Officially Naughty

Recently, the kids were paid the highest compliment by their class teacher.

Those who’ve followed this blog for an extremely long time know that we adopted the twins in September 2007, when they were just over a year old. When we brought them home from Pondicherry in a taxi, and for many weeks and months following that, they were meek, quiet, scared little girls. They each had a spark of mischief in them, but fear, apparently of punishment, and timidness were by far the predominant characteristics. I look at the very earliest photographs that we took of them and I see two rather miserable and distinctly scared little girls.

We must have done some things right in the past couple of years, because now there’s not a trace of fear or apprehension about them that I can see. Quite the opposite, in fact. Even when I scold them severely, they just laugh at me.

So in a way, though keeping them busy at home is not that easy, I’ve also been enjoying the swine-flu-enforced holiday. Not only do I get to not drive, I get to not experience the sheer madness of picking them up from school too. The last couple of times that I went to pick them up from school, I found myself wishing for an extra pair of arms… And legs. Most parents have to manage just one child, and appear to do so with elan. I, on the other hand, am clearly frazzled, outnumbered, and outsmarted by my kids, and rapidly end up completely losing my temper or my footing, to the endless amusement of about a million onlookers.

As soon as the girls are let out of class, they run to me and grab my legs. That’s the good part. After about four microseconds, they run off, and the mayhem begins. Naturally, they run in opposite directions, and finally converge on the slide in the sandpit. Here they climb the steps, and stop before they reach the top. That way, as long as they refuse to slide down, or sit on the top, I can’t get to them. After infuriating me for a while, one of them proceeds to slide down and quickly scamper around to climb the steps again. If I manage to catch her before she reaches the steps again, which I usually do, then the other girl manages to slide down and run around. Running to catch her means letting go of the first, who then runs off to some other corner of the sandpit. By the time I’ve rounded them both up, one wrapping her legs around me like a coconut tapper climbing a tree, the other dangling by one arm like a rag doll and almost yanking my arm out of its socket, my shoes are filled with sand – a highly irritating sensation.

Completely fed up, I try and drag both of them to the bathroom, and, immediately, I’m plunged into another prolonged skirmish. Many admonitions of “go to that cubicle, it’s clean and dry,” “hold your frock up” “front and back” “flush” “don’t play with water” “don’t step in that” and “put on your panties/pants/skirt” later, we emerge, exasperated, only to have them run off in opposite directions again, while I struggle to get their shoes and bags on them.

The whole thing is 15 minutes of absolute chaos which starts with amused indulgence on my part and ends with me ready to tear my hair out – and not necessarily just my own hair, either. On one occasion, as I ran after Mrini, I lunged for her collar so furiously that I succeeded in knocking her down. She sprawled full length, bawling hopefully, as I ignored the horrified glares coming my way, dragged her up and marched off with her, mumbling vicious threats as we went.

Just the other day, when Mrini succeeded in knocking my glasses off and tearing out one of her earrings in one single swipe, I lost my temper, gave her a spank on her bottom and a severe dressing down in full sight of her teachers, akka, and classmates. I don’t know what they all thought of that little exhibition, but I was SO past giving a fig by then.

It was, of course, abundantly clear in many ways by now, that the two timid little creatures we’d brought home two years ago had blossomed into full-fledged, maniacal brats.

So, it actually came as no surprise when their teacher smilingly, almost approvingly, told me last week that they’d suddenly become very naughty in class. “They climb everywhere, they never do what they’re told, and they don’t listen to anyone,” she said. I took it as it was intended – as a compliment, and told her, “I’m surprised it took them this long.”

The Secluded Crib

The twins had a bunch of clothes that they’d outgrown, and I wanted to give them away (the clothes, not the twins – do I have to clarify that?). I phoned around to various NGOs (that means charitable organizations), starting with the Red Cross. Guess what? Nobody wants old clothes. Not even if they are in decent condition. And these clothes are ok-ish. My kids would still be wearing them if they hadn’t grown out of them.

