There is a precious little girl in a slum of Mumbai who completely stole my heart.
Let's call her Maemi. I know very few facts of her life. And what I do know is far from the frilly dresses and whimsy of the average American childhood. I have yet to hear her really speak a word, and if she had said anything it probably would have been in a language I could not decipher.
But this is what I know: she had me wrapped around her tiny little fingers.
All she had to do was point to a steaming hot plate of rice and dahl, and I was more than happy to take minuscule handfuls of her lunch and place it into her mouth. Every morning when her head began to nod, and she began to drift off to sleep, I almost dreaded having to lay her on a mat so she didn't also drag my legs into a nap. Because it was super cute when she fell asleep on my lap.
I cried for this young girl much more than I would have ever predicted. She is living a life she does not deserve. And the difficult part is, so I am. I just seem to be on the opposite end of the spectrum.
I think I also cried because I hope for her. Against the odds and against her circumstances, I have hope that she will know a life outside of the brothel she was born into. I hope that she will be loved and will know Love.
I hope for her, because she does not yet hope for herself.
