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by Usha JesudasanA mass of multicolored bougainvillea acts as curtain between me and a group of children playing hopscotch on the cemented gray floor. Seeing me, they abandon their game and skip over. I am enveloped by tiny hands wanting to hold mine. Laughing faces gaze up into my face; warm little bodies hug around my knees and I am overwhelmed.
I really do not know how to react, as this is my first visit to an orphanage. I look at my friend who comes here quite often to visit the nuns and the children, and take the cue from her. She is holding the hand of a little girl and asking her what she had for breakfast, while cuddling a slightly older girl against her ample frame. Almost all the children here are girls-clean, neatly dressed, flowers in their hair. Little signs of individuality show up-kajal-lined eyes on one, a gaudy ribbon on another, a pony tail, sparkling glass bangles. However, they all have one thing in common. They have all been abandoned by their families, just because they were born female. And this weighs heavily on the hearts of the nuns who care for them.
The girls grow up in an atmosphere of discipline and homeliness. They are sent to local schools, taught a craft or a trade, or sent for higher education, according to their abilities. Marriages are arranged for some, too. For most, the only families they know are the nuns who raise them and the playmates within the orphanage.
Maybe because I had no child on my lap, a young nun placed a bundle in my arms-a little girl, almost two months old. The warmth of my body must have seeped through, for she snuggled deeper and made herself more comfortable. Her fingers were like matchsticks, but they clung to mine with a strong grip. Something happened to me while holding that baby. I felt as weepy and as vulnerable as I did while my own newborn babies were put into my arms for the first time. I knew it for certain then…this baby would somehow be woven into our lives.
The nun, however, was not so sure. She cited her reasons: “You already have two children. We don’t consider couples with boys; it leads to so many problems in the division of property and family legacies. And you are really past the age for being a mother again.”
That evening at home, we talked about it and my sons were thrilled with the idea of adopting a baby girl. For good measure I even sounded out my parents, lest they object to being grandparents to a little girl with unknown antecedents. I had their blessings, too.
Still, a friend of mine warned, “Don’t get your hopes up. The nuns are very careful and choosy about who adopts their girls.”
Late that night I couldn’t sleep. “Please, God,” I prayed, “Wrap that baby up in the warmth of your love.” I couldn’t pray anymore. Around midnight, the phone rang. The nun said, “The baby is yours if you really want her.”
Now came the really hard part. How would my husband really react? He was due to go into the hospital for a long and painful treatment. And wasn’t I too old at 40-plus to go through all this over again? It would be a major disruption to a demanding career. Perhaps I had just been too emotional and sentimental. But I kept remembering the feel of that fragile body snuggling deeper into my arms.
I warned my husband that the baby was undernourished, tiny and frail. Also that she was dark, skinny and not beautiful in the accepted sense that most babies are.
When the little bundle was put into his arms, she lifted up those matchstick fingers, reached out for his pocket and clung to it. He looked at her for quite a while, then he stroked her fingers and tickled her feet. He bent down and kissed her forehead and his tears splashed like raindrops on her cheeks, just like they did on both our children when they were first placed in his arms.
Mallika hardly left our arms for the first three months. She was either in mine, or in my husband’s or in her brothers’. Slowly, her cheeks filled out, her hair grew, and she put on weight.
During my husband’s illness, she would climb onto our bed and stroke her father’s face, often when he was in severe pain. “Papa,” she would say as she rubbed her soft little cheeks against his, kissing him sloppily all over. His pain would vanish as he swept her into his arms and snuggled her tiny shoulders.
We still found that adopting a child, and especially a girl, is not without stigma. Some well-meaning people asked us, “How do you know what kind of background she’s from? What if she’s of tribal origin? How can you be sure she’s intelligent?”
Prayers and preferences for a son are as old as Indian society. Daughters are conspicuous in the Rigveda only by their absence. We come across hymns and prayers for sons and grandsons, but never for daughters. There is rejoicing when a son is born, but what happens when the baby is a girl?
Our family can say that Mallika, now three, has taught us a lot about loving. She has shown us that all children are special, wherever they are born, wherever they are found. She has proved to us that all children are blessed with the divine ability to love, to give love and tenderness and to receive it joyfully.
When I pass by the orphanage and hear the sound of children’s voices, I wonder… are not all children God’s apostles, loaned to us temporarily for the purpose of teaching us how to love?
Usha Jesudasan lives with her three children in Katpadi, Tamil Nadu, India. She is a freelancer who writes about Christian principles in the secular press.
This article was adapted with permission from India Focus, the missions journal of Campus Crusade for Christ, India.
