Global Urban Trek 2008
The Women of KolkataJuly 11, 2008
The women of Kolkata are beautiful.
Their faces retain their youth and their bodies are like iron. They carry themselves with grace and poise but they are also tough and aggressive – especially in the trains. The women’s train cart is intense. We get shoved into the train and, once inside, are held in one position where we are stuck to one another until we are shoved out of the train when it nears the platform.
My director Joel has asked us to not necessarily like the city, but rather to love it. Though I do not like it, I am however, slowly falling in love with it – especially the women. As I see the women I work with live their lives in freedom and no longer in brothels, I am compelled to praise the sovereignty of God through whom all things are possible. These women are beautiful and so sweetly broken.
“God, you delight in their brokenness, and you desire to restore them wholly in the liberty of your presence.”
The young girls in the slums are lit with curiosity and life. They are so eager to intertwine their hearts with ours as we spend time with them. Many of my teammates immersed themselves in the Indian culture by allowing the girls to henna their hands.
Jane Marie shared how she held one of the girls in her arms as she cried over her house and family situations. These women we interact with usually have nothing to boast about but a few articles of clothing, a small living space and few family members, yet they have the greatest joy in their smiles.
In the past week or so, sickness finally caught up with me and the physical exhaustion has started to weigh me down. For the first time, I found myself homesick and missing my mother tremendously.
“God, I am alone in this place and there is nothing and no one here to call my own.”
I longed for God to be true to His word and come near. God has used the women here like our host Beena and our cook Eela to cushion my sadness. Every day after work, I sit by Eela and watch her cook. She teaches me bangla and loves me as if I were her own.
We communicate with a combination of Hindi and Bangla mixed together with some serious charades for the moments we don’t understand each other. One day she put oil in my hair. When she was done, I cried. She began to tear up, held me in her arms and consoled me.
“Dear Jesus, I cannot explain it but there is something about this woman that compels me to smile. She gives me so much love but I have nothing but your name to give her. How do I give her you, Jesus?”
- Rajee
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