Daughter of the Ganges

by Asha Miro

  Saturday, October 26, 1974

  One day before your arrival, and both your father and I are very anxious. I am writing this to you after midnight. I finally got up because I couldn’t stop tossing and turning in bed, unable to close my eyes. My thoughts are only of you, and a number of questions are running around in my head. I know that at this precise moment you should be aboard the airplane. I worry because I can’t be there with you if you feel sick or start to feel bad. It’s the first time you have traveled and you are not used to the altitude. I ask myself how you must be feeling; perhaps you feel alone, but don’t worry because it will be the last time, from now on you will have us and your sister, Fatima.

  4.

  THE BREAD OF NECESSITY

  Early the next morning we are awakened by the sound of the father’s little bells. Naresh does his prayers, lights a stick of incense, and on the door-frame he draws some flowers, different ones each day, using a whitish pigment.

  Naresh is rather timid and doesn’t speak a lot; the mother is more chatty and now treats me like another of her girls. She shows me how to knead the chapatis, but I am not very good with my hands. In Barcelona I was barely capable of frying an egg. With so many women gathered together in such a cramped space, everything is happiness and smiles. For breakfast we eat chapatis with jam and a mixture of tea with milk and sugar, lots of sugar. The girls are dressed for their English school and look like elegant young ladies, with their hair neatly combed and their dresses carefully pressed; what is most surprising is that they appear so changed and yet are still barefoot. We get ourselves ready for what is to be our first day of work. Kamal has made lunch for us and Gabriela hands out the little packets to us. We are ready to go to the work camp, the Jeevan Nirwaha Niketan school (JNN).

  To avoid getting lost we follow the directions that Nanda gave us yesterday and find the bus stop. We get on a bus full of schoolchildren that will take us to the JNN, in the neighborhood of Andheri. It is an informal school and does not follow the state program. The boys and girls who attend spend half of their day working and then spend a few hours in school. These children are often the only means of support for a family burdened with serious economic problems, not uncommonly suffering the havoc wrought by an alcoholic father. The mothers have enough work bringing up so many children, while the children must bring in the money. They clean shoes, deliver parcels, wash cars, any job that will allow them to survive. The object of these centers is to teach basic skills in the hope that the children will be able to break out of this cycle: They learn to count so that they don’t get cheated, acquire a grasp of English so as to establish contact with tourists and tourism, learn the most essential aspects of their environment, and are taught a trade. The students are very responsible and are aware that what they are learning will be of great use to them. Furthermore, it has an immediate effect on their work.

  The school is set in a leafy garden filled with trees and plants, which sets it apart from the misery that pervades the city on the other side of the wall. It is a privileged space that was provided by the nuns in the neighboring convent of Saint Catherine. When the children are enrolled in this school they must take a test to determine their placement. For this reason, there are some quite small children sharing a classroom with much older ones. Before going to class, they line up in perfect rows in the yard, all well combed, to sing the Indian national anthem and say their prayers. From the youngest to the eldest they maintain a strict discipline and carry out everything with great solemnity. But then when they break out of the ranks they become a crowd of children, milling around, noisy, laughing, jumping, and pushing their way to class.

  The children come to school very motivated, they are all eyes and ears open to the world. But this idyllic view fades as we become sharply aware of how the teachers must go about their work with a severe shortage of materials. There is no money, and any initiative requires a great deal of determination to be brought to fruition. The staff is disenchanted; they are tired of struggling.

  My calling to become a teacher came a long time ago, when I was very young. I attended the Saint Anna school in Barcelona and all the pupils took an active part in the education process. At midday I would stay for lunch, and the responsibility I enjoyed most of all was taking care of the younger ones, telling them stories and putting them to sleep. I always knew that I wanted to be a teacher. Once I was grown-up, aside from having a good time with the kids, enriching myself every day, and coming home with new experiences from which I drew the vitality to keep me on my toes, I was able to identify the real motives that made me want to join this profession: It seems to sum up all that I have been given by those around me. If I am the outcome of my parents’ dedication, of the teaching I have received, of the support I had of those who were at my side, then I cannot keep this good fortune to myself. I have to pass it on, to become a part of the wheel of continuous exchange by taking on the role of an educator.

  The moment arrives to take the plunge and get to work with the kids of the Andheri quarter. Noel, the director, takes me on a guided tour of the whole school and leaves me with the class that I am going to teach English. My English is not fluent enough to give lessons, but I am not about to give up, so I do a version of the song “En Joan petit quan balla” (“When Little John Dances,” a traditional Catalan children’s song that involves naming the different parts of the body) because I know that some days ago they learned the parts of the anatomy. We do all the movements together and it turns out quite well. But my efforts to try to teach a little English to that collection of curious eyes, which don’t really understand if I am from over here or over there, are not too successful.

