It is strange, how and where stories begin. You would think my story begins the moment I was born. You would think: but there had to be two people, even before my birth, who thought about bringing me into the world. And you would be right.
Where does my story begin you ask? It begins when I met Paro for the first time. She was 11 and I was 27. But I am jumping ahead.
I was married but we did not have kids. Joseph and I had decided not to have them and you can imagine how upset the church was.
So Joseph and I thought to leave our community behind. Our decision was causing too much friction and we did not want things to get harder for our parents. We found it absurd how people were targeting them for our choices.
Though Joseph and I were not exactly opposed to the idea, it was hard – leaving home, leaving all that I had known and cherished behind.
To soften the blow, he said to me, my Joseph, “Juli what is the point of staying in a place we have outgrown?”
He had put such a spin to it. We had outgrown them. Without negotiating blame, Joseph had given me a precious gift: he had witnessed and accepted our growth and change. It still gives me chills, thinking about it.
In hindsight, the move feels inevitable. It was the universe, setting the stage, the way you arrange everything just right before hitting the play button.
Joseph and I were welcomed by a village that shared something in common with us. We did not follow the rules. We questioned. We suggested changes. We made people uncomfortable. But here, all were welcome.
Soon, I took up a post in the local school, teaching communication and Joseph became a pastor. Not a religious one. He just became the person people went to when they needed someone to listen to them.
Paro was one of the girls in my classroom. The day we met, I fell in love with her. We were told she was deaf and so her parents had come to the village. One month later, they vanished, leaving the girl behind. No one in the village blamed them. They simply made space for Paro and that was that.
Paro was a sweet girl but she was lonely. There weren’t many kids in the village and the adults could hardly entertain her. School didn’t make much sense to her and she didn’t have a lot in common with the few kids who were there.
Three months later, Joseph said we should adopt her and I fell a little bit more in love with that man. But how could I explain to Paro what we were offering? How would I tell her that she was welcome with us, that she had a place with us?
That’s how the most beautiful friendship of our life began. We knew we had to befriend her, together and separately. So while Joseph had her bring different offerings to the people who came to talk to him – flowers, leaves, herbs, paintings – I started to teach her how to cook.
Paro took it so enthusiastically, it was almost as if she had been waiting for us – just as we had been led to this village for a reason – so we could become a family.
It took us a whole year to go from two to three, but the day Paro hugged me and called me mama, I knew my story had finally become worthwhile. And we in turn were able to give her the gift of acceptance.
When I had left home, I had felt unmoored, unanchored, adrift. It turns out, the winds had already found me a harbour – and her name was Paro.
For Letter T, written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z
tales of Suchita 
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