Shyama's Choice

The temperature on the phone registered 24 degrees Fahrenheit. Shyama looked at it without recognition and then typed, "What is 24 degrees Fahrenheit in Degree Celsius". As the number flashed on the screen, she put her hand on her mouth and let out an "aah". Then, slowly, she tiptoed towards the pearly white front door. She put her hand on the golden knob and turned it. Her bangles clinked as the door revealed a flurry of white powder. It was snowing. And Shyama was seeing it for the first time in her life.

Shyama didn't belong here. She understood it when she boarded the flight from New Delhi to Missoula, Montana. Twenty-three hours later, everything had changed. Missoula airport was nothing like the airports she had seen before. The floor was wooden, the dry air filled with an earthy fragrance she didn't recognize. The women were gigantic; the men, almost all of them, had a long beard. There were pictures of wild animals, especially the grizzly bear, hanging from the walls. Every corner announced that this state was proud of its mountains. Shyama thought about her colorful little town in central India – how it was packed with little shops, carts selling fruits and vegetables, and narrow alleys where big families still lived together in the same house.

'What was I thinking?' the thought haunted her for a long time.

She fiddled with a red string tied around her wrist as her big black eyes explored a whole new world in awe. This world, in turn, looked at her with similar surprise. That was July. The smoke was in the air, fires burning in the mountains, summer at its peak. She had not imagined that this green land, filled with flowers and berries, would turn into a bare white field in just five months. 

Shyama carefully folded her Pashmina shawl and put it on the couch. Her bangles clinked as she picked two cups of chai from last night. It was a cold day. 'I need more chai', with the thought, she filled the little pan with water and turned the knob of her electric stove. Her eyes traveled to the box lying next to the couch again. It had arrived yesterday. The address was correct, but it was for Jillian Downey. Maybe she lived here before Shyama moved in. The back had a little slip stating: 

If Undelivered, please return to

 'Elliot Foster Home'

French Town (Montana)

Shyama put her little finger through the red string again. She mustered the courage to pull it. But the thought of breaking it scared her, so she started smoothening the threads instead.

As the chai cooked, Shyama looked outside her kitchen window. Patty was standing outside her big house, looking at her. She was startled but then knocked on her window. The sound startled Patty as if she'd come out of a trance. Shyama gestured her hands, asking Patty to come in.

"What were you doing out in the snow?" Shyama handed a cup of hot chai to Patty.

"Thinking" Patty smiled back.

Shyama sat down next to her and sipped her chai. She felt sad for her neighbor. Patty, in her seventies now, lived alone. She had no family or friends. After seeing no visitors come to Patty's house for five months, that was Shyama's conclusion. "Children make me nervous" Patty had explained her singledom to Shyama. This was also the end of their conversation. Shyama did not know how to reply, and Patty had no idea that Shyama was uncomfortable. There were other dissimilarities between their cultures, like how independent Patty was and how she could still go on road trips independently. To Shyama, this felt almost like abandonment from her people -a sin! But the more she explored, the more sense it made. This was a different way of living as well as thinking. And yet, seeing Patty standing alone in the snow triggered that thought again. 

The women were sitting silently. The snow had silenced the world outside too. The only sound in the room was the hum of the heater.

"What's that package?" Patty spoke finally. She was squinting her eyes to get a clear picture of the package. 

"What will you do with it?" Patty didn't wait to listen for Shyama's reply.

"I don't know. What do you think we should do?" Shyama spoke faster, matching Patty.

"You could give it back; let me see what it says" squinting her eyes, Patty started reading ", Hmm, this is in Frenchtown. Not too far, but far enough. What bad handwriting."

"Did you know Jillian Downey?" Shyama looked expectantly at Patty now.

"Nope. That's what surprises me, honestly. Because the address is right on. Maybe somebody wanted you to have it. You know a secret gift kind of thing." Patty's eyes searched Shyama's face for a reaction.

