I’ve just come back from a whirlwind trip from Bihar. But before I write about that, I’d like to write about my last day with Mitun, the boy I would like to adopt from Daya Dan. We went to the home for male adults that are physically and mentally challenged that is run by the brothers of the Missionaries of Charity order.
This is from a journal entry.
It seems to me that life has changed more in the last 12 hours than I could have possibly imagined.
It seems I have changed-in every way- more than I could have predicted-in the last 12 hours, too.
The day started today with a tremendous gift. The sisters told me that I could spend the entire day with Mitun, as his “buddy”.
All the children have “buddies” when they are going on outings, and today we went on an all day adventure to the home/care facility the children go to once they grow up and no longer can stay at Daya Dan.
We had several goals in going to the home: one was to perform a belated Christmas concert there; and the other was that several of the oldest children were going to be transferred there in the next month, and this trip was to aquaint them with the place and get used to the idea.
The home is run by Missionaries of Charity brothers, and is located more than two hours outside the city by a river. It’s a sprawling estate that was donated to the brothers some time ago, and houses more than 200 grown men and a few children, all with physical, mental, or emotional handicaps.
To get there, we had to get on a bus and brave the traffic for two hours. The kids don’t handle long bus journeys well-they get stressed out and upset easily by changes of any kind. So the role of the volunteer buddy is to provide comfort and a sense of normalicy, in that children are only paired with volunteers they know. That volunteer stays with them not only for the bus ride, but the entire day. We do everything with them and they never leave our sight-ever.
I had been asking for more one on one time with Mitun, as he was leaving the following day to go back to his boarding school (which is teaching him to speak, to use his hearing aid, and sign language). I was expecting an hour with him but when they told me I would be assigned to him all day I was so happy I could not stop beaming!
The day started very early, as we had many children to get dressed, get fed, and get ready. We have so many special needs kids at Daya Dan that dressing some of them, let alone feeding them, can take a good half an hour at least.
When all the kids were ready, they were lined up in red plastic chairs in the main room, all looking sleepy but excited–this was going to be an all-day outing and such events are very rare for these children.
The boys looked beautiful, all were wearing matching tangerine orange baggy pants and matching shirt, with bright red sweater vests(that strange sense of Indian color coordination seems to think that tangerine orange and red are perfectly suited for one another!); their hair slicked back and parted neatly; their white socks and sandals still clean; and their bodies smelling of baby powder and bananas and the sweet white rice porridge they had for breakfast.
The girls finally came downstairs(girls live there too, but are kept separate as is Indian custom) and every girl had her head covered in fancy hair ornaments, frilled orange and yellow party dresses, and full face makeup.
It was time to go!
I was nervous about being assigned Mitun because I have always been assigned another boy, named Joy (remember, the one who bit my face a few weeks ago?!). I was worried Joy would be disturbed about his change in routine. But my friend, Emilio,another long time volunteer, was assigned to Joy, and the child seemed to take to him warmly. I breathed a sigh of relief, and turned all my attentions to Mitun.
We held hands as we walked down the alleyway towards the bus. Mitun looked positively joyful, and was telling everyone that he and I were together all day long. He was so happy about having me as his buddy that the kid was practically radiating light. I think we both were, actually..
I was thrilled to sit next to him for the next few hours on the bus–we held hands, shared snacks, talked, looked out the window together..it was bliss.
Also sitting next to us was the head nun at Daya Dan, an American sister who came to Calcutta 10 years ago to work at Kalighat, returned a few more times to volunteer–and then ended up being a sister herself.
A wonderful woman, her down to earth midwestern American ways are a relief for me in a way..she says exactly what she means to say, and she says it in a way that gets right to the point. In India, no one ever seems to say what they mean–ever. At least not for a long, long time! So the fact that she is sitting next to me is a pleasure.
She’s watching me and Mitun for over an hour, when the conversation turns to my adopting him.
We talk about it for a good half hour, Mitun snuggled up next to me, looking out the window…
She gives her complete approval. I am on cloud nine.
Then the why, what , how, all those questions of how it will all work and all that has to be done, come bombarding my poor brain a few minutes later.
How Western of me.
She asks me how am I? How am I handling this decision?
I turn to her and say, “Well , the Western side of me has worries. But the Indian side of me has no concerns, as I know what is meant to be will be.”
We both smile.
“That’s why I love India. In the West, that thought that what will be, will be..it would never even come into fruition. All most of us would be thinking about in your situation would be HOW? WHEN? and all those other questions. But the truth is, it all works out as it should, and we should worry for nothing.”, she says.
