Sitting in the fresh night air, toes in cool green grass, I
listened to the locusts chirping.
If I had closed my eyes, I could have been in my grandparent’s backyard
in Sioux Falls.
But I wasn’t.
And I wanted to gaze at the stars in the clear black sky, not close my
eyes; I wanted to stay exactly where I was. For forever, if I could.
Quiet voices of student at a crossroads spoke over the
midnight noises, fingers played with grass, eager eyes looked to us as they
shared their hearts, their dreams, their struggles. What they want to do, where they want to be – who they want to be – after their
program ends. Processing their experience, processing their next steps,
wondering who they will become.
I was in Somahalli, some few hours outside of Chitradurga,
about 4 hours north of Bangalore, and I had come at the call of one of my
girls. She and 2 other former
students from my NGO are in an intense theatre-training program, and several
times throughout the year she has called to invite me to watch the performance.
It has always been last-minute, and I have always been otherwise occupied.
But this Tuesday, my only commitment had been office work. So I
traveled, excited to see the girls, excited to watch their hard work pay off,
excited for a sleepover and the conversation that would undoubtedly go hand-in-hand.
This, however, was exceedingly, abundantly more than I had
ever asked or imagined.
It became quiet, and I heard my name. “Jen,” Nazar asked quietly, “After
listening to everything that they have said, is there anything that you want to
say to them?”
I paused a moment.
My heart was full – my heart was bursting. “So much, Nazar,” I replied, and he knew this meant that I
would chime in later. As he began
to respond to what the students had shared, my mind registered something that I
hadn’t realized before: Nazar had addressed me in English, but the students had been speaking in Kannada. They had been speaking in Kannada, speaking
in Kannada from the depths of their hearts. This wasn’t a conversation about how much a rickshaw would
cost or how many siblings somebody had – this was real life. It was real life, and somehow I
understood. I understood, and
Nazar knew that I did. Tears were
in my eyes, and they spring back as I type.
These are the moments – the moments that are priceless. Being with people you love, people you
are proud of, people that inspire you, people that you believe in fully, and speaking a language that
perhaps every heart can understand. Listening to dreams and yearnings; desires
to live fully alive, desires to make the world a better place. The moments where we see the
commonality of humankind that cuts across race, ethnicity, caste, class. We are real. We are raw.
This is real life, and it is sweet - so sweet, and so precious.
