Over the course of
this semester in India, I have often asked myself, what am I doing here? In a world with so many injustices to
fight, causes to champion, and ideals to stand for, why come all the way to
India, when I could so easily study the same situations back home? I have also at times questioned my
future, and how I can use what I am learning. How do I go forward from here, and what is it that will keep
me moving? Or, rather, what is it
that moves me?
Coming
to India, I was eager to visit Agra and the Taj Mahal. I know that it is notoriously touristy,
but something about its shimmering splendor had always intrigued me. It was one of those places that I could
clearly recall reading about in my high school world history class; a place
that I had sat staring at in a photograph, never dreaming that I would ever see
it in person. The Taj proved to be
both breathtaking and overwhelmingly crowded— as was to be expected. However, the most memorable part of our
journey to Agra, for me, was not visiting the Taj, but the time that we spent
in the train station.
We
arrived at the station tired from a long day. Having set out from Delhi at 5am, the news that our train
was delayed was not exactly the most welcomed bit of information. After hearing stories from previous
groups about trains being delayed for over twenty-four hours, I settled in for
what I expected to be a long wait.
As I sat surveying the train station, the scene before me was a familiar
one. Stray dogs scavenged through
piles of garbage, the familiar call of “Chai” from men selling tea echoed
against the cement walls, and travelers carrying everything from suitcases to
crates walked frantically through the crowds in pursuit of their trains. Setting down my backpack, I noticed two
small girls approaching members of our group. This, too, was a sight that was all too familiar. The girls gently tugged on a sleeve and
reached out with cupped hands, as if stretching towards some sort of
prayer. Meeting begging children
was not anything new, but no matter how routine the occurrence became, it never
softened the blow. People who have
to resort to begging always make me sad, but when it involves children, it is
even more disturbing. Usually, we
encounter the children quickly and in passing. Sometimes a small bill will be offered, but, regrettably,
usually we simply shuffle away. I
am left to wonder what sort of life these kids must lead, knowing that I never truly
will be able to understand.
There was
something about these girls that struck a chord with me. They were small, with shining eyes and
eager smiles. Noticing that the
two group members the girls had approached were talking with them, I decided to
go meet them. Though there was a
clear language barrier, the girls were friendly. They showed us the sparkly pink bottle of nail polish they
had, and admired the colors we had painted upon our own fingernails. We shared cookies, played games, and
sang songs. We asked them
questions, and tried to learn what we could about them. The younger girl, we discovered was
named Lakshmi. She wore a bright
yellow sweater and a mischievous grin.
After about half an hour, we had exchanged (and remembered!) a few
vocabulary words and playful teasing.
Soon, a whole swarm of children surrounded us, not asking for money or
tokens, but simply for friendship and attention. They just wanted, for a moment, to be children.
Watching them all,
I couldn’t help but think back to the kids I knew that were their age back
home. I looked at Lakshmi, eagerly
pointing to objects that were yellow and showing me my nose, and saw the first
grade students I had spent the summer with. She was just as smart, just as driven, just deserving of an
education as they were. But,
instead of spending her days in a classroom, she spent her days tugging on the
sleeves of strangers, hoping for a sliver of compassion. The injustice of it all hit me in the
pit of my stomach, and left me with tears welling in my eyes. But, how could I cry when Lakshmi was
smiling? I had to keep going. I had to fight for her. For Lakshmi— and for the millions of
children around the world like her.
In Lakshmi’s
shining brown eyes, I see so many others.
I see the Bandhavi girls in Koppal, living symbols of strength. I see the little girl from my class
this summer, and the look on her face when a classmate pointed out that she had
worn the same outfit a few days in a row.
I see the kids that greet us on the side of the road. I see the wide-eyed babies on the
trains. I see my younger cousins,
drawing a sidewalk chalk mural with me on a summer afternoon. I see the faces of countless children
reflected in this little girl. All
I want is for all of these faces to have an equal chance, an equal opportunity,
and for them to be able to smile, as often as possible, in the way that they
all share.
So this is what
moves me. When I find myself looking
for an answer, or a reason, or a path towards my future, I will look back to
that night at the Agra train station, and I will keep moving forward.
For Lakshmi. For all of
them.
Peace,
Zoë
Peace,
Zoë