I would have thought that we, in India, surely have enough people who live in conditions of such abject poverty that used clothes in good condition given away free would not be spurned. If we don’t, if our poor people are well-clothed enough to be able to turn up their noses at cast-off clothing, it would be a good thing. It would indicate, surely, that all our people are well fed – because only after they had spent whatever they could on getting sufficient food, would they spend on new clothes and only then would they spurn used clothes. Or only after all the charitable organizations had ensured that the people they looked after had enough to eat, would they spend money buying them new clothes. Surely? Or do we have well-dressed people in this country who are poor and starving? One meal a day, but wearing new clothes, not rags?

What about victims of natural disasters who have lost everything? Those who were not particularly well-off to begin with, who had no bank accounts? Do they also not need or want somebody else’s clothes? Not even for their children, who are hardly likely to fuss, or even know the difference? Or do they have good clothes for their children already? Are there so many people and organizations sponsoring new clothes for the needy that old clothes are really just not needed?

Or, what I think is more likely, are these NGOs not even reaching the really needy people? Are they providing for the haves, not for the have-nots? I’ve seen slum kids in the cities dressed in rags. Haven’t you? Ok, let’s not talk about beggar kids – we know it’s a racket and they’re made to dress in rags, and who’d want to give money to well-dressed kids. But slum kids are those who have parents, families, food, perhaps, but not clothes – at least, not much. At any rate, what they do wear falls far short of the kind of stuff I’m looking to give away. Does nobody want to take the clothes that more fortunate kids have outgrown and pass them on to these unfortunate kids?

I don’t really understand it.

But, after some phoning around, I did find an orphanage willing – not overly eager, mind you, but willing, almost as though they were doing me a favour – to take the clothes. So off I went to deliver them.

As I was leaving, I noticed a small, secluded crib hanging near the gate. It had a built-on roof. There was a bell attached to the roof. Suddenly, I realized that it was there for parents – mothers mostly, I suppose – to put their “unwanted” babies and disappear.

The realization gave me goosebumps.

Whether it is ever really used like that any more, or whether it’s largely symbolic, I don’t know. But the fact remains that mothers do leave their babies, it happens all the time. I can’t bring myself to believe that they throw them in the gutter in a completely callous manner. Surely they tuck them up carefully, whisper goodbye, pray that their child will survive, somehow, maybe even flourish. I thought of someone leaving her child in the crib, ringing the bell, scurrying out before anyone saw her, hiding, watching, crying. Oh, very Hindi-film-ish, but suddenly it just touched a raw nerve in me.

Our girls were left like that. Not in a crib at an orphanage, they were left at the hospital where they were born. That’s just as bad, or worse. I’ve known this since we got them, but it suddenly became too real to me. I found myself crying as I walked away from there.

It’s stupid, of course. I, of all people, should be happy there are mothers who leave their children. That’s how childless people like us get ours. But I look at my girls with their cheeky smiles and their bright eyes and I think of them left there, symbolically in that secluded crib… and I have no words for what I feel.

Adoption Update: Birth Certificates

Yes, we really did get them. At last. Yesterday evening.Twenty copies each. Well, when you have to work so hard for them, you don’t really want to stop with just one or two.

They’ve got their names and our names correctly spelt – which is no mean feat, when you think of all the letters in each name – but they had to get something wrong so they’ve got our address wrong and they’ve turned Koramangala in Karamangalala – which actually sounds quite dramatic, but, unfortunately or otherwise, is still wrong. And they’ve managed to make this mistake in only one girl’s BC, the other one is 100% ok! Of course we’ll have to get it changed… another round of endless paperwork and waiting.

But, well – worth celebrating, nevertheless. So we went out for dinner last night, of course. With the kids – it’s their celebration too!

Adoption Update: Almost Parents, Legally

We’re almost there, we’re almost parents, legally. Apparently the birth certificates are in the post, on their way to us. Finally!

Why should it be so important to get that little piece of paper naming us the parents of the twins? Well, the practical reasons are self-evident: schools want them for granting your child admission, passport offices want them for making your kids’ passports. And these are important reasons, of course. How are your kids going to get an education if they can’t travel abroad? Or get into school, for that matter?

But there’s more to it than that, especially when you’re adopting, or at least, there is for me.

When we first heard of the twins, I was torn between hope, excitement, and fear. I was scared that something would happen to prevent us from becoming their parents. Perhaps they would be shown to other prospective parents before we got there? Or their biological parents would surface and want them back. Or there would be some legal issue, or a medical one. Anything could happen.

