As I lay awake at 3 in the morning my mind spins with questions and wonders how this day will unfold? Will our daughter like us? Will she be happy or sad to see our strange faces peering into hers? Will she reject our touch? Will she be inconsolable leaving the only home she has ever known? What does she like to eat? How does she like to be held? How do her caregivers soothe her when she is upset? What makes her laugh? Is her temperament mild or wild? How will she adjust to this new world we are introducing her too? Will she stop eating? Will she get constipated? Will she get sick? How long will her grieving last? These are all things are caseworker reviewed with us before we left that could transpire in the first few days of her new life. One more question….will I be able to recognize her? The last photos I received were in November almost 6 months ago. My heart races and my mind spins with anticipation of our first meeting. Thank goodness I’ve arranged a tour of Kolkata this morning as we are not able to go to the orphanage until late afternoon.
We start our tour with a glimpse into my past. I know very little about the first few months of my life. My parents told me that I was adopted at a very young age. For as long as I could remember I’ve known. They told me that my birth mother wanted to give me opportunities, ones that she may not have been able to provide. She knew that my parents longed for a little girl and so she did the most selfless act and relinquished me. My parents told me that she did this out of love not abandonment. As I am learning more about the process of adoption in India and the cultural implications surrounding pregnancy outside of marriage I know there must have been a number of reasons my mother gave me away at birth. I have chosen to believe it was out of love and not due to poverty, despair or lack of choice to keep me. I was told I was born at the Sree Krishna nursing home in Kolkata, a place where women can go and deliver their babies. Some women who are not able to care for their babies leave their babies and then charitable organizations come around and pick the abandoned babies up. I was taken to the International Mission of Hope and was cared for there until my departure for the US. The early years of IMH (late 70s early 80s) was housed in a small building and then IMH was moved to a larger facility to accommodate more babies and children. The latter of the two is mostly recognized and associated with IMH. The facility I was in is less known and therefore required some time and help from the locals to find. Our driver and guide were unsure if they could find this address. As we traveled down the main portion of road we could not find it. We stopped and our guide asked a local rickshaw driver if he knew of the address. The two men were speaking Bengali back and forth and gesturing. We soon discovered that we needed to take a side road to get to our destination. Our car barely fit down the road due to road construction. We arrived at an even smaller section of the road flanked with multilevel buildings. We had to exit our vehicle as we now needed to search on foot. An older man peered off of his deck on the fourth story of the building and our guide spoke to him and told him what we were in search of. His face smiled with enthusiasm as he recalled an orphanage once a long time ago at the end of his street. I don’t know what was said between the two men but I could sense an amazement and genuine surprise that once a baby who lived at the end of his street now stood before him. I gave him the biggest smile I could, clasped my hands together and bowed my head to show my thanks.
We walked towards the end of the path. Neighbors emerged from their homes to inquire about us and our guide explained once again our quest. They pointed to the last building at the end of the road, this was it. Tears filled my eyes. This is where I spent my time in India, where I fought to survive and where I was given nourishment, love and care. This building represented hope and the beginning of a second chance. The neighbors, driver and guide all saw the emotion on my face. I couldn’t hold back my tears. I will never be able to find my birth parents as limited records were kept at that time and this is the closet I will come to seeing how my life began. I was soon greeted by a young man with an astonished grin. This was the gentleman who now lived in the building. He was gracious enough to invite us in.
As we walked into the building my sobbing continued. The gentleman told me not to cry and proceeded to tell me about the memories that his family had of the orphanage. His brother used to spend time there playing with the children when he was a boy. His mother had many memories but sadly has passed from this world. He told me about the history of the building and went to the trouble of calling his brother who now lives in Australia. His brother has since phoned me and has shared his memories with me. They were both so kind and gracious and I’ll be forever grateful for their time and generosity. Mike and I were talking about how in the US if someone came knocking at the door the story might have had a different outcome. We took photographs and video and expressed our gratitude to this kind man for allowing us to interrupt his morning and take up his time. He offered us to stay and have coffee and although we would have loved to accept his offer but the time for the day was limited. This was such a powerful experience for me and I have gained clarity and insight into my past because of this occasion.
