initial impressions

I walk through the terminal doors into a blast of humid Indian night and immediately spot three beautiful women dressed in all starched white with smiles upon their faces and my name in their hands. As they embrace me and welcome me to their country I know that I have arrived. I am home.

They help me carry the baggage that has been such a burden for the day long journey and we shuffle into a car. Sister Alice, the eldest one with white whisps of hair creeping out from under her habit, touches my arm tenderly while she explains sights we pass: the rickshaws that were once their only means of transportation and the lorries for luggage that read PLEASE SOUND HORN PLEASE on their rear bumper. Honking (along with the head waggle) seems to be the primary method of communication, replacing stop signs, speed limits and lights. My first encounter with India had been smog, a grey brown soot settled across the sky into which I descended. It wasn't until we'd nearly landed that I could make out buildings--urban sprawl scattered across the surface below an enormous glowing ember sun that left amber cream in its wake. Now, driving through the city, I understand the source of the pollution: production and destruction. The air is sour sweet like milk on the cusp of turning, with undertones of smoke from cinders burning into ash along the street. It is filled with noise at all times: horns blaring, dogs barking, dripping facets, spinning fans, soft voices, loud cries.

The sisters have such kindness and love that you can see it pour out from their dark deep eyes and they wait upon me like the children they watch. A note in the kitchen reads "A Hearty Welcome Dearest Emma". The food is delicious but foreign and my body is reeling like a reversed magnet at the change in time, climate, and conditions. I carry myself with a grateful propriety at all times, smiling at everyone I pass and careful of what I say. I was discussing religion with Alice, that my mother is Hindu and my father Buddhist though both were raised Christian, and she commented, "how sad."

Even all the warmth of my new home doesn't compare to that which radiates from every child as I enter my first classroom. Their faces come to life with excitement and joy. I cannot help but grin back, meeting the eyes of individuals who wriggle with pride at my attention. They run to the front and clasp my hands in their tiny fingers, shaking them quickly and greeting me in a mob. Many ask for autographs, notes and drawings. While the school is structured, and it must be to accomodate 4,200 students in such a small space, my role remains undefined. I am told I can do whatever I want when I ask whether there is a specific class for me to teach or if I should share my time with many. I am nervous of what tomorrow will bring with nothing prepared but a list of songs. But I know that my mere presence in these children's lives makes a difference. I will bring them new experience, help them with pronunciation and show them the world that exists beyond their own. A world they can aspire to reach with enough determination and courage. Especially the nine girls that live with me. They call me acca, which means eldest sister. They swarm like bees as I try to teach origami, asking questions all at once. I brought small gifts and instructed each to take one, but within minutes all were gone, and they seemed confused when I asked where the extras were. I didn't have the heart to make them return anything. They have so little, and I have been given so much. At the sight of construction paper and markers they become overcome by delight and run around the room. But the eldest settles them, and I when I return moments later they are seated in desks, hands clasped in front, awaiting what new adventures will follow. I feel just the same as my sisters.

That night my orphaned sisters prayed for me, though I can't imagine what they wished for.