Driving back from Pondicherry and for some weeks or months after that, I was painfully aware of how little there was to tie the kids to us. In terms of documents, we had only the foster care agreement, a flimsy scrap of paper that didn’t seem to me to carry much weight; and in emotional terms, we were still sort of a new set of circumstances to the kids, we weren’t quite parents, we weren’t quite home.

As the family bonds slowly formed and the kids became more certain of their place in our lives, my fears slowly receded. If they behaved with us as if we were their parents, if they had been with us for a significant length of time (though what exactly is significant in a child’s life? Six weeks? Six months? A year?), if they were comfortable and happy with us and turned to us for solace; and if we knew them better than any other person on the planet did, surely no person or institution could legally take them away from us?

It’ll soon be a year and a half since the kids came home. I don’t feel that fear much any more. I feel that they are very obviously and evidently our kids, despite the complete lack of any resemblance. It might not be apparent to others, who, apparently, still have reason to question who these kids belong to, but to me it is completely obvious that these kids are our kids.

Still, it is very important, emotionally, to get those bits of paper that will make the kids legally ours and will allow them an education to boot.

So, we’re both waiting eagerly to actually see the birth certificates, to check that all our names are correct and correctly spelled, and to know that we have the usual legal document establishing us as parent and child.

So, when we get these two marvelous bits of paper, what are we going to do to celebrate? Are we going to go out for dinner, or buy something nice for the kids? Of course not! This is the incredibly immaterial me – we’re going to give them an education. In Europe, hopefully.

Do I Look Like a Kidnapper to You?

A rather nasty thing happened on Saturday. We had just got the girls’ ears pierced, and I was walking them to the toy shop nearby. They were both still crying, and I was chattering away to them in English, trying to distract them from their pain. I had achieved a certain measure of success, when Amit caught up with us and that set them off again. (Kids are weird that way.)

Anyway, the toy shop put an end to their tears, and they were ok-ish by the time we were walking back. Then, from the verandah of one of the houses we were walking past, a young chap asked Amit, “Whose kids are they?”

Amit said, “What’s it to you?”

The chap said, “Well, they were crying…”

By this time we had passed the house and the conversation therefore ended. But what the person was implying slowly sank in: They don’t look like your kids, and they were crying (all the more when Amit appeared), so whose kids have you walked off with?

I don’t know whether I felt insulted, outraged, ashamed, shocked, defensive or what. I just felt horrible. I have been so comfortable with my kids, and they with me, that it never even crossed my mind that anyone could suspect that we don’t belong together. Of course I know they don’t look anything like us, but does that alone make us kidnappers? I know that often people look at the four of us together and guess that the kids are adopted, and that often people assume that it is ok to ask us outright about it, which, actually, is ok with me but I don’t really understand how they can presume that it is ok… But to look at us and wonder whether we are walking around with someone else’s kids, just because the kids happen to be crying…!?

Amit, thick-skinned as he is, just shrugged off the matter, and I probably should do so as well, but it really shook me.

Twinnings and More

Lots has been happening, but I’ve been too busy to blog about it.

The twins have started to talk, they answer questions promptly, and can sustain a back-and-forth exchange to about 4 or 5 rallies. They find novel ways to say things. Once I asked Tara if she was sleepy, she rubbed her eye and said “eye so sad,” which I took to mean yes.

They’ve become more active, both at home and in the park. They were gifted a couple of hockey sticks and balls, and I’ve mostly had to lock up the sticks because of their propensity to swing them around without a care for what (or who) is in the way. Yesterday the actually got into the Frangipani tree in the park, got out of it the other side, giggled wildly, rinse and repeat. So far they have loved being lifted into it and sat in its branches, but it’s good to see them start climbing trees, something I loved to do and had plenty of opportunity to do at just the right time of my childhood years.

They have started to enjoy jigsaw and shape-sorter type of puzzles now, as also play-doh and crayons. I thought they weren’t interested in scribbling on the walls – they’d only done it once, the rest of the time they used paper, their picture books, the floor, the bedcover, and their own bodies (with sketchpens that was, and they made such a godawful mess of their legs that they haven’t had sketch pens since) – but it appears it was only a question of opportunity.

