Lessons From Amulya

Mother’s Day quickly approached. We would be taking all the children to the park to be photographed, holding heart shaped decorations with handwritten sayings like “thank you for loving me” and “happy mother’s day”. Mother’s Day can be a difficult concept for an abandoned child. We wanted to take the day to thank their sponsors, who love the kids as if they were their children, and to continually assure the kids of how loved they are.

The kids were aware that something special was going on as we pulled up, handfuls of the laciest, frilliest dresses we could find. Polos and dress shirts for the boys, earrings and bows for the girls. Not used to such luxurious items, they squealed with excitement. Amulya, one of the eldest at the home, collapsed on the ground in a fit of hyperactive screams. Her eyes unable to focus, her hands jittery with excitement, she could barely contain herself as she continued to hurl herself at the ground, a groaning laugh escaping her lips.

Amulya was the child I found most difficult to deal with at the home. In her mid-teens, she and her twin sister, Dhivena, had come a long way since they arrived at SCH. Dhivena, unable to walk at the time, had taken her first steps on the roof of the house. Amulya was slowly learning to control her excitement. Earlier, if someone had even looked at her, she would breakdown in a fit of happy screams, slapping and throwing things in her oblivious joy.

“Amulya,” I sighed, trying not to show my frustration. “Come on, we will get you dressed.”

Of course she understood not a word of my English, but I took her elbows and tried to pull her to a standing position.

“Let’s go, Amulya,” I said, more forcefully this time.

She responded with a slap to my shoulder, and then a delighted giggle. I rolled my eyes, exasperated and unable to keep track of the number of times Amulya had slapped me since my arrival.

“Fine,” I said stubbornly, leaving her on the ground, “You can wait.”

I scooped up little Esther and carried her, and a bag of dresses and bangles, up the stairs to the office, which would become our makeshift change room. Esther, a toddler who had been misdiagnosed as having special needs, was an orphanage favourite with her Shirley Temple curls and sweet smile. I found the perfect pink flowered dress for her, and after running a comb through her hair and throwing on some matching bangles, Esther was ready for her photo shoot. I stared at this lovely, perfect little child and couldn’t help mourning the loss of her mother; the woman who decided not to care for her for reasons we will never know. I thought of my own mother, and with a twinge of sadness wished I could provide to Esther what my mom provided for me.

I was given little time to dwell on it as Cassia was handed to me, and I found an equally adorable pink dress for her to wear. When the first eight kids were ready, we headed out in the car with our cameras, leaving Chelsea and Corinne behind to dress the next load of kids.


Once at the park, the kids’ eyes lit up. This particular park, the only one in the town, was only open during certain hours. Thankfully, we arrived just as the gates opened and before the crowds had arrived. I glanced over the park quickly, deeming it nothing special; a slide, two sings, a climbing jungle, and some open space with grass and gardens. Certainly not nearly as nice as the playgrounds I had spent hours in as a child. But as I took a second look, I noticed something strange that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

“Grass,” Sarah said, as if reading my mind. “This is one of the few places in the city that you will see grass.”

The kids who could walk had sprinted to the swings, and those who couldn’t were plopped in the middle of the grass, letting their fingers run over it with an awed expression.

“The second group of kids will be here soon,” I said to Sarah. “Let’s get started”.
One of the ayahs looked around to make sure no one was watching, and then picked a handful of bright pink flowers from the nearest bush. She fussed over Esther, pinning some to her hair, and leaving others at her neck. Finally she nodded at me, showing her approval. I smiled, Sarah giggled, and Esther basked in the attention. She looked like a princess. The other kids began to crowd around, and we shot their pictures quickly. This first group was easy. Our littlest ones, and those with the least disabling needs, they looked precious. Brent, with his blue and red striped polo, lost his mischievousness for a moment and smiled with big, doe-like eyes, making our hearts melt. I knew his sponsor would be thrilled receiving this picture on Mother’s Day. Victoria, with bright pink flowers in her hair and a fake-gold necklace on, that we had picked up at the shop, gave us a big smile, showing off the bottom teeth she had just lost.

