Epilogue (July 27)
Carmel, IN
6:19pm
I have been home now for one week. The first thing I ate was a chicken BLT, the next twenty items I consumed were probably fresh fruit, the last of the lice in my hair vanquished after I attacked them with Permethrin 1%, I realized I’d picked up impetigo (an easily curable skin infection) from the kids, I spent a day going through 800 photos and then cried all over again, I tried to fight jet lag and then I gave up. I have not missed white rice. I have missed Anandh’s sunshine smile, Vimal’s infectious laugh, Parvitra’s baby smile, Barath’s little body, Amal’s expressions, Gidirivan’s face, dancing with Manny, spinning with Angel, cuddling with Derlin…the list goes on. I miss everything about Mani. He was the main reason for my tears on Wednesday – for the first couple days at home, I felt like I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, and couldn’t cry. But after hours of looking at photos of the new life in his face, the thought of him lying alone, crying alone, bleeding with no one there to pick him up and no one there to care for him, to know all his little quirks and habits and favorites…while I still couldn’t breathe, I could definitely cry. But Thursday night (after falling asleep at 4pm and waking up at midnight), I received a message from Lorna at 1:24am: Mel and Olivia have decided to step into your shoes and spend an hour a day with Mani, who is still smiling thanks to a certain special somebody!
I don’t think words exist that can adequately to describe the way I felt. If the inside of my chest was a night sky, fireworks would have exploded across it. I definitely flew out of my bed, fell over my giant suitcase, crashed into the the wall (it was very dark…), ran downstairs to tell my mom, and teared up…I just had to tell somebody.
After that, I could breathe again. I still miss him, but to know that he is still smiling is more than enough.
I am still learning about love (of course…). Before I left India, I had briefly wondered if, after six weeks of pouring myself out, of living in love, living on love, depending on love, I would come home and have no outlet for that. Then I realized that all the love I’ve learned and seen and given and received would, if I let it, only enable me to love those at home more.
Easier said than done. I didn’t have to be vulnerable to love those children. Really, you can be whoever you want to be if you’re sitting in a room full of children who can’t move, can’t speak your language, and don’t know who you are. Yes, it’s hard, it’s gut-wrenching, it’s exhausting, but you can wear all the masks you want to, you can escape if you need to. You can be whoever you want to be. But I am finding that to love, to really love, people at home, especially the ones I’m closest to who are the easiest to forget to love, with all our flaws and our faults, requires me to be vulnerable. Really vulnerable.
At Prema Vasam, I saw what love can do. In this first week home, I’ve seen that I actually know nothing of how to love. I suppose that this will define the rest of my journey in life, that this is what the journey is all about anyway, and I hope that when I have run my race, that at least I can say for sure, I have learned how to love. Now that I have seen, I am responsible. To whom much is given, much is required. So much for coming home and getting comfortable. Prema Vasam was only the beginning.
Summary:
I have continued writing at: http://onepartgypsy.wordpress.com/
So I finally got to go to a Tamil Pentecostal service this morning with Jancy and Sumita at 7:30am. Everyone sat on the floor – women on the left, and men on the right. There were about three times as many women as men, and only a handful of children. It really reminded me of African Pentecostal services, except I could understand none of it, but it was so beautiful. Like the Africans I’ve been with, the congregation worshiped, sang, and prayed with hearts wide open, pulsing with the passion I so hunger for and rarely find in churches at home. And then, to my surprise, they sang the simple, classic hymn Alleluia, and I couldn’t have asked for more. I’ve sung that song so many times in Africa, as well as America, and I have always loved how, with a single word, it always seem to ignite worshipers with a united passion. It’s impossible for me to sing that song with a closed heart.
We got back to Prema Vasam around 10, in time for breakfast. Checked my email, went upstairs, and worked out with Jo and Lorna. Lunch at 2 was spicy beyond the point of human endurance, basically. Around 4, Jo, Lorna, Mel, Fabio and myself went for my last ever trip to Mr. Chai Man. Jo brought Fatima and I brought Mani. Not only was he as excited as always to leave the orphanage, but I held him between my knees as we sat on the wall across the road from the chai shop, and he is getting stronger than ever, holding his head up for rapidly growing periods of time. On a side note, Fabio, who was sitting next to me, mentioned how badly downstairs first room smells. He sniffed Mani’s hair and said Mani smells like the room. I vaguely remember thinking, a while ago for the longest time, that DFR smelled awful, and I remember when Mani smelled pretty bad as well. Strangely though, when I followed Fabio’s example and breathed in the smell of Mani’s hair, it just smelled sweet to me. It smelled like Mani. Maybe the anonymous quote I saw on a poster in St. Thomas hospital is true after all: Beauty is simply reality seen with the eyes of love.
