Daughter of the Ganges

by Asha Miro

  I must have been very ingenuous, because I really wasn’t expecting that answer. It’s one thing to notice that they look at me and treat me in a strange way, as though they don’t really know if I belong here or which planet I come from, or they don’t know what to make of me, but it is quite disappointing to be flat-out told that I have nothing to do with this place. It is painful to feel that I have lost everything.

  Before coming here, I always thought that once I set foot in this country I would be moved by a patriotic sentiment and would feel as Indian as anybody. It hasn’t really been anything like that, because even if I do recognize myself in a lot of the things I see here, other things make me feel deeply indignant. Anyway, I suppose that I am the one who has to find my place and perhaps admit that I don’t completely belong anywhere, but rather a little of everywhere.

  I continue on my walks through this chaotic city and the eyes of the people that I pass fix on me, again and again. Everywhere I go I feel as though I am going through a series of X-ray machines. I wear the salwar kameez and the hair that Kamal has done for me before leaving the house, all to try to adapt to my surroundings, but I can’t control my demeanor. I also encounter smiles of recognition. As always, everything is mixed up together, the pain and the joy, acceptance and rejection. In any case, the curious thing is that, for good or bad, no experience leaves me indifferent. As I learn the truth about myself, the pieces that make up who I am as a person seem to fall into place.

  My first days in Barcelona consisted of trying to familiarize myself with my new surroundings. The first thing was to go shopping with my mother to buy warm clothes, because what I had brought with me from India, despite having been bought specially, was of little use as winter drew on. As for jumpers, skirts, and trousers, I was happy to try them on, but when it came to shoes, that was quite another story. I could tolerate wearing them on the street, but the moment we returned home they would go flying in different directions. What a real drama it was to get me to sit down at the table to eat. I hated all of it, because I was accustomed to an unvaried diet of rice, lentils, and a few vegetables. My parents were worried because they could see that I was very thin and wanted to feed me as best they could, but there was no way of persuading me. Despite the odd episode, my adaptation actually went very quickly and smoothly. Within a week I was going to school. Since I did not know how to read or write, and certainly could not speak Catalan, at the age of seven I was put into a class of five-year-olds. I was queen bee because I could do all the manual tasks and drawings much better than they. The first drawing I did was hung up in the hall and all the boys and girls went to have a look. That little detail and many others like it made me feel loved and well received. As I started after term had begun, my arrival, added to the fact that I was Indian, caused quite a stir.

  Without much effort I found myself speaking Catalan within three months. It is quite wonderful to think of how easy it is for children to learn a language. And I wasn’t the only person who had to learn a new language. Mom is from Zamora, in the central Spanish region of Castilla, and she came to live in Barcelona when she was five. She had always spoken Spanish, with Dad, too. But just before I arrived, the two of them decided to make Catalan the language spoken in the house, since all teaching in the Barcelona state school system is in Catalan.

  For Christmas that year I learned a Christmas carol that I sang at Mass in Vilanova de Prades, the village where my father came from. It was a frosty night and the church was quite full. When the time came, Dad gave me a signal to stand by his side in front of everyone. All wrapped up, I sang about the Virgin when she was a little girl. The whole village was moved and some even had tears in their eyes to see this poor little girl who had come from the other side of the world. How well she sings it, and how she has picked up Catalan in no time at all, they seemed to say. Obviously, the words of the song had come through loud and clear!

  Friday, November 22, 1974

  Asha, my girl, each day you learn new words, and we feel lucky to be able to participate in your discoveries. We begin to understand each other and that makes everything so much easier. This is a new sensation. Well, not entirely. On the day you arrived we also felt it for a few brief moments. I don’t know if I have told you this but your father was rushing about that day with a dictionary, trying to decipher what you were saying. None of it sounded English, but he persisted. Finally, in the middle of all your chatter, you said, “put on TV,” in English, and your father leapt for joy having finally understood something. That is the feeling we have now that you are beginning to say a few words in Catalan. I have read that children find it much easier to learn languages and I can confirm this now. I, on the other hand, am making very slow progress.

  Today’s big news is that you have started to learn to play the piano. You cried, of course, as you do whenever you start something new. I placed you on the stool and moved your fingers one by one up and down the scales. You’ll soon see that it’s not all that difficult.

  I don’t want you to ever feel that you are lacking in anything compared with the other boys and girls your age.

  I will do whatever I can to help you make up for lost time. You will find both of us available to give you all the help you need with your learning. Your father and I believe that the only way to achieve something that you want is with persistence, but I don’t have to tell you this … since it was your stubborn determination that managed to find you a set of parents.

  10.

