This was written last week on a particularly emotional and difficult evening. Every year as my birthday gets closer and closer, a heaviness comes over me—a heaviness that only adoptees seem to understand.
Aai, I went through my wedding photos today. I looked for you in every single one. I searched my face for features that might have resembled yours. Some moments I feel my heart can’t handle the agony of knowing you will never see me in my bridal saree. Other moments I am comforted because I felt your presence all around me every moment that day. I felt like a true indian bride and I longed to see what you looked like on your wedding day. Maybe we looked the same. I ache for you.
So many milestones you’ve missed, and I have missed many of yours. There will always be one we share. 26 years ago I was still a part of you. You were my first home. We only had a week left to be together. I so wish I knew your thoughts during those last few weeks and days. I can only hope you were not alone.
We are turning 26, and each year that passes adds more and more distance between us but I will never give up on trying to find you. You are forever in my heart, my aai. Please don’t forget me.
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.
If you’ve read my story, you know that I was abandoned as an infant.
If you think this is a rare occurrence, you are sorely mistaken.
In recent years, the war on the girl child in India took off as the ultrasound made its way to my home country. Every 12 seconds, a baby girl is killed. That means 7,200 girls are killed a day in India because of their sex. That is only counting the thousands that are killed…not including the millions who are abandoned.
Gita Aravamudan has been a warrior for our girls and had brought this issue to the forefront as she has written for and worked with Hindustan Times, India Today, and Indian Express. Just today, she wrote an article that was published on First Post. Here is the link to the article:
In 1994, she was in Tamil Nadu in the small village of Usilampatti as she was investigating the issue of female infanticide. For the first time, an arrest had been made but the community had rallied around the accused woman. In this village it was normal to murder the second daughters and third daughters and so on, as more than one girl was seen as an impossible social and financial burden to bear. The more people Gita talked, the more she found out about this horrific phenomenon. One woman she spoke to was the midwife who delivered all of the babies in the community. She spoke about the horror that a girl child brought to families and she was asked to dispose of countless female infants. Many of them she was able to sneak away and give up for adoptions, but there were also families who asked for proof of her disposal and she was forced to murder them and give the tiny bodies back as proof.
Little did Gita know, these girls were not lost forever. Not far away, in the town of Tiruchi, these lost girls were found by social workers who stumbled upon Mose Ministries, run by a man called Pastor Gideon Jacob. These 89 girls knew nothing of their past, and only knew Pastor Gideon as their saving grace. Their parents did not even know of their existence.
“The girls grew up cooking and caring for themselves with no adult mentors. They were visited sometimes by the pastor and his friends. They were often severely punished for minor misdemeanours and sent away to “hostels” for disciplining. There they were severely beaten and forced to go without bathing or eating for days. Many of them worked on the pastor’s farm as labourers as a form of punishment. Others were sent with illegally obtained passports on trips to Germany to collect money for the home. They were made to sing and perform street plays and distribute pamphlets on the streets of Germany. Many were compulsorily taught theology and some were being groomed to become evangelists. There was no evidence of sexual abuse, but they were emotionally and physically traumatised and were in the thrall of the Stockholm syndrome which meant they did not want to leave the home or move away from Pastor Gideon Jacob.”
Another one of Gita’s thoughts hit me hard: “The girls never had the life their parents had imagined for them. How many of the girls who were given away or taken illegally from their parents actually ended up having a good life?”
I struggled with so many mixed feelings reading this. What kind of a life had their parents imagined for them? Many of them wanted their daughters dead. I was one of the “lucky” ones. It is so easy for me to wallow in self pity over the fact that I not only lost my birth family but also my culture. But I know there are other lost daughters like me who lost their entire identity and instead lived a life less than human. That could’ve easily been me had I not been rescued and given a new life. Now the girls had the choice of either going back to their families who gave them away, or living on their own. Many of them chose to stick together, as this was the life they’d always known.
How many more of us must be lost in order for India to realize she’s killing and abandoning her own daughters?