Orphans and street urchins but still Her darling children

The story of a 12 year-old girl named Laksmi who was given refuge at Amma's orphanage in Parippally

Amritapuri. The western sky looks as if it is yearning to relieve its burden by a burst of rain. There is a cool breeze blowing; it must have caressed a downpour somewhere up north. I am trying to put together my memories of the past 12 years of my life. But the dates and events do not oblige -- they lie scattered.

As the money that was earned by our begging would be expended on father's drinking sprees, what remained for us was his kicks and our empty stomachs. One such evening, my mother and I were moving in a crowded corner of the city with outstretched arms. Someone threw boiling water on my mother. I saw her reel in pain and fall in a heap.

Another time, goaded by hunger and thirst, I had peeped too far into a well without sidewalls, and fell into it. I remember the faces of the strangers who pulled me out (I wished then that they hadn't) and gathered around me, sighing in sympathy. Even though I painfully try to forget all these bygone experiences, the memories come crowding into my mind's eye, without any order. I'm trying to pen them down here. I don't know where or how to begin. I do not even know where or when I was born. Do street beggars know such things? I don't think so.

My memory starts in a hut on some wasteland. Having lost all sensibility because of his excessive drinking, my father had lately been beating my mother mercilessly. My father then walked out of my life, taking my two younger brothers with him. Girija and I were left with our mother. Did they divide their only assets, us children? That, too, I do not know. But one thing I know for certain. The last walk that mother took me and my sister on was to meet with death.

It was a deserted beach. I do not know which beach it was. It was afternoon and the grains of sand were burning hot. I was close behind mother. When mother reached knee deep water, she paused for a moment. As the next wave came roaring in, she lifted Girija, her child on her hip, and hurled her far into the blue waters. As I stood there gasping, not knowing what to do, she grabbed my arm and pulled me forcibly away with her towards the shore, not even turning once to look back. She walked so fast I felt my arm was being torn off.

With my heart breaking, I kept looking back until we were too far away from the beach. I try to imagine that a snow-white bird might have come flying above the sea, and might have lifted my little sister from the deep waters to safety.

Next my unfortunate, accursed mother went towards the railway tracks, pulling little Lakshmi with her. I couldn't follow her and was left behind at a distance. Soon the sight of my earthly mother was blocked from my view by the train that rushed past with a deafening roar, putting an end to her earthly existence. My ears were rendered deaf for several minutes.

"Street beggar woman dies after being hit by train," the police must have recorded in their duty books.

One of the many people who had gathered to gaze at the scene on the rails took my arm and walked off, as if he was taking away some goods that he had purchased at the market. What he wanted was a seven-year-old servant girl. When he and his family eventually realised that I was unfit for physical work, they left me at Amritaniketan, Amma's orphanage in Parippally in the Kollam district. They left me there, saying they would return a few days later. But I never saw them again. I arrived at the orphanage a few days before Onam (the harvest festival in Kerala). The love and attention I got there was completely new to me, something I had never experienced in my life. Within the next few days, some of the children were taken home by their relatives to celebrate the Onam festival. Nobody came for me. A few of us children remained at the orphanage.

I asked one of those children, "Will somebody come and fetch you?" She blinked her eyes to say, "No." I asked again, "Are you not sad?" She then took my hand and said, "Why should we be sad? We are all going to the ashram to see Amma. Amma will feed us the Onam dishes. She will make us sit in a swing and rock us with Her own hands. She will sing and dance with us. She will shower kisses on each of us." As she was describing all this, her face grew radiant with joy. Her mind was full of sweet memories of the past Onam that she had spent with Amma. I didn't know anything about Amma, whom she had so exuberantly been talking about.

I had seen the photos of a smiling Amma in the office and classrooms of Amritaniketan. Most of the residents used to pray with joined palms before Amma 's photos. Would this Mother whom my friend was talking about really give me that much love? I was fluttering between disbelief and feverish hope.

We reached Amritapuri in the ashram bus a few days before Onam. We entered the prayer hall and joined the long queue for Amma's darshan. As we slowly moved closer to Amma, my mind was throbbing. Would Amma give me a new life? Would She console this unwanted one, who was so hated by everybody? "If Amma forsakes me, where will I go?"

As I reached Her lap, Amma whispered affectionately, with a sweetness of love I had never heard before: "My pearl… my darling daughter… do not worry... isn't Amma with you?" I burst into tears. I had been condemned by society's callous judgment even before I could stand on my own; but now I wanted to shout again and again: "I am no longer an orphan, no longer a beggar!"

I had always been troubled by the fear that being born the child of a beggar woman, I would have to spend my life begging in the streets, or in still worse conditions.

The words uttered by Amma in my ears gave a new existence to 12-year-old Lakshmi.

I was used to satisfying my hunger with the leftover food scraped from garbage heaps, but now Amma fed me good food on a clean plate. I used to wear dirty, useless, discarded clothes, but Amma gave me beautiful coloured garments. Amma, who dedicates Her every breath looking after orphans, stray souls and the suffering, who wipes the tears of thousands every day, taught me the first letters of the alphabet. Those who came for Amma's darshan that holiday may remember this. While She was giving darshan, Amma would make me stand close to Her. In between giving darshan, She would take my finger and write on the slate the first letter, "A", in Malayalam, pronouncing it as well. After giving me back the slate, Amma would continue giving darshan. When I had written this letter many times on the slate, She would stop darshan for a moment. She would take the slate again, and write the next letter, "Aa." Then She would give me back the slate and continue giving darshan. This was how Amma taught me the alphabet. I felt so fortunate to be taught by the Divine Mother, the Goddess of learning Herself, who is revered by the entire world. I have shed more tears thinking of Mother's love and compassion, than tears of sorrow and suffering.

The terror of the stupendous waves that thump the beach and the roaring train that passes by leaving a wrenching pain, the forms of my younger brothers who walked away holding my father's hands -- these memories sometimes create sickening pain in my mind. At such times, our love incarnate, Amma, the emodiment of compassion, has special words of consolation for me.

Would you be pleased if a seven-year-old girl with hope shining in her eyes, with an unkempt body and dirty clothes touched your arm in a bus, train or on a crowded footpath and called you "Mother?" No. You wouldn't like it. None of those whom I had touched and called "Mother" were pleased with it. In their eyes there was only contempt. I had wished that somebody would smile at me and lovingly put his or her hand on my head. But what I received were harsh words and neglectful looks.

How many times has compassionate Amma hugged me against Her breast and whispered into my ear, "Darling daughter, you are my very own!" How many times has Amma wiped my tears with Her own sari!

I have found my real Mother. She must be your Mother, too.

While I was writing this, at some point, the rain stopped and the sky brightened.