Sunday, 3 July 2011

The Reason, the Result and the Rhyme

disarmed by Love
I'm sitting there with a spoon and a plate. There's a boy in front, paralyzed and hungry.

He was pretty chatty last week, but I only wish I understood the message in the mumbles. His name means messenger of God, so I sit with Gabriel and qestion the paradigms. The reason why he's sitting in his high-chair, while I'm sitting across on my knees. Why everything went wrong with his nervous system, while I'm the one feeling crazy.

I never got an answer, but I'm learning to trust the reason just as much as the resut. The result that all my fears, doubts, darkness and brokenness shows me a grace that is bigger than me. The orphaned ones show me that grace. This grace that rhymes with high-chairs and paraplegics. This grace that Gabriel and I are trying to reason with.

I'm sitting now on the aisle seat in row 35 flying somewhere over Delhi. Since the rains rendered us without internet, electricity and water on the ground- I'm humored (and thankful) that I have all those luxuries in the sky. Well, there's actually no wifi but I'm able to write this update because I finally have some time to be buckled down. This next month, I'll be working in the rural mountains of Rajasthan among the indigenous people (of the lowest class of the social strata; adhivasi). While I was there last year, that's when I fell in love with India. That's when I saw my reflection in their eyes. Being invited back there is bigger than all other accolades I've undeservingly been given by Free The Children.

But I'm going to dearly miss reasoning out grace with Gabriel. I'm going to miss the rain days with my hundred village children. When we just end up piling in the taxi, speeding down the open road to the nearest town- screaming out songs at the top of our lungs.  I'm going to miss eating candy and cheap ice-cream with them.

created for a place I've never known
Life here is made by the give and the take, the rise and the fall, the grace and the grave. Grace that rhymes with the sound of tires screeching on the runway at landing, and of a steel spoon scraping the bottom of the plate after a paraplegic is fully fed. Grace in saying goodbye to someone you love, and going to see someone you've missed.  This grace rhymes with villages, untouchables, and the Uncreated One. Grace becomes the reason, the result and the rhyme.

P.S. I'm sorry for the lengthy post. Being airborne give me all this free time! Now onto reading The Alchemist...

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