When we returned to our hotel our hearts and minds were heavy with emotions and we knew this was only the beginning. After phoning the orphanage director she encouraged us to come right away. We hopped into the car after grabbing our cameras, paperwork and donations for the orphanage. During the drive there we were both giddy with excitement that this moment has finally arrived. We were going to get our girl! The questions from this morning began swirling in my mind again. We arrived and I’m not sure how my feet carried me up the stairs and into the director’s office as I was so excited to be there. I know I must have rambled on and on and given way too many hugs. The only Bengali word that I tried to learn prior to our arrival at the orphanage was thank you. However everyone including our driver and the employees at the pharmacy where I purchased the formula and medicine laughed hysterically at my attempts to speak Bengali. It followed suit at the orphanage. After going over paperwork, reviewing details about our girl and her schedule we were allowed to meet her.
I will never forget turning the corner and seeing her little face looking at me with her big brown eyes framed so perfectly with her curly black hair. She was standing up in her crib wearing a red t-shirt and a light peach coverall. Her hair had been combed and her ayah (caregiver) was standing by her side. The caregiver was smiling and our girl just looked at me with wonder and complexity as I grew closer. She did not cry but looked like she wanted to. As I picked her up her lower lip puckered but she held back her tears. Her ayah began saying, “mommy, this is your mommy, go to your mommy”. My arms picked up this tiny being and I went to kiss her. She was rigid and hesitant but allowed me to love on her. I don’t remember much of what was said next, I began asking her ayah questions about our girl, my husband took photos and videos. She then allowed Mike to hold her and love on her. We were concerned about this as the babies don’t spend much time around men. We continued to hold her and stare at her. Her ayah began to cry. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “this is our daughter”. I could tell she had formed a close bond with her. We exchanged words and I promised her I would take good care of our baby and love her. We told her about our older daughter and proudly showed photos of her. They seemed to enjoy the fact that she would have a sister. We admired the other children in the room- oh they were all so adorable and full of personality. We then visited the adjacent room where younger babies stayed. We did not visit the second orphanage location that houses the premies and special needs children as it was late in the afternoon. The sponsorship for formula and medicine supplied to the orphanage were gladly received with much thanks. I could see such gratitude on the director’s face as one of the greatest needs is for milk to feed the babies. We said our thanks, exchanged our feelings of appreciation and received laughs from our broken Bengali and loaded into the car with our precious girl. The drive back to the hotel was splendid. Mike and I kept looking at her with wonder and amazement. As my parents used to say to me, I now can say to my daughter, “I’m glad I gotcha”.
We start our tour with a glimpse into my past. I know very little about the first few months of my life. My parents told me that I was adopted at a very young age. For as long as I could remember I’ve known. They told me that my birth mother wanted to give me opportunities, ones that she may not have been able to provide. She knew that my parents longed for a little girl and so she did the most selfless act and relinquished me. My parents told me that she did this out of love not abandonment. As I am learning more about the process of adoption in India and the cultural implications surrounding pregnancy outside of marriage I know there must have been a number of reasons my mother gave me away at birth. I have chosen to believe it was out of love and not due to poverty, despair or lack of choice to keep me. I was told I was born at the Sree Krishna nursing home in Kolkata, a place where women can go and deliver their babies. Some women who are not able to care for their babies leave their babies and then charitable organizations come around and pick the abandoned babies up. I was taken to the International Mission of Hope and was cared for there until my departure for the US. The early years of IMH (late 70s early 80s) was housed in a small building and then IMH was moved to a larger facility to accommodate more babies and children. The latter of the two is mostly recognized and associated with IMH. The facility I was in is less known and therefore required some time and help from the locals to find. Our driver and guide were unsure if they could find this address. As we traveled down the main portion of road we could not find it. We stopped and our guide asked a local rickshaw driver if he knew of the address. The two men were speaking Bengali back and forth and gesturing. We soon discovered that we needed to take a side road to get to our destination. Our car barely fit down the road due to road construction. We arrived at an even smaller section of the road flanked with multilevel buildings. We had to exit our vehicle as we now needed to search on foot. An older man peered off of his deck on the fourth story of the building and our guide spoke to him and told him what we were in search of. His face smiled with enthusiasm as he recalled an orphanage once a long time ago at the end of his street. I don’t know what was said between the two men but I could sense an amazement and genuine surprise that once a baby who lived at the end of his street now stood before him. I gave him the biggest smile I could, clasped my hands together and bowed my head to show my thanks.
We walked towards the end of the path. Neighbors emerged from their homes to inquire about us and our guide explained once again our quest. They pointed to the last building at the end of the road, this was it. Tears filled my eyes. This is where I spent my time in India, where I fought to survive and where I was given nourishment, love and care. This building represented hope and the beginning of a second chance. The neighbors, driver and guide all saw the emotion on my face. I couldn’t hold back my tears. I will never be able to find my birth parents as limited records were kept at that time and this is the closet I will come to seeing how my life began. I was soon greeted by a young man with an astonished grin. This was the gentleman who now lived in the building. He was gracious enough to invite us in.
