Disowned Read online

  “They do not want them,” the man replied.

  “Ah!” the nurses gasped. “Tsk. Tsk.” They clicked their tongues, something they did when they were not happy.

  I looked at the impala calendar on the wall where Nurse Rosa checked the days off every day. My parents were going to be buried on a Sunday. A flood of memories came to me. Sunday was our family day. It was the day my mother baked and I became her sous chef, piping creamy swirls onto little cakes. I’ll never forget the heavenly baking smells that wafted through our home those quiet Sunday mornings, when we’d brew cups of steaming Ceylon tea and sit at the kitchen table with my father to taste my mother’s latest creations. No matter how bad the week had been, Sundays made the world all right again.

  “What kind of family is this, you have found?” Nurse Elizabeth’s voice came from the room.

  “Don’t be so quick to judge,” Mr. Mudenda said. “They’ve been in Africa for the past twelve years. Probably no one even knew this girl was alive.”

  “We can’t fly the bodies anyway,” the strange man said. He didn’t seem to be making any effort to lower his voice. “I was at the mortuary when they brought them in. Oh man. Not something you want to see, I can tell you that.”

  “At least the commissioner said he will look into this business,” Mr. Mudenda said. “I just hope the company doesn’t start petitioning, like they always do.”

  “Those bastards,” the man said in a sharp voice. “Always interfering with our investigations.”

  Silence.

  “Are you going to escort us to the airport after the funeral?” Mr. Mudenda asked.

  “We’re going to drive you there, my friend,” the man said with a chuckle. “Only the president gets an escort.”

  Part TWO

  Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you.

  You must travel it by yourself.

  It is not far. It is within reach.

  Perhaps you have been on it since you were born,

  and did not know.

  Perhaps it is everywhere - on water and land.

  Walt Whitman

  Chapter Four

  It had been the longest flight of my life.

  I’d spent the whole time curled into a tight ball, staring out the tiny window, not seeing anything, my head buzzing. Where are they sending me? Who’s going to be at the other side? Am I going to see home again?

  Throughout it all, one conversation had played in my head, over and over again. At my parents’ funeral, the caskets had remained closed. All my parents’ colleagues and friends from Environ Africa had come, as well as Nurse Rosa, Nurse Elizabeth and Ms. Stacy, my teacher at the international school. The only people I hadn’t known were the five uniformed officers who stood silently, with their sunglasses on, and hadn’t talked to anybody. I wondered why they were there, but no one was answering my questions that day. Not even Mr. Mudenda.

  When I’d asked to see my parents, he’d stammered something about it being tradition that we weren’t supposed to open caskets, but I’d noticed how he avoided my eyes when he said that. Nurse Elizabeth, who’d overheard me, gave me a big hug and asked me to go sit in the armchair in the funeral home director’s office. She left me there with a book and a cup of tea, while the adults conferred next door where the coffins lay side by side.

  Later, neither Mr. Mudenda nor the faceless officer in shades who’d sat in the backseat of the police car answered any of my questions on our way to the airport. Mr. Mudenda kept trying to reassure me, saying I was finally going home, to a family who’d take care of me, that I was about to start a new life in an exciting country, and I must focus on school from now on and make new friends there. He promised I could visit when I got older, that I could visit as often as I wished then. I noticed him wiping his eyes when he said this. I knew he was being kind, but my gut was tightening into a knot that told me something was very wrong. Something in me knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

  I’d clenched his hand at the departure lounge. I hadn’t wanted to let go. Other than Nurse Elizabeth and Nurse Rosa, he’d been the only adult who seemed to care. I’d wished he’d adopt me and let me go to the local school with his son, Peace, instead.

  Just before walking through the security gates at the Dar es Salaam airport, I handed him a piece of paper on which I’d been scribbling for a few days. It was my goodbye letter to Chanda, which I’d written on hospital letterhead that reeked of Lysol.

  “You’ll find her at the market, won’t you? Promise?” I’d asked. “She’s my best friend in the whole world. I want her to know where I’m going.”

