At Nava Jeevan everyone cried from time to time about the parents they had lost. Some children’s parents had abandoned them, and other parents had died. I was the only one who simply didn’t know where my family was, and no one could help me find them. But we had all lost our families in one way or another, and there was no going back from that. Now I was being offered a chance to join a new family.
Asra was already talking about her new family with joy and excitement. I don’t know that I was truly given a choice, and I’m sure some gentle persuasion would have been brought to bear had I expressed doubts about Australia or Mr. and Mrs. Brierley. But it wasn’t necessary. I knew there wasn’t much I could do if I didn’t accept this opportunity. Would I go back to the home where I was bullied? Go back to the streets and keep taking my chances? Keep searching for a train not even the adults could find?
I told the folks at the orphanage that I wanted to go to Australia.
When I agreed to join the new family, it made everyone so happy that the mood was infectious: immediately, any last reservations melted away. I was told that I’d be going to Australia very soon to meet my new parents and on a jet plane just like the one in the picture.
Asra and I were about the same age, but the others going to Australia were only toddlers or babies. I don’t know if that made what was happening more or less scary for the littler ones—how much did they understand? I was both excited and terrified, but at least Asra was coming, too, so there would be one familiar face on the trip. And the pictures in the photograph album were so enticing that our fears were calmed somewhat.
One day we were washed and dressed nicely, and some of the boys and girls were taken for a drive in separate taxis. The boys went to the house of a woman we were told to call Aunty Ula. She was a white woman from Sweden, although of course that meant nothing to me, but she welcomed us in Hindi. Her house was better than anything I’d ever seen, with rich-looking furniture, curtains, and carpet—something like the photos in my red book. We sat at a dining table and I was presented for the first time with a knife and fork and taught how to use them correctly—I’d only ever eaten with my hands before.
“Now, you don’t just get up and reach for things,” Aunty Ula said in a kind way. “We must ask for things properly and sit up straight.”
Obediently we all straightened in our seats.
“Say ‘please, may I have more rice,’” she instructed, and we repeated after her. Just the thought of being able to ask for more food with the expectation of receiving it made me happy and built up my excitement to an almost unbearable pitch. It seemed that we were about to embark on the adventure of our lives.
We didn’t receive any lessons in English, although at Nava Jeevan there was a pictorial alphabet wall chart with “A is for Apple” and so on. I think I was taught to say “Hello,” but there was no time for more than that—I was due to leave India almost immediately. I was leaving for a place I had been told was far away, at a distant end of the world. No one ever talked about my coming back, and it didn’t seem to be on anyone’s mind.
Everyone agreed I was very lucky.
So I left India only a few days after I was told about my adoption (only a couple of months after I arrived at the orphanage—which in today’s more regulated processes is pretty much unheard of—and only about six months after leaving my mother’s house in “Ginestlay”). The six of us from Nava Jeevan who were flying to Australia, including my friend Asra, were joined by two more children from a different orphanage for the journey. After a stopover in Bombay (not yet known as Mumbai), we would fly first to Singapore and on to Melbourne, where our new families would meet us. Asra’s new family lived in Victoria, and my new family, the Brierleys, was a second trip away in Tasmania, the island state about 240 kilometers south of mainland Australia.
I was sad to learn that we were saying good-bye to Mrs. Sood. Three volunteer Australian women and a man from an Australian government department would escort us on the flight. They were all very friendly, and although we couldn’t communicate much, the excitement of the journey was enough to obliterate any separation anxiety.
I was over the moon when I finally boarded that huge plane. It seemed impossible that such a thing with so many seats and so many people could fly, but I don’t remember being worried about it, only excited. We were each given a chocolate bar, an amazing luxury to me, which I carefully made last the entire journey. We talked and watched a film with headphones on. I was fascinated by the plug in the armrest and being in control of the channel and the volume. We ate everything we were given under those little foil lids. The fact that people brought food to us already seemed like the start of a new, luxurious life. I suppose we also slept.
When we arrived in Bombay, we stayed overnight in a hotel, which brought a new round of fresh amazement. It probably wasn’t any more than a regular hotel in the West, but it was the fanciest place I’d ever seen. The room smelled so fresh, and I had never slept in such a soft, clean bed. Even with the excitement of everything that was happening, I had the best sleep I’d had for months. I marveled at the bathroom, with its shiny shower and toilet. Around the hotel I saw more white people than I’d ever seen in one place, and although it’s embarrassing to admit, all I remember thinking is that they looked so rich. There was so much that was new going on around me, I don’t know if I thought about how I would soon be living with white people like them.
The next day I was given a new pair of white shorts and a “Tasmania” T-shirt, which had been sent by my new parents for me to wear on the plane to Australia. I was delighted with my outfit. Better still, we were taken to a toy shop nearby, where we were invited to choose a toy each—I guess there were limits on its extravagance, though I don’t remember being told so. I still have the little car I chose, with its pullback mechanism that launched it across the room.