As we walked into the building my sobbing continued. The gentleman told me not to cry and proceeded to tell me about the memories that his family had of the orphanage. His brother used to spend time there playing with the children when he was a boy. His mother had many memories but sadly has passed from this world. He told me about the history of the building and went to the trouble of calling his brother who now lives in Australia. His brother has since phoned me and has shared his memories with me. They were both so kind and gracious and I’ll be forever grateful for their time and generosity. Mike and I were talking about how in the US if someone came knocking at the door the story might have had a different outcome. We took photographs and video and expressed our gratitude to this kind man for allowing us to interrupt his morning and take up his time. He offered us to stay and have coffee and although we would have loved to accept his offer but the time for the day was limited. This was such a powerful experience for me and I have gained clarity and insight into my past because of this occasion.
We then drove to the north end of the city and walked through a pocket of town where people make statues with straw and clay. The finished product is quite elaborate with having not used any tools. Our guide then took us to a sweet shop to purchase Bengali sweets for the caretakers at our daughter’s orphanage. Our guide went above and beyond and he works for a company called Calcutta walks for those of you who will be visiting Calcutta. We visited marble palace, Tagore’s home, college street, and the Indian coffee house all of which were incredible.
The second most incredible event of this epic gotcha day was walking into the clinic where my mother gave birth to me. Again we needed the help from many locals to locate this clinic. In fact from the front of the street there was just a plain façade with not a lot of detail, the entrance and sign was located in the alley way on the side of the street. The address was a little deceiving in this way. I couldn’t believe it, here I was walking through the same doorway as my mother did so many years ago. We walked up the stairs and entered in to this cramped waiting room. Many women sat all crowded around a small tv playing Indian soap operas as they waited to be examined. I immediately was greeted with piercing stares. The air was thick and muggy and I couldn’t help myself but think about each woman that has entered this clinic’s doors and their unique story that followed them. We were ushered into the office and immediately we were asked about our presence and purpose of being there. Again no one spoke much English and so our guide informed the woman why we were there. Her eyes grew wide and they looked me up and down, her hand clenched her mouth and then a soft smile emerged. She remembered IMH and the babies they rescued. She confirmed that this very clinic was open and running all those years ago. She was shocked and amazed by my presence and offered me answers to all of my questions via the translator. She said with regrets that the doctor was not in at the moment. She allowed me with great hesitation to see the birthing rooms and the OR. I will not go into much detail as to what I saw as I realize it was with great privilege that I was allowed to even have a glimpse. What I will say is, my mind was heavy with what must have taken place all those years ago as I was brought into this world. I may not ever meet or know anything about my birth mother but for a small moment in time I could retrace her footsteps in this building.
I will never forget turning the corner and seeing her little face looking at me with her big brown eyes framed so perfectly with her curly black hair. She was standing up in her crib wearing a red t-shirt and a light peach coverall. Her hair had been combed and her ayah (caregiver) was standing by her side. The caregiver was smiling and our girl just looked at me with wonder and complexity as I grew closer. She did not cry but looked like she wanted to. As I picked her up her lower lip puckered but she held back her tears. Her ayah began saying, “mommy, this is your mommy, go to your mommy”. My arms picked up this tiny being and I went to kiss her. She was rigid and hesitant but allowed me to love on her. I don’t remember much of what was said next, I began asking her ayah questions about our girl, my husband took photos and videos. She then allowed Mike to hold her and love on her. We were concerned about this as the babies don’t spend much time around men. We continued to hold her and stare at her. Her ayah began to cry. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “this is our daughter”. I could tell she had formed a close bond with her. We exchanged words and I promised her I would take good care of our baby and love her. We told her about our older daughter and proudly showed photos of her. They seemed to enjoy the fact that she would have a sister. We admired the other children in the room- oh they were all so adorable and full of personality. We then visited the adjacent room where younger babies stayed. We did not visit the second orphanage location that houses the premies and special needs children as it was late in the afternoon. The sponsorship for formula and medicine supplied to the orphanage were gladly received with much thanks. I could see such gratitude on the director’s face as one of the greatest needs is for milk to feed the babies. We said our thanks, exchanged our feelings of appreciation and received laughs from our broken Bengali and loaded into the car with our precious girl. The drive back to the hotel was splendid. Mike and I kept looking at her with wonder and amazement. As my parents used to say to me, I now can say to my daughter, “I’m glad I gotcha”.