  “I promise,” Mr. Mudenda had said, squeezing my hand. “Go now, child. They’re waiting for you.”

  ***

  After the plane landed, I stayed crouched in the cocoon of my seat, even after everyone had taken their bags and walked out. Whatever was waiting for me outside terrified me. The last few people getting off glanced my way with funny looks, but I didn’t care. I curled up and waited—for what, I didn’t know.

  A flight attendant came and leaned over the seats toward me.

  “Namaste,” she said with a pretty smile, “you’re home.”

  Home? I looked at her blankly.

  “Everyone’s leaving. You have to as well, sweetie.”

  I shook my head. No, I don’t want to go out there. I don’t want to go anywhere.

  “You have family waiting for you in that building.” She pointed through my tiny window to the airport terminal. “You don’t want to keep them waiting now, do you?”

  Family?

  “Come on, sweetie.” She plucked my bag from the overhead bin and beckoned.

  I looked outside the window. Didn’t they say they didn’t want a half-breed?

  I couldn’t go back to where I came from, and I didn’t want to go where I was supposed to. The stewardess reached down and pulled me up gently by the hand. I didn’t have a choice. I uncurled my legs and stood up. Holding my hand, she led me to the stairway of the plane and pointed outside.

  “There,” she said, “what a beautiful day it is today in Goa, isn’t it?”

  I looked out with fearful eyes.

  “Go on, now. I’m right behind you.”

  I took a timid step and licked my dry lips. The first thing that hit me was the heat—a heavy, humid, tropical heat that clung to my body for the rest of my stay in this new country.

  The air tasted of sea and salt. The stench of jet fuel mixed with rotting garbage, and the sweat from a billion people wafted into my nose. I almost gagged. The inside of the plane had been much nicer, but the stewardess was gently nudging me forward, down the stairs and onto the tarmac, step by step. There was a constant hum around us. Was it the rumble of jets taking off? Or the roar of ocean waves? I looked through the glass windows of the main airport terminal. Inside, all I saw were people—people, people, everywhere. The whole of India, it seemed, had descended on Goa’s International Airport that morning.

  Two young women were waiting for me at the arrival gate. One of them was a girl, just a few years older than me. She looked like me, but different. I remembered Mr. Mudenda’s preparatory words at the Dar es Salaam airport. That must be my cousin Preeti. Her skin was the color of milk chocolate and she had long black hair and dark brown eyes just like I did, but she wore a white school uniform and had a strange black dot in the middle of her forehead, both of which were foreign to me.

  Next to her stood a beautiful young woman wearing baggy pants and an oversized shirt that went down to her knees, the salwar kameez my mother used to call the “Indian pant dress.” That must be Aunty Shilpa. The two stood close together, shyly with embarrassed smiles. Preeti was carrying an awkward brown cardboard sign with “ASHA” written in squiggly letters. I didn’t know it then, but that was the first time either of them had stepped inside an airport.

  I stared at my newfound family. They stared back. The three of us stood apart, shifting from one foot to the other, unsure of
what move to make next. It took me a whole minute to step toward them.

  Taking the bus to their home was a frightening experience. All those people I’d seen at the airport were now crammed inside the bus, I was sure. I didn’t need to hold on to anything because the jam-packed bodies kept me upright, so much so I could barely breathe. I couldn’t see much except for a man’s white shirt on my right, an unknown yellow sari in front, and Aunty Shilpa on my left.

  My suitcase had been precariously tied to the top of the bus with a ton of other luggage, baskets and bags. With every swerve and jolt, I wondered if mine would fall off, if it hadn’t already.

  In between strangers’ arms and waists, Aunty Shilpa held on to my hand and squeezed it every now and then, to make sure I was still there. Preeti had been separated from us by a few people, but every few minutes, whenever an opening came up, she’d tilt her head to give me a curious smile. I smiled back. In relief.

  I began to relax a bit. Every time someone moved to get off the bus and made some space, I got on my tiptoes to peek out the window and get a glimpse into this unfamiliar world. Outside, vehicles of all types and sizes were fighting for space on dirty streets. The pavement was overflowing with people. Where are they all coming from? When several people got off the bus at the same time, I glanced out to see a line of coconut trees swaying against a blue sky, promising peace in this mass of crowds and confusion.

