Potato Super 6 Class" poster that the children and I made together in Nepal. It's been more than a year now, how does time sneak around like that? Everytime I see it I feel giggly, vaguely remembering our group name-choosing process (I think Monkey Boy suggested "Alu class" at first ... that's potato in Nepalese right??) and after some convoluted brainstorming process (which I admit to probably manipulating quite a bit) all the kids chorusing (esp Biparna) "Lotus Potato! Lotus Potato! Super 6 Class!" ^^ Aiya, so cute! It was one of the least cloudy periods of my life, I don't think I'd ever felt so clean (metaphorically speaking; hygiene standards left some to be desired), so uncomplicated, so content, so present in years.Then I think about how they took this poster off the wall in the common room; I'm not sure why actually. One of them gave it to me, and told me to bring it home, to put it up in my room. So typical of most of them, a furious generosity scattered out like confetti in all their little presents - 4-colored pens, hand-woven friendship bands, the flowers on our last day. On one hand, the common, shared, unindividualised environment of an orphanage made them fiercely possessive over what was "mine" in order to own anything. On the other, what was "mine" was precious partly also because they could afterwards give it away, and we would have something that was theirs. Do you see what I'm trying to say? I never really delved into the logistics of gifts with these children before, only marvelled previously at how eagerly they pressed, slipped, their rare, weary treasures into foreign hands and pockets.
I remember Ling dissuading some of the children in her class from parting with a keychain, a pencil, other random knick-knacks that acquired a magnitude far beyond their function. The kids usually ended up un-giving the presents when asked a few times if they were sure they wouldnt rather keep it, and that the intention was lovely and well stored already. It was the act of giving then, mostly. I can't navigate clear paths in my head to explain or elaborate how these little ones thought or what prompted them to act exactly as they did, but when I remember, I am (as I was then) just floating, lulled off my feet by waves of their beauty, amazed. Awed and uncomprehending, the smallness of my soul reiterates how little they have, assembling the somber background against which their open hearts glow like fireflies or candles. I'm not saying they're angels, they were definitely insufferable at points, but only as children inevitably are. And then there were other moments like when I opened Round Face Boy's letter to me, and saw that he had put rabbit and giraffe stickers on the cover ( he asked me what my fav animals were earlier that day) and that the inside was full of the stickers I had given to the kids the day before, that they really liked and had been playing with all day... It just made me want to be a better person, to be worthy of children like that, who deserve, and more.
And then, I didn't go back this year... and, I need to write them letters.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
