Fear of Rabeya(adoption maker)

Rabeya and I before America

She is a woman of very small stature, short but a power pack of passion and energy.  Her coconut-oiled ,shiny, blackish brown hair parted straight above the center of her nose pulled back tightly into a single braid fell down her lower back.  She wore a soft flowing sari with threads of brightly colored pinks and gold sprinkled on a sky blue background.  Her red dot worn proudly on her forehead and many jingly bangles inlaid with sparkly clear diamond-like false stones wrapped around both of her tiny wrists.

This was Rabeya, the lady who sent me to the United States.  At the age of 19, I met this woman for the first time in 13 years since I left India.  I was attending college at this time and living within a twenty minute drive from my parents.  My adoptive mother notified me that Rabeya had come to visit and see me but I was very adamant about not seeing her. 

I didn’t want to have anything to do with my Indian life that now seemed like another lifetime ago.  I spent the last 13 years trying to put it all behind me, working so diligently to become American.  Working on getting my last little nuances of an Indian/British accent expelled from my mouth, putting the final touches on learning American slang, wearing the Levi jeans that made me a true American, going to frat parties like all of the other girls, dating blond haired light-eyed boys, not looking too smart, going to all of the football games and partying with my friends.  I had really made it, I was living the life of all the other white American girls and I felt somewhat accepted by them even though I looked different.  The only reminder was the mirror now.  I didn’t want some old lady that knew me as a poor child in Calcutta to mess up my image of being American. 

After several weeks of Rabeya staying with my parents my adoptive mother Shirley phoned me and said “Pushpa, don’t you think you ought to see Rabeya?  After all she did help us get you.”  I replied ferociously with “NO, I don’t want to see that woman.  What do I need to see her for?”  She replied back with an underlying note of guilt “she came all the way from India and has been here for a while and she doesn’t understand why you have not come to see her.  I can’t keep making up excuses for you.”

I realized I had put Shirley in a predicament and felt guilty and dutifully said “okay, I will meet her for lunch.”  We made the arrangements for the next day.  I would meet her at a Chinese restaurant and eat lunch with her.  I couldn’t believe that my past was going to be sitting across a table from me.  The past years were all about being someone that fit this new life and now I had to see someone that knew me before.  It terrified me.  No one I knew had ever been to India, no one in my family really knew what my life was before being adopted.  I was the girl that knew four languages, that independently ran the streets in tattered dirty clothes and bare feet, starved, admired her handsome father, played poker with men, watched a man die, looked like everyone else, never thought about “fitting in” had now become a fake.  No longer an Indian but a real American.  I was proud of the hard work I had done through the constant studying of Americans and metamorphosing myself into the person I thought could blend and become a fabric of this culture.

I fretted through the whole night and next morning wondering how this meeting was going to be that I never in my craziest imagination thought would happen.

As noon approached I became nervous, worried that I was going to lose a piece of myself by seeing Rabeya.  She was the one who did my adoption, arranged everything, did all of the legal paperwork needed in India, communicated with my adoptive parents and sent me to the airport in a cab to get on a plane to come to America.  She had come for this visit to meet my parents for the first time and to see me.  She only corresponded through letters all of these years and through the adoption so they wanted to meet each other in person.

Now I was going to meet this woman.  As I rode in the green toyota corolla while my boyfriend Mark drove, I feared for my life.  Why?  I wasn’t sure.  I was just scared, my past was coming to slap me in the face and I had no idea what was ahead of me.  Rabeya, the lady who sent me here.  What was it that she wanted from meeting me?

© Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog, 2008-2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Remembering my adoptive mother, Shirley

Shirley, adoptive mother

As I am changing and moving things in my house in preparation for installation of new floors in my house tomorrow I pick up a an 8×10 wooden framed photo of the South Sister with Sparks Lake in the forefront, a spectacularly majestic mountain in Oregon, I turn it over to see that on the back in Shirley’s cursive she had  written with a black marker “Pushpa-Always remember Oregon’s Mountains.  Love, Mother.”  I gave this to her when I was 13 years old as a gift knowing that she loved this place.  The last time I saw her before she passed she gave this photo to me and said “I know you love this picture.”    

My adoptive mother is someone I think about often.  She left a mark on my life that is impressed with multiple layers of extremes.  The lines of intellect, the power to learn, the power to think freely, anger towards the power of the elitists, respect for cultures, sadness for all who lose themselves, pity for those who have no way out, an un-ending love and respect for children, desire for giving to all in need, anger at ignorance, hope for goodness in mankind, appreciation for nature…especially the beauty  of Oregon.