The rest of the bus ride is complete bliss.
I am feeling new feelings for this child-I am allowing myself to love him.
This is a totally new experience for me. I have had children-other people’s children-in my life before, but never have I felt this way before.
I suddenly have the sensation of wanting whatever is best for this child-whatever it is-and I don’t care what that will require from me. Those concerns have faded away into nothingness, and are replaced instead by this new feeling, this pure feeling, of just loving this child.
I am at a loss to describe exactly how it felt, except to say that it took me entirely by surprise, for I had felt that I had loved before and knew what love was. But now, I can see that I did not.
The love of a mother, of a parent, is so all encompassing, so complete. And although I am not a mother, this moment was the closest I have ever felt to being one.
It kind of gave me..this intense emotional experience about my own mother, about her love for me, about what she willing had to give up for me. It was just an overwhelming feeling of gratitude that I had for her , and actually for all parents everywhere.
As I have said on the blog before, I’ve never wanted children. I’ve never felt like motherhood was in the cards dealt to me-so it is a new experience for me to have these kinds of feelings, which before were always closed off and seemed like they were not available to me. I’m sure that there are many women who have either chosen not to have children or cannot have children who have felt the same way–as though these feelings were not ones they could want to experience or allow themselves to have.
I was so self aware of what it was like to be with him, to be near him, to watch this child that it blew my mind.
And I loved him. Completely, utterly, loved this child.
That’s something I have not allowed myself, because what if something doesn’t work out? What about all of those what ifs?
But I think love-this kind of love-it doesn’t matter about the what ifs. Worse case senario, let’s say the adoption ended up being impossible for some red tape reason. Why not love this child anyway?
That kind of love, well I guess I never loved anything or anyone like that.
It’s a whole new thing for me.
I think, thinking about it hours later, it means I’ve grown alot during this trip. I’ve grown into quite a woman-one who can make decisions for herself and can pursue goals that before I don’t think I had the maturity to pursue.
What’s more, although I am interested in knowing what friends and family think, as a matter of course, it actually doesn’t make any difference to me whether people approve or not. Whether they can visualize it or not. Whether they are only thinking of all the “what ifs” or not.
I think this is because the decision to pursue adopting Mitun is literally outisde of me-it’s not about me, or my life, it’s actually more of a spiritual decision. And so I have this confidence that it will work out as it is meant to work out.
It is quite simply, the right thing to do. I can see no other thing to do for myself,this is the only option.
And that’s a rarity for me, to feel something so strongly that I just know it will be, that the process has begun, and that hopefuly the end result will be adoption.
Just giving and trusting that what will be, will be.
All new for me.
The only other time I felt similiar to this–not knowing what was next, but willing it into being-was on the Camino. Walking day after day, not thinking of anything but the next step. That is truly living life, that is truly living in the moment.
And trusting, trusting, that if I do my part, things will be as they are meant to be–whatever that is. The universe puts everything in place at the perfect moment.
And-it is a very Indian way to look at things.!!
But I digress.
Back to the journey..
We arrived at the home a few hours later. The place was huge, with an enormous pond, a playground, vegetable gardens, flowers, farm animals, and more.
By Indian standards it was lovely, but by Western standards it was leaving alot to be desired.
The volunteers were talking amongst themselves about the place upon arrival-we had already heard both positive and negative things about the place before the start of the bus ride-and the general consensus was that it was as good as it could be, considering all the factors.
The factors being desperate poverty, too many patients for such a place, not enough people or workers on hand to give the patients themselves personal care and attention, and so on. But the brothers were truly doing the best they could with what they had-and they never turned away anyone.
The best part about the place-which Mitun and all the other children immediately went running to-was the playground. They covered the swings, the slides, the teeter-totter in minutes and the air was full of laughter and sceams as kids played. At Daya Dan, there is no playground-the children are inside all of the time–so to actually be outside, playing, on colorful and interactive toys was a special treat for them.
The volunteers were soon exhausted, and chai was brought around, and we all sat around drinking milky, hot chai and talking about the place.
It was decided that some kind of mini tour was going to take place, sop that the children could visit their friends that had been sent there, as well as letting us all take a look at the facility.
After a wonderful tour of the grounds (all was wonderful except the enormous pond, which for some peculair reason remained unfenced..this inspite of the patients there falling in and so forth!) we went into one of the large buildings which housed over one hundred men.