  I am full of good intentions and want to get involved as much as possible, but until I go to the carpentry workshop I can’t say that I really broke through. Thomas is running the workshop when I charge in and disrupt everything he has planned. With no regard for what he is trying to do, and without a thought for the consequences, I skip the protocol and suggest that the children make a wooden frame for photographs. All well and good. But things are not that simple. Everything has to be made by hand and there are almost no tools. With the few resources we have and a good dose of imagination, the frames finally start to take shape. The result is very satisfying. At the school where I work in Barcelona, we are surrounded by facilities that we never really appreciate; the kids don’t realize how much they have. But for these kids, every tiny detail is a victory worth celebrating. This makes me feel like I definitely want to stay on now.

  As far as languages are concerned, I always thought that if you have ever spoken a language once, especially as a child, you can never really lose it. That’s why I thought that when I heard Marathi spoken again I would recognize words, phrases … who knows, I might even be able to speak it. But things did not live up to my expectations. What a disappointment! JNN had one set of classes in Hindi and another in Marathi, the language I am told I spoke when I was at the orphanage, the language I must have thought in when I arrived in Barcelona. The fact is that I don’t understand a word of either language. I go along to the Marathi classes but no matter how hard I try to recover that lost portion of my memory, nothing happens. I don’t recognize any of it. The best thing is probably to treat it as a game, as something new to learn, and so I decide to start from scratch. To begin with, the boys and girls don’t understand how I can be Indian like them but don’t understand and cannot speak their language. They soon get over that and enjoy teaching me basic vocabulary. One by one they say their names, they teach me the colors, they show me how to say everything in sight: tree, sky, flower, house, book, sun, cloud. Between their scrambled English and my rudimentary Marathi we manage to transform the classroom into bedlam.

  Aside from speaking Marathi I must also have learned English at the orphanage. But as I used to play truant to go on my daily jaunts with Mother Adelina, I often skipped the English classes. My parents, who were waiting for me in Barcelona, knew nothing of my early fond
ness for evading classes, and put all their energy into learning English so they could communicate with me when the time arrived. A few months before my arrival, they hired an English teacher who gave them private lessons at the dining table in their home. These classes were focused specifically on teaching them the most practical things. Mom, always worried, wanted to be able to ask me what kind of things I liked to eat, what kind of pain I was in, and to tell me that she loved me a lot. Both of them studied hard but it was all in vain. When I arrived I found they had decorated the apartment for me, and Dad, always the practical one, translated word for word, dictionary in hand, the sign they had made which read, WELCOME TO HOME, ASHA.”2 Excited as I was to suddenly find that I had new parents, a sister, a home, and a bed of my own, all in the same day, I didn’t pay much attention to the poster. On the way home from the airport my parents spoke to me in English and I nattered away like a chatterbox in Marathi. Thank goodness for the power of looks, gestures, and caresses. I was quite happy to settle for the physical demonstration of their affection. There is always a universal language that cuts across all frontiers, and can establish a form of communication as good as—if not better than—using words from the dictionary. It became pretty clear on the way home that I didn’t speak English.

  Sunday, October 27, 1974

  Asha, my dear daughter, today you arrived in Barcelona. We were so nervous that we arrived at the airport long before we needed to. It was lucky that we did, because the plane landed more than half an hour ahead of schedule: at 10:20 exactly. After passing through all the security checks, the two of us, accompanied by our friend who is an air hostess, finally arrived at the landing area. When the aircraft came to a standstill and the stairs had been put in place we stood there alongside it, waiting to see you come down. It was a very emotional moment. Once the door was open you appeared, jumping agilely down the stairs. So tiny. You came down happy with a big smile stretching from ear to ear. On reaching the ground you turned and threw yourself into our arms. You were wonderful. You kissed each of us and Fatima, and nothing seemed strange to you. In the car, on the way to what will be your home from now on, you seemed happy and repeated, in a very sweet manner, all the words we told you. Dad, Fatima, and I watched you in admiration ….

  You are so happy that all our worries have evaporated. I think that you like us and that our meeting, which I have imagined to myself so many times, easily surpassed all my expectations. What joy!

  And so you came into the house and took off your shoes. They must have been new and were probably uncomfortable. In any case it seemed like you were not too accustomed to wearing them. With all the changes that were going on, little Fatima went all quiet. When she saw you coming down from the airplane and how you embraced us and gave us each a kiss, she didn’t know what to do. I have been talking to her about you for a few days now …. At first she pulled a face, but her bad mood soon wore off, especially when you, Asha, filled the pockets of her pants with sweets.

  Above all she began to fall in love when you gave her the doll; she clutched it to her and has not let go of it since. I suppose that little by little she will get used to the idea of having a sister. When you and Dad went to fetch your suitcase, Fatima ran along behind calling your name.

  In the dining room Dad asked you to read the poster which he had drawn with such care, but you, my darling, just glanced at it and carried on doing your own thing. That is when we realized that you still don’t know how to read, which means that we shall have to start from scratch.

  The funniest thing about the whole scene was seeing Dad trailing you around with an English dictionary, trying to make himself understood. The more things he asked you, the more excitedly you chatted away in your own language. Finally, he gave up and following more innate instincts he opted for body language and signs.