I normally give them crayons when I’m sitting nearby keeping an eye on them, and take them away when they’re done with them; so it’s not as if they have crayons easily accessible at all times. But usually when I pack up the crayons, I can’t find quite as many as there were when they started. I’ve never bothered about this too much, they’ll turn up eventually, and if they don’t, that is also in the nature of such things.

So yesterday Mrini found one of the unclaimed, missing crayons. I was busy and turned my back to her for a couple of minutes… And that’s all she needed. Our bedroom walls became the canvas for her creativity, much to my disgust and irritation. I’ll have to keep an eye on those unclaimed crayons in future, I guess.

Meanwhile, the break from school doesn’t seem to have done them any harm. Yesterday they went back to school after a three week break, and they don’t seem to have forgotten it, they went happily and came back in high spirits. I think they now know the entire set of nursery rhymes that they hear in playschool. They surprised us by singing “God’s love wonderful” (in a somewhat garbled version) and asking for Jingle Bells (a few days after Christmas) – both songs they had not heard at home. What’s more Tara (and Mrini to a lesser extent) can tell the story of Aladdin, with a little prompting from me. It goes like this:

Me: Aladdin was a
T: Young boy
Me: And he went into a
T: Big cave
Me: And it was all
T: Dark, dark
Me: But Aladdin was
T: Very good (followed, after a pause, by) not scared
Me: He had a
T: Big torch
Me: And he went into the big cave and what did he find there? Lots of
T: Jewels
Me: And lots of
T: Camels (sometimes, rarely, it’s gold)
Me (carrying on, regardless): And a
T: Magic lamp
Me: And he gave it to his
T: Mama
Me: And she was
T: Rubbing it
Me: And
T: Polishing it
Me: And then what happened?
T: Whooooo… genie came!
Me: And genie said, Aladdin, I will give you
T: Two fishes (an interesting variation on three wishes)
Me: And the genie gave Aladdin lots of
T: Jewels
Me: And lots of
T: Camels
Me: And he made him
T: Very rich
Me: Then Aladdin went to meet the
T: Sultan daughter
Me: And he went on a
T: White horse
Me: And he fell in love with the
T: Princess (or sometimes the prince!)
Me (ignoring the gay tendency for now): And they got
T: Married
Me: And they lived
T: Happilygiligili

In other fascinating news, this morning they got up, took down their pajamas, took off their (sodden) diapers, pulled up their pants, took their diapers to the kitchen, and threw them in the dustbin!

Last week, when we returned from the park with S&P and their one-year-old daughter, p, the twins shocked all of us by happily going home with S&P, without so much as a single backward glance! (S&P luckily stay in the same building.) When Amit went to pick them up 15 minutes later, they didn’t seem very inclined to come home, and I believe Tara gave a determined no in reply to the question of whether she would like to go home.

What’s more, they repeated the act a couple of days ago, and they seem quite eager to make it a daily occurrence, without a thought for S&P’s convenience. Of course p loves the company, who’s bothered about the adults anyway?

So, given this happy independence, Amit and I decided it was high time that we adopted a baby-sitter strategy. We checked with the cook, who agreed to baby-sit one evening a week, provided we got back around 10 or, at the latest, dropped her home by 11. Considering we’ve had only two evenings out sans kids in the last 1+ year (thanks to S&S and Anjalimasi for their unpaid baby-sitting services), it sounds like a good deal. Our first date is tomorrow, and I have to say it feels a bit strange. I know we’ll both spend most of the time (we’re giving it 90 minutes for our first time out) thinking/worrying/talking about how the kids are doing without either of us around.

Big school starts in June and I think it’s going to be from 8.30 till 12.30 once they get past the settling in period. That means that, if Amit drops them, I’ll have an empty nest from 8 till 12 (when I’ll probably have to leave to pick them up). An older and wiser friend warns that I’ll miss them like crazy, but right now I can hardly wait. I always thought that when we had kids I’d like to be a SAHM for some time, but I never attempted to define the time. Now that I’ve done it for almost a year-and-a-half, I think the time to go back to work is, oh, let’s see, right about now, actually. Of course, it has to be just when there is a global recession on and there are no jobs to be had.

