I went to teach but learned so much. India was not my first choice but I believe somehow it chose me. I did not have a say, I did not have a choice to love or hate it. It was before I arrived and will be long after my departure. The air felt ancient filled with history and diesel. The ruins of British efforts accompanied by stapled homes of tin and card board hopelessness, inhabited by sparkling fabric, pierced noses, bare feet and mopeds. Palm trees dare to rise above the pollution that kept my throat hoarse for two months, decorating the gray reminder that we are invaders, foreigners; we are white in sparkling fabric.
But nothing sparkled at the ‘Varanasi Mother Theresa Home’, where I volunteered for a month. Nuns volunteered to give their life to service to those less fortunate. Tourists volunteered to take time from sightseeing to feed, bathe, sit and see the reality behind the sites. I volunteered to give. Is it selfish then how much I came away with? A lifetime of reality, a mind full of memories, of laughter, dancing, and music. Two corners of humanity meeting in a courtyard, open and vulnerable to one another, stripped to the bare essentials of love, food, touch, and eyes. Eyes which bare our soul were our sole communication. We looked at each other like aliens wondering which belonged, which was right, which deserved to live, which of us should be more grateful to the other?
Their routine was set, strict and fluid. Breakfast of rice and lentils, eaten from round tin trays, hands served as utensils, those that did not have hands relied on someone else’s hands as utensils. After breakfast those that could walk and carry, helped with laundry. This could take until lunch time. The clothes were hung on the roof which held a view of the mysterious and holy Ganges River. The Ganges snaked along unaware that centuries of India’s population lay in ashes at her feet. The women I hung clothes with will someday be laying at the bottom of this river in which we had just washed seven loads of laundry. Water sparkling with ashes, dripped from the clothes line. The reality of death hung casually over the river, over the roof, the laundry, the nun’s, tourists and now me. Among these thoughts however the reality of lunch, touch, and eyes were still at hand, and my hands were needed as utensils.
Mid-afternoon Chai time, brings a quiet siesta atmosphere of naps, braiding hair, shaded chats and low shared laughter. I cannot help but wonder if they have discovered something in each other the rest of the world lacks; the absolute need for one another. No one can pretend to be independent. Those with legs must be the legs for those who lack those limbs. Those with vision are the eyes. Those who can speak must lend themselves to the mute. Equally, those with the gift of humor shared this ability to keep laughter in practice.
I saw within these walls a world where handicaps brought out strengths. With all my limbs, motor and sensory skills intact my strengths were clear and available, but what was my handicap? I expected to give my time, heart, love and compassion to a group of people I initially saw as less fortunate. My handicap was underestimating their strength and how much that month would influence my life and choices. I had found in these ‘untouchables’ the most profound sense of humanity. They lived out a daily life so fragile and vulnerable, scarred yet resilient and trusting. A paradox of sparkling ashes, it was an ongoing battle between orphans and royalty, homeless and family, not ashamed to cry and not afraid to smile.
As I step away from this world, I wonder if they would remember me. I wonder if someone would come tomorrow and lend their hands. They will never know they inspired me to study nursing, to return to the third world, to spend my life giving my hands as utensils. 
H.A. 2009
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