To the girls I'll never forget:
Himani-
A 12 year old girl with promise.
She escaped her strict Sikh home, where she lived with her father and sister. Not an orphan, she chose an environment where she would have a meal and bath on a regular basis.
She studies, always. Her tattered books with pages falling out are outdated, but she takes what she can get. The other girls look up to her. They ask her for advice and questions about homework. She tells the other girls to not skip their practice, prayer, obligations or chores. When I came to the orphanage, she was the first one to greet me. Not an adult in sight, she takes my hand with a broom in the other, and leads me to where I would be sleeping. She shoves the smaller girls out of the room and smiles at me. She shows me a written message on the wall from a past volunteer, it reads,
You may hate it here, but don't leave.
These girls will change your life.
Himani continues to sweep the floor and sighs, "All better."
Not to be named-
She's 20 years old- She leads me to her room and lisps, "this is my room. This is where I sleep."
She curls up on the mattress-less wooden frame and asks, "will you play with me?" I ask her what it is that she normally does. She doesn't answer and pulls out a tattered copy of Junie B. Jones. "Will you read this to me?" I begin reading but she becomes bored. She gets up and goes to the barred window. "This is all mine," she says moving towards her alter, with a picture of Shiva and a couple of beads. After, she goes to her closet and takes a key and opens up her closet and pulls out her folded clothing. "I folded this myself," she says.
After the first week, she disappeared. She had told me that her sister would be coming to pick her up, but no one at the orphanage believed her, so they never said goodbye. She had been there for years, but no one seemed to talk to her for the week that I was there. When I asked another girl about her, they flicked their hand and wrist away from their body, "oh well."
Angelie-
8 years old
She arrived one day before I got there. She wandered into my room one morning with a shy look on her face. Her hair was cut short and she owned two punjabi suits. She spoke no English, but she came right over to me and sat on my lap. I was fiddling with my camera, and she holds her hand out, asking if she can see it. My camera, an outdoor tough resistant camera, could handle abuse. I let her use it, clicking away at corners of the room and the floor. Click, Click, Click, she imitates. Her giggle, short and high pitched, followed every picture she took.
She then put down the camera on a shelf and squatted down on the floor. She stared down at the floor and fiddled with a piece of string. I asked her in broken Hindi what her name was. "Angeliieeee," she smiled.
Himani-
A 12 year old girl with promise.
She escaped her strict Sikh home, where she lived with her father and sister. Not an orphan, she chose an environment where she would have a meal and bath on a regular basis.
She studies, always. Her tattered books with pages falling out are outdated, but she takes what she can get. The other girls look up to her. They ask her for advice and questions about homework. She tells the other girls to not skip their practice, prayer, obligations or chores. When I came to the orphanage, she was the first one to greet me. Not an adult in sight, she takes my hand with a broom in the other, and leads me to where I would be sleeping. She shoves the smaller girls out of the room and smiles at me. She shows me a written message on the wall from a past volunteer, it reads,
You may hate it here, but don't leave.
These girls will change your life.
Himani continues to sweep the floor and sighs, "All better."
Not to be named-
She's 20 years old- She leads me to her room and lisps, "this is my room. This is where I sleep."
She curls up on the mattress-less wooden frame and asks, "will you play with me?" I ask her what it is that she normally does. She doesn't answer and pulls out a tattered copy of Junie B. Jones. "Will you read this to me?" I begin reading but she becomes bored. She gets up and goes to the barred window. "This is all mine," she says moving towards her alter, with a picture of Shiva and a couple of beads. After, she goes to her closet and takes a key and opens up her closet and pulls out her folded clothing. "I folded this myself," she says.
After the first week, she disappeared. She had told me that her sister would be coming to pick her up, but no one at the orphanage believed her, so they never said goodbye. She had been there for years, but no one seemed to talk to her for the week that I was there. When I asked another girl about her, they flicked their hand and wrist away from their body, "oh well."
Angelie-
8 years old
She arrived one day before I got there. She wandered into my room one morning with a shy look on her face. Her hair was cut short and she owned two punjabi suits. She spoke no English, but she came right over to me and sat on my lap. I was fiddling with my camera, and she holds her hand out, asking if she can see it. My camera, an outdoor tough resistant camera, could handle abuse. I let her use it, clicking away at corners of the room and the floor. Click, Click, Click, she imitates. Her giggle, short and high pitched, followed every picture she took.
She then put down the camera on a shelf and squatted down on the floor. She stared down at the floor and fiddled with a piece of string. I asked her in broken Hindi what her name was. "Angeliieeee," she smiled.
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