“How could anyone abandon these children?” I thought to myself, watching Victoria boss around the littler ones, as if she really were their sister. And in some ways, I thought, she was.

As I photographed the lovely Victoria, the second carful of kids pulled up, and Sarah began loading the first group back into the car to go home. Esther cried, wanting to go down the slide one more time, but the park was getting busy and we had photos to take. In the last twenty minutes, crowds had begun to show up. Children, mostly by themselves, were running wild and fighting over the two swings. A group of mothers chattered in the corner, and I admired their brightly coloured saris. A pack of teenage boys with gelled hair and bellbottoms sat on the benches, looking angsty. I giggled to myself, thinking how unlikely it would be back home for a group of teenagers to consider the local children’s park the cool hangout.

“Nee-kee See-stah!”

I turned to face one of the ayahs, who was calling my name. She and another ayah were stumbling under the weight of Shalene, our oldest child at SCH. Well into her late teens, and unable to walk or talk, Shalene was quite heavy and trips like this were difficult for the tiny Indian staff, many around her same age. I rushed over to help them, and we sat Shalene in the grass before going back to the car to help the rest of the kids.

“Amulya, you made it.”

Amulya sat in the car, looking quite pleased with herself. She shoved Wendy lightly, trying to get out of the car, unsure of what would await her outside the doors. I became very aware of the eyes on me as these older girls piled out and headed to the park. A few, like Shalene, needed to be carried. Those who could walk did so mostly with a limp or on their tiptoes. Phoebe, completely blind, amazingly led herself to where the group sat. I wondered if she could sense the dozens of eyes staring at her. Certainly, she could hear their whispers.

“People with disabilities aren’t often taken outside here,” Sarah explained. “They don’t quite know what to make of our kids.”

She said it nonchalantly, being used to the reaction with every outing she took the kids on. I tried to swallow this piece of information; that it was socially acceptable to keep a child with special needs inside, where they would never have to be heard or looked at.

“Aaayiiiii!” Amulya screamed, thundering over from the car.

Her eyes wide with pleasure, she didn’t seem to see the crowd of people staring at her, but had eyes for only one thing; the garden.

“Amulya, let’s take your picture.”

I held up my camera to show her, and pointed to a chair we had arranged for her to sit at. Amulya ignored me, or perhaps didn’t even notice my presence. She took off at top speed, and hurled herself at the garden.

“Aaayiiii!” she screamed again.

My eyes widened as I watched her shake the bushes, grabbing fistfuls of the leaves and putting them in her mouth. I took a step forward towards her, prepared to pull her up, but then I heard Sarah giggle. Her giggle turned into a laugh as she began snapping photos of Amulya, rubbing the dirt all over her new white dress. Phoebe, blind all her life, had heard the commotion and now stood beside Amulya, reaching out towards the bushes and shaking them wildly.

“Get these kids out of here. They are ruining the garden!” A security guard (yes, in India, even the parks have security guards) said sternly, watching the girls with great disgust.

Sarah ignored him completely and turned to me.

“They have never experienced nature before. This is incredible!”

I took a step back, taking in what Sarah was telling me. Surely, on Mother’s Day, my goal was to show these kids that they have many mothers who love them. Surely, at some point during the day, I had stepped away from dressing them up and taking pictures of them, and engaged with them on a personal level? I thought back. I remembered scolding Amulya for hitting me, and sending Esther to the car when she wanted to slide, but I couldn’t remember loving them. I couldn’t remember encouraging them to explore these new and exciting surroundings, as a mother would do with her child. Instead, I focused on the timeline, and on the stares, and didn’t notice the beauty in what was happening before my eyes.

I smiled.

“Yeah, Amulya!” I cheered her on, sending a wide smile to the stubborn security guard who glared at us. The other children, equally as excited to see and touch the leaves and flowers, joined her in the garden.

Amulya, oblivious to my epiphany, looked up at us with a big smile, and popped a handful of leaves inside her mouth.