I know now that flying from Calcutta to Bombay had meant passing very close to my hometown, thirty thousand feet below. The plane I was on must have left one of those vapor trails I had watched with such fascination. I wonder if my mother unknowingly looked up at the right moment and saw my plane and its streaky trail. She would have been astonished beyond belief to know I was on board.
5.
A New Life
We landed in Melbourne on the night of September 25, 1987. Our escorts led us to a VIP area of the airport, where we were told our new families would be waiting to meet us.
I felt very shy as I walked into the room. There were lots of adults, all watching us as we came in. I immediately recognized the Brierleys from the photos I had pored over in my red book. I tried to smile as I stood there, and looked down at the last bit of precious chocolate bar in my hand. (The picture on the front of this book was taken when I first walked into the room in Melbourne—you can see the chocolate in my hand.)
An escort took me across the room and the first word I said to my new parents was “Cadbury.” In India, Cadbury is synonymous with chocolate. After we hugged, Mum got straight to work being a mother and produced a tissue to clean my hand.
Because I didn’t speak much English, and my new mum and dad didn’t speak any Hindi, we couldn’t talk to each other. So we sat together and looked through the red book they’d sent me. Mum and Dad pointed out the house I would live in and the car we would use to drive there, and we began to get used to each other’s company as much as we could. I suppose, too, I must have been a difficult child to reach—cautious and reserved after everything I’d been through. You can see that from my face in the pictures—not alarmed or anxious, especially, just a bit withdrawn, waiting to see what would happen. But despite all this, straightaway I knew I was safe with the Brierleys. It was just intuition—they had a quiet, kind manner, and there was a warmth in their smiles that put me at ease.
I was also calmed by seeing Asra happily interacting with her family. She eventually left the airport with them, and I suppose we said good-bye in the cursory way children do. But my family had another
short flight to make, from Melbourne over Bass Strait to Hobart, the capital of Tasmania. So our first night together was spent in the airport hotel sharing a room.
Mum put me straight in the bath, lathering me up and dousing me to kill nits and the like. I arrived in a very different condition than most kids in Australia. In addition to the external parasites, it turned out I had an intestinal tapeworm, broken teeth, and a heart murmur (which happily didn’t last). Being poor in India took its toll on your health, and living on the streets wore you out even more.
I slept soundly that first night in Australia—clearly I was getting used to hotels. When I woke the next morning, I saw Mum and Dad were watching me from their bed, waiting for me to stir. At first I just looked out at them from under the sheets. Mum says she can still picture that morning clearly. She and Dad raised their heads from their double bed to peer across the room at the little mound of sheets in the single bed with a mop of black hair sticking out. And every now and then I would peep out at them. Afterward, when I was still small and we’d recall that first night as a family, I’d remind them, “I peeping, I peeping.”
I don’t know that any of us could quite believe it was happening— that these strangers in the room were going to be my parents, or that this boy from India was going to be their son.
After breakfast, it was back on a plane for the short flight to Hobart, where I got a first look at my new country from borders beyond the window of a hotel or airport. To eyes used to the crush and pollution of one of the most populous places on earth, it seemed so empty and so clean—the streets, the buildings, even the cars. There wasn’t a soul to be seen as dark-colored as me, but then, there was hardly anyone to see at all. It looked almost deserted.
As we drove through the unfamiliar countryside and into Hobart’s suburbs, I saw a city of gleaming palaces, including my new home. I recognized it from the red book, but it looked even bigger and more impressive in reality. Inside there were four bedrooms for only three people, each of the rooms huge and so neat. A carpeted living room, with comfortable couches and the biggest TV I’d ever seen, a bathroom with a big bath, a kitchen with shelves full of food. And a refrigerator: I loved standing in front of it just to feel the cold air come out whenever it was opened.
Best of all, though, was my bedroom. I’d never had a room to myself. Both houses I’d lived in in India were single rooms, and since then, of course, I’d been in dormitories with other children. But I don’t remember being intimidated about sleeping on my own—perhaps my time sleeping on the streets had made me used to it. I was afraid of the dark, though, and required my bedroom door to be left open and a light on in the hall.
On my own soft bed, with a big map of India on the wall above it, there were new warm clothes for the cool Tasmanian climate. I had experienced some cooler weather in India but had never had such cozy clothing. And on the floor were boxes full of picture books and toys; my favorite was my koala bear, which they gave to me on the night I arrived. It took me a little while to realize they were for me—all of them—and that I could look at them and play with them as I pleased. I felt cautious, maybe half expecting someone to come along and take them. The idea of having possessions took some getting used to. Nevertheless, for the most part adapting to the Western lifestyle seemed easy, and with Mum and Dad’s guidance, they say I settled in well.
Another thing that took some getting used to was the abundance of things to eat. I was amazed at how big their refrigerator was. Well stocked with plenty of colorful food, it was wonderful to look into the icebox and see all the delicious things inside. I learned the names of the various foods by helping my mum cook. We would exchange their names: my mum in English, with me naming things in Hindi, particularly the spices. She fed me things that would build my strength, and I grew very quickly.