They were very excited we were there, and their was much greeting and calling out to us. The more able bodied men were housed in this building as well as the youngest ones. There were a few children.
Conditions were ok, not ideal. We asked them when they got to go outside, and they answered once a day, after lunch. This also depended on the patients condition. The ones who were more able did small taks, such as flower gardening and animal husbandry–but, sadly, many were not able to go outside at all…in particular those with which intense one on one supervision was required.
We went into a bedroom , which had over 15 beds in it. It was a large, sky blue room with a long grated window looking out on a grassy area. Seven of the beds were all lined up right next to one another, covered in thick black vinyl sheeting, and tied to each bed, by the leg, was a man.
The men tied to the beds, they needed so much personal care and the brothers did not have enough people to help them, so they simply tied them to the bed.They had bedsores of course, and other physical ailments due to their lack of care.
We have some children like these men at Daya Dan–children who never had an accurate diagnosis, so it is difficult to say exactly what is wrong with them. They are often very small, with small heads and stiff bodies(from some genetic disorder or from inactivity, it is hard to determine). Yet at Daya Dan, the children like this are assigned volunteers and so have someone interacting with them, doing physical therapy with them, talking with them, feeding them, playing with them…and the children, even though they can only make sounds or move their eyes in response, they obviously enjoy and benefit from the volunteer’s activities with them.
Here in this place, there are no volunteers–it’s so remote there is no hospital or anything nearby, so they do not let volunteers come here. These men will spend a lifetime-whatever that is for them, as they often die quite young-tied to a bed, not getting much stimulation of any kind.
The home was also in the area of Bengal absolutely ridden by malarial mosquitos(ah, awfully glad I wnet back on that anti malarial medication a few weeks back!) and the men were covered in bites.When we asked later we found out they did nothing in the way of anti malarial medication for the men or the brothers themselves.
Many of the men were not clean (the brothers did not have the staff to bathe them all daily) and many were crawling, simply crawling with lice.
This was very hard to see and to contemplate for me and for the other volunteers. We were very sad and it was hard to imagine the kids we loved so much in this place.
After this, we talked to some of the adults there who were higher-functioning and were able to speak Hindi and Bengali. From them we learned that what they missed most was that there were no volunteers to interact with them. As they had either been institutionalized their entire lives, or living in horrible conditions(several had been kept in dark sheds for several years by their families and so on, kept as street beggars, street attractions, or found practically dead in extremely horrid circumstances) they did not know how to socialize well, and it was very difficult for them to “make friends” with other patients. They did not know how. Those who had come from various M. C. charities had experienced the one on one attention of assigned volunteers, so they had learned to socialize but were used to the volunteer doing everything for them. Since they came there when they were adults, they were often very lonely.
The single exception was young man that had lived at Daya Dan until a few years ago. In a wheelchair, with one side of his body collapsed in on itself, a mishapen face, and withered limbs, I cannot exactly say what was wrong with him physically or mentally. He couldn’t speak at all it seemed, and then he began to speak in an unintelligble mumble to us.
In a moment of miracles(it seemed to us volunteers) a young tiny man at his side began to tell us what the withered wheelchair man was saying…it seemed that somehow, although these two had only met two years ago at this facility, they had instant kismet and were able to understand one another perfectly! Apparently no one knew–not even any of the workers or brothers-what the wheelchair ridden man was saying. It was complete gibberish to everyone but this young friend of his.
It was absolutely fantastic to watch them together, and it was nice to see such friendship and sweetness bloom in such a place.
Perhaps I am being too harsh on the place-I probably am-it’s just from my point of view, with what I think I know about how things should be, it’s difficult-amazing difficult-to see human beings only given the bare minimum becasue that is all there is to give.
It’s very hard for the Western mind to wrap itself around, as we have a different idea of the quality of life any person deserves, and we think that is a right, it’s a must, and that a world or a place without that level of care is in need of improvement.
One thing I had to remind myself of constantly is that if this place did not exist, the lives of these men would be complete and utter suffering. Complete and utter suffering. This place provided a place to be-a safe place, sheltered from the world and it’s misuse of them-as well as a bed, food, and hopefuly some degree of companionship.
This is the biggest lesson of India-that however I see things, that’s not actually how they look. They actually look entirely different, becasue there is alot more to the picture than whatever I am looking at.
I think that this is why..pursuing adopting Mitun is not as big of a deal to me as it might seem to other people on the outside of my experience. To me, I am looking at Mitun not only from my picture of who he is, but also from many other perspectives. And I am looking at myself exactly in the same way (while back at home, folks are stuck with whatever picture they’ve got in their heads!).