After about an hour and a half, we went back. Mani cried when I put him down. Jo and I went back outside and then sat on the steps, watching the school kids have a karate lesson in the department room. One of the best things about Prema Vasam is that they don’t only provide the children with bread and board and basic education, but they also offer opportunities that the children can choose to take advantage of: karate, yoga, dancing, art…
Anyway, as we were watching, it abruptly began raining. Jo and I abandoned our audience posts and raced into the courtyard. I admit it, I twirled and spun on the sand until the rain stopped…basically….I am a small child that never grew up.
After the rain stopped, Jancy and I went upstairs and sat outside my room and she hennaed my palm and wrist, my foot and my shin. As she was almost finished, the sky let loose again with no warning. Jancy finished the henna as the sky was turning the deepest shades of bottle blue. She left, and it took every ounce of my slightly mature self to restrain the small child in me from climbing up onto the highest roof and letting it rain on me, as if I didn’t care that all of Jancy’s beautiful work would wash away immediately. But I did care, and the rest of the girls were working out in the big airy room down the balcony hall from our room, so I went and attempted to join them. But by then, thunder was rolling through the evening sky for the first time in weeks, sheet lightning was flashing, and the wind was wild, bearing the heaviest scent of rain ever. I couldn’t exactly concentrate on crunches, and I couldn’t run out in the rain, so I did the next best thing: pirouettes in the doorway.
I guess I should say here that one of my favorite things about this part of India is that, no matter how gray the day has been, the sky always, (almost) without fail, manages to pull itself together into a beautiful sunset. It is a very moody sky, with all sorts of different sunsets, but there have been three that were absolutely breathtaking. The first was on Jenny’s last night, and we said it was India’s goodbye to her. The second was a random night, but the third was on Chloe’s last night, her farewell. I had half-wondered if I would have a sunset too, but instead – fittingly – I had a rain: the sky I’d admired bidding adieu in the best possible way it can, the God I love filling the air with a message just for me. God knew, and I knew.
Unfortunately, I glanced down after a string of spontaneous pirouettes and discovered the henna on my shin was a long unidentifiable smear. Sad times…
I went down for feeding at 8pm and began feeding Barath, but then a girl came in and informed me that I was leaving at 10 instead of 11, so I gave Barath to Mel and went upstairs to shower and finish packing before my last dinner at 9. After dinner, I had 40 minutes left to say my goodbyes to the bedridden children. (Last night, we’d all dressed up in saris and had another big farewell, with all the children there and some of the girls performing dances. Selvyn asked me to say a few words, and I almost burst into tears while trying to talk, looking out over all those beautiful little faces, but just barely managed to keep smiling. At least though, they know I’m leaving, and I won’t just disappear with no explanation.)
I went up to Gamadi’s room first. Vimal smiled at me when I walked in. He was trying to sit up, so I helped him up and spent a few minutes coaxing a laugh from him. Barath was sleeping, but I shifted him towards me to kiss his little peachy cheeks one last time, but he woke up crying so I held him for a bit. I kissed Parvitra and stroked her feverish face. Everyone else was asleep, which made it a little easier for me. I kissed Yemuna, Ashwini, and Raja anyway. Then I put Barath down and fled from the room as he started crying, not daring to look back or I’d never get away. It reminded me of my first day here when he cried, I Looked back, and totally lost my heart for the first time. This time, I just had to leave.
I said my goodbyes to downstairs second room next, stroking Ravi’s face and saying his name to get him to smile, and giving Banu a brief head massage, talking to her softly. I kissed her cheek and forehead, and then headed to “my” room – downstairs first room.
I kissed every child in there. I talked to Anandh, gave him a high five and kissed his hand as he has done to mine countless times, gave Angel the longest hug and kissed her neck and made her laugh uncontrollably, cuddled Derlin, hugged Muthu tight, gave Mahendren water because he was crying, kissed a sleeping Fatima…and last but not least: Mani.