This woman was from a hearty lineage of Scottish descent.  Her light blue eyes sparkling with life even at the age of 86, her walk with purpose and the sharp mind that she had her entire life endured up until the very end.  She wore her heart on her sleeve to share with all in the world whether it be a drug addict, mentally ill person, an elderly person in need of help, her grandsons who had very little hope in life, a stranger who was being mistreated and also for the likes of me, a “starving child from India.”

She passed with ease in March of 2007 in her bed at her home.  That morning I was flying back from India on a flight that was 16 hours direct from Delhi to Chicago.  Upon landing in Chicago I  phoned my parents in Oregon knowing that it was about 7am there and they would be up having their breakfast at this time.  My father answered the phone “hello”, I in return said “Hi this is Pushpa”, he immediately replied “your mother is not up, for all I know she may be dead in there.”  I didn’t know what to say and he wanted to get me off the phone so I said ” I will call you when I get into Jacksonville.”  We then said goodbye and I took my flight back to Jacksonville. After getting our luggage and car I turned on my phone to notice that I had a voice mail from my niece, she left a message saying “I have some bad news, can you call me when you get this message.”  I knew in that moment that my father was just in shock and did not want to tell me yet or maybe he could not yet accept it himself.  I phoned my niece to find out from her that indeed Shirley had passed away that morning.

I knew for at least a year she appeared to be prepping herself for death, she was reading spiritual texts  from the Koran to books on Buddhism and talking to me about them.  She was not living a life in a nursing home or dying of some disease so it was not that we “knew” but to me it seemed that she was preparing.  

The last year we talked at great lengths about so many things, we created a bond that we never had in the previous 38 years.  We buried our past pains between each other, my anger no longer was present and we became what she called “friends.”  In her last six months she told me that she had decided that the religion that worked for her was Buddhism.  Buddhists prepare for death.  She also said “Pushpa I am so happy that we have become friends.”  This was an amazing life with her.  Many lessons I learned over 37 years of my bitterness, anger, rage, hatred, blame, contempt for this woman and only the last year of her life had I gotten beyond it. When she died I felt a relief for her because in so many ways she suffered continually throughout her life through multiple physical ailments and emotional issues from her upbringing.  I cried with happiness knowing she died with peace between us. I had told her numerous times how much I appreciated and loved all that she did for me.  She brought so much help to so many people, as for me my life would have definitely been so different without her.  Not that it is better or worse, because truly we can not judge the destiny that our lives become.

© Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog, 2008-2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The temple

 The trip to the temple was serene even though the driver was playing Michael Jackson’s Thriller.  My body felt so different in these clothes sitting in the car, I felt more confident and self assured and like I had shed a layer of protective armor just by changing my clothes.  As we rode to the temple I kept looking at my mother and then outside to this smog-filled city that seemed to go on forever.  The closer we got to the temple the more all I could do was keeping looking at people out the window between glances of my mother.  They were everywhere the eye could see.  In them I could see me.  The poor little girl standing on the sidewalk with a tattered dirty dress and no shoes, the man with brown eyes that pierced through me through the window, the hungry emaciated woman that stared with emptiness at me as she made a gesture to her mouth and to the sky as if she were pointing to God, and my mother sitting so comfortably and relaxed staring out the window. In each of them I saw myself and connected with that part of me that seemed to be in hiding all of these years.  My Indian blood.  This was me, my people, we shared similarities.  I had not seen this many Indian people in 25 years, I was surrounded by them, everywhere I looked.  I could not get my fill of it.  The nearer we got to the temple the more crowded it became.

I began to feel fear realizing that we were parking and about to get out of the car.  I was not sure what to do, how to behave or what NOT to do!  I grew up in a home with no religion.  I had been to a few different Christian churches in my adult life to try to figure out what was comfortable for me but I had no recollection of a Hindu temple and what it would be like at all.

After squeezing a parking spot between crowds of people and tiny small cars I began to get out of the car.  It felt so glamorous, so sophisticated to be dressed like this and so comfortable.  Looking up as I got out of the car I saw two small girls possibly ages 6 and 8 that were in tattered dirty brown dresses with little tin pans.  They were begging.  The eldest looked at me, then hid behind somebody and looked and smiled again.  Everywhere I turned I would see her hiding and smiling.  She looked angelic with her beautiful white teeth and flawless skin.  I could not stop looking at her and she kept hiding behind different people and smiling.  The little one stayed and begged for money while the older one seemed to be attached to me and my family.

