We just landed and departed from our last flight to India. We are finally near-ish to our ministry location. We got our bags and grouped together. Then our squad leaders had an announcement for us.
We now have to board a bus that is going to take seven hours to get to a place to sleep. I’m not sure if it’s where our ministry location is.. My team is waiting for the second bus that comes in another 45 minutes, so I think we’re going to explore.
At this point, we are quite exhausted. Everyone is dragging from inconsistent sleep and the time change. We’re also all smelling like Indian cuisine. I had the pleasure of smelling Garrett’s arm to confirm that yes, indeed, he does smell somewhat like curry.
TWO HOURS LATER
My team was actually able to fit into the bus with our luggage. Kaitlyn and I rode in a Toyota (with air conditioning!!) with two gentlemen named Raj (which he explained to us means “king”) and Ramon. They were great tour guides and told us about the history of India and the different cultures and religions here. Kaitlyn was able to sleep a little, but I was so intrigued with my surroundings.
We drove directly through the center of downtown Hyderabad. It is exactly as Hollywood portrays it: crowded, noisy, and very dirty. It’s also sad. And overwhelming. Let me explain. Next to a mall and a store that sells beautiful dresses for weddings, there’s a shack made up of sticks, metal rods, and layers of ripped clothing. There’s a woman laying outside on a piece of tarp. Right by her is a pile of trash that would consume her if she were to dive into it. There are a few stray dogs eating out of the pile of trash. She has probably never known the comfort of a bed, the luxury of a shower, or the simplicity of writing or reading. Beyond her is a building, half completed with blue tarp barely clinging onto the sides and holes big enough to be doorways that have been beaten by the storms and nature.
Our trip continues on as Raj honks multiple times at each passing moped. The streets are screaming with the sound of horns. A moped comes so close to my door that I wonder if he’s going to try to get in next to me. Raj honks the horn again. And it goes on.
Out in the distance is a group of maybe 15 people huddled around a fire. Maybe they’re cooking, or maybe they’re just hanging out. About 100 yards towards the street and away from them, there’s a boy that looks to be about 7. He’s clinging to a pole and staring into the traffic. It breaks my heart. This boy might grow up with such talent and ability, but he has absolutely no chance. It ruins me that people can live in apartments that overlook the madness just so they can stay away from it and distance themselves from the pain. How can people live knowing that, while they are asleep in their nice bed, the woman downstairs and around the corner is sleeping on a mat, clinging to life?
