For Lakshmi

           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