face that reminded me how little he was. I laughed. He grabbed my overflowing basket and headed for the cashier. A tiny spiritual guide with long eyelashes, a blue polo shirt, and dirty bare feet.
***
At home, Mary was straightening the bedroom. I watched, fascinated, as she arranged flower petals in complicated patterns on the dresser and in front of the doorway. A yellow sun with triangular beams of pink and green took shape on the black marble floor.
“Is for good fortune, Ma’am,” Mary said.
“It looks so pretty. Will you show me how?”
Mary smiled and beckoned for me to join her with a flick of an impossibly thin wrist. “This way.” Together we huddled over the basket of petals. Beneath her smile, her eyes looked sad.
“Mary, are you feeling well?” I asked, concerned. I’d grown so accustomed to her quiet, cheerful presence. The sudden melancholy made me concerned.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Mary said. But her forehead was creased with worry.
I sensed whatever troubled her ran deeper than she’d ever reveal. “Are you sure? If you’re sick, you should take a couple of days off and rest.”
“Mine family poor. If I no work, much anger,” she said. But when I pressed her further, she refused to speak.
“You can’t get too involved,” Anjali told me later when I described the moment over the phone. “You’re treating her like family.”
“But she is family, practically.”
“She’s not, though. Not really,” Anjali replied gently.
***
My ingredients were lined up and ready on the kitchen counter. Butter, carrots, onions, the celery greens, a couple of chopped-up chicken breasts. No Manischewitz, of course, but there had been a package of fettuccine I’d crunched up into little pieces to create the same effect. An exhausting citywide search had yielded no whole chickens to make the soup part from scratch, so I was cheating with a packet of Knorr bouillon cubes I’d found buried in the tea section at Q-Mart. My Jewish ancestors—the ones who boiled chicken feet for days to make the broth exactly right—were probably rolling in their graves, but it couldn’t be helped. When in Rome, you do like the Romans. And when in India…you do what you can with what you have.
Everything was ready. All I had to do was light the stove.
Except I was still deathly afraid of lighting the stove.
I held the box of matches in my trembling hands and, for the tenth time, turned the knob on the orange rubber hose that led from the gas tank to the range. I lit a match, tossed it on the front burner, and ran to the other side of the room with my hands over my face. For the tenth time, there was no explosion…but the stove didn’t light either. I crept back to the gas tank and turned the knob back to closed.
Sigh.
I needed to do this. I needed to do this because my husband was sick and he wanted me to make him feel better. I needed to do this because I had to prove to both my Jewish ancestors and my Indian neighbors that, like millions of women before me, I was capable of nurturing my family. I needed to do this because Anjali was coming for a home-cooked dinner and I wanted to impress her.
But mostly, I needed to do this because not being able to light a stove with a match was pathetic and I was tired of being a hostage in my own kitchen. If Jay came home and found me with yet another empty book of matches in my hand and another pile of uncooked ingredients, he would laugh himself silly and I would be tempted to make good on his request for a visit from Dr. Kevorkian. I took a deep breath and fanned the remaining gas fumes from the air. I turned the knob, lit the match, threw it in the range, covered my face, and ran.
There was no explosion.
When I peeked out between my fingers, the front right burner was lit with a tiny, sturdy blue flame.
My soup was saved.
Jay walked in just as the electricity went back on. I was a little disappointed; the dining table had looked so warm and romantic by candlelight. I met him at the door and he pulled me into a hug, burying his face into my neck. I smiled into his thick, dark hair, soaking up the feeling of being cherished again.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, taking his briefcase in one hand and dragging him toward the table with the other. “Your chicken soup is ready.”
“OK. Not great. I’m going to eat and go to bed. I’ve got another big day of meetings tomorrow. Hey, did you light the stove? Yourself?”
“Yup.” I beamed with pride.
“No way. Venkat helped you. Or Mary?”
“Nope. Just me.”
“Nice work, Wife.”
“Thank you.”
“You found celery,” Jay said, smelling the bowl in front of him with pleasure. “How on earth did you manage that?”
“I had a little help from a new friend,” I replied, passing him a piece of buttered nan, the closest challah-substitute I could manage. “Drink up. Let’s see if this stuff really can work magic.”
***
The soup worked. Jay, looking much more human and much less gray, was adjusting his tie at the front door when Anjali’s car pulled up outside the gate. She waved.
“Is it OK if Anjali’s driver takes you to the office this morning? We’re going to the orphanage and I want Venkat to drive.”
