In the Convent of Little Flowers Read Free Page B

had not visited me and left its mark, I might have married … I might be married anyway, there was a man. But … things did not work out. I changed my name from Chandra to Sister Mary Theresa. When I was converted, they asked where I would like to do God’s work and I said it would be at an orphanage, at the Convent of Little Flowers. A year later, you came to me as a baby. But do not worry, your mother married well. The indiscretion was forgotten, not made public, anyway.
This is when I hate her the most. Bloody Sister Mary Theresa. How easily I was forgotten. How easily I was madean “indiscretion,” how well my mother married because she was young and pretty and fair, Mary Theresa tells me. I don’t feel sympathy for the woman lying sick on Chinglepet street. She has her other children. I have never been her child. Even now, it is Sister Mary Theresa who writes.
In another world I would be your perima. Your Chandra perima. It means “Big Mother.” As your mother’s older sister, I am your mother too. Oh, Padmini, have I done right by you? Do not ever think I forgot, or didn’t know where you were. I knew. Just as I have known where to write now. And I write to ask this. May I come to see you? There is a conference of Catholic nuns in Seattle, imagine me coming to your hometown! I am not very old yet, but life tires me now. I cannot even look after your mother very well, for the duties at the orphanage weigh me down. But I do want to see that I fulfilled the responsibility your mother gave me. Would you like to see your perima, my dear Padmini?
A brief, stunning thought comes now. The frock in cheap cotton that came every birthday, was it Sister Mary Theresa who sent them? I have a sudden vision of a nun in a dimly lit shop, peering nearsightedly over bales of garish cotton, giving away two or three ill-afforded rupees for a few square centimeters of cloth. Then she would have gone to the tailor and put out a hand from the floor, measuring me for him.This tall. Only this thin. The frocks never fit. For her, I was always taller and fatter than I actually was. She saw me as a mother would. And she let me go to a better life, away from her, as only a mother could.
I have wondered why Mom and Dad went to India. I asked Mom once. It was Vietnam, she said. Dad had done his tour of duty three years before India, but it stayed with him. So they went back for a vacation to that corner of the world, drawn to the mysticism, the history, even the peace in India, in search of something … and came back with a daughter. They never had more children. I did not ask why.
I have come alone to SeaTac. Now the terminal is hissing with muted conversation. It has started to rain. Again. The lights have become brighter inside; outside the tarmac glistens wet, and airplanes have their windshield wipers on. The little girl with the sand bucket and her mother are long gone, where I do not know. I did not notice them leave. I think only of her.
I wonder what she will be like. My perima . I am to find out in two minutes. The plane landed and nosed its way to the gate a short while ago. As the people pour out of the doors I stand at one corner and look for her. And I see her. I had not realized she was so short or that a nun’s habit could look the same after twenty-three years. I should have known she would even travel in her habit. Perima. I roll the word around in my mind. No, to me she will always be Sister Mary Theresa. But I am suddenly glad we belong together. I stare at her. Fatigue creases her skin, and she walks a tiredwalk. Just then, she sees me too and smiles. It is a shy smile, a wonderful smile. She will meet Mike today. Tomorrow, I will take her to Bellingham to meet Mom and Dad. I think they will like her. I do. Already.
She comes up to me and holds out her hand. I clutch it wordlessly; even tears will not come now. Padmini, I am so glad you kept your name. That smile again. I think I have always known this beautiful woman