"I don't like surprises", Shyama frowned.

"Yeah, they can be hard to deal with at times. By the way, I am happy you finally put these pictures on the wall. But you never told me – are these your kids?". 

"Uhh.. no, my sister's. My nephew and niece." 

"And this man?" Patty was looking at the other picture on the wall. 

Before Shyama could reply, Patty started again, "Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude."

Shyama started fiddling with the string again. She looked at the pictures on the wall. A little boy about eight was standing next to a little girl. His hands wrapped possessively over her shoulders. She looked not more than five. Both were smiling. The other picture was not as happy. Maybe in his thirties, a man was sitting on a cot in front of a yellow house.

"Do all men in India have this serious look?" Patty was looking at the picture with the same intensity as Shyama.

"What? Oh! No. I hope not." Shyama hesitated. She wanted to say, 'What is it to you?' yet was surprised that Patty could see through the picture. This man in the picture did look angry.

"What's his name?"

"Vanraj"

Before Patty could ask more questions, Shyama got up. She put the cups in the sink and turned on the tap. Then, waiting for the water to turn warm, she started thinking. The day when she had decided to leave it all. The house, the money, the safety and comfort of an entire, thriving home. How difficult was the decision? And yet, how inevitable.

"If you'd like, I can drive you to this place tomorrow. I remember it." 

Patty had shifted her legs on top of the couch now and was looking at Shyama.

"Are you sure?" Shyama sounded a little hesitant.

"Of course. Whoever this Jillian Downey is, needs a little help."

As Shyama's mouth curled up in a smile, the frown on her forehead smoothened. Closing her eyes, she let go of the images taking space in her mind. She sat down next to Patty and unexpectedly put her head on her shoulder. The older woman patted her head and released a long sigh. 'Patty is a good woman after all', Shyama concluded.  Although there was a lot that she didn't know about her, Shyama felt safe with her. It was hard for her to imagine Patty not having children. But maybe you don't have to have children to be motherly.

When Shyama stepped out of Patty's black Subaru in the crisp winter morning, the ice beneath her shoes cracked. She looked at the old, yellow building in front of her. Holding the package in her hand, she was curious to meet the person who had sent that gift to her address. She hoped there was still time to send it to the person it was intended for.

"Okay, Honey! I'll finish up my work and be back to pick you up in an hour. Does that sound okay?" Patty's sunglasses reflected Shyama's innocent face. She nodded, and the black vehicle drove away. 

There is something eerie about being in another country. Something uncanny that reminds you that you don't belong. As Shyama walked into the yellow building in her green salwar kameez, she had the same feeling. Like being a pickle in a bakery, as much as she tried, she could never fit in. And yet, she was trying to do precisely the same. 

The yellow paint was chipping away. The pavement leading to the front door hadn't been cleared off the snow. A small sign said 'Elliot Foster Home', but the rust had eaten away most letters. Shyama balanced the box in one of her hands and pushed the door open. A whiff of air laden with a strange smell greeted her. She knew this fragrance. What was it? Marigold. What was Jasmine doing here in Montana? Wasn't marigold the flower people wore at auspicious ceremonies in India? At least that's what her memories told her. Her eyes started searching for the source but couldn't find anything recognizable. 

"May I help you?" A voice pulled her away from her search. A short man was standing between a half-opened door. His thick glasses couldn't let Shyama look into his eyes. So she replied hurriedly, "I came here to return this."

"I'm sorry?" 

"This", Shyama replied with her hands outstretched now. The box jingled along with her bangles.

"Come in," the man said, somewhat confused.

As Shyama stepped into this room, the same fragrance greeted her, and she saw two incense sticks oozing out a thick white cloud and the smell of a marigold flower. 

"Okay, lady, what is it?" the man looked at Shyama again. She blinked. This frail man was perhaps as old as her father.  She looked at the room. The two bookshelves were stacked with books on Parenting, Adoption, and Laws about Adoption. There was a lot of paper on one of the shelves: some old photographs, trophies, and Christmas decorations. A thick layer of dust covered everything. The man probably didn't see or care.

