..circumnavigate.with.me..

I wrote this with the intention of preserving my own memories about the brave little girls that I met at Mother Theresa’s Orphanage in Chennai in the spring of 2007. I don’t know their names or the details of their medical histories. But I know their smiles and their eyes. And though we were different in background, ability, age, and language, knowing only their faces was enough to begin to understand their souls. I want to remember these beautiful little girls since much of the rest of the world has forgotten about them.

A girl in a faded green dress sat within in an arm’s reach of an archaic looking radio. Even in her incapacity, she had neatly folded her legs, feet resting atop knees, in a position that my own inflexibility would never have permitted. She kept one hand permanently pressed to the source of sound and the other hand seemed to methodically flutter in the air. Eyelids were pressed tight and lips formed something of a chant or silent conversation. Had I not known differently, I would have guessed that this young girl was a powerful spiritual master; through her persistent and intense meditation she was able to connect the rhythm resounding from the radio with the divine of another world in a way that only the most trained practitioner could. After pausing to observe her actions, it would be easy to grow tired of the repetition and excuse the ceaseless gestures as nothing more than a tick of sorts: another sign of disability or difference. But I saw much more. There was dedication etched into her closed-tight eyelids and focused facial features. Whatever thought or belief or hope or memory she held in her head, she had focused her entire being into ensuring that the feeling would not disappear. She was passionate, persistent, and beautiful.

There is a saying that my mother, and consequently my family, has always used to describe an uncomfortable and/or painful situation, emotion or experience. It always made perfect sense to me, but when I began to use the phrase, “it made me want to jump out of my skin” in my collegiate days some were confused as to the meaning of the phrase. It could describe a time when you fell so ill that the fight to break fevers and beat the rise in your stomach contents to the toilet had nearly driven you to tears of frustration. Alternatively, you may feel this way when you realize that an individual you just insulted stands injured within earshot. Or perhaps on an occasion when you collect too many mosquito bites and your relaxing summer slumber turns into a sleepless night of scratching and itching may induce this feeling.

There was a little girl in a gold shirt that spent the majority of her time in a crib, though her age would suggest that she would have outgrown such a piece of furniture long ago. While she lay dormant most of the time, she would gather up her energy and have something like a fit every 20 minutes or so. The little girl in the gold shirt would raise her legs in the air and thrash up and down. It was never in an effort to injure another as a tantruming toddler might. Her motions would carry over from side to side and she would cry out in discomfort, though it was silent because her vocal chords were undeveloped. This awful look of frustration and agony was pasted on her tiny face. I could see her soul, her entire being, struggling against a disobedient body, aching to be free of it. She looked as if she really was trying to jump out of her (misbehaving) skin.

I was completely consumed in this moment in time. I forgot about every worry about grades, and internships and friends stuck in my mind. I tried to will her free from her pain. I tried to imagine what this beautiful little human might become if born at a different place, at a different time, into a different body. She would be able to run, skip and play with other children. She would be able to sing, speak and, most importantly, cry like all little girls do. But she would still be the same big eyed, toothy grinned little girl in a gold shirt because she was already gorgeous.

A young girl in a pastel pink jumper sat in a chair next to the window, with a bright red ball grasped at the end of her extended right arm. She gazed at the crimson toy with the wonder and intrigue that must have graced the faces of ancient explorers upon discovering new worlds. The almost bewildered look was plastered on her face as if the ball had only appeared in her hand moments ago. A weathered artist might have mimicked the pose in stone, replacing the young girl with a man of importance and the bright red ball with a historical invention. During the first two hours I spent in the upstairs room of the orphanage, I attended to the attentions of other girls in the room. But I had an eye on the bright red ball, and the little girl attached to it every now and then. There she sat, under the window, never breaking her gaze at the toy (it wasn’t until much later that I noticed that her chair was tied to the window ledge and that she was tied into the chair). I wanted to engage her in an activity, but I feared that any separation from the object of her affection, even if only to play catch, would devastate her. I only mustered the courage to advance these intentions when another child lost stumbled into her chair. The ball fell from her tiny but mighty outstretched hand and rolled across the room. Fearing instant distress I pounced in an effort to return the toy to it’s keeper before impending tears surfaced.

However, when I wheeled around the little girl in the pink jumper was collected and had shifted her interest from the big red ball to the big white girl now in front of her. We exchanged eye contact and excited facial expressions while I scooted closer to sit at her feet. I clasped her hands into mine and tried to see her no differently than I would any other child her age. After occupying ourselves with tickling attempts, my face was soon buried in that pastel pink dress as her tiny arms scooped up my head in a bear-hug fashion. Her grasp was tight around the nape of my neck and her little hands had accidentally caught a few sections of my hair in the embrace. But I hardly minded the discomfort and sought only to return the hug with as much compassion as she radiated. This physical contact, perhaps to her a direct acknowledgment of her existence in the world, thrilled her and joyous squeals were emitted far too close to my ear. But the piercing volume, the uncomfortable tension on my scalp and the fleeting thoughts of the slew of germs that all kindergarteners seem to tote around were not enough to break my grasp. If time had permitted, I would have held onto this forgotten little girl until the world forgot us both.