Daughter of the Ganges

by Asha Miro

  On this occasion, even more than when I was living here as an extra member of the family, I feel that my life could also have been like this. A simple Indian family with its daily struggles that somehow seems to thrive. Above all, accepting that times change and that customs and needs have also changed.

  Without warning, a downpour descends on us, as if someone has opened the gates of a hidden dam. A curtain of water falls in a fury on the improvised shelters built against the walls of the Jeja hospital in blue, black, and yellow plastic. Many families live here, having paid to occupy a place in the city, even if it is covered by nothing more than a sheet of plastic. The water has caught us in the middle of filming and we worry about the cameras. Mikele and Grau react quickly, putting up umbrellas and waterproofs in the middle of the street. Their sense of humor proves indispensable during these moments. The small kids run around amusing themselves while the women carry on walking up the street, unperturbed and elegant beneath their colorful umbrellas. The seven o’clock bells of the evening puja can be heard from the little temple in the hospital grounds. The red double-decker buses are filled to capacity, their windows completely misted up. It is a Muslim quarter and the goats wander about freely, nibbling on everything they can find in the huge piles of rubbish, even the occasional table of a street stall or the handle of a cart. On the balconies of the small Parijath Hotel on the other side of the street some people can be seen watching the rain. Those riding bicycles are completely soaked, pedaling with their shirts stuck to their bodies.

  I call Nirmala and Margaret to ask if they have anything more to tell me. Nirmala is happy to hear from me and from the tone of my voice seems to understand that this time I need to know all the details of my life. Margaret has passed the news on. Nirmala has also read my book and found inaccuracies in it. She remembers having told me my story just as it was and doesn’t understand where I found the ideas for what I wrote. I tell her that it makes no sense for me to invent things. The confusion is mutual, but there is a lot of affection and we both want to see each other again.

  I realize that the last time I went to see her I took her by surprise. There was no time for her to prepare, to gather all the information. I suppose that I myself wouldn’t have been able to remember the stories of so many girls with any accuracy. She has asked someone to help her to inquire about my sister or anyone else from my biological family as thoroughly as possible. The knots in my stomach start acting up again. The image of that little girl saying good-bye before leaving me with complete strangers is with me all the time.

  The school where I worked as a volunteer in the neighborhood of Andheri in 1995 is different than it was. The name remains the same, Jeevan Nirwaha Niketan, which in Marathi means “a school for life.” They have put up a new building to teach many more underprivileged boys and girls; kids who work all hours of the day have a chance to spend a few hours studying here. Many of the children and adolescents live in the orphanage of Saint Catherine’s, which is on the same grounds as the school and has been for many years. When we enter through the main gate with the two taxis loaded down as always with all the film equipment, the guard makes us sign in and I notice the name of one of the visitors in the book who signed in earlier that morning. As the reason for their visit they wrote only one word: adoption. From the name I imagine they are English, or perhaps American.

  While Mikele and Grau are busy filming Jordi interviewing some boys and girls picked from the classrooms in the school, Anna and I talk to some of the others, adolescent girls mostly. Sitting on the ground in the yard, we listen to their stories and answer the questions they have about us. Most of them are orphan girls, some of whom never knew their parents. Many have always lived here and were found by the nuns at the gates of the Saint Catherine convent or the Bal-Bhavan orphanage nearby; others were orphaned only recently and are interned there because their families cannot look after them any longer …. It is surprising how they are able to tell their stories with such ease, and how curious they are to hear mine.

  Deepa is one of the older ones. She is fifteen and was found at the gates of the orphanage, where she has lived ever since. She tells me that she had a friend who was taken far away from India by European parents and that she never heard anything from her after that. And that over the years she has seen how people have come for other children and could never understand why no one ever came to fetch her. What was the reason why some children were chosen to go to live with a family while others were not? She remembers all the girls she spent her childhood with and wonders what has happened to them. She also knows that some of them were adopted by families in Mumbai.