I think India does this to you–if you want it.
If you want it, India can take your life and turn it upside down and wring you out. You can cry until you’ve fot no tears left, or you can “get on with it” and do what needs to be done in that momnet-and often that requires an openess and acceptance that we only talk about in some politically correct manner back at home, but that we actually have not have to practice.
Plenty of people come here and spend the whole time socializing with other Westerners, wearing Western clothes, eating Western food, and in general walking around muttering to themselves, “What’s wrong with this place!” But to..really let India get inside of you, to go with it, that takes a sacrifice of yourself, of how you see yourself, and of your world view. And then suddenly you see something disturbing, and although your first reaction is about “what’s wrong” your mind takes you to the next place, which is the “why”, the inner workings of why the situation is as it is..and from there, you come to a place of acceptance about it, because in that moment, that’s the only option-and in fact, the best option.
But back to the afternoon…
For lunch, they made us (and the kids) special rice and chicken dishes, and even raw salad. A few volunteers opted for not eating, but those who were courageous ate with relish. I was one of them, even eating the raw salad. As we ate, enormous moquitos buzzed around and attacked our uncovered body parts, covering our ankles with nasty welts.
One new volunteer, not on malaria meds and worried suddenly about that very fact began to be very paranoid about malaria and Dengue fever.
” Too little, too late.”, I said, laughing. “If you get Dengue, you get Dengue. I’ve had it, it’s not that bad, don’t worry”, I siad, pushing another forkful of raw, probably contaminated with god knows what salad into my mouth. (That is a lie about Dengue!, a complete untruth, but what can you say to a worried 19 year old, in India for his first time? The best thing to do is change the subject..).
After lunch,Mitun and I went to the napping room, a room that was painted bright dayglow yellow with a few tiny beds and makeshift, hot pink moquito nets full of holes tied above each bed. Somehow Mitun and I managed to squeeze onto one tiny bed(along with two other boys) and he smiled and fell asleep.
I was enjoying looking at him sleeping when more boys came in to sleep, so I offered up my space on the bed and then the girls wanted me to come sleep with them on the floor–there were 8 tiny girls lined up on a single blanket on the floor–yet somehow I managed to squeeze my enormous frame in sideways.
The girls’ hair was crawling with lice.We had noticed it this morning, the lice problem at Daya Dan, and there were a few boys with lice also. The solution for it here-as in every poor country I have visited-is a daily bath, rinsing the hair with plain water, and then upon occassion or inclination, having someone else hand-pick them out.
So I didn’t really want to lie down with the girls, as I knew I’d get lice from them in such close contact. But their sweet, pleading voices took my out of my selfish and temporary concerns and I ended up having a nice nap with them.
I woke up to Sister Jonafa giving the order to wake up and get ready for the concert. Still sleepy, my head crawling with tiny bugs, I sleepily made my way to Mitun and woke him up, sending him off for a quick bath in the adjoining shower. By the time he had returned, more than half of the kids had had a bath and the room was complete chaos, a messy blur of half naked children and bright white polyester pants and skirts and sequined red sparkly vests. The room was full of Indian masseys(paid women workers) and volunteers trying to dress, powder, comb, put shoes on, and keep some semblance of order.
Right after every one got dressed, we had to line them up outside in a row. This practice has never gone over well wit the children, but those nuns persist in trying! Everyone was temporarily distracted and running around trying to catch their child they were assigned to(luckily Mitun was fabulously well behaved!) when one of the boys, Ankur, fell to the ground, in the throes of a seizure.
This boy has been having seizures for some time-more than several years-and it seems to me that they are coming more and more often and for longer duration. It is a very scary experience, watching this poor child have the seizures that he does.
Luckily, his current “buddy” volunteer had read his file recently, which included information on what to do when he has a seizure, and so she got the situation under control.
It is a difficult situation..Ankur needs some professional help, he needs to go to the doctor, and so on, to have someone make some new assessments about his worsening condition, but the solution is not that simple, as there has to be the means to implement any changes that must be made. Everything is so complicated, even what seems black and white.
At any rate, we all encouraged the sisters that Ankur not participate in the concert–that he be taken to a quiet place instead–and amazingly, the sisters complied with this(in the past, perhaps at times they still wanted him to participate in some task, not truly understanding the gravity of the situation) and so this was a small, significant victory, both for his assigned volunteer and for Ankur himself.