  Sitting in the middle of the dining room you opened your suitcase and handed out presents to everyone. Dad spent a long time immortalizing those wonderful moments of happiness by taking photographs and filming.

  You look tired and who knows if you managed to sleep or not during the journey. I take you to the bathroom and wash you from top to bottom in the shower. You are very thin; above all it shows in the legs and the arms, which look like matchsticks. I am sure you are anemic and when you see the doctor he will probably prescribe all kinds of vitamins. It is lovely to see how excited you are about every little thing.

  After you had had your bath and your pajamas were on with the dressing gown I made for you, in blue, like your sister Fatima’s, you were overcome with joy. You looked at yourself in the mirror over and over, and you jumped and laughed with happiness. What luck that even though we can’t understand each other’s words we can make ourselves understood through looks, hugs, and smiles.

  It seems to us that this day marks the end of a very important episode in our lives. It all began with Dad and me, two people who loved one another. And little by little we have started to grow in number. Those little girls who we so much wanted, arrived from far away. First there was a tiny little one and then the big one. So we have managed to hop over the laws of logic and nature all in one go. Being a parent is always a great responsibility, but it is even more so when fate decides to place not one but two little children in your arms, to educate and feed, in body and in spirit. It is in this moment of reflection, of pleasure and also of fear, that you find your father and me, dear Asha.

  5.

  THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE

  Today the alarm clock rings before the sound of Naresh’s prayer bells. Maria, Núria, and Gabriela are sleeping in, taking advantage of the fact that it is Sunday. So I get up without making any noise and carefully pick my way between their sleeping forms to reach the bathroom. As I step into the shower the aroma of incense has already filled the house. The years and years I have waited for this occasion dictate that I dress up properly. Today, more than ever, I want to look smart. I put on the salwar kameez I bought at one of the stalls in the market. It is orange and purple; the colors signify the sacred and the feminine.

  After arriving in Bombay I realized that the clothes I had brought with me were not the most suitable in the stifling heat. I felt very hot and decided to dress the way Indian women do—partly because of the weather, but also as a sign of having decided to be like them. When I think of Indian women, I imagine them in those saris in all their bright colors: meters and meters of cloth, which they wrap around themselves with a unique skill. But I have the feeling that they would never really look right and would feel too much like being in fancy dress. This is why I opted for the salwar kameez, which consists of a kind of blouse that reaches down to the knees, loose trousers, and a scarf that matches the pattern of one of the other two pieces. The salwar kameez doesn’t quite have the elegance of a sari, but I feel very comfortable and much cooler. I bought a couple so that I could vary them, I’ve kept this one for the day when I’d return to my orphanage.

  Beneath a sky filled with clouds I walk along streets that already feel familiar. I recognize the faces behind the stall selling roasted corn, and the one with baskets of fruit, one with glimmering saris fluttering about, another with spices that give off a blend of perfumes mixed with the strong smell of bidis. At the end of the street I approach the first driver in the row of taxis and, without hesitating, let fly with the address I have been repeating all the way to remember it, like a little child running an errand. In reply, I receive a hail of words that I don’t understand, but the tone suggests a definite negative. Inside the next taxi, I find a guy with his hair dyed a deep red color who offers to take me.

  The journey seems interminable. Mother Adelina told me she would be waiting. A few days ago, when I had been here exactly a week, I called to tell them about my visit. When I identified myself she didn’t remember, and it took a long time for her to realize who I was. I imagined she must be very old now and that her memory was failing. When she did finally remember me, she became very excited and insisted that I pay her a visit. Spe
aking to her on the telephone was a very intense moment. Another step closer to my origins. We talked in Spanish. Mother Adelina is from Puerto Rico, and although she has lived in Bombay for so many years she still hasn’t lost the language.

  Passing through the streets and alleys makes me think of Dad, who knows this city by heart, even though he has never been here. I can see him with that heap of maps laid out on the dining room table, tracing the streets and squares of my city. When my parents decided to adopt me, Dad amused himself for hours with a map of Bombay in front of him looking for the place where I lived, imagining where I walked. He wanted to know what my surroundings were like in order to feel closer to me. Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, Mom would be going through the adoption papers one more time.

  The taxi pulls up in front of the impressive wrought-iron gate. This image has remained alive in my mind for all these years. To the right of the gate is a nameplate. I don’t need to take a closer look to see what is written there, I know perfectly well: REGINA PACIS. Suddenly, I am seized by an anxious feeling that freezes my blood. I no longer feel the stifling heat. A tremor runs through me, preventing me from taking the next step, until I remind myself that I am here to reconcile with the past.

  The orphanage is like a fortress in which my secret is guarded. I am the only one who can find the key to unlock it. I take a photograph of the gate before I enter the lush garden, full of trees and plants. I slowly follow the path that leads up to the entrance, looking around at everything with emotions that are difficult to describe. The sound of the pebbles I walk over on the path, the little yard on one side where I once played with other children …. I can’t stop taking pictures, of everything, each and every little detail. I want everything to be properly recorded because I don’t want there to be any shadows or blurred images in my memory, and I also need them to help explain my experience when I return to Barcelona.