“Sure,” Jay said, looking dubiously at the black Honda out front. “You’re sure he’s safe to drive with, right?”
“Having met her father, I’m pretty sure her family only hires the best,” I replied, kissing him good-bye.
“I’m so excited. I’ve always wanted to visit the Township,” Anjali said as she climbed in the backseat next to me. “Thanks for invit
ing me along.”
“Don’t thank me…I needed the moral support.”
“No, you didn’t,” Anjali chided. “But I’m happy to be here to give it.”
The Scorpio jolted sharply to one side as we left the smooth surface of Road #2 and started down a barren dirt path. A few prairie dogs hopped up from their holes to see what was causing the commotion, then disappeared back beneath the earth again.
“Are you sure it’s this way, Venkat?” I asked, squinting into the harsh morning sun. Ahead there was nothing but an endless stretch of scorched earth.
“Yes, Madam,” he replied, pulling his beanie lower onto his forehead. “Much far still.”
Even the tent cities were far behind us. I wondered who’d chosen to build the orphanage so far from the city. Was land cheaper out here? Or was the isolation by design, to keep the children safe?
With my feet back on firmer ground, I was ready to start moving forward, to give my time in Hyderabad some real meaning. Alexis had emailed an introduction to the director of a local children’s orphanage where she’d spent time volunteering. The director agreed to let Anjali and I visit for the day.
A non-profit organization originally formed to rescue a group of children who’d been kidnapped by criminals hoping to make money on adoptions, the Hyderabad Children’s Township officially opened two years earlier. Now, the facility consisted of twelve bungalows that housed more than two hundred orphaned or abandoned children. The Township was dedicated to providing nutrition, health care, and education to both its own residents and the community at large, enabling at-risk families on the brink of abandoning their own children to stay together. During our visit, we would meet kids who had been rescued from unimaginable fates—abandonment, illness, sex-trade trafficking, or slavery. For many of the children here, the organization had saved them from certain death.
After so much time wasted feeling sorry for myself, I was more than ready to start making a real difference in the community. I couldn’t just stand by and watch anymore. I wanted to find a way to help, even if it was the tiniest ripple across an ocean of need.
The Township was almost an hour out of HITEC City. A stone archway and a security guard blocked the parking lot from the rest of the compound. The barren landscape suddenly exploded with life—banyan and mango trees, stone pathways and meticulously maintained lawns. We’d stepped into a different world.
“Ma’ams? Right this way, please.” A slight woman in a denim jumper approached us and bowed her head, gesturing for us to follow. “The director is waiting for you.” She ushered us into a glass-walled office and pointed to two folding chairs in front of a massive metal desk. “Wait here, please. He will be with you in a moment. I’ll be needing to take a copy of your identification.”
We handed over our passports and sat. Anjali studied the awards and degrees hanging on the wall. I fidgeted with my mobile phone, crossing and uncrossing my legs beneath the floor-length ghagra skirt I’d chosen in an effort to look as modest as possible. The office windows were open wide; the strains of a guitar and the sound of dozens of voices singing came from beyond the courtyard.
“It is assembly,” the director said as he entered the room. “We sing traditional Indian melodies as part of our morning program. It gives the children a sense of the history they come from.” He shook our hands, solemn and businesslike. He wore a red polo shirt and crisp Dockers khakis. “I am Srinivas,” he said. “I’ll be giving you the tour.”
We followed him through the courtyard down a narrow path shaded by vine-covered trellises. Classrooms flanked the sides of the path, looking surprisingly similar to the rooms I remembered from my own childhood—blackboards stacked with boxes of chalk, construction paper art projects dangling from the ceiling, the letters of the English alphabet marching across walls. It felt ten degrees cooler within the compound walls than it had in the scorching desert just beyond the gates. The flagstone path rounded a corner and we found ourselves in a bigger courtyard in the center of a dozen small bungalows arranged in a circle. A group of kids playing soccer stopped mid-game and stared at us as we passed.
More staring. I waited, primed to hold back the usual flare of defensive self-consciousness. It didn’t come. These stares felt different. Partly, I realized, because I was different; changing, slowly, from the inside out. But also because these eyes belonged to children. Kids who were just being kids—innocent, friendly, curious.
“These are the children’s houses,” Srinivas explained. “Up to twelve children will live in each one with one house ‘mother.’ They will stay in their house for the duration of their time here; for some of them, that will be until they are eighteen years of age. We like to think of them as small families of their very own. Often the children will come visit their housemothers and siblings for many years after they have moved on from here and begun their new lives.”
