It Might Have Been A Sunday

January 9, 1994.

My paperwork throws this date around on almost every page. They tell me this is the day they think I was born. It’s also the day they think was our last together.

Is this the day? The last day my hands touched you? The last day I heard your voice? The last day I knew your smell?

I wonder if it affects you as it affects me. The trauma that occurred on this day 24 years ago changed the course of my life and walks with me every single moment. On this day I became a tree without any roots. I can’t help but wonder if it affects you. Do you yearn for me the way I yearn for you? I have this word tattooed on my forearm: “hiraeth.” It is a welsh word with no direct English translation, but a loose translation describes hiraeth as, “The nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost people and places of your past.” This perfectly describes how I feel about you, mainly on my birthday. GRIEF. I grieve for your loss and for mine. We are forever intertwined, you and I, although we may never know one another face to face.

This evening, I channeled my inner Desi and danced to my favorite Bhangra playlist as I did the dishes. I kept feeling the bindi between my eyes, making sure it was still there. I tried my very hardest not to cry while I was missing you so very fiercely. I wondered how we would be celebrating my birthday if I’d stayed in my homeland all this time. As kids we used to celebrate our birthdays the evening prior because India was a day ahead. So now, every year on my birthday eve, I wonder where you are and what you are doing and if you’re thinking of me. I wear this bindi because it connects me to you. It connects me to my roots. It connects me to my people, my culture. Our culture. As silly as it looks in my sweatpants and T-shirt, this bindi and my Bhangra take me back to you on this anniversary of our last day together.

It might have been a Sunday.

January 9, 1994.

A very odd day. I wonder what it was like for you and who was with you. I was too small to be full-term—I wonder if you were alone and scared and abandoned me because of this. I’ll never know. I think a piece of me wishes that you regret leaving me alone on my first day of life, but I can’t even imagine the weight of that burden. So I truly hope that you’ve found peace and I hope you know happiness today. I hope you have the support and love of community you might not have had back then.

Maybe someday I will find you. For now, you remain in my heavy heart on this 24th anniversary of my last day with roots.

Knobby Knees and Monkey Toes

I finally finished, “A Long Way Home: A Memoir” by Saroo Brierley. I began reading it several months ago, but decided to take a break considering how heavy it was for me to read.

I only had a few chapters left to read, and once I started reading again I wondered why I ever stopped. I couldn’t put it down! Then I got to the pictures at the end of the book, and was mesmerized in particular by this photo:

I went from face to face to face, analyzing every inch of their faces.

It isn’t hard to recognize that Saroo looks EXACTLY like the others in his family.

This is what I’ve longed for my entire life. Somewhere in the world, there are others who look like me. Saroo found his family, the ones who have his facial features and maybe even his mannerisms. Obviously there are cultural differences, but genes are genes.

Growing up I would watch as friends were getting married and having children and trying to decide which family traits the child carried. Maybe it had the family nose, or the family eyes, or the family dimples. These are normal for me to hear about, but when I think of family traits when it comes to myself, it is such a foreign concept. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

Somewhere, my family lives and has my eyes and my nose and maybe even my knobby knees and monkey toes. When I someday have my own children and meet my biological family for the first time, I’ll be able to see what traits I received and pass on to them. I can’t wait for that.