  16.

  USHA AND THE SACRED CITY

  The first time I came back to India I was incapable of seeing some of the things I am seeing now. We have filmed scenes in the poorest parts of Mumbai. We have visited orphanages and talked to girls with all kinds of stories to tell, some of them very sad. Seeing them that first time made it much harder for me to bear my good fortune of having been adopted than it is now. But the key question continues to press itself: Why me?

  Seeing the child prostitutes on the streets broke my heart, but now I can see their situation more objectively. Up until now I always felt too involved. I identified with it so much that I couldn’t bear it. This time I have seen not only the poorest, most raw aspects but also the people who are struggling. I have been able to see close-up how the new generations of women have many more possibilities, like the three Patil daughters. The girls in the Andheri school appear nothing like those I saw on my first visit. The only thing I recognized that time was their will to survive. Now, I see that they want to live with dignity, they have more ambition and wish to be trained for stimulating professions. The last time, I didn’t speak to the girls, particularly the older ones at the orphanage. What I saw and felt then were as much as I could take.

  But when I had more information and I felt more sure of my story, I wanted more. When I had overcome the fear of what I might find, I was capable of going one step further and confronting anything. And then I had to be very insistent to attain the truth about my adoption. Those people who have information about the past might remember different versions of the facts, as there is never one single version.

  On the road to Nasik we film a few scenes for the documentary. The road begins in Mumbai and ends in Agra, the city of the Taj Mahal. Anna is inside the jeep parked on the side of the road, a white Toyota laden down with film equipment and our luggage. She is busy making one phone call after another on her mobile telephone, trying to set up filming for the coming days. Suddenly, during a break, she comes over to speak to me. Something is happening. I can see it in her face, which looks as though she is either about to smile or to burst into tears. We both sit down inside the white Ambassador, a car that has an elegant, antique look about it, which the Indians usually hire as taxis for long-distance journeys. It is the kind of car that takes you back in time, making you feel quite disoriented. We have hired it to film some of the scenes on the route from Mumbai to Nasik, and the five of us are divided between the jeep and the Ambassador. Each car has its own driver because you need to know the roads well to be able to drive in India. Anna explains that she has just spoken to Margaret. They have found her—they have found my sister! Nirmala will be waiting for us in Nasik with all the details. Most importantly, my sister remembers me!

  I cry with emotion inside the car, which is parked by the side of a bridge. Emotions: fear and nervousness. A very long train goes by, loaded with people, and I remain mesmerized, watching it until it disappears in the distance. Usha. My sister is called Usha. She is alive and she remembers me!

  I arrive in Nasik for the second time as an adult, knowing a little better where I am going. I had been happy to think that I was born here and had told the story many times. I had learned that the Hindu epic of Rama and Sita took place here and that the sacred waters of the river Godavari are as holy as the waters of the Ganges. Here too, they free the sp
irits of the dead by casting their ashes onto the water. Now it seems that I had the whole story wrong: Nasik is not the town where I came from, although I feel as if I am from here. I would like to be from here. For me, Nasik will always be the place where my life began.

  Leaving everything we don’t need at the hotel on the outskirts of town, the entire team climbs into the jeep and we drive in toward the center, to the ghats leading down to the river. On either side of the road are countless mechanics’ workshops, shops selling tires for cars and trucks and modern blocks of apartments. A sign announces that we are about to cross the Godavari Bridge. Another bids us welcome to the sacred city in English. Completely indifferent to the traffic, a cow crosses the road. I see the river in the distance and we quickly draw near to park very close to the ghats, or stone steps. There are clothes hanging out to dry on the balconies of the houses nearby. I notice two women dressed in orange saris, talking, standing in the entrance to a house.

  We spend the afternoon filming, surrounded by people who watch me with curiosity without knowing who I am or why a camera is following me from a distance.