We entered the first bungalow and a group of children burst into excited applause. They’d been expecting us, and clearly, we were honored guests. Some of them lined up to shake our hands. Each child was clad in a worn but clean blue uniform, short-sleeved jumpers for the girls, shirts and short trousers for the boys. The youngest, still in diapers, clung to her housemother’s legs, peering at us through tiny fingers that covered her face.
“Welcome,” they sang out in English. A girl with an immaculate dark brown bob grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the back of the house. “Please, Ma’am, come see my room first,” she said, eyes shining with excitement. A boy with a scarred, shaved head pulled Anjali into the backyard. “This way, this way to the garden,” he shouted, grinning.
“They speak English?” I asked Srinivas, surprised.
“We teach them English as soon as they arrive here,” he confirmed. “Some are stronger in the language than others, but we try to converse in English at least 50 percent of the time to enhance their skills. Starting with the first grade, their school lessons will be taught entirely in English.” The hand in mine tugged impatiently. “Go ahead,” Srinivas laughed. “They are excited to show you around.”
The girl pulled me into a small chamber containing three neat bunk beds and a chest of drawers. Grinning, she gestured around the room with a proud sweep of her arm. Six drawers, one for each inhabitant of this tiny, bare space. I thought of the four-thousand-square-foot marble house I used to think of as a cage—an absolute palace compared to the room I stood in now. The little girl’s love for her simple home was equal parts pride and gratitude. Like watching the tent city from my window, witnessing that love humbled me. I still had so much to let go of, so much still to learn.
“I am Kamala,” the girl whispered. “I have nine years. What’s your name?” She stared up at me, her caramel brown eyes framed beneath impossibly long black lashes. They reminded me of Vimal’s.
“Jenny,” I said. She kept my fingers wrapped firmly in her small palm.
“Je-nny,” Kamala repeated, sounding it out. “Do you have childrens, Ma’am? A daughter?”
“No, I don’t. I’d like to have some, though. Someday.” I’d like a daughter just like you, with big brown eyes like Jay’s and a sweet, tinkling voice.
“My real mother wore long skirts like you.” Kamala’s eyes clouded. I wondered how long she’d been here, what kind of life she’d led before. Without thinking, I knelt down and folded her into my arms. She stiffened in surprise, then relaxed, leaning her head into my shoulder. I reached across her forehead and brushed the hair out of her eyes. She felt fragile and unreal, like hugging a tiny, quivering butterfly. Abruptly, she pulled away, remembering her duties as tour guide.
“Will you look at my drawings? I keep them here in my journal, in my own drawer. Here we have our own drawers and two sets of clothings. And one of shoes. And these are our beds, where we will be sleeping.” Her words came out in an excited gleeful rush, but her gestures were graceful and deliberate. A circle of younger children
clustered around her, silent but brimming with excitement to be part of the scene.
The walls next to each bed were decorated with drawings. It reminded me of my bunk at summer camp, where I’d pinned photographs and letters from home to comfort me when I felt homesick. But this was the only home these children knew—and how very lucky they were to have it. So many children in India could not imagine this kind of luxury in their wildest dreams. I thought of the starving, disease-ridden urchins begging for coins on the sides of the road in HITEC City and wondered which of these children had been rescued from similar circumstances.
Kamala pulled a worn black canvas journal from the top drawer, standing on tiptoes to open and close it with gentle reverence. We sat down on a lower bunk together. Kamala watched the way I smoothed my skirt over my legs and imitated the gesture with her faded navy jumper. She opened the book and began turning pages, explaining each carefully rendered pencil drawing as she went. Anjali, back from the garden, poked her head in the door.
“It’s wonderful here. They eat everything they grow,” she said, munching a sprig of mint.
I stepped onto the back porch, where clotheslines full of tiny kid clothes swayed in the breeze. A few feet away, a little boy scrubbed industriously at a pair of brown trousers, his expression a mixture of concentration and pride.
“They love doing the wash,” said the housemother from behind me, dusting roti flour from her hands. “We teach them early to participate in the tasks of the household. It makes them feel useful and teaches them skills for life on their own.”
“That’s so important,” I said. “I’m almost twenty-nine and I just started figuring it out.” The housemother laughed. “I wish I were kidding,” I said with a rueful smile. From the garden, Anjali giggled too. Insulted, I leaned over the porch railing and made a face at her. She stuck her tongue out. The two little boys with her imitated the expression, hooting with delight. They grabbed Anjali’s hands and pulled her away, eager to demonstrate the expression to the rest of their siblings.
