The Knitted Dolls

My absolute, for-ever, eternally favorite person was home. Finally. After a year of traveling around India, my aunt was where she belonged. She had left, she said, because there were people who needed her help. Less fortunate others that needed homes and food, warmth and love.

I ran down the stairs, amazingly without tripping, and into her arms.

"Oh! You missed me enough to run!" She likes to tease me about my laziness. I explain to her that I just haven't found anything that sparks a big interest in me. Except her. Her stories are the only thing that makes my heart beat just a little faster.

"I believe I have some little trinkets for you. A kind woman traveling to Kolkata sold me the prettiest dolls. They belonged to her daughter."

"And wasn't the girl angry that her mom was giving the dolls away?" I asked.

"Her daughter passed away from starvation, I'm afraid. The crops her family was growing were flooded from a harsh rainy season." she lamented.

"Oh."

"But don't worry! They are most likely not haunted!"

She giggled. My aunt doesn't believe in ghosts. She says that people just want connections with their passed relatives. I don't blame them. I miss my parents. If I saw their ghosts, I wouldn't be afraid. I would be happy to see their faces again.

My parents passed away three years ago. They were do-gooders too, and while helping a village ravaged by tuberculosis, they caught it too. They didn't come back for fear they could contaminate others in Savannah. They are buried in a mass grave a few miles from the village. I've never gone.

The taxi cab driver offered to help my aunt bring her suitcases inside. While they were getting the things out of the trunk, I studied the dolls. They weren't like Barbie dolls. They were knitted, and stuffed with something heavy. One doll had long dark hair and big brown eyes, dark skin, and a dirty blue cloth dress. The other had a ripped red dress, which looked nice with her light skin and hair. Her eyes were a beautiful shade of blue.

I went upstairs to my room and placed the dolls on my nightstand, near my parent's picture. I went downstairs again and saw that the taxi cab driver had left. My aunt was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea. I pulled up a seat next to her and said the obvious: "Please tell me a story! I've been waiting for one the moment you left!"

"Okay... Let's see. There are real-life stories and fairy tales. Which one?" she said.

"Fairy tale, please!" Real-life stories are scary sometimes, like the girl that died of starvation.

"Okay. Once upon a time in Kovalam, a beautiful small city in Kerala, there lived a tortoise with a golden shell. The tortoise was very vain, for he thought that he was better than all the other animals. He never drank at the same watering hole as the others, he demanded only the best food and even didn't respect his own parents."

"Really? If I had golden hair, I would still respect you..." I commented. I knew it was true. I would never be mean to my aunt.

"Oh, I know you would, honey. I would never doubt it!"

"Go on, go on!" I rushed.

"Yes, yes, fine. Then one day, hunters came to the area. They needed food desperately, to take for themselves and to sell for money. They went all through-out the landscape but never did they find an animal big and fat enough to provide as a good source of food. They were setting up camp when they heard the crunching of leaves heading towards them. They hid and stayed silent, and soon saw a tortoise with a golden shell going through their supplies. One of the hunters trapped him in a net. 'This tortoise's shell will support us and our families for weeks!' The other hunters agreed. They killed the turtle, stripped it of its shell, and returned home."

I was stunned. "That's it?!"

She thought about it for a while. "Well, yes. The moral is that you should always respect everyone. If the turtle hadn't been searching for the best food around, maybe he would not have died!"

Now it was my turn to think about it. "I guess it makes sense."

"Of course it does!" Now, I know you're tired. It looks like your eyelids are glued to five-pound weights! Go to bed, child." she chided.

"Fine. Good night! And thank you for the dolls."

"Good night, honey. And you are always welcome."

I took a shower, brushed my hair, and got into bed. The dolls seemed to be staring at me. It wasn't scary, it was like they were trying to tell me something. I thought about the girl who had once owned them. Maybe they were her only friends. Her mother probably made them for her, with a lot of love. I only knew how it felt to lose parents. Maybe it felt worse to lose a child.

The dolls seemed lonely, so I placed them next to me. Their eyes were the most captivating part of them. I studied them and quickly fell asleep.

I don't usually dream, but the dolls seemed to pull me to that distant land. I appeared in front of a little cluster of huts, surrounded by marshy fields. I knew instantly I was at the home of the girl. I entered the closest hut and was shocked. I knew that the families my aunt had helped were poor, but not this poor. There were three mats on the ground, most likely beds. There was a little table made out of dried reeds. That was it. There wasn't even floor, just smoothed-out dirt.

I heard people talking outside, so I ran out and hid behind a rusty old wheelbarrow. What looked like a family was entering the hut. There was a woman with an old, frail body, but her voice sounded like she couldn't be more than 40. Beside her was a tall, skinny man, probably her husband. Trailing behind was a tiny girl. You could practically see her rib bones. She had the two dolls in her hands. Her mother yelled at her, probably to come inside.

Suddenly, my dream changed. I saw a pit, and box weaved out of more reeds. It was the funeral of the girl. Her mother, father and a few more people were all standing next to the pit. One person was reciting something, maybe a prayer.

I woke up crying. I felt sorry for the girl and her family. I felt scared of the dolls. They belonged to someone dead. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to creep down the hall to my aunt's room, but she was tired from the long journey here.

I put the dolls back on the nightstand and sat down on my bed. I wanted to help the girl, but it was too late. I sat there thinking when an idea hit me. It was risky, but I knew it was what I wanted to do. I had to go with my aunt back to India. I had to help the families that didn't have enough to eat, that didn't have a proper home.

After organizing my thoughts, I felt a lot better. I would make sure that no other mother would have to sell their daughter's doll. Their daughters would be healthy, and they would keep playing with their dolls.

The next day, I woke up early and made breakfast. My aunt came down the stairs, and she was surprised when she saw me already sitting there.

"Emmaline, what are you doing already up?" she asked.

"I have a proposition for you. I think you'll like it." I tried my hardest to sound mature.

"Okay, tell it to me," she said suspiciously.

"I want to go with you on your next trip to India. I felt bad for the mother who had to sell her daughter's dolls. No one should go through that. Her daughter should still be alive. I want to help the poorest families there, just to make sure that it doesn't' happen again."

My aunt sat there, stunned. I don't think I've ever sounded so sure of anything in my life. It took a while for her to answer, but when she did, I was ecstatic.

"Well, Emmy, if you want to, I won't stop you. I know you'll be helpful, maybe even more than me!" She seemed sure of what she was saying, and I truly believed she wanted me to go with her.

"The next trip is in a few months, so you'll have to start preparing. You will learn the language, and what your tasks will be."

I nodded excitedly. I knew that there was always a possibility that we could get fatally sick, or we could starve, but I'm sure that this is what I wanted to do. I had finally found something that made my heart beat just a little faster.