  The ghats are full of women washing clothes, which they beat against the earth with a kind of wooden bat. The river water is dirty and I don’t see how the saris manage to come out clean. There is a constant movement of women carrying aluminum washbasins on their heads, coming and going from the house to the river, their ankle bracelets jangling as they walk. There is a festive air. The ghats are surrounded by little temples and the landscape is a picture postcard. While the women are washing clothes and talking happily among themselves, some children slip away to play naked in the water. Farther down, a group of teenagers earn a few rupees cleaning motorcycles and rickshaws. The cows wander about without any idea of where they are going in the middle of all this. The fruit and vegetable stalls are stretched out under plastic coverings along the banks of the water. You can buy anything along the roadside from the little stalls mounted on wooden carts: kitchen utensils, glass bracelets, shoes, cassettes with every kind of music.

  Nasik is preparing itself for the celebration of Kumba Melah, a few days from now. They are expecting millions of people, including pilgrims, saddhus, and tourists arriving from every corner of India. There are signs announcing it everywhere, and the most frequent question we are asked is whether we will be in Nasik when the Kumba Melah begins. It is one of the most popular pilgrimages in the world and is held periodically in different cities in India. Once every thirteen years is the turn of Nasik and Trimbak, a nearby town. The year 2003 is special because of the alignment of the planets, especially the proximity of Mars to Earth. The Kumba Melah is celebrated throughout the year, but it is only in the very first days that the pilgrims arrive in such massive numbers.

  At dusk, just before darkness falls, in that magical hour around seven in the evening, the bells of the Kala Ram Mandir temple can be heard, in honor of the god Ram. I walk over. The vendors selling necklaces of fresh flowers outside are trying to get rid of everything before the day ends. Necklaces of white flowers, orange, yellow, pink, red … I cross the threshold and enter the grounds. In the middle of the square yard is a temple, with a main stone staircase and two on the side. I take off my shoes like everyone else before climbing the steps and leave my sandals next to all the others. There are a lot, in every shape and size. At the end of the little room in the temple is an image of Ram, with a black face. I walk up to the altar, following a family who has come to say their prayers and I do as they do: I pass my hands over the flame of a fire, take water from a bowl and pass it over my face, pass my hands backward over my hair and dot my forehead with the red powder that is lying on a tray.

  Sitting on the stone steps as I come out of the temple, into the last rays of daylight. I am approached by families, curious old women wanting to ask who I am and where I come from, in Marathi at first, until it becomes plain that I do not understand. Then a girl appears who speaks English and I manage to explain my story, of why I have come back to Nasik. I tell them that I know I was born nearby and that my parents were named Radhu and Shevbai Ghoderao. They all start speaking, things that I can’t understand, talking among themselves. Radhu and Shevbai appear to be very common names in this area. I am pleased to hear how they pronounce them. How they say what could have been my surname, Ghoderao. Shevbai is pronounced “Sheobai.” I shed a few tears. Two old ladies with affable looks embrace me and wish me luck in their own way—they ask the gods to protect and help me. The place, the moment, everything is very special. The people of Nasik look at me as though I am one of them, come back to find my roots, asking among themselves if the names of my parents sound at all familiar, the way you would ask after a neighbor or an old acquaintance. The people look at me with affection. An affection that touches me deep inside.

  Now the moment seems to have arrived to try to reconstruct the story of the first six years of my life. I am nervous. I cross the garden of the Dev-Mata convent (pronounced “Deo-Mata”), where I lived until I was three years old. I recall the place perfectly from my first visit, everything is the same except for the swing, which was in the middle of the garden and is no longer there. It is drizzling. There are flowers everywhere and the garden is very well looked after. I ring the bell, and Nirmala, who was expecting me, comes out to meet me. We hug each other and are overcome by powerful feelings. Now more than ever, it is clear that Nirmala is one of the most important people in my life. No sooner are we inside than Nirmala goes into the chapel, just inside the entrance, and says a prayer aloud in a mixture of English and Spanish. I follow her in silence. She thanks God for letting her see me again, for my safe arrival, and asks that everything will go well for me and that I will find what it is I have come to look for. Afterward, we sit at the table in the hall by the entrance, with three windows that look out onto the garden. Nirmala explains to me that, just as I asked, she has done everything she could to find out the beginning of my story with as much accuracy as possible. She has asked someone to help us, a man whom she has great confidence in. I shall meet him soon.