  FILMS AND INJECTIONS

  I am delirious. This cold has gone on for far too long and it can’t be right that I have such a bad cough and sore throat. I was going to school every day but I felt run-down and was unable to put my usual energy into the activities. I didn’t really pay too much attention to it at first, even though the first night I was coughing all night and from time to time I had to sit up as I felt like I was suffocating. But now with the fever it seems a lot more serious. It is never much fun being ill and even less so when you are far away from home. At one point I couldn’t get up because the thermometer wouldn’t drop below one hundred and two. I spent all day in bed and have been in confinement for three days now, my body weak, burning with fever, and sleeping only in fits. I can’t find a comfortable position to lie in, as the wooden boards of the bed stick into me through the thin mattress. My companions are keeping a close watch on me, bringing me antibiotics and cough syrup, and Kamal makes lemon drinks for me and special teas that are supposed to cause miracle cures.

  Finally, as a result of the fever that comes and goes, my general indisposition, the sprints to the bathroom due to attacks of diarrhea, and not having managed to get a good night’s sleep, since the early hours of this morning I have begun to lose my sense of reality. It might be nothing more than a bad cold, as my companions tell me, but it seems that it is very resistant to medication and I begin to suspect that I have caught something more serious.

  But that shouldn’t be possible. Before I left Barcelona I made sure I had all the necessary vaccinations, and I brought all the medication I needed. I try to be positive and not fall to pieces, but the fact is that it is really hard to get through these days when I’m so far away from my loved ones.

  I feel very much alone. The girls spend the day out of the house, between school, yoga classes, and their trips around town. Kamal boils rice for me and occasionally changes the damp cloths that she drapes across my brow, but she has enough to see to with her own family. She is busy all day and is always on the go. The only time she stops is at night, just before she goes to bed, when she allows herself the luxury of sitting down to smoke a little tobacco paste while watching television. The one who keeps me company most is little Ibuthi. She sits on my bed and makes me little drawings to make me feel better. She is an adorable child. I look at her and wonder if my children would turn out like her.

  I have the feeling that life is running out for me and I won’t be able to say good-bye to anyone. I cling to the diary I am writing. These p
ages could be the only account of everything I have lived through since arriving here. On the cover of my notebook I stuck two photographs that I now need to keep close to me. While I was preparing my rucksack for the journey, I went through the photo albums at home and found a wonderful picture of my parents with serene expressions lighting up their faces. I also picked out one of Fatima looking lovely. I thought they would help to keep me company and might give me some encouragement when I needed it, or when I was feeling homesick. And that is how I feel now. In these moments when I am finding it tough going, it comforts me to have them so close. I speak to all of them through the diary because I know that if I called them on the telephone and told them how I feel, they would worry, and that is the last thing I want them to do. Right now they are on holiday in Vilanova de Prades: hot during the day but cold enough to need a blanket at night. Dad will have gone to fetch water from the fountain and Mom will be watering the garden and Fatima practicing the piano. Or perhaps they might have gone for a walk in the forest.

  Now that I have managed to get myself together a little and my head has cleared slightly, I pick up the diary and write a few lines that will serve as a farewell, to show that I have been thinking about the ones I love, and who have given me everything. Despite the distance, I feel them very close. I feel I am dying, and between feverish bouts of delirium, a whole film seems to pass before my eyes. It isn’t the story of my life, as they say is supposed to happen to people at these times, but rather a documentary in black-and-white of everything I have learned on this trip and still have not digested properly. In order of appearance, there is Father Ribas, whose words managed to shake me up so much that I have been able to look at my surroundings with eyes that don’t judge. It is a difficult exercise and I have not always managed to achieve my objective. It’s not easy to be understanding in the face of certain ways of approaching life. I have tried to live in a more spiritual way, as they do here. They can transcend life and death because one is the consequence of the other and vice versa, like the serpent eating its own tail. Taking the view that it is all part of this foreign experience does help, but adapting to it myself, the way I feel now, is more difficult. If you don’t believe with firm conviction, it throws everything into doubt. It is certainly difficult to accept that there is no point in striving for anything, simply because when this life is over there will be another one to follow.

  In the documentary running through my head, there are scenes in which my companions from the volunteer group appear, as does everything that we have done in the work projects. The school and the cooperative: the children and the women, some of the most disadvantaged in the world. They have been an inspiration, uplifting us with their energy and the way they manage to overcome all obstacles and carry on.

  And there is a special role for Mother Adelina, who shed light on so many confused memories that I had carried with me over these years. This is like a farewell. Writing in the diary puts my mind at ease because if anything happens to me, I shall leave a record of my thoughts about all the people in my life who never failed me.

  Up until now, I have been patient, thinking that I would get over the coughing and shivering quickly, but I have never had a fever that has lasted so long and so have asked them to call a doctor. I have threatened not to eat anything unless they bring one soon.

  Wednesday, November 27, 1974

  Today it is a month since you arrived in the house. And how much you have changed in such a short time! Now you have started eating, though from time to time you still turn your nose up at some things …. Now you are beginning to have your own personal victories, like the lovely drawing you made at school which everyone admired. And you are also beginning to make yourself understood. And all of this because you are beginning to take an interest.

