It was a Global Day (Mumbai, 10/7)

Elephanta Island. The Sisters of Charity Orphanage (Ashadaan). The Bollywood film.

The Orphanage:

You can get used to a child's head resting on your shoulder.

The children were just finishing up a birthday party when we came. The music resonated through out the room and their chocolate-smeared hands clutched empty candy wrappers and packets of stickers. They were laughing, playing, and one-by-one eagerly invited us to join their games. After weaving through the smiling faces, being dragged here and there (most likely to places we weren't supposed to go. oops), making animal sounds-galore, and swinging children around so they could jump to the sky, I found her.

Like many of the children who were mentally and/or physically handicapped, so was she. I didn't realize until I picked her up but (oh, how do I say it?) she had only one arm and no legs. I would be lying if I said it didn't phase me for a second. She knew a little English and was assertive with her pointed finger. I was instantly under her command and we willingly went where ever she wanted. We ventured outside, wandered the premises, and played London Bridges Falling Down with the other children. After about 30 minutes of carrying her and participating in such activities, my arms started to ache. But to put her down? That meant putting her back in her crib. It meant doing something you just do not do. So I tightened my grasp and she followed suit. Her gentle arm clung to my neck and her soft lips pecked my cheek. I continued to twirl and dance. I hummed in her ear and we swayed to the fading laughs and the nurturing breeze.

Dinnertime came and I followed the supervisors leading gestures. I grabbed a plate of the rice-porridge concoction and a spoon and plopped down on the floor with her resting on my lap. In the pool of other children, I began feeding her. She obliged willingly but soon her keen mind found other tasks to pursue. She found an empty spoon and other mouths in need. She found thirsty children by making the sign, a tight fist and a protruding thumb. Again, her dynamic personality surprised me. I fed her while she scolded the children that didn't finish their food.

The nuns and helpers indicated it was time to go with their mops, buckets, and bolted doors. But how do you even talk about leaving? All I have is her pleading and questioning face looking up at me. Oh, how unfamilar she became. But she knew the schedule. And although I was the one leaving her, she left without complaint.

Her name was Maraht. Or was it Naraht? Like all foreign sounds, her name slipped all too easily from my mind. But I walk down the streets and lay in my bed, and still I feel her weight. Her frumpy little body fit so perfectly in arms.