by Asha Miro
Friday, November 1, 1974
The last few days have been turned upside down by our visits to the doctor. As we did with your sister, we asked them to give you a complete checkup. And, just as in the case of Fatima, the doctor was alarmed to see what sort of a state you were in. He repeated almost word for word the same thing: “This girl is not the weight nor the height she ought to be for someone of her age. She also has a considerable case of anemia, and in these circumstances it is difficult to be sure that she will grow normally and that other aspects of her development will not be affected ….” My girl, the truth is that you really are skinny … you weigh sixteen kilos and you are one meter twelve in height. I was alarmed about Fatima because all the doctors came to the conclusion that she would not make it …. I would like them to see her now that she has learned to walk. This is why I am not too worried about you; I feel sure that you will recover very soon.
Tomorrow is Fatima’s birthday. It will be an important moment for all of us. It is her first birthday at home. Up until now we have simply celebrated our “first moments.” With you we have had your first day at home, first bath, first night, first tears. Tomorrow we shall celebrate your sister’s second birthday. It is now almost six months since she arrived and it seems to have gone by very quickly. Everything is so intense!…
I am sorry I don’t know more about your former lives; I know so little that I feel embarrassed when we visit the doctor. They ask me questions about you which I can’t answer. When you are grown up the two of you will also ask me questions and I won’t be able to answer you either. I am giving you this account so that the small details I write down can help to make up for the time that we have been separated. As a mother, I suppose the fact of knowing your children’s past puts your mind at rest to some extent when facing the future.
8.
THE REAR ENTRANCE
There are no classes today at Andheri. The schoolyard has been decorated with flowers and banners to celebrate India’s day of independence. For days the boys and girls, with the help of the teachers and the volunteers, have been busy preparing their activities for today. First, the children sing the national anthem, just as they do every day, but with more intensity. Then there are the dances, and the oldest ones perform a piece of theater recreating the most important moment in the life of Gandhi. The smaller children look on, entranced, their eyes wide with amazement.
When they start to hand out the drinks and sweets, Núria, Gabriela, and I greet the teachers and the headmaster with a traditional namaste. It is a simple gesture, heavy with significance. With the hands brought together as though in prayer, you give yourself to the other person in all humility.
We take advantage of our day off to finally do some sightseeing. We take the train from Andheri station to the Gate of India. If the buses are normally packed, the trains are so full you can’t get in edgewise. The wagons are crammed with people pushing and shoving, stuffed with bundles and packages, and with people hanging off the front, shouting at every stop. A little squashed, we manage, nevertheless, to arrive at the legendary Gate of India, which dominates the port of Bombay. In the harbor, the dirty gray turbulent sea rises into a mass of heavy clouds about to burst. Plastic kites provide little dots of color. Everyone, from the children to the old people, is busy flying them higher and higher. There are so many that we remain there, mesmerized by the endless swirls they carve in the sky. All three of us end up with cricks in our necks from looking upward for so long.
After standing for a good while in a queue as chaotic as the traffic in the port, we board a boat to take us to Elephant Island. During the crossing, the breeze does not manage to alleviate the stifling humidity, which makes my trousers stick to my thighs and to the wooden seat. I have the feeling we haven’t chosen the best day to go on a tourist trip. It would be worthwhile buying a postcard because photos would all have the gray background of the sea and the sky, and with the boat tossing so much none of them would be in focus.
On top of everything else, it starts to rain in earnest. We disembark after an hour and take refuge in the caves on the island. It was the Portuguese who named the island after the huge sculpture that awaits when you disembark. Naturally, it represents an elephant. The island’s main attraction is the four temples cut into the rock. There are reliefs on the walls of the caves where you can make out outlines of divinities including Shiva, Parvati, and Ganesh. We walk along, following the images, marveling at the beauty hidden within the stone.
It has stopped raining and a pallid sun allows us to see an island luxuriant in every shade of green. Avoiding the temptation of the stalls selling necklaces and shells, we return to the boat, but as we are waiting I still manage to fall for some stone elephant souvenirs. Each elephant contains another, smaller elephant inside it, as a symbol of fertility.
After lunch we lose ourselves in the streets and alleys. I watch the people pass us by. The streets are full of enormous film posters that I realize are hand-painted. The men, standing high up on scaffolds, work with careful brushstrokes. This image, and that of the women who work as building laborers, pushing bricks in a wheelbarrow, strike me. My Western eyes have never seen such things before. And then there are all the trades being practiced out in the open street: the man who writes letters for those who can’t, the dentist, the barber, the shoemaker. I try not to let any of the details escape me. This could have been my life.
A bowed old man comes up to offer me a drum. It is very expensive, but it is lovely. Four streets farther on he is still following me because he has seen the look in my eyes and knows I have fallen for it. Faced with such insistence, I start to bargain, and despite my lack of talent for such things I manage to pay the amount I want to. The price includes a detailed explanation of how to play it and how to fix the leather strips it hangs from. This way I can take it wherever I go. Most important, the old man insists, to the festivals dedicated to Ganesh.
