Reflections on India, One Year Later, Friday

I hear you quietly opening your door. You may be ready to be done napping; but I am not. I hear you tromp down the stairs, and I pretend to still be asleep on the couch because I know what you will do next if you think I’m asleep. I feel your nose pressed against my face as you whisper “cuddle with you now Mommy?” I look sideways at you through barely open eyes, and I see you smiling expectant face. I scoot over, pat the side of the couch with my hand and open my arm for you to climb in. You lay your head on my chest and wrap your fingers tightly around one of mine. I can feel your steady breathing as I hold your tiny body. And I begin to remember.

I remember when Father Francis said “Oh….Ovi is coming now.” We had been talking about the election in the United States, how hopeful he was that our new president would do more in regards to the nuclear issue between India and Pakistan. He stopped very abruptly, because he heard you coming ceremoniously down the stairs.

I caught my breath. My tears started. I had waited so long to meet you. I had been “talking to you” for 18 months now—even before I knew your name or how old you were—and finally, finally you would hear my voice, and I would hear yours.

You came into that small office with your own little entourage. You were so beautiful. You were wearing the green dress I had sent you as soon as I was allowed to send presents. You had a bindi on your forehead in honor of the special occasion. You had little blue corduroy shoes on. You were carrying the photo album I had sent you, and a little orange ball—presumably a favorite toy you were taking with you from the orphanage—something for you to retain from the early part of your life.

I could see you were scared. Father Francis told you to come and see your parents. You threw the ball and the photo album and ran crying into a corner. Jen—our wonderful social worker—had told us to expect this. I was prepared for it. And I understood it. So many times I had imagined how different this all was from your perspective than it was from mine. For you, we were ripping you away from everything you’d ever known; for me, I was birthing a new daughter in my heart.

Your caretakers went quickly to you and spoke softly to you, wiping your tears away. Father Francis told us it was best to just take you and go—the faster the separation, the better. Minal handed you to your new daddy. Someone handed me your ball and your photo album. The women cried and kissed you, then clasped my hands and told me that you ate bananas with a spoon. That you didn’t like milk. That you were a good sleeper. That you liked your hair in pigtails. That you were used to having a nap around 10:30 in the morning. That you were a sweet girl. I thanked them for loving you and taking care of you. They thanked me for loving you and coming to get you.

I was surprised by how quickly you settled down in the car. Less than five minutes and you had stopped crying. Daddy played a “hide the ball” game with you. You even almost smiled once. I saw it starting to form on your lips, and I saw you quickly pull it back. It would be a couple days still before you allowed yourself to smile with us.

As we walked through the streets—a beautiful part of India—making photocopies, getting your visa picture taken, buying groceries, you sat still and quiet in Daddy’s arms. I remember the brave look on your face. I remember how wobbly you seemed; like you didn’t know how to lean in to him and be held. I carried you for awhile on those streets. You weighed next to nothing. And as I had observed, you did not know how to lean in and be held—not like now.

Now, you are cuddled up on the couch in my arms, holding on tight with both of your still tiny hands as you smile and hum softly. And I begin to remember.