"I wanted to return this package. It was delivered to my address. But there is no Jillian Downey there." Her thin finger pointed at the name as if her words were not enough to convince him. 

"So?" He looked at the name and then at Shyama.

"So, it had your address on it," she turned the package and pointed at the orphanage's name. 

The man burst out into a laugh. When Shyama did not respond to his good humor, he grew serious, "There is no way !" 

"What do you mean?" Shyama grew more serious. 

"Well, if there was a Jillian Downey, she visited us years ago. Think 30 – 40 years. I was a young lad, living here as one of the orphans. Yeah, I remember her; in fact, she visited exactly this time of the year, near Christmas, bringing in food, clothes, washing supplies, money, Christmas decoration, and whatnot. But she was a sad, very sad woman!"

"So, where is she now?" Shyama looked at the man who was lost in remembering something. 

"She disappeared." 

"Disappeared?"

"Yep!" 

"What do you mean? How can someone just disappear?" 

"People can disappear, you know. Suppose they have a hard time in life. Or someone does them wrong, or they do something wrong to others and can't face it. They just leave; move cities, states, or countries, who knows?"

Shyama looked at that man, her eyes unmoving. 

"Of course, I don't mean that for you. But, you know," the man's voice was a little shaky now, "What I'm trying to say, nobody knows where she went. She just disappeared one day." 

"So, how did this package reach me?"

"I have no idea. Maybe somebody played a joke" the old man tried to chuckle but coughed instead. 

Shyama was fiddling with her red thread again. 

"So, are you a Hindi?" he said, looking at the read thread now. 

"Yes, Hindu."

"Married?" 

Shyama hesitated. 

"I know there is something about the red thread, left wrist, and right. Married – left, unmarried – right. Right?" He looked at Shyama, proud of his knowledge.

"Can I leave this package with you?" She stood up.

"What will I do? Maybe it's for you." He hesitated. "Do you have children?" The question caught Shyama off guard. 

"Children make me nervous," came out from her mouth. 

"Hmm... I didn't know Hindu women can say that."

When Shyama didn't respond, he continued, "Well, that was a bad joke. Let's see what's in this package."

She nodded and pushed it towards him. He looked at her through his thick glasses and then at the tiny scissors on his table. He picked them up and cut the tape wrapped carefully around the package. Shyama started fiddling with the red thread again; she put her finger through it and tugged at it. Snap! It let go of her wrist and fell on the floor. The man opened up the package and then looked at Shyama in disbelief.

He started taking out things inside the package - cleaning supplies, Christmas decorations, clothes, and an envelope. 

The man looked at the note and asked, "Is your name Shyama?"

Shyama nodded with surprise. 

"This is for you" he handed her the envelope.

Her heart skipped a beat when she took out the letter inside the envelope and opened it. It was written in very clumsy, bad handwriting: 

This may be the last time we are having this conversation Shyama. But I know that the kids in the photograph are yours. I cannot think of any reason why mothers would leave their children behind. Yes, I can think of madness, but you are not mad. I can think of drugs, but you don't do them. It means there is something else there. 

I cannot do anything except tell you how your presence has made me feel these past months. By the time you will read this, I will be gone. Who knows where! But know that I have been hiding something from you. Children don't make me nervous. The thought of leaving them does. Mine were in this foster home before they were taken away. And I could never get them back. 

If it can be of help. I'm leaving my house for you. If it suits you, get them here. I hope that is what's in your heart. 

Love 

Patty (Jillian Downey) 

There was another paper in the envelope. It was the papers of Patty's house. It looked like she had done all the legal work necessary before writing this letter. 

Shyama looked at the papers and then at the older man. 

"What is it? What does the letter say?" The man looked worried. 

"Would you like to have a new building for your foster home?"