Present or Absent?

Four years ago, I found myself in South India, participating in the foundation of a school in a small, poor community. The school taught English to all who came. The adult students became my friends, and with them I had many lively interchanges, but it was the children who captured my heart. They were so eager to learn. With only occasional lapses, they were devotedly present to the learning process.

Early on, roll call was eagerly anticipated by the children. They proudly stood and announced their presence, grasping the opportunity to voice a new-to-the tongue unfamiliar English word, the word 'present.' And truly present they were.

On one occasion, the youngest of my students popped to his feet to answer. Perhaps because of his youth, he had a tendency to be easily distracted, his attention flagging from time to time. That day he belted out his answer...ABSENT!!! The class erupted in laughter, perhaps only knowing that the wrong response had been delivered. How he came to learn his unknowing response, I could not guess.

Haris did not seem to be embarrassed by his mistake. His grin never faded. But he earned a nickname that day that stuck with him...'absent boy.'

As I have reflected on the scene from time to time, I realize that Haris taught me an

important lesson that day. In the midst of all the fascinating offerings life gives, I have a tendency toward scattered, if not completely shattered focus. Easily I can unconsciously become the absent boy, however well-intentioned I may be.

On the next page is a story I wrote about Haris and his family...

As I walk through the door opening, out of the bright midday South India sun, I realize that I am a visitor in territory entirely new to me, and I consciously choose to drop my assumptions on the doorstep. As I enter the dim interior, I notice several things, some curious, some that might be slightly offensive if I allow, but I do not. The door, which seals the opening, is raw wood, flat and dirty; it would recede to colourlessness if not for stains of oil and smudges from grimy hands, perhaps discarded food. The walls of the nine by twelve room, in some distant time painted institutional green, are likewise dirty. There is one small wooden table, covered with a brown oil cloth bearing large subdued patterning, three mismatched chairs. In front of two chairs, plates are placed for us, heaped with white, snowy rice, steaming. The dusty fan hanging from the ceiling stands still…a power interruption, not infrequent, nor predictable. Heat seems to smother, sweat beads and drips.

Our invitation had been issued formally six days ago; it was unanticipated. We received it with excitement, relishing the chance to share in the lives of ordinary Indian people. More people are here than I expect…six children, five women, two babies, most of them either squatting at the perimeter of the room or peeking through interior doorways. Smiles welcome, while crinkled foreheads wonder and children fidget excitedly.

The chairs are urged on us and we sit. I make a mental note to just receive the welcome, stop gawking, and enjoy. But something I have not yet noticed will catapult our welcome into a life-altering moment and burn an ineradicable image on my brain.

We have been invited because we are teachers and neighbours; we are staying in this small, beautiful seaside Kerala community, Varkala, and we teach English…free classes for anyone who wants to learn. I began the fledgling school on a whim and a prayer when I sat with a group of community leaders concerned about development in this small neighbourhood. To a man they asserted that what would help their community most would be an opportunity to learn English. The school opened for learning three days later in a vacant building with a new coconut leaf roof, installed by the men and boys of the community. Up to 80 people from the area 200 meters radius to where we now sit come to classes, roughly half children and half adults. Through the barred window of this living/dining room, shutters thrown open, I can see the mud house that is our classroom 20 meters away. The people in the room are our students.

The lady of the house smiles biggest, for we have honoured her in being here. She lives in this four room house with her extended family…eight in all, I find out. Her husband is away for two years, working in the Gulf, paying the bills. He will be apart from his family for 24 continuous months, working as a driver for a construction superintendent in Dubai, but his family will be able to survive on the money he sends home; his children will have access to private tutoring, and with money he saves, he will likely build a larger home for his family when his stint in the Gulf is over.

We are watched by all as we eat our simple meal, joined by Azees, the current man of the house, our 15 year old prankster student, turned serious for this auspicious occasion. I imagine the titters at the edge of the room to be a comment on my beginner’s level of skill at eating with my hands. Rice dribbles to my shirt front, but no one appears to be overly concerned.

The food is simple and delicious, a small dish of chicken curry, the chicken butchered so as to make the parts indefinable, some very spicy mango pickles, a somewhat less fiery vegetable sambar, a warm milk-yogurt liquid that gives moisture to the eventual mix, and a ground aviel, made with fish, for this is a fisher family, and small fish are easier and cheaper to come by than vegetables. I eat my fill, am urged to eat more, and decline despite protest.

Since we still don’t have a great deal of common language, the post lunch conversation drags, and the function seems to be over…until…we are asked if we would like to meet Adeena’s mother.

Adeena is an 11 year old woman-child, a sometimes bright and often distracted student, who is half sister, or cousin, the relationship difficult for us to define. We gladly agree to meet her mother, mother also of Haris, one of our youngest students, aged seven, who was nicknamed ‘absent boy’ when he answered inexpertly during roll call early on in our classes. Now it has become the neighborhood joke, and everyone affectionately calls him Absent Boy, including his mother, we discover.

The mother is situated just through one of the open interior doorways, in the bedroom off the main room, and we are ushered in. I had heard no audible sign, and was unaware of her presence. We slip through the opening into the tiny bedroom furnished only with a bed and a small low table. The bed is dark wood, half covered by a thin, worn pad on which she lays, facing us and the door. This room is on the shaded side of the house, shutters cracked to admit a sliver of light.

As we enter, her eyes slowly open, as though she has been expecting us. She is not surprised, nor curious in the fashion of most of our other acquaintances. Her eyes send us a holy welcome. A slight smile graces her lips, and time stops.

Here is a woman who has been sick for 4 years, victim to an unnamed, perhaps unknown illness. Her hard bed and spare room are her world, from all appearances, yet there is not a hint of complaint or grimace of pain. Her yet beautiful brown skin stretches tight over miniature bones; her weight I estimate to be less than 60 pounds. She has declined all food, we are told, taking only water. There simply is no money available for diagnosis, treatment, or even palliative care, so none has been sought. In India, health care for people without rupees in hand is usually unavailable.

Her name is Amura. Love, I think, and love is what I witness. Her smile turns fully to my partner, where it is mirrored in a magical exchange of life energy. Time stills again. No words are needed, only presence. In that presence they become one; I am a privileged observer, my oneness yet a step away. They grip each others hands, their eyes peer into each other’s souls.

Amura's face is void of any hint of fear. It seems she wordlessly proclaims that love is all, time in this body not the ultimate…the best is yet to come. This image, this feeling...this is my extraordinary privilege. This that I almost did not notice.

She lays 15 meters from where foreign visitors trek up and down the road all hours searching for a unique experience in incredible India. Her only wish, I’m told is that her family be cared for, her children grow up with food to eat and family to cherish. She has learned that life is living, loving, and letting go. On this day, she shares that waning but powerful life with us unreservedly.

This I nearly did not see. I would not have known where to look, but am so grateful to have been included. Thank you, Kerala, thank you heaven, thank you life. Thank you, Amura.