  Later on, while we are having tea in a small dining room that is used only by the nuns, Francis Waghmare arrives to tell me everything he has managed to find out. He is our personal detective. Francis Waghmare teaches Marathi to boys and girls from age nine to sixteen at the Saint Philomena school in Nasik, very close to Dev-Mata. His wife is a nurse at the hospital. They have a daughter, Aditi, and a son, Aditya, ten-year-old twins. He is three years older than I and he inspires a lot of confidence. He sits at the table next to the window with myself, Nirmala, and Merlyn, the mother superior at Dev-Mata who also took care of me when I first arrived. She was very young and remembers me perfectly!

  Francis stares straight into my eyes, as if he wants to know if I am really who I say I am, or else is trying to guess what I am thinking. He too is in an emotional state. I return his gaze and imagine that he can read my profound gratitude for someone who is about to hand me such an important part of my life. He tells me that he asked for a few days off work so that he could go around the villages on his Vespa looking for all the missing pieces of my childhood. With his cup full of tea he begins his story.

  Radhu Ghoderao married a woman named Shevbai. They had a son and four daughters. When Shevbai died, Radhu married another woman, much younger than he and of feeble health, named Sitabai. Her surname was Sansare, and Balhegaon-Nagda was the name of her village. They say that Sitabai was very pretty and that her family decided to marry her to a man who was older than she and already had children, because of her poor health. No one else wanted her, she had serious heart troubles and asthma. They lived in Shaha, a small village some seventy kilometers from Nasik, where Radhu was from.

  Despite her weak physical state, Sitabai bore two boys and three girls. The eldest was a girl named Matura; the two boys died very young; the fourth was a girl named Asha, and the smallest one was called Usha. I was Usha. When Usha was three months old, Sitabai passed away. She was already v
ery ill and the last birth was more than she could take.

  Francis didn’t manage to find out much about Matura, except that she died many years ago. What many people did remember, however, is that Radhu was suddenly left alone with one very young girl and a three month-old-baby. By coincidence, at the same time that Usha, which is to say I, was born, one of Radhu’s daughters from his first marriage, Sakubai, who was almost the same age as Sitabai, also gave birth to a child. The boy was named Balu. Radhu went to see his daughter Sakubai to ask if she could breast-feed Usha to prevent her from dying of malnutrition. So Usha’s half-sister nursed her and her own son for several months. I was nursed by my half-sister! This went on until her husband’s family began to look unfavorably on the fact that she was sharing her milk between the two babies. The boy took precedence and they pressured her not to nurse little Usha any longer.

  Time went by and Radhu couldn’t leave the house. He should have been working in the fields, but with two little girls, even with some help from family and friends, he could see no way out of his situation. They were very poor. Radhu worked his field with buffalo. These were hard years of long droughts and small harvests. And so it was that one day he went to the neighboring village of Pathri and explained his case to the catechist, or religious teacher, who lived there. Muralidhar Sakharam Waghmare was known to be a very good person who was always helping people. He was also Francis’s father, the same Francis who now was telling me this story. I was swallowing my tea in gulps, trying to keep the knots in my stomach down.

  Every Monday, Francis’s father would receive a visit from a priest and a nun from Nasik, who would bring medicines for the people from the villages in the area, hold Mass, and help in any way they could. The priest was from Madrid and was named Martín de los Ríos. The nun was from Goa and was named Nirmala Dias. Francis’s father told them of Radhu’s little girl and asked them if they could help. Francis was not exactly sure how it happened but within three or four Mondays I was handed over to Nirmala and from that moment on the nuns took care of me.