  My heart began to quicken. It was reassuring to meet these new relatives of mine, yet devastating to know my parents were no longer with me. It was exciting to be in this peculiar new city, yet heartbreaking to know I’d left behind the only home I knew, back in Africa. I seesawed between grief and fear, between curiosity for the new and dread at being in this strange land. And in the pit of my stomach, lay that heavy knot that had formed after the car crash.

  Back at the airport, conversing in a mix of broken English and Konkani, together with confusing hand gestures and facial expressions, Aunty Shilpa and Preeti managed to explain that we were going to my father’s old hometown of Vasco de Gama, where they lived. My new family consisted of my grandmother, my cousin Preeti, the daughter of my father’s oldest brother, and Aunty Shilpa, who was my father’s youngest sister. I didn’t have to ask why my grandmother hadn’t come to the airport. I’d overheard Nurse Rosa and Nurse Elizabeth whispering in the little anteroom when they thought I was sound asleep.

  “Who asks for a bribe to take care of a grandchild, ha?” Nurse Rosa had said with a huff. “The company had to pay, can you imagine?”

  “That woman cares more for money than her own blood,” Nurse Elizabeth had said.

  I already knew I was not going to be my grandmother’s favorite.

  I was glad to finally get off the crammed bus and onto the streets. We didn’t have to walk far to their one-bedroom apartment in a gray government complex. I smelled the heavenly scents of herbs and spices before I stepped through the door. Inside, squatting next to a stone fire stove was a woman in a faded yellow sari with a gray bun on her head. Her face glowed from the fire. She barely looked up as we walked in, and when she did, her squinting eyes settled on my half-naked feet, strapped in red sandals. She gave a loud snort and turned back to her pot again.

  I stared at my new guardian. She was a small woman with shriveled-up skin that made her look like a human grape left to dry in the sun too long. Holding a wooden spatula in one hand and a fistful of herbs in the other, she stirred something that made my mouth water and my stomach rumble. She looked up again for a second to spit out, “Show the orphan where she’ll sleep,” and went back to her pot with a scowl.

  We tiptoed to the furthest edge of the room where Preeti put my bag down. Aunty Shilpa squeezed my shoulder and walked over to help our grandmother at the stove. I stood in the corner, uncertain of my role, waiting for someone to give instructions on what I was supposed to do in this brand-new life thrust upon me.

  Aunty Shilpa rolled out a square bamboo mat and placed a stack of warm rotis in the middle. Preeti filled four glasses with water, and our grandmother piled the delicious-smelling curry into small plastic bowls. I looked at the bowls and the roti and my stomach rumbled. I hadn’t eaten anything on the plane, or the day before for that matter, and I suddenly realized how hungry I was.

  Our grandmother picked up a bowl with a grunt and passed it to Aunty Shilpa. She picked up the second bowl and passed that to Preeti. Then, she picked one for herself and squatted on the mat to eat. That was when I realized she’d filled only three bowls.

  I stared at the pot simmering with the yellow curry, wondering what to do. With a sigh, Aunty Shilpa took an empty bowl from the drawer, scooped a spoonful of the curry into it, and handed it to me with a soft smile. I nodded my thanks and took it gratefully with both hands.

  Preeti and Aunty Shilpa ate silently, heads down. I sat cross-legged on the floor behind Preeti and dug into the curry with a piece of the warm roti. I took the first bite expecting to savor my first Indian meal, but I tasted only rejection.

  Chapter Five

  My new school in Goa was run like an army boot camp.

  The school monitor was the official warden who answered to no one, other than the principal himself. The monitor was a tall, thin woman with bony hands and a crooked nose, who wore a white sari to school every day.

  Aunty Shilpa had explained to me that in India, white symbolized purity and innocence. To me, our school monitor was anything but. Her face reminded me of a witch in one of my old storybooks, the one who almost had Hansel and Gretel for supper. Even our teachers feared the school monitor.

