India: Looking Back

Explaining everything that happened to me on my trip to India is impossible. The amount of impact this trip had on me and my life is ineffable. This paper is not big enough to contain the words that could describe my trip, nor is the world. As you read this, consider this, and deem everything I say to be an understatement.

         My trip to India was a work of God. I know this simply because nothing could be so beautiful, wonderful, or magnificent, unless God put His hand on it. India is a country full of pain, loss, poverty, and ruin. It is also a country of wealth, happiness, and class. How these two opposites exist side by side is beyond me. There is a lot of ignorance in India, whether it is ignorance by choice, or chance, is different for every person living there. As a foreigner, there was much to see, absorb, and learn.

         Going into my trip, I expected to see poverty, but I didn’t expect everything I saw there. I expected my faith to be challenged, but I never could have anticipated how much it would actually be stretched. I expected to be sad, but now I truly know what it means to be heartbroken. I expected much from this missions trip, and it exceeded my wildest expectations.

         While there, I went to four very different orphanages. Each one had beautiful children, ranging from about 5 to 18 in age. At every orphanage, love poured out of every person there. Whether it was a child of six or an adult, there was so much love there it was almost overwhelming. The biggest highlight of my trip was definitely just the joy that exuded from the people I met there. They accepted each and every one of us; old or young, a new face or a familiar one, shy or outgoing. They just immediately loved us. I remember stepping into the first orphanage and just being bombarded with children, all swarming around me, welcoming me and calling me sister. It was amazing, that they not only greeted those that had been before, but greeted me like I was family as well.
         I worked closely with Dr. Hodson, a Greenwood pediatrician, for the first three days. We gave physicals to every orphan there. I was in charge of height, weight, name, and age. At first, it was hard because of the language barrier, especially with one interpreter running in between the two of us. On the second day, I asked our interpreter to teach me some Kannada, the local dialect of Bangalore, so that I could speak with the children and he could help Dr. Hodson. At first, I felt like I would never be able to say it right, and now, I feel as if I will never forget it. The amazement that rose in a child’s eyes when a blood pressure cuff squeezed, or when the numbers on the scale bounced around, is another thing I will never forget. It is insane that something so customary to us, is such a foreign concept to even the oldest of children there. Children in America cry when they have to go to the doctor, and the children in India begged, just so they could have a toothbrush at the end of their checkup. It is sad how much we take for granted.
There is one story that I feel I must share with you. There was without a doubt one thing that was harder than everything else on the trip. It is the one thing that made me cry besides leaving on the last day. On Sunday, we all went to one orphanage together called Mercy Home. It was about a two hour drive to get there; therefore, too long to make every day, so it was just a one day affair. When I first walked in, I immediately felt a little tug on my heart at the sight of one of the little girls. She was wearing a purple, sparkly dress, her hair was cut shorter than most of the boys, and she stood apart from the others, like she wasn’t yet a part of the group. I knew that tug was God, telling me to go to her, and so I did. When I asked her what her name was, she wouldn’t answer me, she just stared up at me with these big, gorgeous brown eyes.
          Eventually, we walked with the children down to a separate building, one with a lot of space to play. I took two of the little ones by the hand and started to lead them there. One was named Kavya, and she talked the whole way there. The other was the little one in purple. She held my attention like no child had ever held it before. She didn’t talk, yet there was something so wonderful about her, she drew me, like a bee is drawn to honey. No matter how hard I tried to listen to little Kavya, I could not turn my gaze from the tiny girl on my left. She seemed disinterested in the fact that I was holding her hand or taking her somewhere. She was content to just walk and take in everything around her. It was at this moment that I knew this little girl would be one I would never forget. Once we all got into the building we started a game of “Duck Duck Goose”. The purple girl, as I had started to think of her, sat in front of me, her gaze trained on the runners who sprinted past again and again. Kavya, who had ended up sitting by my side told me her name was Esther, but she didn’t respond when I called her that.
          Eventually, I had to get up and start helping Dr. Hodson with her physicals. When I turned to go, little Esther just stared at me with questioning eyes. I stepped out of the room and into the next, asking Dr. Hodson if she was ready for her first child. I turned to leave, anticipating going to get a kid, and nearly ran right into Esther. She had followed me, and would continue to do so the rest of the day. Eventually, I learned that she doesn’t know English, and that is why she didn’t respond to me. When I asked her in Kannada what her name is, she told me it is “Banu”. I could tell this is the name she was given at birth, and had grown up knowing. It is the name of a Hindu Goddess, which is why she received a new name at the orphanage. The caretakers at the orphanage could see that she had taken a liking to me, and so they shared her story with me.
         Both of her grandparents died from cancer before she was born, and her mother had the same fate at the age of 22, just after Banu was born. Four days before I got there, her father passed. He was repairing something very heavy, and was holding it up with one hand while screwing something in with the other. His grip slipped, and the whole thing fell on him. He died immediately. Little Banu was left with no one, and she arrived at the orphanage by chance. For three days and three nights she cried. She wouldn’t play or eat, she just cried and cried. She was scared and alone, in the hands of people she didn’t know, surrounded by a language she didn’t understand. I would have been terrified too.
         I got to spend the day with a tiny, little girl following me around. There were moments where she would get distracted by other things; the bible story, a craft, a game, but in the end, she would always turn and smile at me, like there was something I knew that no one else in the world knew. Like I was her mom.
         Leaving that orphanage was not a pleasant experience. We took pictures, which got all the kids excited, but I could tell that Banu knew something was happening. She knew it from the moment the hugs started and the cameras came out. She became very shy and withdrawn. All the energy I had drawn out throughout the day was gone. When I tried to hug her, she pushed me away. At the very end, when almost everyone was already on the bus, I knelt down beside her, and tried unsuccessfully, one last time, to explain everything with my eyes. She looked at me, looked at the buses, looked back at me, and as she did, tears started streaming down her face. Silent, uncontrollable tears. In that instant, my heart broke into a thousand pieces. Trying to hold myself together, I hugged my little girl one last time, and got on the bus. I only made it as far as the steps before I had to sit down, my knees quaking with the tears that were coming. I felt like the whole world was falling apart. Ramesh, one of our interpreters, turned to me and simply stated, “She is crying. Banu is crying for you.” I couldn’t handle the truth that he so clearly revealed to me, so I turned and climbed onto the bus, finding my seat right as the tears started falling. All the children had gathered around the windows, making faces and waving to us. Only Banu looked sad, maybe she was the only one that knew the truth of the matter-that we were leaving, and we weren’t coming back-or maybe the others chose not to think of that fact. Either way, she stood in a sea of joy, completely motionless except for the tears that fell from her beautiful eyes, staring at me. The way she looked at me, it was as if I was just one more person to leave her, one more person to walk out of her life. Who would have thought that a little girl in a purple dress, who could not even talk to me, would break my heart? That is exactly what she did. This experience taught me that words aren’t necessary when it comes to love. I fell in love with a little girl, she fell in love with me, and we barely spoke a word to each other. Love is spoken in the same language, no matter where you go.
         Let’s face it, my trip to India barely scratched the surface of the pain and loss there. Not a lot has changed in India. I didn’t affect the whole country, I didn’t touch the lives of millions of people, but I made a difference to a hand full of kids, and that’s what counts. From the lips of a fourteen year old girl there named Swetha, “Before I came here, I had a bad life. I didn’t know what fun was. You have shown me what fun truly is.” Even though they don’t realize it, they changed my life too. I know now that my life will forever be dedicated to helping people who cannot help themselves. I will always want to be a mother to the motherless, and a light in the darkness. A piece of my heart will always be in India, waiting for me to return.