We arrived to the Hyderabad airport last night around 1 am, ended up dozing in the baggage claim exit for awhile while things got figured out, and finally got on the shuttle to the airport dormitories at 3:30 am. My head hit the pillow in the large room full of about twenty beds, and we were all asleep until late into the next morning. We befriended our only other roomate-an Indian nicknamed “D-man”, whose English was superb.
Our first exposure to India, besides the women wearing either hijabs, burkas, or bright-colored saris that we saw around the airport, was our taxi ride to the train station around 4:30 pm. Mohammed drove our taxi, and was very helpful. Traffic didn’t seem bad on the highways, though speeding and zipping in and out of the tiniest breaks in cars gave us a few scares. When we descended onto the local roads through-that’s when it got crazy. That’s when I felt India.
Cars, motorcycles, tuk tuks…everywhere. The dark, almost black skin of the locals made their bright eyes seem huge and beautiful. I found myself carefully observing the crippled old man scooting himself down the middle of the dirt road; the woman on the moto next to my window-only her bright eyes peeking out in the slits of her burka; the three little boys squashed between their father and their mother-all on the same motorcycle. They laughed when Brittany said hello to them through the window of our taxi and their father gave an approving grin. I saw the women wearing gold and silver nose-rings and bangles and necklaces, all shining brightly against their dark skin. Every detail stuck out to me: the Hindu “eye” on their foreheads, the men sipping coffee outside a bakery-not a single woman relaxing among them, the towers and towers of slums piled high into skyscrapers because there was not enough surface area on the ground for them all. I remember thinking that India would not be a place I would enjoy walking around to simply see the sights or look at the buildings. No, here I see extreme poverty. I see a great need for love-from one human to another. I saw a beggar on the street asking people in the cars driving by for money, and I envisioned myself not offering a few rupees, but a squeeze of my hand in hers. I wanted to look her in the eyes and smile and give her encouragement. But this woman I envisioned didn’t approach our car-and we sped away as I found myself wishing the opportunity would arise for me to offer that squeeze to another hand.
I prayed as we sped through this first look at a new culture. I prayed for beauty, though I didn’t say that word specifically in my mind. It was more of a longing within; a longing to see these people with Jesus’ eyes, to pour out blessings to them with loving hands, to breathe in their beauty. I love India already. I feel like God has filled me up with a passion for these people, a passion and a curiosity that surpasses the slight pangs of fear I have from being surrounded by a people so foreign to me that I can’t imagine how I’ll fit into their world. Even now, sitting on the dirty floor in the waiting room of the train station, watching as my teammate struggles to understand the probing questions of the two women across from her, I am beginning to realize what a stretch this month will be. One woman wears cloth of burnt orange and grey. The other woman, much younger, is dressed in the most beautiful sari I have seen yet-a silky looking bright teal, trimmed with baby pink and covered in dark blue flowers. I’ve caught myself smiling as I watch this attempted dialogue bring two worlds together as one for a brief moment.