There were hundreds of people clammoring about the parking area.  I followed my mother with very little conversation, she lead all of us like a lion, fierce in her quest to get to the temple.  Never turning back with only one thing on her mind, the temple and giving thanks.

She approached a smartly dressed man with leather sandals, a loosely fitting pair of khaki pants and matching long-sleeved button up shirt.  He wore them like a comfortable second skin. She spoke with him as I glanced around, she turned to me nodded with that nod that Indians do to one side and waved me over to take my shoes off.  There was a wooden bench that we placed our shoes under.  I was a bit scared to walk around without shoes, with all of the dirt and people I was having flashbacks of everything I read about getting disease in third world countries.

She aggressively began walking and once again all of us in tow to her calm but ambitious gait but this time we were barefoot.  I carefully stepped worrying about my every step and what I might step on.  I looked up to see a crowd of people all calmly forging their way to the top of a set of stairs to the entrance of what was the temple.  The building was a blue color once again like her sari and my clothing.  As we got closer to the crowd I glanced up to see the little angelic begging girl hiding behind someone else staring right at me.

I couldn’t get over her beauty and the fact that she seemed to be everywhere.  As we started up the wide stairs we all grabbed one another’s hands so that we would not lose each other.  We were a chain of about 9 people all linked together moving like a mighty wave through the sea of people.  I had no idea what we were doing, I was just following along but it was scary to be in such a crowd and realize that I was not somewhere that if I got lost I could find my way out of!  I clenched my hands even tighter to the hands on both sides of me.  We slowly moved through and came to the front where the priest was, he wore all orange looked at me, said some things in Bengali and then put his finger to my the middle of my forehead.  I was so amazed at the crowd and how everyone was working their way to the front and for what?  I finally realized as I looked up that everyone was trying to get  a glimpse of the huge statue behind a wall that was the statue of Kali(the goddess of death and rebirth) .  I saw it!  Then we all quickly went out the other side of the temple and the first thing I saw was that little girl again laughing at me and pointing from behind someone. She never once asked me for money but only watched me from afar.

My mind was blown, I could not really quite grasp what I had just done because it was so quick.   This was nothing like I had ever experienced at the Methodist or Presbyterian churches I had visited.  I spent the day in somewhat of a stupor as my mind was grasping all that had happened since this morning when I awoke to the sounds of the Muslims chanting and myself crying.

© Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog, 2008-2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The next few days.

After three nights of being awoken by the Muslim chanting at pre-dawn I found myself breaking down emotionally.  There was a depth to the chanting that went right to the core of my being, even though I didn’t understand a word they were saying it was moving me to tears. 

This morning was different.  I lay there crying wondering who am I?  I am really not Indian and fit here in India but then again I have never felt I belonged in America.  The torment was so great I was beside myself in sorrow.  I just could not stop crying.

Just like the last two mornings this morning one of my mother’s friends brought a newspaper in English and breakfast that my mother prepared.  It was delivered to the guest house where I was staying.  There were eggs, toast, and chai for breakfast all nicely enclosed in a unique tin container to keep them warm.  As the men came to the door and knocked, I opened the door and they could see that I was crying, of course they ran right back to my mother and told her that I was crying!

A few hours later my mother showed up to the door with an entourage again of about 9 people.  I could not believe my eyes,  she had the beautiful blue sari on that I had seen her in when I had my visions on the plane of her.  She said with help through  a translator and with broken English “I prayed for you to come back for 25 years and today we go to the Kali temple for thanks.” 

At this point I had stopped crying so that she would not see me like this.  She proceeded to show me a salwar kameez that she bought for me.  I felt awkward, not knowing how to wear this everyday outfit in India.  It is just a two piece dress and pants that match with a scarf to drape over the shoulders.  I had never worn one of these and felt foolish but knew that I must put it on to go with my mother to the temple.  I spent most of my life trying to be American with the jeans and fit in and now I had to get out of that comfort zone to fit in with my mother and India.  She abruptly ushered everyone out of the room and then it was only my sister, me and my mother.  She whisked me into the bathroom and gave me the clothes to put on.  I had to leave my identity in wanting so badly to fit in to be American behind and quickly I began to undress.  She turned her head towards the corner and gave me respect that I had never known in the home that I grew up in(my adoptive mother always stared at me while I changed).  This was so amazing to me that she would give me privacy like this, being the shy person that I was it meant so much to me.  I quickly threw on the clothes so I would not make her wait and as the top went over my head the softness of the material and the feel of it next to my body gave me a peace I had never felt with any clothing I was accustomed to.  This was an outfit that was blue and pink that matched the blue in her sari.  I said ”OK” with a giggle, feeling so awkward but yet so comfortable in my own skin.  She turned around and put the scarf around my neck.  I just felt so special, so much more myself than I had ever known. We hugged and I cried. We came back out into the room and opened the door to find everyone rushing back in the room to see me in my new outfit.  Photos were flashed and I found a piece of me that I never knew was missing in these clothes.  A sense of peace, dignity, respect, love and connection to my culture and to my mother.  We swiftly were off to squeeze into two small cars and go to the temple to give thanks!

© Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog, 2008-2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

1st time back to India

It’s fast approaching 7a.m…. looking out over the horizon all I can see is what looks like a beautiful sunset but it is actually the sunrise. After traveling this long through so many time changes I have no concept of what time it is. Amsterdam was far behind me now and so was our layover in Amman, Jordan. Now we were within minutes of approaching this moment I had prepared for, for so long. The flight from Amman seemed to be so incredibly different than any other flight I’d ever taken. There were people of all nationalities. This was a flight that originated in New York City and headed for Bangkok, Thailand via Amsterdam, Amman Jordan and Calcutta. People of all types of religions, languages and customs were packed onto this one plane.

This is the last leg of my journey and also the last leg of life, as I know it.

I closed my eyes and imagined what these next few hours would entail and all I could see was a vision of my mother in a beautiful sapphire blue sari. She had her back to me and she was praying. The color of this sari was so vivid that I had never seen any color blue that was quite this beautiful. Every time I would even blink I would always see this same vision. It began when we left Amsterdam and never stopped until a few minutes before we reached Calcutta.

As I looked out the window, I felt so close to what had created all of us, and this beautiful sunrise. We were cruising at 35,000 feet and being at that altitude a person looks at the world and life differently. I thought about all of the turmoil going on down there with Bosnia and Sarajevo and all of the chaos, the misery and suffering everywhere in the world. Why do we have to live like that when the universe is created in harmony? Then I thought my life is itself a mirror image of the world but only smaller with internal wars and pain and suffering that I was unable to explain to others.  I was in hopes that flying all this way would bring me some peace of mind and connection to someone like me! 

The plane was beginning its descent into the most crowded city in the world, Calcutta home to Mother Teresa, and all of a sudden my mind went back 25 years ago to the very first memories I could recall of this place.  The dirty streets, the beggars, being hungry, and very little other than that came to mind.

As we approached the airport, all I could remember were all of the stories of Calcutta I had heard and read. I was prepared for the worst. I had read that as soon as the plane landed there was a horrible, terrible stench in the air; the stench of cow dung that was being burned to cook with. So I braced myself for the worst possible smell, the most poor, miserable people on the streets, a mother I hadn’t seen in 25 years and a brother and sister whom I had never seen. As we landed, all I could think about was my mother and how her arms would feel around me and what it would be like to gaze into her brown eyes.  Because of the lack of communication, only through one aerogramme letter, I was hoping that she really would be at the airport. I wasn’t sure if she would know the day and time of my arrival since she didn’t speak English. 

My thoughts were on her, would she know that I was coming today, maybe tomorrow.  Oh my god, what if she thinks it is tomorrow and I won’t know how to find her! 

Once we arrived and landed and the doors were opened to the tarmac I looked and immediately felt a peace that I never felt before.  As we walked down the stairs and onto the ground I realized there is no smell except maybe some smog and already I felt comfortable and that I had gone home, rather than to “India”. As we went through immigration and customs, I looked around at the airport which was very small and thought this can’t be all there is to an airport in a city that has over 11 million people. I realized that everyone that was waiting for arriving passengers was standing through a set of double doors that were open to the outside. There was a fcyclone fence outside to keep all of the people out of the airport. As I was waiting to get through customs I looked out and spotted a tiny little woman that looked just like the pictures I had of my mother and then I could see a boy standing to the side that looked just like the pictures of my brother. The anticipation was enough to drive me over the edge. It took over an hour to get through customs but he whole time I could see that tiny little woman outside that I was sure was my mother. 

