A simple gesture

Let me tell you about (one of) my favorite experiences from India.

The first night in Hyderabad, I was determined to be bold and courageous. Obviously, that meant hiring a car from the hotel to take me to Mass at the local cathedral the next morning.

Daring.

Would've been more impressive than the other Honda I rode in.

I walked down to the front desk (why would I call down? I was in freaking India!) and asked  the concierge if it were possible to have a car take me to Mass at a church I looked up while in the U.S. 

"Not a problem, ma'am," said the head-bobbling concierge.

"Really? Uh, so, does this place exist? I've never even been in India until tonight," I said, convinced that my request would be as difficult to pull off as a covert military campaign.

"Yes. Not a problem, ma'am. You want a car to take you to the church in the morning?"

"Yes ... But, is this church here? Does this address even make sense?" I said, looking at the words, St. Joseph's Cathedral, Gun Foundry, Hyderabad. (What the heck kind of address is Gun Foundry?)

"Yes, ma'am. If you need anything else, my name is Daniel," he said smiling and side bobbling his head.

I went back up to my room feeling empowered, but also quite intimidated at the task at hand (ie: getting into a car the next morning to go to church).

The next morning I came downstairs, and was greeted by none other than Daniel himself, smiling brightly and saying, "Good morning, ma'am! Praise the Lord!"

I should have guessed that an Indian named Daniel probably wasn't Hindu.

Indians are badass multi-tskers.

He showed me to the car and I got in, still uneasy about going off by myself the first day I was in a totally foreign country. Fortunately, I was in good hands with Ramen the driver, who turned around to talk to me and show me pictures of his family about 6 times during our 10 minute drive. Did I mention this was while he was weaving in and out of traffic, trying to avoid commuters on motorcycles and attempting to not run over pedestrians?
Ramen lives in Hyderabad with his wife and two girls, but made trips back to his village to build a bell tower for his church, "so everyone will know when Mass is." He said he wanted to be able to finish building a lighted cross in time for Christmas.

"If I can get that finished," he said, "I will be so happy."

While still wondering what exactly a "lighted cross" meant, we pulled into a large side street filled with at least 60 people walking to work at a large IT building just down the way. I was amazed at the trash that filled the gutters and the women who bent over it sweeping it out of the street (definitely Dalits). I was worried that maybe I was entering an "unsafe" part of town, especially with all the stares I was getting from people outside the car.

We pulled up to the cathedral, which was surrounded by a concrete wall topped with shards glass. I asked Ramen to stay since I'd only take about half an hour and because I didn't want to get stranded at a cathedral that was surrounded by a concrete wall topped with shards of glass.

Walking into the church, I realized that I got the time wrong and was about 15 minutes late. And about a foot taller than everyone else. I also noticed that most of the statues were surrounded by what looked like LED Christmas lights and realized what Ramen meant by a "lighted cross."

Ramen, was this your doing?

After Mass, many people stayed behind to pray and kiss the various statues that inhabited the church. It wasn't for show, but seemed like a very simple gesture acknowledging that that person was in Heaven praying for us, and they were thankful for it.

Walking back to the car, I saw an old man who looked about 70, but was probably younger than that, sitting cross-legged at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the church. We made eye contact, but I didn't have any food for him and had been told that it was unwise to give out money. All I could think to do was give him the kiss of peace the way the people and Mass had done. So, I pressed my hands together and touched them to my forehead while bowing, indicating that I acknowledged his presence. He smiled and returned the gesture, and I continued on my way back to my comfortable hotel. I couldn't shake the thought of "What if that were my grandfather sitting in the street in ragged clothing, reduced to begging for his livelihood?"

Ramen strikes again!

I got back to my hotel and wished I could have done more, so I prayed and wept for him.

That evening, I went down to the lobby to ask my new bff Daniel if he could arrange a car to take me to Mass again. Inspired by the warm greeting he gave me that morning, I practically yelled across the lobby as soon as I saw him, "Daniel! I prayed for you and your family at Mass today!"

He looked a little sheepish in front of his co-workers and I realized maybe that wasn't the best thing to yell at someone who worked lived in a country that was 80% Hindu.

The next morning, I was determined to help the man I saw in a more tangible way so I stuck a banana in my purse. However, when we pulled up to the cathedral no one was sitting at the bottom of the steps.

A simple, genuine faith.

That day I arrived in time to pray the Penitential Rite with everyone else and was floored by the words, "I ask the Blessed Mary, ever Virgin, all the angels and saints and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God."

Here I was, in a totally foreign country, praying the prayers that I had known since childhood with total strangers and yet, we had all be praying for each other for as long as we were all Catholic! If that's not a fruit of the Universal Church, I don't know what is.

As I left Mass, I saw a man sitting at the bottom of the steps who was different than the one I'd seen the day before. He was about the same age and just as skinny, but his bright white hair stood out against his skin in a way that actually reminded me of my Grandad who passed away a few years ago.

I crouched down and handed him the banana, hoping that he wouldn't be offended that I was giving him food instead of money. His eyes brightened as he took it and clasped my hands, touching them to his forehead.

All I could think was, I hope we get to spend Eternity together.

He was so happy to have some food and I was so grateful to have been so accepted by him.

That evening, I looked for something to bring him, but all I had in my room were apples and I knew he wouldn't be able to eat that with the shape his teeth were in, so I grabbed a bottle of water.

He wasn't there when I went in to Mass and I worried that maybe something had happened to him.

I felt a surge of joy as I saw him at the bottom of the stairs waving to me. Not only was he there, he recognized me!

I handed him the bottle of water and he laughed a little, then touched his lips and made a chewing motion. I held my hands open and shook (not bobbled) my head to show him that was all I had. He graciously accepted it, even though I could tell he was probably more hungry than thirsty.

We left for Bangalore that afternoon, but I wonder if he came back the next day to see me. I know that he will probably die soon, as the life expectancy in India is about 63 years old.

I am privileged to have met him.