Portal

It was the end of the road but it felt like the beginning. I looked at the door to Ama-la’s house. My biological mother. I’ve had a nice life, always been happy. I always knew I was adopted, but my parents never made me feel that way. I got my dream job at National Geographic, travelling the world to capture fantastic cultures and places.

The tibetan plateau stretched everywhere, flatly refusing to end. I’ve always known where the lady who gave birth to me lived. I was trying so hard to stay cool, but it felt strange.

I looked around the village where I would have grown up. It was a a typical village as there are hundreds in Tibet. About a hundred houses, very much alive. Children ran gleefully playing with slingshots, some were looking for the perfect pebbles, others were playing marbles with looks of determined concentration. Adults playing cards under a tree. No sign of technology.

People looked the sun directly in the eye rather than bow down over their phones. But all of a sudden everyone stopped what they were doing. A reverberating sound permeated the village and the prayer chant started.

The sounds resonated with my body. It was as if my entire being was awakened. That chant was all that existed.

It ended, at least for them. But my body did not want to break this enchantment cast by the chant. This was so different from the concrete lego set that is New York.

Do we even live or is this the real life? I had the overwhelming urge to throw my phone in the nearest river.

This place felt like my anchor. I know mum and dad would understand. Genes matter.

Shaking myself to get back to normal,I asked people where she lived. I just had a piece of grubby paper with her first name on it.

Everyone knew Ama-la. They took me to her house.

It was a simple stone cottage with bamboo ledges. There was a small brown door, sort of like a portal to another world. Why did this matter so much to me?

I knocked. An old woman answered. I knew her. She had the same eyes as the ones I see in the mirror. Her smile was wider. She recognized me too.

The smile faltered and she hung her head. She reached out to touch my cheek , then as if to check herself, she withdrew. We did not talk. There were five other children there. We all sat on bamboo mats and had food. I went with the older children, I think they were going to get water.

I stayed there for a week. Playing games with the children, helping around the house. But I wanted to ask her why she gave me up. There was anger building up inside of me. This kind, loving woman. My mother. I wanted her to feed me the same way she fed the little one when he sulked and would not eat. I would have had ten brothers and sisters to play with rather than be the single foreign adopted child, alone in New York.

I can’t understand my bitterness but it’s there. The love they shared was reflected in their eyes, gestures. I have travelled the world and I never knew I was looking for something as simple as this.

I couldn’t ask her the question that was plaguing me . So, I approached the village elder, who spoke in broken english. Hesitantly I asked him why she’d given me up. She had five children and five grown ups too, I’d learnt.

I was the only child she gave up.

The elder looked at me. He said “You’re the only one who is her true son. Your father was a chinese soldier.They couldn’t be with each other. For your safety, she had to give you up. Nobody wanted you to live. You were a symbol of our oppression. But she managed to smuggle you across to India, where she saw to it that you were adopted.”

She adopted several children to fill the void.

I left the village. I hugged her good-bye. I’ll savour the few moments I had with her. But I couldn’t stay.
Just before leaving , she held me for a long time. She then showed me pictures of me that my parents had sent to her. She kept them like a treasure. Mom had sent her cut outs from magazines, photos from my travel.

I travel the world knowing where my home is.

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Picture credits:@twiceuponatime
Thanks to the wonderful editors at @thewritersblock.