In my eagerness to start work, I took up a freelance writing assignment which turned out to be really, really (and I mean REALLY) boring. The sheer boredom of it almost killed me. I have never struggled so hard to finish a task in the agreed time in my entire professional life – and believe me, I’ve fought some tough battles in my day.

And finally, adoption update: We’ve been hearing for a month or so that we’d be meeting the District Magistrate any time soon, as the last step towards getting a birth certificate for the twins. It was supposed to be yesterday, then it got pushed to tomorrow, and now it stands set for Monday. Or Tuesday. Let’s hope it happens some time next week, it would be good to get those birth certificates in hand, it’s going on
for eighteen months since the twins came home.

The Pondicherry Ordeal

The road trip to Pondicherry and back was really tiring and tough. The drive out was easy. We left at 6 and reached by 12 with a short stop for breakfast. The kids were really sleepy and low-key and since we had a driver-driven taxi, we both were in the back with the kids, which was a lot easier than me managing them alone with Amit driving.

Our appointment with the lawyer was for 2.30, so we left the hotel shortly after 2. From then till 4.30, there was endless waiting in hot, sweaty, crowded places. At first, the kids could walk around a little and they made good use of every bit of space they were allowed; but once the process at the Registrar’s office got underway, the kids were confined to our arms. Like any red-blooded two-year-old, they didn’t approve of this and became cranky, sleepy and desperately thirsty all at once. This made for an impossible situation that stretched on for ages and ages as we were pushed from one crowded, steaming table to the next. Both girls wanted to be with me, they wanted to be held, and they wanted to sleep. It’s not easy, standing in a crowded, sweaty place holding the two of them, and trying to keep them from wailing.

We each had our photo taken and thumb impressions scanned. Then Tara tugged on a hanging network cable and everything came to a grinding halt. It took a while for them to figure out what had gone wrong, how to fix it, and then to scan our faces and thumbs again. After another round of waiting and signing and thumb impressions, we were finally done. The adoption deed had been given for registering and we would have a copy of it in our hands after a couple of weeks.

We got back to the hotel, where we had just half an hour for the kids and us to unwind, then we were off to the lab for the bone-age X-ray. We had been told to reach by 6, but when we reached at 6.30, we were told the doctor would arrive at 7.30. I almost went ballistic at the prospect of another one-hour wait, but the woman quickly explained that she was the technician who would actually do the x-ray, she only needed the doctor to tell her what to x-ray. A few minutes later, our lawyer turned up: she had spoken to the doctor and wanted to tell the woman what to x-ray. Both wrists and both knees. The girls cried at being made to lie down for the knee x-ray, but it was over at last and we paid up and went back to the hotel. It was 8.30, past their bed-time on a normal day and they hadn’t even had dinner yet. Amit went back to the lawyer to discuss the nest steps with her, while I somehow managed to feed the girls and put them to bed. It was past 11 by the time we got to bed – which is not very late, but when you’ve had that kind of a day… it’s all you can do to pull the covers up and turn out the light.

Adoption Update: Finally, GAWA

At last we have it: a piece of paper stating that we are legal guardians of two little girls, known hereafter as Mrinalinee Mukherjee and Nayantara Mukherjee. These are our wards, until they turn 18.

Wards. That means, when we fill up bank papers and the like, we sign as Guardians, not as Parents. More importantly – much more importantly – it means that the girls are not automatically our legal heirs, the way biological children would be. If we both were to die, they would legally be literally penniless. (Oh my god. We must make our Wills.)

So anyway, at least they are our Wards.

Of course, it doesn’t sound so good when you put it that way. I still can’t – legally – say that they are our daughters. For that, we must first complete HAMA – the Hindu Adoption and Maintenance Act. And that’s where we hit a dead end.

It seems that the Principal Judge in Pondicherry does not admit outstation cases of adoption on the grounds that these should be filed in the home state, in our case, Karnataka. All other courts in the country flatly refuse to admit such cases because there is a CARA guideline stating that adoption cases must be filed in the state of the adoption agency – in our case, unfortunately, Pondicherry. (CARA is the central agency that regulates ALL legal adoptions within India.) While other courts abide by the CARA guideline, it seems it is just not good enough for the Judge in Pondicherry.