Twenty-five years I had waited for this moment and here it was staring me in the face. As we walked out she was within a few feet of me. We never spoke a word. We just walked straight to each other, put our arms around each other and cried. I felt almost as if I was once again a child and my whole life since I had left her was a blur. Nothing else mattered now but being with my own flesh and blood mother. After we stopped our embrace, my mother put a lei around my neck (similar to what Hawaiians do) then my sister hugged me and put a lei on me and than my brother also did the same.  Then all 9 of us(the family and friends) and our gigantic overseas hardsided trunks (luggage) were put into two cars and off we went.

As we drove to her house I felt as if I was right at home and that I belonged here, Looking outside as we drove I did not ever feel like that this was not my home. I felt as if I were finally home. Living in America since I was six I still never felt it was my home. But 20 minutes in Calcutta and my heart had already begun to heal. Here I was with my mother and my new family.

All I could do was keep looking at her she was such a sight for my sullen eyes. She sat in the front seat while I sat in the back, she would turn around and just look at me, and we would just look at each other not saying a word.

We all went to her home and she made me breakfast for the first time. Her home being about 8 ft. by 8 ft. and located where Mother Teresa walks everyday. By American standards this looks like the poorest of the poor but in Calcutta this was middle class. The people in her neighborhood (all 40 or so) came out and looked at us, they were all like her family, all looking to see if I had really come. So many people told her I would never come back but there I was, so everyone had to have a look. So many of the people in this community were absolutely beautiful, the children with their white teeth and large smiles had a beauty about them never seen in America.  They gawked with wonderment and were always smiling.  More to come on this first visit…

© Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog, 2008-2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

giving it up

This weekend I hit a big wall.  I am so beyond being patient anymore with what it is that I want to accomplish.  The reason I wanted to get my story out there was to help others and also to open the eyes of many who would never know the pain and suffering that many adoptees go through but also just as important the plight of the mothers who are living in poverty with no power in their culture for recourse .  But now I am so ready to give it up.  It seems that this has been much more difficult than what I thought.  The constant obsession of working on this in one form or another is draining me to no end.  This is the first time in 16 years that I have wanted to just give it up, walk away and know what it is like to have the freedom of just being me without all of this pressure to make a difference in my world.

© Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog, 2008-2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

i miss her

I miss my mommy. I want to feel her to touch her to see her but once again things stand in our way of seeing each other. In the photo I look at her, she stands in a field of big yellow sunflowers with all five other sari-clad women.

What is it like to be a woman in India? What is it like to be my mother in India? Who cares. The real truth is that my blood that is rushing to my heart, the snot that comes down my nose, the quivers in my breath, the drumming head, the weight of the world in my heart all goes back to this woman who is in the photo standing in a field of sunflowers, my mother. The big fresh flower faces seem to be looking at me with eyes that pierce right through me. They speak to me, “see the beauties of India.” The photo mesmerizes me even though I’ve seen it dozens of times. I look at the ladies as if to find something of myself. “There it is, she kind of looks like me when I was young. She looks like my mother when she was young.” The young woman in the photo is a memory of me but also a memory of my young mother. Her face is so serious, as if she has never smiled. Her skin is smooth, supple and has no imperfections. I see me ten years ago. There it is in the skin. Or is it that I never like to smile in front of the camera either? I search to find a minute little similarity that can put me in the same ethnic race as these women.

The problem is that I’ve never worn a sari, how would I stand in a field with this beautiful dress that is luxurious and regal? I don’t know what it is like to be an Indian woman in India. I am not at all like these women in the photo.

My mommy, she is in my heart. Her sadness reads like a wilting flower, she stands out with her pain amongst these women. Her pain is a deep, dark, looming layer that is attached to her field of existence.

Now the pain grows. Her desire to come to America reigns in her voice in our exchanges on the phone. My desire to have her visit propagates in my soul.

© Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog, 2008-2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

unwanted/unloved

Yesterday I had a meeting with a friend and one of her friends.  Somehow we got into the conversation about my story.  As I told the story I once again relived the pain and the sorrow of being that six year old.  When I told the friend the story of how my adoptive mother told me that my bio mother didn’t want me and didn’t love me my eyes began to well up with tears.  I held it in and continued the story.  Twenty five years I spent thinking that my mother didn’t love me and feeling like I wasn’t worthy of much because if my mother didn’t want me then I must really be unlovable and undeserving of anything.  I was suicidal, severely depressed, and sorrowful most of my life.  My adoptive mother laid a heavy burden on me by telling me this and I believed it for all of those years…until I went back for the first time.

© Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog, 2008-2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Pushpa Duncklee and Pushpa’s Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.