He was sleeping, but I gathered him up anyway. He woke up, but just barely, and, cradling him like I could back when I first started holding him, I carried him outside and settled down at the unlit top of the stairs, my back to the shadowy mango orchard. He was still awake, but still caught in sleep, and he barely moved during the fifteen minutes that I held him, other than moving his hand to rest light and small on mine. Quietly, I sang Amazing Grace, the first song that I used to sing to him over and over, until the tears finally won and choked my voice out. I held him and I cried, holding him the way I’d longed to hold him for so long – at peace in my arms. He was so still and beautiful, his big brown eyes blinking as he stared off at nothing in particular. I pressed my cheek to his and breathed in his sweet smell, and tasted salt on my lips. “Naan ullai virumpukiren. Anbu orunaalum kuraiyadu,” I whispered in Tamil. I love you. Love never fails. “And love is never wasted.” The life-changing lesson I wouldn’t have learned without him.
“I love you, and Jesus loves you too, much more. You are loved, you are free, you are precious.” Words I used to whisper to him every day. And just like old times, that was when he suddenly stirred and half-heartedly tried to arch back, but I gathered him in and he didn’t resist again. Clearly, though many of his battles have been fought, the war is still yet to be completely won. Yet I must leave anyway, trusting that the words I’d just whispered to him are true and lasting.
Finally, at ten til 10, I carried him back into his room. Even as sleepy as he was, I felt his entire body tense as we neared his cot. Abruptly, I turned around and carried him back outside…and then back in. I laid him down and kissed his temple, then headed upstairs to change for the next twenty-two hours of flying. I climbed over onto the roof (shortcut) and went to say goodbye to Fabio because he wasn’t feeling well so wouldn’t be down to say goodbye with everyone else. On the way back across the roof, ducking under the laundry lines in the dark, I cried again.
The older girls and staff had gathered to see me off, but before getting into the car, I slipped back into DFR. Mani was asleep again. I kissed him for the last time. On the way out, I waved to Anandh (our tradition) and he flashed his brighter-than-sunshine smile, waving back. I blew a kiss to Angel (our tradition), and she blew a kiss back.
Driving away from Prema Vasam, the windows down to let in the rain-cooled night air, the last thing I’d secretly hoped for happened: I caught the scent of the rice paddies, light, sweet, uncomplicated. My favorite of all of India’s details that no one else seems to notice, it always makes me breathe a little deeper. It was the last, the smallest farewell, just for me, a reminder that the bitter and the sweet in life, as always, go hand in hand. I had only fleetingly wished I could catch the scent before I left, to breathe it in one last time, but God knew.
As always, He knew all along.
The last dance (July 18)
I walked into department after the last child had been carried, and knelt beside Dr. Robinson. ‘Hi,’ I said, and he smiled at me. ‘Can you have Mani’s therapist do what we were talking about yesterday, today?’ He said he would, so I made my rounds in department, changing Parvitra, talking to Barath, playing with Anandh, sitting down beside Mani, waiting for Dr. Robinson to call for Mani. Talking to him wasn’t enough, I needed to see it through, see him do what he said he would. Yesterday, when I was talking to Robinson, and today, when I spoke to him briefly, all of the therapists’ eyes were on me. I know they all talk about me and Mani, but I really don’t care. I cannot leave Mani without knowing that Dr. Robinson is aware of the progress he has made and will continue to care for him in an effective way.
While I was waiting, sitting there, I just thought of my first day in department, and this, my last. Last day on the battlefield, last dance on the dance floor. I woke up this morning more heavy-hearted than ever before, depressed and short-tempered. The only thing that snapped me out of it finally was when I went upstairs to carry, and I had to smile for the children, and they smiled for me. Parvitra’s lip is infected and the infection has spread in a really weird way up to her eye. Her entire body is feverish, and, when Sumita was caring for her in department, I noticed that her tongue has a white substance on it like Mahendren’s had…
Sometime around ten-thirty, Dr. Robinson caught my eye and motioned for me to bring Mani to Pradeep, one of the therapists. I did, and Pradeep lay Mani down in front of him. Dr. Robinson told me to sit down beside Pradeep. I was a little confused – this wasn’t what I’d explained yesterday – but glad as well, because I’d had a suspicion he didn’t quite understand what I was saying and now I could demonstrate. ‘Can I get a chair?’ I asked. Now Dr. Robinson looked confused. All of the therapists were watching me. ‘I’ll show you,’ I said. I fetched a chair and sat down on it beside Pradeep, who was going about the usual therapy techniques of stretching the muscles and moving the joints. I asked for Mani. Pradeep was was confused now too, but he handed me Mani at Dr. Robinson’s urging, and I placed him between my knees as usual.