We all walked towards the stage the brothers had set up. Although we were all so very tired-tired from performing every other day since the start of December; tired of singing and hearing Christmas carols(I hope I never hear Jingle Bells again!); tired for the ardous journey and constant watchfulness over 40 children who need constant care(except Mitun!), once we saw the men, the patients sitting there, waiting for us..
All of my cares slipped away. We just focused on the giving, on what we had to give, and we all did the best concert we could. And the men, the patients and the brothers-oh, how they enjoyed it! They hardly get any visitors, and it was so wonderful to watch them watching us…watching themselves, really. All of our children were just like them, had the same problems they had or had had, and so they related to the kids in a way other audiences had not.
Mitun was allowed to wear his hearing aid for the concert so he could sing along(they do not let him wear it much at Day Dan except for special occassions and mass, maybe because it is expensive and other children might destroy it? Who knows, it is not for me to question at the moment)..at any rate, he was able to actually hear the music and to sing along somewhat, and he was beaming with delight.
I was sitting next to Binoy, and although being his teacher for the last three months has been exhausting(and two more months to go!) I am astonished how we make such a great team-his behavior and his social skills have improved so much that it’s very noticable. His drumming isn’t always consistent(he’s easily distracted by lights, fans, colors and so on, particially because he is autistic and particially because he is going blind) but he actually listens to my instructions and he is able to sit still, concentrating perfectly on counting from one to one hundred, sitting with hands folded, peering closely into my face,even being a perfect little gentleman during the songs he doesn’t have to drum for. Everyone comments that his behavior has really improved.
I am thinking during the concert that being Binoy’s teacher has taught me alot. Like about how to be with children, that it is important that children respect you and that they understand you have some authority over them, and that being their “friend” doesn’t always foster the best learning environment for them-especially in an institutional setting.
I actually can relate alot more to my own parents, due to my relationship with Binoy. Sometimes I used to think they were too strict, but now, with this new found experience, I am beginning to think that a certain degree of strictness is a valuable thing. It helps the child respect you.
When I arrive at work in the morning, all the children come running, hugging me, talking with me, telling me about something or other or just touching me. They have bonded with me. And I think part of this is becasue I am the only volunteer there all day, day in day out-but part of it is also that I am very strict with them if they misbehave, and I will “send them to the corner” when it is required.
I remember when I first arrived at Daya Dan, how upset I was that I would even have to “send them to the corner” and I refused to do it, trying to be their “friend” instead.Now, I rarely send anyone into the corner–sometimes all it takes is a single look from me in the mishaving child’s direction and they immediately straighten up and apologize. It’s amazing what a little follow-thru can do!
The concert’s over now, and one of the brothers gets up to speak. I’m going to tell you what he said, because I think it’s interesting and also is so far outside of Western experience..
His exact words were,” People often ask ‘What is M. C.?[MIssionaries of Charity]’And we often forget ourselves, what, exactly, is our mission here and elsewhere in the world. But our mission is very clear. It is to provide only the basics of life to those who do not have it and are in need of it. These are: simple food, simple clothing, simple shelter, and the most basic of healthcare. We focus exclusively on the neccessities of life, of living. This is our mission.
Oftentimes, we are told we are not doing enough. We are not taking care of the lives given to us as we should. We are not fulfilling other needs people have.
Yet this is not our mssion. Our misson is to provide the most basic of things–not comforts–to those who would otherwise die in the street. And that is all.”
He pauses here, and I have a moment to reflect on his words, on my thoughts throughout the day about this place, about my thinking that the brothers need to do more, do better, help more ways, meet more needs…
He continues,” And although that is all we are mandated to give, this group of children, the sisters, and the volunteers, who obviously have worked for months to make this performance what it was, for us, have inspired us. Perhaps it is not enough, what we are doing, and perhaps we can find the time, the energy, to give ourselves even more fully to this work we are doing here. Perhaps we can also teach the men to sing or to have a program for their enjoyment as well.”
The volunteers all heard this and I believe we collectively breathed in a sigh of gratitude, that all of our hard work-and the childrens’, and the sisters’-could inspire these brothers to hopefully teach these men a few songs, or maybe have a play or drama, or do something towards working on their minds, on their creativity.
It made the trip so worth it for all of us.
