Shanti

I saw Shanti in my dreams last night.

It was just a normal Friday night, and I went to bed relatively early and fell straight to sleep, utterly exhausted. Usually when I’m that tired I don’t dream. This time, though, I did. 

All at once, I was taken right back to Cuddapah. The heat, the spices, the sound of children’s laughter – it was all there. The oppressive heat surrounded me, and the muddle of voices calling out in a mixture of Telegu and Hindi was a sound so familiar and comforting. It was, in my dream, just the way I remembered it. It was the day of the official opening, with the Maranatha staff saying their speeches and cutting ribbons and dedicating the campus to the ones who had gone before. But I wasn’t listening to the speeches. I was sitting cross-legged on the hard rock floor, dressed in my red Punjabi, with Pravalika sitting on my lap and 10-year-old Shasti braiding my hair. Audrey and Laura sat next to me, and the smiles on their faces matched mine. They too had the crowd of children sitting around them. It’s amazing how children can make you feel so special. Just knowing that you mean so much to them can make you feel so amazing.

And then the scene changed, to the remote little viliage where we did our last visitation for the opening of the small SDA church. And there was Shanti, just as I remembered her. Her shy and yet cheeky little grin, and her black eyes. Those eyes. They told such stories. Stories of pain and suffering, and yet of life and hope. Stories of perseverance. 

What had she been through, that little angel? What had she experienced in her six years of life? Though at the time I attempted to learn a little more about her, the language barrier meant that most of the facts were hidden, and all that I managed to piece together from the Telegu explanation was that she, like her cousin Mary, was an orphan, and was being looked after by a relative; a lovely, sweet, hunched over Grandmotherly-looking figure with such a lovely smile. Shanti told me herself, and rather proudly too, that she was six years old. It was the only English she knew, apart from the word “Sister!”, which all of the village children loved to use when they wanted attention. From the moment the cars stopped in the village we were surrounded by them, all calling out “Sister, sister!”; pulling on my hands and tugging on my heartstrings. They wanted to play – running races, jumping games, taking silly photos with my camera and laughing at their faces. They just wanted our company. And Shanti, adorable little Shanti. She never once let go of my hand during the entire visit, and when it was time for us to go, she cried. Silent tears dripped down her cheeks as she held tightly to my hand and grabbed firmly to my skirt, determined not to let me go. 

Eventually one of the villagers whisked her away in a flurry of Telegu words that I couldn’t quite understand, and we finally made it into the car and started to drive away. And my tears fell too. I felt like I was leaving a part of myself behind as we left that village. I looked back out over the sea of children following us, running behind the car, and saw her. She wasn’t running. She merely stood there, in the middle of the dust road, holding me tight with that unmovable gaze; a tear coursing down her cheek as she watched me drive away. 

I woke up this morning as impacted as I had been then. I woke up with tears in my eyes, and the same resolve that I had had when I left. 

Somehow, I have to go back.

Somehow, I have to return, and share some of the many blessings I’ve been given. 

Somehow, I am going to make a difference.