‘This is what I meant,’ I said, showing him how Mani pushes against the floor with his legs, and has rapidly increasing neck control. Yesterday, when I was talking to Dr. Robinson, I had been standing up and holding Mani against me, and it turns out that he apparently thought that was my technique, because he looked at what I was doing this morning and said that I had shown him something else yesterday.
Dr. Robinson then began explaining me several things about physical therapy. ‘Will you do this for him?’ I asked. ‘Yes, he said, ‘we will begin on Monday.’ I can’t copy down our entire conversation because I don’t remember it and I couldn’t understand most of it, but basically, Mani’s therapy is going to change and, instead of just laying him down and stretching his legs for a few minutes, they are going to begin therapy to really work on leg strength and neck control. I handed Mani back to Pradeep, who began working his legs gently but forcefully. He worked at them until he could push them almost completely straight. Dr. Robinson came over. Someone brought a pair of leg braces. Oh no… I thought. Working together, Pradeep and Dr. Robinson managed to strap Mani’s legs into the braces. I watched, but my heart was in my throat and I was on the verge of tears, not understanding yet what they were doing. This, I thought, was not what I had in mind. I watched Mani’s face, knowing that the braces hurt, but also knowing that he wouldn’t cry out. He doesn’t really show pain…it’s as if something in him actually enjoys it sometimes, hence the pounding of his head on hard objects.
Pradeep picked Mani up and Dr. Robinson told him to set Mani against the wall. Pradeep held him there in a standing position, placing a folding towel behind his head, because now he was shaking his head back and forth, back and forth. He was clearly in pain. But after just a few seconds, Pradeep lay him back down and unstrapped the braces. Dr. Robinson was standing beside me now, and he began to explain the therapy they had just done, and the fact that it was brief helps me trust that he knows what he is doing. However, it wasn’t the same as letting Mani bounce on his own, held between someone’s knees, and I still wasn’t satisfied. I told Dr. Robinson that I could see the benefits of the standing therapy, but was he also going to do what I had been doing for Mani? I stressed that while the other therapy is helpful, it is painful (he agreed) and therefore it’s entirely lacking one of the most important parts of what I’d been doing: happiness. Mani looks forward to bouncing, I went on (repeating myself), and it makes him really happy, and he is healthier because of it.
Pradeep handed me Mani. From what I understood, Dr. Robinson is going to do both techniques…braces and bouncing. At the very least, Mani’s therapy has been elevated to another level. I knew I had done all that I could to explain the importance of what I’d been doing with Mani every day, and now all I can do is trust, and rest in the knowledge that I have fought for him. And then Dr. Robinson, still standing beside me, told me that what I was doing was a new technique that he had never seen or used, but it was very good, because it allowed for voluntary use, stretching, strengthening, and movement of the legs and pelvis, as well as drastic improvement in head and neck control. He said, several times, that he would continue to use it as I have shown. And then, he thanked me for what I have done.
Still holding Mani, I went up to my room, shut the door, turned on some music, and placed a squealing Mani between my knees to let him bounce.
And then I cried my heart out.
Still fighting for Mani… (July 17)
I changed my original plans of going into Chennai directly after feeding, and instead waited until 11:30 so I could talk to Robinson at 11. I had never talked to him until I asked him, sometime around 10 when he walked past me to wash his hands, if I could talk to him during his break, although I had smiled at him a couple times from across department. He turned out to be extremely nice, which I suppose is probably not too surprising considering he has devoted his life to trying to improve the lives of the most severely disabled children.
Before 11, I held Mani quite a bit. I also gave Anandh a backrub, took Angel outside and up Selvyn’s stairs to look over the orchard wall, and took Vimal out of the cot that some clueless caretaker had deposited him in, because he was really angry at first and then he just collapsed on the bottom of the cot and cried. So I took him out and laid him on the floor in the position I always do to calm him down, and he calmed immediately. I also loved on Ravi and Muthu and Mahendren and Jordiga and whoever else I saw that looked like they could use a little love. Last but not least I picked up Mani and held him for an hour and a half. I let him play off and on over the space of forty-five minutes, and then I put him down, intending to go upstairs for a drink of water before talking to Dr. Robinson.
I stood by him for a couple of minutes, using my ankles as a barrier to keep him from rolling off the mat to hit his head on the marble, but then he just started crying. It’s a good thing the kids don’t realize how much power they could potentially have over me just by crying. ‘Okay, okay, you win,’ I said to Mani, and picked him up, carrying him upstairs with me and giving him a drink before I drank.
At eleven o’clock, Robinson caught my eye and motioned me over. ‘I have a request,’ I said, ‘but first, I have to tell you a short story.’ I then proceeded to start with me picking Mani up the second day I came, and describing the state he was in. I told how I’d held him for an hour every day and sang to him, and how he finally smiled after two and a half weeks. I told how he then started showing signs of happiness and recognition when I picked him up, which then became excessive excitement every time. I told how I used to hold him, and how I eventually thought of holding him between my knees, because he wouldn’t stop kicking and he just had too much energy. I told how he now looks forward to it, and how he’s so happy and much healthier. And then, I said I wanted to know if they could continue doing it after I left on Monday, earnestly pitching the argument of how important it was that he be happy. Dr. Robinson was very attentive and smiled at all the parts that you should in Mani’s story. He agreed to incorporate my method into Mani’s therapy.
I held Mani for another fifteen minutes, cradled and quiet in my arms, until he was ready to be put down, and then I left for Chennai. Step two (talk to Selvyn, talk to Robinson) of three (make sure Robinson does it) completed. Step three will have to wait until tomorrow.
Mani, Mani, Mani (July 16)
I really wanted to take Mani for another walk, since he enjoyed it so much yesterday, and I want to spend as much time with him as possible before I go. So I invited Fabio to come with Fatima, and we recruited Olivia and Melissa to come with and carry Derlin and Jordiga. Mani reacted exactly as he did yesterday: except for the occasional kicking spasms whenever a vehicle drove by, he went very still, clung tightly around my neck, and smiled and squealed the entire time. He knows when I am returning him to his cot and he hates it. The second we walk through the door into DFR, he grabs at my hair/clothes/face, and when he grabs on he literally holds on with all his strength and I have to force myself free. Every time.
I had arranged with Selvyn to talk to him about Mani in the evening, and at eight o’clock he was in the office with Mumtaj, so I went to go get Mani. I walked up to his cot and he was sleeping, or so I thought. I ran my finger lightly up his leg and, to my surprise and the girl’s who was feeding next to me, at my touch his beautiful long-lashed eyes blinked open instantly, staring straight ahead. ‘Mani,’ I said. He smiled. I picked him up and his happiness was a little extreme, as usual. Carrying him into the office, I set him between my knees, and talked to Selvyn and Mumtaj as he bounced. I again went over, in detail, how he was when I “found” him and all of his improvements: the way he looks around now, the infections on his scalp that are entirely gone, his smiles, his energy, how vocal he is now, and, most recently, his new control of his head and neck – he can hold it up for about twenty seconds at a stretch now.
I just want to know that, when I leave, someone will hold him between their knees for at least fifteen or twenty minutes a day. Not only because he’s getting stronger because of it, but because he looks forward to it, and he loves it – it clearly makes him so happy, and if he’s not happy, no amount of physical therapy can really help him at all. Selvyn listened attentively and then told me that I should talk to Robinson (Dr. Robinson Arul Anand), Prema Vasam’s chief physiotherapist, and see what he says, so I will do that tomorrow morning.
It is my highest goal to ensure that even the smallest amount of happiness in Mani will be maintained, if not added to, after I leave. I cannot accept that everything I’ve done will be for nothing; that he will just go right back to how he was before. If I know they’ll take care of him, I know he’ll be okay without me, and I’ll be able to leave somewhat at peace. Still…I really don’t know what I will do without him. My heart is actually going to break on Sunday night, at 11:00pm, when I say goodbye.
Battlefield to dance floor (July 16)
All of the volunteers went down to department this morning at 11:30, staying until feeding was over at 1:30. During my first couple of weeks at Prema, I was always the only volunteer in department – the other girls spent their mornings with the kindergartners or the special kids upstairs. During the last couple of weeks, however, everyone spends their time in department. It’s much less stressful, and much less like emotional triage, because I look around and most of the more emotionally demanding kids are already in someone’s arms. No longer do I feel like the lone medic in an overflowing battlefield.
Several times while I have been in department in the past, I have toyed with the idea of somehow playing music in department, something to alleviate the boredom and agitation of the kids, day in and day out. This morning, I suggested it to Lorna and Jo, who whole-heartedly approved of the idea, so we soon had my discman plugged into the speakers from our room plugged into the wall. It was a huge hit – with both the kids and the caretakers. Department basically transformed from battlefield to dance floor.