So, for the moment we are stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Adoption Update: No Update (Yet)

In case you’re thinking no news is good news, let me tell you: sometimes no news is just no news.

It’s been two-and-a-half months since the Family Court in Pondicherry passed the order appointing us legal guardians of the twins (under GAWA), but there’s been no progress since then. We haven’t even seen the order, far less received a copy of it.

Why? Because, apparently, the judges have been boycotting the court. For two months!? Don’t even ask.

So now, at last, the order is “ready” and we can go and get it registered. We also have to get the kids x-rayed, to assess their age – a procedure called a bone-age X-ray. The actual hospital record of their birth exists and is with the agency – I’ve seen it – so they do know the exact date and time of birth, but apparently that is not good enough.

The actual birth certificate is still a distant dream.

But we’re off to Pondicherry tomorrow, to take the next small step towards making the twins legally ours.

Adoption Update: Order Passed!

It’s official: We are now the legal guardians of the twins. Woohoo?

Well, don’t bring out the champagne bottles just yet – we’re not even half done.

See, if we were not Hindus (we’re not, really, but by dint of birth and for the sake of convenience(huh?) we’ll let that pass for now), once we were awarded guardianship of the twins, we’d be done. Almost done – apart from processing the paperwork required for getting their birth certificates.

But, since we’re Hindus, and specifically because we’ve adopted from Pondicherry (generally inadvisable, if you ask me), we now have to go through the legal process applicable to Hindus to complete the adoption.

Plus, we have to get the birth certificates.

Only, we can start the two processes in parallel.

Once we get a copy of the Judge’s order.

Which will take only a month.

Only?

Why?

Don’t ask me! I’d like to know why myself.

And then, based on that order, we have to get an adoption deed, which has to be registered. Somewhere. By someone. Yes, we have to be present for that, both of us.

And after that, we get have to get a bone-age X-ray done on the girls. And that has to be done in Pondicherry as well, and certified by the Chief Medical Officer.

Why? I don’t know – the adoption agency actually has the hospital records stating when and where and how they were born and what their birth weight was and that they were full term and all that, so I really don’t know why we need to subject them to an X-ray to tell us what we already know about how old they are.

And then we need to be interviewed by the DC – District Collector? Or Deputy Collector? Or District Magistrate? Somebody like that. And he wants to not only interview us, but meet the girls as well. In Pondicherry, of course, in Pondicherry.

Why? Well, why not? After all, the Judge hardly took any notice of us, so I suppose somebody should, just in case we are child traffickers or worse.

Oh, yes, the Judge. Well, Amit went and stood in the witness box and held his hand out and said “I swear to tell the truth,” and the Judge snickered. Yes, he really did, he snickered. Perhaps because Amit is so tall. Or maybe he caught sight of my haircut. Once he was done snickering, he spent a couple of minutes reading through the affidavit, while the court clerk shuffled through the accompanying documents. The lawyers were talking in whispers amongst themselves, like back benchers in college. The girls were wriggling, squirming, squealing, and flirting with the audience. I never heard it said, but apparently at the end of 90 seconds or so, he passed the order and went on to the next case. I didn’t hear or see any gavel being banged or anybody saying “Case dismissed,” – nothing like the movies at all. But anyway, Amit got to stand in the witness box, so I suppose that justifies the long, long drive to Pondicherry and back.

So we are now their official guardians, but only till the girls turn 18. Every year, we must send to the Family Court, reports of their health and wellbeing, along with school progress reports. Plus, we can’t leave the country with the girls; well, we can take short trips, provided we inform our lawyer and the adoption home first, but we can’t emigrate. And of course, the girls are still not our legal heirs, so if we had met with an accident and died on the way back from Pondicherry (or at any time now), they would  have been left penniless. This, of course, we have to remedy as soon as possible, because you never know, do you?

And meanwhile, the second part of the adoption case, under the Hindu Adoption and Maintenance Act, which will make them our legal heirs, could take a year or more in the Pondicherry Civil Court. So that champagne celebration had better wait a while yet, don’t you think.