At first we ate a lot of Indian food, which tasted a little different from what I was used to back home but was delicious all the same. In addition, Mum slowly introduced me to an Australian diet. There were some big differences, and not just in taste: Mum remembers I noticed her putting red meat into the refrigerator once and ran up to her crying, “Cow, cow!” For a child brought up a Hindu, to slaughter the holy animal was taboo. For a moment she didn’t know what to do, but then she smiled and said, “No, no, it’s beef.” Apparently, in the end, the delight I took in having abundant food close at hand overcame most matters of taste or culture.
I loved going to the swimming pool. The first time we went, Mum got into the water while I stood on the side wearing floaties. But I couldn’t wait, so I just jumped right in. My swimming was poor, but with Mum’s help and by copying other kids nearby, I picked it up quickly. We went every week, and soon I was able to swim on my own.
One aspect of life in Australia that immediately appealed to me was experiencing nature in the outdoors. In India, I was always in a town or city—often free to roam but nevertheless surrounded by buildings and roads and people. In Hobart, my parents were very active, taking me to play golf, camp, hike, and sail. Dad often took me out on his two-man catamaran, which built upon my curiosity and love for the water, and allowed me to truly improve upon my swimming skills. Just being able to look out at the horizon gave me peace of mind. India was so choked with development, you often couldn’t see anything but the press of buildings around you—it was like being in a giant maze. Some people find the bustle of busy cities exciting and energizing, but you see a different side of them if you’re begging or trying to make people stop and listen to you. So once I got used to it, I found the open spaces in Hobart reassuring.
We lived in the suburb of Tranmere, across the river from central Hobart, and after about a month I started school in the next suburb, Howrah. Only years later did I realize an incredible coincidence. A couple of months before I arrived in Australia, I’d been surviving on the streets of Calcutta in an area also named Howrah, which gives its name to the city’s huge railway station and famous bridge. The Hobart version is a pretty beachside suburb, with schools, sports clubs, and a large shopping center. It was apparently named in the 1830s by an English army officer who had served in the West Bengal capital and upon coming to live in Hobart had seen something similar in the look of the hills and the river. If there was any resemblance then, it’s lost now.
I loved school. I used to say to Mum and Dad after I came home, “I’m learning like magic!” Since there is no free education in India, I probably never would have made it to school without coming to the Tasmanian Howrah. Like the rest of the community, it was quite an Anglo-Saxon place, although there were a couple of kids from other countries. I had extra English lessons with another student from India and one from China. After two months, the school year ended, and the following fall I began grade one.
Although I’d become quite used to the change of color and culture around me, I still stood out to everyone else, especially since I have white parents. Other kids talked about their families and how they came from the country or from Melbourne, and they would ask me where I was from, but all I could say was “I’m from India.” But kids are curious—they wanted to know why I was here in a white family. Mum defused a lot of this by attending a parent- student day and telling the class about my adoption. It seemed to satisfy my peers, and they didn’t ask much after that.
I don’t remember any racism at school. Mum, however, tells me there were some things said that I didn’t understand properly. Perhaps that was an advantage in having to master the local language from scratch. Apparently I once asked her, “What’s a ‘black basket’?” which upset her. She chose not to explain that someone had called me a “black bastard.”
Another time, my dad and I were lining up to register me for a sports team. The woman in front of us glanced back and then said in a low voice to the coach, “I don’t want my son on the same team as that black boy.”
We just ignored it, signed up for the team roster, and left. I don’t mean to make light of comments like that, but in comparison with the exp
eriences I’ve heard from other non-Anglos, I don’t think I had it too bad, and I’ve always felt that I grew up without any scars from racism.
That might not have been true for Mum and Dad. I’m told we did attract some negative attention at the local Indian Cultural Society, which conducted dinners and dances. There was quite a large Indian community in Hobart, from Fiji and South Africa as well as from India, and for a time we went along and enjoyed the society’s events. But my parents came to notice that we were treated a little suspiciously, and determined that it was considered somehow wrong for an Indian child to be taken from India by white parents. Needless to say, I was oblivious to this.
Another organization we were involved in was ASIAC, the Australian Society for Intercountry Aid (Children), which helped people adopt from overseas. Mum became very active, helping other Australian families with the constantly changing processes as well as the personal challenges. Through that organization, I met other children who’d come to Australia from elsewhere and now lived in mixed-race families. Mum tells me that at our first ASIAC picnic I seemed surprised—and perhaps a little put out—to discover I wasn’t the only “special one” in Hobart. Yet I made friends, one of whom was Ravi, another Indian boy who lived with his new family in Launceston, and our families visited each other often during those early years.
ASIAC also put me back in touch with some of the other kids from Nava Jeevan. My closest friend, Asra, had ended up with a family in the riverside Victorian town of Winchelsea, and our families had kept us in phone contact. A year after I arrived, all of us met up at a zoo in Melbourne with the two other kids from the orphanage who had been adopted into Australia, Abdul and Musa. I was overjoyed to see familiar faces, and we all busily compared notes on our new lives, measuring them against our time in the orphanage together. Although it hadn’t been a terrible place, I don’t think any of us wished ourselves back there. We didn’t talk about our past lives in India, but it seemed to me that each of them was as happy in their new homes as I was.
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