Finally, we stop for coffee and decide to do something different: we approach the Taj Mahal Hotel, probably the most luxurious in Bombay. I have to confess that since I arrived I have been thinking of coming here, but something stopped me. And now I am here. I find myself unable to move in front of the main door. For a moment I can neither go forward nor backward.
The Taj Mahal is where I used to come so often with Mother Adelina to collect leftovers from the restaurant, but obviously we didn’t go in through the front door. We used to enter through the rear doors, one that led straight into the kitchens. That way you couldn’t see the carpets, the vases, the furniture, the gilt fittings, the moldings on the wall. All I saw was the enormous kitchen where they were preparing all kinds of creatures (chicken and lamb were such exotic sights to me) that I could not believe anyone was actually going to eat. A kitchen hand would help Mother Adelina load the packages into the taxi while I was usually treated to a piece of cake or some tidbit.
That is the route I should like to repeat. To go in through the kitchen entrance and go no farther. Instead, I have to use the main entrance. That destitute little Indian girl has been left behind and now when I arrive at the hotel I am just another European. Without intending to, I seem to attract attention too often, so the last thing I need to do is start asking to use the service entrance. I would have too much explaining to do.
Once in the cafeteria, being served tea and coffee in fine porcelain, we sit and write postcards. Settled comfortably in my chair, I try to imagine how to get to the kitchens and the bustle of cooks, dishwashers, pastry chefs …. Perhaps there might still be someone working there, in an impeccable white uniform, who used to give me the odd piece of cake as a treat. Perhaps it might be possible to jog someone’s memory. But I know it’s not.
I came to India to reconstruct my past, but I realize that this doesn’t mean having to retrace my footsteps in an obsessive manner. I also came here to be a volunteer. I came to learn, and I don’t want to be completely absorbed in myself.
The luxury of the hotel is so dispro
portionate; it makes me feel ill to see such a concentration of ostentation and superficiality. The real Bombay is on the other side of the street. This is like a bubble into which the hum of real life does not penetrate.
Seeing the people who are lodged at the Taj Mahal makes me think that many of them come here only to take everything that India offers them, marvelous sights, great temples and palaces, a little exoticism, but without letting it get too close. Many of them would be so taken aback by what they would see that they are probably better off spending their holidays sealed up inside these walls, with their air conditioning, not having to tread on anything but these sumptuous carpets.
We carry on with our stroll and I stop at one of the street stalls to buy a flute for charming snakes, and a violin. The flute has two pipes. At first I can’t get a sound out of it, but with a little persistence I might manage to produce a note or two. Whenever I travel I find myself drawn to musical instruments, and I have been slowly building up a little treasure trove. From time to time, during the music classes I give in Barcelona, I bring in one of these instruments to transport us to other countries, other music, other cultures. The flute would be a good excuse to tell the class the story of the snake charmer that my mother used to read to me when I was little.
Music has always played an important role at home. Dad is an organist and a composer and Mom plays the violin. Shortly after I arrived in Barcelona they sat me on the stool in front of the piano, and, without realizing it, I found myself in that world quite naturally. At the same time, it was not easy because the learning process was difficult. It requires a great deal of dedication and the results only make themselves apparent in the long term. It’s especially trying when your friends are going out and you must stay home, stuck in front of the piano for five or six hours a day. Persistence has its own rewards, however, and bit by bit I grew stronger until I managed to get into the conservatory, which has become my second home.
Loaded down with the drum, the flute, and the violin, I must resemble a walking one-woman orchestra. Together, we walk to catch the train home and we are all in a good mood, laughing and joking, though nothing distracts my attention from the features of the men and women who cross our path. I am looking for any possible indication that one of them could be one of my parents, to whom I owe this body now wandering around Bombay and, I suppose, something more. I see them in every face. It is instinctive and I can’t help myself, even though I don’t actually know what I am looking for. But all of this is mere speculation. The only faces I can really see with any clarity are those of my parents who wait for me in Barcelona just as they waited twenty years ago.
Tuesday, November 5, 1974
Dearest Asha, the days are flying by. We took you to school today for the first time. Long before you arrived here we spoke to the headmistress, Mrs. Bofill, and she told us that there would be no problems, but that they would like to see you before you joined the school. And so that is what we have done. We went all the way to Sarrià and we went in together to what will soon be your new school. You seemed very put out by it. Thankfully you didn’t start crying. How can I make you understand how important it is that you go to school?
We arrived during the break and when you saw all the children running into the playground, jumping and screaming, you grabbed hold of my hand fiercely and looked terrified. You must have thought it was a boarding school and you must have been afraid that we were going to leave you there. You don’t have to worry, my child, I will never abandon you, only for those brief periods when it is necessary so that you can grow like any other child.
