“No, Didi, this will not do,” she said as she ripped the tiny red bindi from my forehead. She removed a large maroon bindi from Anjina Didi, their mother, and slapped it on my forehead.

“There,” she said. “Beautiful.”

They stood back and peered down at me while I gazed up at them. Beautiful.

These girls are all sisters at Bal Kutir, a home for orphaned children in Noida, UP.  This is no typical orphanage; the thirty-three residents are sisters and brothers for life, their mummy theirs forever as well. They were dressing me up for the opening of an art and dance studio in Noida. I was going to ask the owners if they would accept Bal Kutir students free of cost.

Half an hour before I was scheduled to leave, the oldest girls considered my cotton kurta and pajama, and ordered my upstairs to change. They opened a worn blue suitcase filled with saris, which like everything from toys to mummy’s love, belonged to anyone and everyone. After much consultation amongst themselves, they pulled out a cream-colored sari that they assured me would complement my complexion well. When I buttoned up the blouse backward, they just laughed, “Didi,” and pushed me back into the bathroom.

This year at Bal Kutir, I am creating extra-curricular opportunities to build these children’s life skills, such as leadership, critical thinking, teamwork and creativity. Yet, every day I realize that the everyday life-skills that come so naturally to most Indian woman, from the rural farmer to the urban professional, are years behind those of the girls at the home.

Growing up in New York, India wasn’t with me every minute of the day. I unpacked India from my mental suitcase as I dressed for a pooja, as I impressed friends with stories from trips to Delhi or Kerala, or as I studied Hindi in college. India was a compartment of my life, and a small one at that. The girls are giving me the training about how to be an Indian woman that I somehow missed in America. They teach me how to how to fold a sari and and how to roll an acceptable chappati, but the real lessons are much deeper.

Even though they are only teenagers, they exemplify me the strength of Indian women.  They simultaneously study in school, help to raise their younger brothers and sisters at Bal Kutir, run the accounts and kitchen of the home and still make some time to dance, paint, and sing and laugh. Their constant hard work and compassion inspire me to employ those same traits as I tackle my project this year.  As they adorned me with a sari and sent me to the opening, I felt that they finally understood that I needed life-skills training as well, that we would be teaching each other this year.

As I finally left the home, the thirty-three children waved good-bye, shocked at the sight me in a sari for the first time. After one last-minute exchange of my rubber Bata chappals for Sangeeta’s beaded sandals I walked out the door, one step closer to navigating India, so that I could help these children navigate their own lives.