A Maya Story
Friday, July 05, 2013
The little girls all brought their mattresses into my room on my last night in Nepal for a big sleepover. They cuddled in my bed (with Namraj and Bishal) and asked me to tell them stories. Bishal wanted to hear a story about superman. Kalpana wanted to hear a story about love and Sabita wanted a story about magic. I began to tell them whatever stories my tired brain could think up, one about a magic pumpkin that I totally ripped off from Jack and the Bean Stalk and a love story about Cupid and his bow and arrow that could strike at any moment. Luckily anything about superman and a cape is enough to impress Bishal and he was so sleepy, it didn't take much effort.
One by one each of the little ones fell asleep. First Namraj, then Bishal, then Bindu and Saraswati, then Sabita and Shanti. Squashed on the tiny edge of my own bed, with my mosquito net dangling above us, I wondered why I agreed that they could all sleep with me. Maya and Kalpana were the last ones awake.
"It's ten o'clock already! Time for you two to go to sleep."
"Noooooooo," Maya pouted in her usual Maya pouty voice. "I didn't get a story yet. Mommy, I want to hear the story of how you found me."
Her request took me a little by surprise. I mean, I love the story of how Maya and I found each other. I tell pieces of it every so often but I've only ever told little anecdotes to Maya herself. It's a really sensitive topic for both of us. Every now and again she'll bring up little things she remembers; that I gave her a frooti mango juice box, and that I used to carry her around in a little baby sling on my back. She remembers that she grew up near a river. I have the most vivid picture of her as a toddler in my head. She was absolutely stunningly adorable with two dreaded pigtails that I'd later have to chop off, and a stick pierced through her nose, and the cutest chubbiest face with a little bit of a pot belly. If only I had Instagram back then.
I always used to joke that Maya looked like one of the lost boys. The daughter of a fisherman, she was strong and healthy and surprisingly nourished, other than a huge bot fly bite on her arm with worms in it that I'd later have to pull out with tweezers, but that's a story for another day.
There are also parts of Maya's story that are sad and a little heartbreaking and violent. I'm not totally sure what she remembers and what she doesn't. Once when she was just three or four I took out a bottle of hand sanitizer and she automatically recognized the smell. "That's whisky," she said in her most innocent toddler voice. It's amazing the things that a little being can pick up on, how she could pull that memory up from her early childhood. It stopped me in my tracks.
As the kids get older, sometimes I hesitate with what to share, and tell them, and what not to. I've always been curious about how adoptive parents eventually explain it all to their kids so that they grow up with understanding and acceptance. It's easier for me with the older ones because they remember a lot more about where they came from. I've slowly been trying to explain things to Namraj, especially after I heard another kid at his new preschool/daycare tell him that "I wasn't actually his real mom." I lost my breath for a second. I had come to pick up Namraj at school. I was standing in the doorway watching him put on his shoes and the little girl next to him was looking at me and then back at him, clearly connecting the dots. I heard what she said, and my heart sunk. I immediately looked to Namraj and watched his face for a reaction. Without skipping a beat, he told the little girl he had two moms, ran over and jumped in my arms. I'm still not sure who he was counting as mom #2. Kusum Auntie, who lives with us, who Namraj equally loves. I have a feeling he understands more than I think he does and was referring to his mother who passed away. I can't know for sure. Luckily Namraj's story involves a helicopter and he just love love loves when I tell him about how he came with me. We'll get to the rest of the details when he's older.
But lying in bed with Maya next to me, staring at the ceiling I decided to take a whack at telling her the 7 year old version her story interweaving a little fairytale with reality. The woman who came to tell me about Maya was my fairy godmother who granted me just one wish.
I wished for a daughter of course and the woman told me where I had to go. I walked around the mountain, across the river and through the woods. I walked and walked and walked. I hadn't brought any water and I was very very thirsty and it was hot. I stopped at a little roadside hut in a village and chugged down a jug of water. The little stand just happened to be selling frooti mango juice boxes. Tope and I both drank one and then I put a third one in my pack.
When I finally found Maya, she was a lot smaller and younger than I anticipated, and wayyyy too scared to come anywhere near me. I told Tope that I thought she was too young but as soon as I turned towards him I could tell he had already fallen in love with those big brown eyes and dreaded pig tails, and her sweet round face with the stick in her nose. And I had too. Tope reached into my pack and grabbed the juice box. He handed it to Maya and in that instant she came immediately to both of us, sat in our laps and let us hold her in our arms, while she sipped her mango juice out of a straw.
As we were leaving someone from the village gave us a chicken, a live one, (true story) and we walked all the way home, across the river, and through the woods, me and Maya, and Tope and the chicken, (who of course would later lay a golden egg.)
We lived happily ever after.
I told Maya about how on that long walk home I chose the name Maya because Maya means love... and I loved Maya the moment we met. And when things get hard it's good to remember that.
Maya's eyes began to shut and I could tell she was totally satisfied. "I love that story mom."
It's a good one.