Mrs. Bofill said hello to you and that seemed to calm you down a little bit. She suggested that we start as soon as possible, which means that tomorrow I am going to leave you there. For the moment it will only be for the mornings because it will take time to build up your confidence.
Wednesday, November 6, 1974
Like all parents, we have now gone through the painful experience of leaving you at school for the first time. Well, actually, it was your father who went through it because he was the one who went with you. I stayed at home to look after your little sister. I thought about you all morning. I was worried about how you would manage, how you would be able to get along with your schoolmates as you still can’t speak a word of Catalan, how you would be able to understand the teacher …. Your father told me that you were crying. But at midday, when he went back to pick you up, the teacher told him you got over it very quickly and that you managed to play and draw along with the other children. When you got home you threw yourself into my arms just as you did the first day you arrived.
Before going to bed I remember that you will be seven tomorrow. I know you don’t understand me, but everything is on the right track. Now you are going to school and that means I shall have a little more time to get everything done.
Thursday, November 7, 1974
Last night, my darling girl, after saying good night, you slept uneasily and you woke up several times. The first days at school must have really disturbed you because recently you have been sleeping all through the night. Since we didn’t know how to calm you down we found ourselves celebrating your birthday early in the morning. You have grown, Asha, and I hope I have the strength to be with you for many years to come, to see you grow healthy and happy. Today I thought about your parents, just as I did on the day of your sister’s birthday; the parents who gave you your body, your smile, your brown skin. If they could just see you for a moment … they would be so happy to see that you are well. At times I wonder who you look like: your mother’s face, your father’s eyes, your funny little nose. When you are grown up you will no doubt wonder where your features come from, your body, you will search for explanations for what you have inherited ….
To your father and me, the date of your birthday will always be October 27, the day you arrived in Barcelona and were born to us.
As you can imagine, it was a very agitated start to the day. After your shower you got dressed to go to school. Today, your schoolbag is filled with sweets. You were radiant and you understood that all the sweets are meant for sharing with your class.
In the afternoon we had a little party at home with the family and the neighbors in the building. On the day of Fatima’s birthday you saw how the candles on the cake were meant to be blown out and so you had to blow your own out, all by yourself. Another first in your life.
You didn’t want to have supper today and this time I let you off. You went straight to bed, and no sooner had you climbed in between the sheets than you went out like a light.
9.
AN OBJECT OF ATTENTION
Tomorrow it will be three weeks since I arrived in Bombay. It seems a lot longer. The days are divided among the school, life at home with the family, visits to the women’s cooperative, and, between one thing and another, walks through this chaotic city. The noisy racket of the crowded streets leaves me almost unable to hear myself think. All my senses overflow with the images, smells, colors, music. I pause for a moment in the middle of a street and I have a whole world around me: women busy with their bundles, a rickshaw cutting its way through the crowd, a child carrying a huge bunch of bananas on his head, a man rushing by on a bicycle, someone with a tray of tea cups.
I also see an infinite number of eyes staring at me.
In Barcelona, I look different because of the color of my skin, my hair, my features, but because I have lived there and am now used to it, I don’t notice if people are staring at me or not. As I was growing up, being different became a part of me. But now it turns out that people stare at me even here. They look at me, perplexed. We have the same skin and the same physical traits, but it is apparent that I don’t really belong here. There are people who stop me on the street to ask for directions to a street or a shop and they are taken aback when they realize that I don’t understand what they are saying. They must wonder: Where did this one come from that she doesn’t understand Marathi?
Aside from all t
hese feelings of unease there is another question I feel obliged to resolve. Which caste do I belong to? Yes, I know the caste system has been abolished, but in practice it still applies, determining what jobs people can have, how they form personal relationships, and, above all, whom they marry. Not knowing where I fit in means that I might address myself to someone I am not permitted to, or simply make a complete fool of myself. This is what happened when I spoke to some of the Indian girls working for the organization collaborating with Setem. I asked them to tell me which caste I was. To begin with, they couldn’t stop laughing.
For all my efforts not to be out of step, to get by in the most discreet possible way and without bothering anyone, I now appear to have really put my foot in it, and I am not sure what I have done. When they finally manage to stop laughing, they tell me that I don’t belong to any caste because I am not Indian. “But I am,” I say. “I was born here and lived part of my childhood here. I only want to know so that I can behave properly.” How naïve!
In a more serious tone they tell me that there is nothing left about me that is Indian: “You have dark skin, sure, and black eyes and hair, and your nose and mouth are like ours, but your demeanor has been Westernized. The only thing we have in common is our physical appearance, if that. You don’t walk like an Indian, you don’t look about you like an Indian, your gestures and movements are not Indian. We see you as just another European, so you don’t need to worry about knowing where you belong.”