tend your garden

Early morning, before my eyes have adjusted to the light and the hot milk chai is cool enough to drink the girls creep into the courtyard, an area forbidden to them, to watch me take breakfast. I hear them whispering, and as I peek out through green plastic curtains and make a face they burst into suppressed giggles. All except one, who frowns and holds up four little ashen fingers. Only a few days she says softly, and I run across the square and lift her up in my arms and spin her slowly, telling her, "but how many hugs we can share in four full days," fighting back the tears that slip into my eyes, trying to be brave, for her, for me.
There is an expression in the Pashto language, You are not a man until you give your love truly and freely to a child. And you are not a good man until you earn the love, truly and freely, of a child in return. I'm falling in love with these children, one by one, learning their names, they're ticklish spots, their favorite ways to be held and swung and danced with. Not all of them, arbitrarily, but certain ones. I worry they've become too attached to me, and I find myself fantasizing about staying, or worse asking them to run away with me, showing them how to build sand castles and search for sea shells. They know I'm leaving. The girls at the orphanage say goodbye every time I walk out of a room. I just hope they realize it has nothing to do with them. They've been abandoned their whole lives. They will forever feel unwanted, and now I'll be another ghost, a person who passed in and out of their hearts. Is it better to have loved and lost? Did anyone ever ask a child that? I find myself whispering "I love you, over and over," into the tiniest ear. I have to stop myself. But now, looking back, I wonder if she's ever heard these words before. She is six, but the size of a two year old, the one who came to the sisters crawling like a chimp. I want to repeat these words over and over until she understands what they mean.
Some compete viciously for my attention, clawing at each other's hands and hair. Everyone wants to be wanted. Maybe that's why I've fallen so hard. I need their love just as badly. But still, it’s frightening to see so much anger, so much jealousy, so much emptiness in such small hearts.
It's time to move on. I'm running out of material, patience and restraint. At school, the children take advantage of me. I've come to realize that violence is self perpetuating. The class gets out of control and no amount of yelling and clapping will stop it. Another teacher always comes in to beat the students, and I have to turn away, feeling inadequate for my inability to discipline without a stick. But I think it's the stick that causes the chaos. As long as it’s absent, the children have no boundaries. Other methods don't work because punishment is the most immediate and efficient means of control.
I've become frustrated with the absolute austerity of control here, in India and in the convent. Children live in fear. From preschool on they are driven to succeed, not by their own choice and desire but by the stick. Even the youngest ones live in angst, to the point of teachers confessing that they don't want to tell parents how their five-year-olds are performing. The chellis I live with are afraid to break the rules in any way. I understand the importance of structure, of school, of goals. But these are kids. I brought the girls temporary tattoos, expecting pure rapture, but instead every one worried about the beating that might follow should they be discovered. The next morning, one girl's skin was rubbed raw. I asked what happened, if she'd gotten into trouble. No, she replied. Sister said it causes skin cancer. I told her that was a lie. Flat out. I know I'm going beyond my boundaries but so are they.
At first I was content with silent acquiescence, but that has never been my way, only theirs. I'm trying to find a compromise between teaching my classes what I believe is true and right and empowering and allowing them to live with the socially accepted modes of behavior, within webs of manipulation and domination--by their parents, spouses, teachers, and their sisters. I feel like I'm being monitored, censored. I discuss with the students primary differences a between American and Indian cultures: food, language, dress, appearance, religion, appearance. I tell them that in America wives and husbands have equal opportunities and equal power. I teach them that we fought hard for these rights; I talk about the Women's Liberation Movement (without the burnt bras). The boys aren't really paying attention, but one girl replies that this inequality, this disparity, is what makes India a developing country, even with all the drive and technology its people possess. I'm not trying to start a revolution but a little dissent could be quite progressive. Still maybe it’s best that I sow the seeds and let the fruit ripen on its own, in my absence, like the first missionaries did with mustard.

day in the life

I awoke from deep incoherent slumber to pitch black and creaks of old plumbing and aching bones. Took chai and watched the girls doing their morning chores, offering assistance they only giggled at. I asked if I could join them for yoga (I'd seen it on the schedule) only to find they trickled into the empty room and stared at me as I stretched, finally mimicking my movements. I led them through a few sun salutations and warrior series, and they particularly enjoyed the tree pose, toppling over with laughter. (I had to resist the urge to hollar timber so as not to disturb the sisters' morning prayers.) Next I observed mass, my first since childhood, listening to the sweet voices of my little sisters and wondering at the strange practices of the priest and his assistants. I chose not to consume the body of Jesus, as I was never baptised and heard that is immediate cause for eternal damnation.

A quick breakfast and it was off to my first day of class, as a teacher this time. Rocky start as I tried a name game involving alliteration and grammar with kindergardeners who also knew all the songs I had prepared to teach. The next class was no better, for they were so small they barely understood what I said and after explaining duck duck goose found myself being chased in circles by the entire class. The following two went much smoother, and I hit a home run with "head, shoulders, knees and toes" and "row your boat" though I don't think we'll be making rounds anytime soon. I fell in love with two girls from the orphanage who clung to me like chimps and resembled them even more as they plucked the lice from eachothers' hair. Their clothes were stained, pinned together and in tatters, and their faces were covered with scars and snot, but they smiled sweetly and wrestled over who got to hold my hand. I tried to have snack with them but apparently the tree the kids sit under drops poisonous catterpillars that can cause your skin to swell.

Home for lunch, Sister Alice gave me a bouqet of three roses, pointing to each in turn and chanting "We love you". Over lunch she told me about the issues they're having in acquiring land, and I confessed to her how frustrating it was for me to come home to such affluence after a simple summer. I indicated that if I could only get three women in Beverly Hills to sell their purses we would have enough money to by space for a new orphanage. She replied, "God gave us all everything, to share" and shook her head at how unevenly the wealth had been distributed. After school a walk into the hills brought me to the other side of the mountain, with a full view of Hyderabad. I was surrounded by the reality I came here for: a woman feeding her goat rubble, one spanking her child with one hand and shoveling cement with the other, and a family with a yellow swollen baby who begged me to take their photograph. Skeleton buildings flourished with plumeria and housed families of butterflies. A few turns later I found myself lost in a slum. The road turned to dirt, the structures to shelters. People gathered in clusters to watch me pass and held out hardened hands. No one spoke English or knew my way home. Luckily I happened upon a rickshaw and payed him tripple fair to take me back to my sanctuary(which amounted to one dollar).

After I'd rested and took more chai the sisters escorted me to the bazaar to get me some new clothes (which is probably a kind way of them indicating that my sheer shirt was inappropriate for the Father's visit tomorrow). A thin alley offered all the wonders of the world, much like Ariel's cave of gadgets and gismos a-plenty. Sinister villans and beggers lurked in dark corners, but I had a guardian angel on each shoulder. It was tricky to try things on over what I was wearing but amazing to watch Sister Alice haggle, waggling her finger at men and demanding they "Give a fair price! You wouldn't cheat a nun." I got the full makeover, and the next morning the girls would look at me like a movie star. Traffic back was deadly and fumes of exaust seared my eye sockets. Happy to return home I had little time before we went to a nearby house to give a Rosary prayer, which included 50 Hail Mary's, several readings, and hymns in Telugu. The soft cadence resembled a lullaby; it lulled me almost to sleep. Afterwards we feasted, and I ate with my fingers the home-cooked delicacies. All I wanted was a bath bucket before bed but the water seems to have run out, which means it's time to call it a night and wake someone else up with the leaky pipes come sunrise.