  Today, too, you have managed another triumph, and when your father came home from work we showed it to him. You played the musical scales on the piano with both hands. When he saw you, his jaw dropped in astonishment. Sitting on the bench, you looked at us and you knew that you had made us happy. What a ray of sunshine you are!

  You still don’t understand how much music means to us. It is something that we share and we hope that in the future you, too, might come to love it. Your father would have liked to dedicate himself to it. When I was young I studied music and the violin at the conservatory. Encouraged by your father, I started studying again and playing the violin.

  I am sure that when you start managing to produce melodies, you will realize it is worth the effort. We have noticed that you have a lot of rhythm. When your father plays, you start to dance, and you do it quite well. He spends all day admiring you both, taking photos, recording you when you speak … when he is not glued to his Super 8 camera: he catalogs all the films, and puts music on them, labels. We seem to be going through a very enriching and creative period.

  Pushpa finally came to see me. When they explained my symptoms to her, she said that I had probably caught malaria. But how could that have happened when I have been taking the tablets and all necessary precautions? Pushpa is the doctor at a center where they treat people who have suffered work accidents and need immediate assistance. Last week we all went to visit the center and she showed us around. With her I feel that I will be rescued from all the homemade remedies. Pushpa made me put on a light dress and helped me into the jeep to go to the hospital. Malaria? While we were driving I asked her all the questions I could think of. She answered without dramatizing, which helped to calm me down a little. She explained that some people catch malaria despite having taken the preventive medication. We parked in front of the hospital and I had to lean on her because I was so feeble that I couldn’t take two steps without faltering.

  The entrance to the hospital was a movie set, and not in any metaphorical sense. Pushing open the door, we found a crane with a camera attached. The floor was covered with cables and rails for the cameras to run on. I couldn’t lift my eyes from the floor because the lights blinded me. And all the actors and actresses, clad as doctors and nurses, had transformed the characteristic silence of a hospital into a total uproar. It was quite a job to find the corridor that led to a doctor who was not wearing an imitation stethoscope. There were two doors next to each other marked EMERGENCY. Pushpa opened one and it turned out to be another film set. We were almost mistaken for extras. The second attempt led us to a real waiting room, where they immediately laid me on a bed.

  The doctor who examined me unleashed a torrent of questions, but Pushpa had to stop him and explain that I did not speak Marathi. He was taken aback. For a moment it looked as though he wasn’t sure whether or not to take us seriously, as though he thought we might have escaped from the film next door. Once everything had been explained, the doctor agreed with Pushpa and decided to test for malaria. Half an hour later the results came back from the laboratory. The test was negative, but since it is never 100 percent reliable, they could not fully dismiss the idea. Result: I now have a ton of pills and will have to take daily injections.

  Pushpa decides that I need to be taken care of properly and takes me to the residence where she works. There, I am put in with the nuns, in a room of my own. There are a few who speak Spanish and they talk to me while they prepare me a delicious soup. In the morning and at night, Pushpa comes to deliver me the injections. The whole center is full of people bearing the accidents they’ve endured at work, and there is an atmosphere of sadness. As bad as I feel, I’m aware that I am being well taken care of and have some hope that the medicine will soon begin to take effect.

  Friday, December 21, 1974

  Today you finished school with a folder full of your work and were happy as always. You have made a lot of progress: You can write all the letters correctly and you have also learned the numbers. We went over the exercises one by one. You are very proud of yourself.

  I spoke to the headmistress about your education, and since you are doing so well, she said that next term you can move up a class. Asha, soon you will ca
tch up with the children of your own age. The school is happy with you and so are we. They say that you have adapted very quickly and you are putting a lot of effort into it. Now things are going to get more difficult and we can’t afford to slow down. But the Christmas holidays are about to start and we can relax a bit. We will use the time to do other things.

  11.

  NASIK

  My illness has left me so exhausted that I don’t have the heart to face the five-hour journey to Nasik. Pushpa has just given me my injection and I feel knocked out. I get tired as soon as I stand up, and my bottom feels like a pin cushion. I have the sense that the best thing for me would be to stay here and try to recuperate. After breakfast, however, I feel a little revived, and between the nuns’ insistence that they would take care of me and pressure from the people in my group, I find the strength to make the trip. I have to go. How could I be so close to Nasik and not go? Nasik, the cradle where I cried the first tears of my existence, is an unavoidable step in this process of discovery; that is where the missing pieces of my puzzle rest. It might just turn out to be an excursion and nothing more, but I feel the need to reach the end. This is my last week in India and it is now or never. Who knows when I might have another opportunity to visit Nasik? The same determination that led me to climb the spiral staircase and ask for parents is helping me to fill in the blanks that have always gnawed away at me: Who were my parents? How did I end up in an orphanage? Do I have other siblings? Just as I so often give thanks for the second life I was given and ask myself why I was chosen, why I deserved the privilege and not one of the other children, I also ask the very painful question of why they abandoned me, why they didn’t want to love me. Perhaps in Nasik, the silence, which has been the only answer I have known, will finally begin to respond.