  On my first day, I followed Preeti to the schoolyard, where the teachers and students were lining up in rows. On a silent cue from the monitor standing in front, everyone took a rigid pose and began to sing the national anthem, followed by what I later learned was the school’s official song. The girls’ youthful voices rose in unison as they sang a cappella in harmony, the sound bouncing off the school walls. I stood with my back straight and arms glued to my sides. I didn’t know the words to either song, so I put a serious look on my face and stood like a soldier at attention.

  When the singing ended, an uneasy quiet fell over the school grounds. We must have been a hundred girls and teachers, but no one said a word. A few daringly shuffled their feet. Others looked around anxiously. How strange it was to stand in silence, as the India I was beginning to know was notoriously noisy, a place where everything happened loudly, clamoring for the world to hear.

  The girls stood quietly in their rows, stiff as the queen’s guards I’d seen on TV. Each skirt pleat had been ironed into knife edges. Each shirt had been perfectly pressed. Everyone had the same hairstyle, separated in the middle, done up in plaits, and kept in place with coconut oil, which I could smell all around me. In contrast to the whitewashed military rows of the students, the teachers’ line in front was a dazzling rainbow of multicolor and sequins. While these new teachers of mine were striking, they were nothing like the larger-than-life women of the Uhuru market in Tanzania. My teachers looked more like my mother—skinnier and shorter. Their dresses weren’t made of the bold kanga of the savannahs, but of satin-soft fabric from Asia. Draped in shiny scarves and saris that flowed to their toes, my teachers sashayed in their rows, golden nose rings glittering in the sun. I watched them in rapture, dreaming of the day I’d dress like that.

  The school monitor was walking down each row of students, stopping to inspect a pleat, a shirt collar, a hair plait. If anything was amiss, she rapped the girl’s knuckles with a long steel ruler, while the rest of the girls winced, thanking their stars she hadn’t picked on them. She noticed me halfway through my row. Ignoring the other girls in line, she walked toward me slowly but steadily, holding her steel ruler up in the air like a samurai sword. She stopped in front of me with a snort that echoed off the school walls. My heart started to beat fast and my palms began to sweat. What does she want with me?

  The other girls stood silently, eyes straight ahe
ad. The monitor’s beady eyes looked me up and down and stopped to give a penetrating look at my hair, which I’d done up exactly like every other girl in school that day. Her gaze went down to my shirt. I was wearing one of Preeti’s old uniforms. Though Aunty Shilpa had ironed it the night before, it had become wrinkled from squeezing into and out of a crowded bus that morning, but Preeti had helped me get most of the creases out by hand, just before we walked into the morning session. The monitor’s eyes ran down my legs, widening as they settled on my feet. I had on my precious red-heeled sandals. These were the last things my parents had bought me and after all I’d gone through, they were what kept me grounded, what linked me to my former life. I only took them off to get into bed at night.

  The school monitor pointed at my hands and beckoned me to give them to her. With a feeling of dread, I opened my palms. I heard the steel ruler hit before I felt the cruel sting. She hit me not once, not twice, but seven times.

  Once the parade inspection was over, the girls got into small groups and wandered toward their classes, talking in muted tones. Preeti ran toward me and gave a gentle squeeze on my arm.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, trying to hold back tears.

  “I should have checked your shoes. Taking care of you is my duty. This is my fault.”

  I tried a weak smile and shook my head. “No, it’s fine,” I managed to croak. This had been my fault, not hers. And I’d paid the price.

  The school bell rang. Preeti squeezed my arm quickly again before running off to her classroom. I knew she couldn’t be late. I couldn’t either. I turned around and walked to my classroom alone, my hands throbbing from the pain and my face flushed from the humiliation of my first day.

  More often than not, I found myself alone in the back of the classroom during lunch. Preeti tried to get me to join her during breaks, but I couldn’t stand the whispering of the other girls. My cousin, who I learned was a year older than I, had been coming to this school since grade one. She was also a popular girl here. Her hair was shiny, and blacker than midnight. Her kohl-lined eyes were large and round, and the dimple on her cheek was as endearing as her nature.