I held Manny by both of his hands and danced with him in circles until he fell down laughing – three times. He is so darling…I love his smiles. And then, of course, I picked up Mani. I sat on the floor and laid him on his stomach across my thighs, and then picked him up and spun around in circles and then sat down and let him bounce between my knees. He was really, really happy. And then Padma took him for therapy…but two minutes later – I hadn’t even gotten up from the chair yet – she swept back past me with Mani and dropped him abruptly on the mat. To my surprise, he was crying…I walked over and the first two tears were escaping. And then I saw the bright red blood on the side of his head and his cheek…and then he started really, really crying. He was too upset to even struggle when I picked him up and cradled him. I still don’t know what exactly happened during those two minutes. After several minutes of holding him, he stopped crying, and then Sumita cared for his head, and then he just lay in my arms with a vacant expression. I gave him water and then (at Sumita’s request) I danced with him again and he finally smiled.
At feeding, I attempted to feed Ramya (she simply refused) and attempted to feed Jordiga, at Chinema’s request (she, for some unkown reason, became uncontrollably furious and screamed bloody murder) and then I very successfully fed Madhan while also keeping Yemuna out of Madhan’s food. After carrying, I worked out, went downstairs for chai, came upstairs and colored with Sadeesh and Lakshmipadi (school boys) and Amal, and went downstairs with my camera and had a spontaneous photo shoot outside behind the kitchen with Gidirivan, Amal, Suresh, and Preethi.
Joy and pain (icecream and rain) (July 15)
Parvitra got hit in the mouth during lunch today. It broke my heart when, a few minutes after the feeding ordeal was over, I smiled at her and she tried to smile back but her eyes were all swollen from crying and her mouth was red and trembly. I picked her up, and her lips were a little swollen and cracked in three places. I confronted the woman who did it – English wasn’t necessary to convey that I knew what had happened – and then I took Parvitra upstairs and put some music on. I lay her down on my chest, singing softly, and she was asleep in moments. Her lip really, really swelled up. After she woke, I ate an apple from the refrigerator, cool and sweet, and I put the core to her mouth, even though she hates eating now. To my surprise, she opened her mouth, and I ended up biting off tiny bits of apple and feeding them to her. I took her downstairs and picked up Mani.
He’d been crying after feeding and I’ve given him water, but he was so excited to come upstairs. He actually squealed when I first walked into the room and the music was on. I spent forty-five minutes bouncing him up and down. Sometimes, when he’s not with me, I think I don’t have enough energy to go get him, but that’s so ridiculous, because nothing gives me more energy than seeing him as happy as he is during our little one-on-one sessions.
During the next forty-five minutes, I was still holding him, but I’d invited Melissa and Olivia, the two new Scottish volunteers, into the room to answer any questions they might have, since this is their second day and they didn’t even come through an organization that could brief them about life at Prema Vasam/in India. So I did. It reminded me of when I was a trip leader in Africa, and it felt wonderful. For some reason, I really enjoy briefing people about new situations. So then we went down for carrying and along the way I gave them the official orphanage tour.
Sometime around five, we (Melissa, Olivia, Lorna, Jo, myself) took eight of the special kids on a walk to the icecream shop. I carried Mani (The only child we brought who can’t walk) and he went very still, holding me around my neck, but then smiling and squealing. Every time a vehicle drove by, he got really, really excited. During the moments when he was calm, he just rested his head on my shoulder. Although I worry about what will happen when I leave him, now, sometimes, I wonder what I’ll do without him…
After the walk, I put Mani back in his cot just as it started pouring rain. I flew upstairs and scaled/climbed/leapt/maneuvered my way up to the highest roof (the Sleepless on Prema Vasam roof) just in time. There is a mango orchard behind the orphanage, flanked with yellow-flowering trees and palm trees and two hazy hills in the distance and to the left are the village buildings i sat on the edge and let down my hair and the rain just poured down. It slowed briefly, and then I watched a sheet of rain fly in over the palm trees and attac me in the face. The mango trees went crazy, and I couldn’t even face the rain. The wind was deliciously vicious, and with my back to it as it whipped my clothes and hair in a cold frenzy, I could see the rice paddies moving like tiny oat field seas in the wind, shimmering silver where the water peeked in through the brilliant green blades. I was completely soaked. It was amazing.