After the concert, the older boys were invited to go take a look at the river, which was about 200 feet from th edge of the grounds. To get there, we walked thru the grounds and had a small tour, which included looking at an old building being revamped and repainted(whose patients were housed, temporarily in an old abandoned chicken coop!) and had a deeper appreciation of the greatness of the task to which the brothers had decided to devote themselves–an endless stream of men coming to them, and them making room for whoever came their way. They were the most amazing group of men working together for what was a never ending problem, and their attitude about it was, well, joyful.
The river was beautiful. Surprisingly free of litter(although I’ve been in Calcutta, so, hey, litter is all relative. One hundred, one thousand pieces of trash on a small space of ground to me, at the moment, is a place without litter!) the river was murky and greyish brown. Apparently it silts up quite often, and boats are brought in to desilt it. Huge ships rested in it’s waters in the distance, their lights dimly visible due to what I’d like to think of as fog, but was actually pollution. The ships had to stay there until high tide, when they could leave, or they’d get stuck in the waters.
The handful of volunteers that had come out to see the river and a few of the boys from Daya Dan sat along the rock wall and breathed in, what was to us, extremely clean air.
It occured to me that the air wasn’t clean at all-in fact, it was actually quite foul-but comparatively, to Calcutta, it seemed very breathable and clean!
Occassionally groups of bicylists went by, the men riding and the women, clutching their brightly colored saris and a plastic picnic baskets on thier laps, perched on the handlebars.
The brother who tok us to the river told us that the more able bodied patients, in nice weather, sometimes were brought out here for a picnic, along the water’s edge, when the brothers could find the time. They would bring out big pots of tea and packages of biscuits and make entire afternoons of it, and the patients enjoyed it tremendously.
The brothers also owned a parcel of land across the river, and up until several years ago they used to take patients out there, across the river, on a small tiny boat, and then they’d stay at a little house they ahd built out there. Sometimes patients needed a calm place.
But it was difficult managing the patients in the boat, and about two years ago some other brothers asked if they could use the little house–and the boat–for recovering alcoholic men, and as the house was quite far from anything and everything with no alcohol to be found nearby, it had turned out to be an excellent detox center! So that was how they were using it now.
One boy, Mongol, who has a wasting away disease and is wheelchair bound, wished to go along the path along the river and I offered to take him and another boy, Sudan, who is very mentally retarded, along the path.
The brother siad the walk was easy, and if we followed the path, we would end up at the brother’s front door.
We walked along, watching ferries unloading their passengers, watching a hulking boat being built by the most rudimentary of means, watching fishermen bringing in their catch. We followed the cobblestone path until it got quite dark, anf the path became so uneven I was afraid that Mongol would fall out his chair and over the side, so I told him I would carry him.
I am very ungraceful and ungainly, I am afraid, and am always in fear of twisting my ankles, so carrying Mongol on the dark uneven path was no easy task–plus, keeping Sudan with me and keeping him pushing the empty chair was no easy task either.
I was beginning to worry that we were lost when we came upon the village, and then suddenly, the door to the brother’s facility.
I set Mongol in his chair(he is 15 years old and doesn’t want anyone to know he had to be carried) and we raced thru the gate and thru the grounds, towards the bus, whose lights we could see in the distance.
“They’re waiting for us!Hurry, hurry!”, shouted Mongol.
We arrived, breathless, and managed to get into the line of kids waiting to get on the bus without anyone realizing we’d been gone for so long.
I got on the bus, Mitun, waving wildly at me,”Where have you been?” he says, shaking his head.
Everyone settles in for what is going to be a very long ride (for some reason, it took over 3 and 1/2 hours on the bus to get home!) and Mitun and I are holding hands again, looking out the window.
We stop in the village for dinner–the kids a re very hungry and we all get eggrolls for dinner.
We don’t ask any quetions about what’s in the eggrolls, we eat them, without question, even if it means we might get sick. The eggrolls are not what I think of as egg rolls at all. They are like..an American pancake, a big one, and this pancake is wrapped around what seemed to be alot of tomato catsup, something that tastes like the pickles you find on a McDonald’s hamburger, and some sort of vegetable thing that has a rubbery, old, boiled shoe texture.
I eat it and am grateful for it.
Mitun and I finish off our eggrolls, and he takes my scarf off of me and wraps it partically around himself as the bus is drafty. He looks out the window, resting his hand on my lap, casually, and occassionally stealing glances at me.
He finally falls asleep, wrapped in my cream colored scarf, his head on my lap.
A sister, heading to the front of the bus for something or other, glances at him and I as she passes our seats.
“Now that”, she says, “is beautiful.”
Yeah. It really was. Beautiful.
gigi
