I can hardly believe it’s been two years since The Weight of Silence: Invisible Children of India was first published. At this two-year anniversary, I have exciting news.
The Weight of Silence has just been re-released, as an all new Revised & Expanded Edition!
Much has happened in the nearly three years since I wrote the last word of the book, and sent it off to my publisher. I have been back to India twice, and the kids have grown. Changes in their lives have happened, and I have kept up with all of them. New work has been advanced in organizations like The Miracle Foundation and Vasavya Mahila Mandali.
The new Revised & Expanded Weight of Silence includes an additional Epilogue chapter, in which I tell you what has happened in those years to Santosh, Daina, Sumitra, Yesu Babu and many of the other children both myself and my readers have grown to know and love.
I am excited to report that an excerpt from the book, titled Lost and Found, won the Bronze prize in the Family Travel category for the Solas Best Travel Writing Awards 2009, sponsored by Travelers Tales.
Click here to read the story and view more about the awards; a short excerpt is below:
Lurching along the dirt road, I gazed out the window at rural Orissa in northeastern India as the car bounced over potholes, sending plumes of red dust billowing behind it. The small villages we passed were as familiar to me as if I had been there only last week. The shacks that lined the river, their plastic or tar paper roofs held down with rocks. The smell of curry and incense hanging thick in the air. The tiny shops and vendor stalls selling sarees or pots or candies, the mangy dogs and cows nosing at piles of trash, the rickshaw drivers pedaling through traffic alongside schoolgirls with their braided hair and backpacks. People seemed to fill every square inch of space. It was exactly as I left it a year ago.
I glanced at my daughter sitting next to me, trying to gauge her feelings. She was looking out the far window with eager eyes. It wasn’t the street life passing by that had Chandler enthralled; although it was her first trip to India we had been traveling in the country for over a week, and she had grown familiar with the scene outside the window. Like me, she was excited to be on our way to the orphanage, at last. The reason we were here in the first place; the reason I brought my fifteen-year-old child halfway around the world. To spend a week with a hundred children at the Miracle Foundation home who had captured my heart the year before. My desire to bring my own daughter to this place, this experience, had led us to this moment.
I turned my head back toward the passing palm and ashoka trees, and the river glittering in the afternoon sun. Questions ricocheted silently inside me. What would the kids look like? Would they have changed? Would they remember me? What would Chandler’s reaction be? Then we were pulling through the gates into the ashram. The large open space in the middle of the compound was empty, no one there to meet us. I realized they weren’t yet expecting us. We climbed out of the car and started up the little pathway that led between buildings to the interior courtyard.
One by one, they began to spy us; I saw little brown faces peeking out around corners and through bushes. Slowly the ashram came to life. Word of our arrival spread and dozens of grinning, jumping children surrounded us on the path and poured into the courtyard. Within seconds I was engulfed by barefoot children grasping for my hands and clambering over each other to smile up at me. Ten feet away, yet separated by twenty bodies bouncing between us, Chandler also stood with several kids holding each hand and more clinging to her arms, her pale skin and long blonde hair almost lost in the sea of them. She knew many of them on sight, familiar with their stories and the pictures that line the walls of our house. The amazement on her face made her look even younger than her fifteen years.
“Hello,” “Welcome,” “Good Evening,” the children greeted us. Small hands reached for me. There was Santosh! And Daina, Mami, Sumi…I picked up the tiny ones like Salu and searched for other faces I hadn’t seen yet. Children ran up to show me small things I had given them the year before – stickers, crayons, hair clips. They displayed these cherished treasures; such simple possessions, so proudly owned and taken care of. They asked for nothing from me other than being there. In many ways they were just like other children with homes and families of their own – except for their neediness, their raw hunger for affection, love, belonging.
They had been imprinted on my soul forever.
I believe it may be one of the best articles or reviews done so far on the book – author Prem Panicker interviewed me extensively over several weeks, which resulted in a magazine feature that is warm and thoughtful, filled with humanity and care for these kids. Prem’s compassionate writing style tells the stories of the kids and the book, with a sidebar featuring Sumitra, the miracle baby; and another sidebar about my journey to India with daughter Chandler.
I do hope that you will check it out, and pass it on to whomever might be at all interested: