Monsoons and “missing yous:” Last Week in Goa Part 1.

My last week in Goa was drenched…in heavy rains, with sheets of water that swept over the rolling hills and waves that crashed into the coast just 60 meters from our guesthouse…in sweat that poured from my body in the thick and muggy air…in tears of joy and frustration and heartache. In the mornings, I tutored children at preschools and met with principals and teachers. The little children were a handful—over 60 munchkins that screamed, kicked, cried, sang songs, jumped around, and pretty much did anything and everything but sit still. The hours from 8:30 to 12:30 were a test for my patience, and filled with countless silent prayers for stamina and grace, for focus and energy to teach and love these kids, for humility to serve the teachers in whatever way I could.
Each day, after eating a plate of rice and chicken masala or dahl fry (both curry-like sauces) with my hands, the afternoons were filled with jewelry making, stitching, and nutrition programs. I bought over 50,000 beads in Bangalore and carried them to Goa for the girls to begin making some bracelets I designed. Sitting crosslegged on the floor of the aprartment, I watched the women smile and laugh, threading beads onto string and then wear them on their wrists, exchanging Hindi and English words and teaching each other to count to ten. In Hindi, counting from 1 to 10 is: “Ek, do, ti, char, panch, che, sath, art, no, duhs.” As Friday afternoon came to a close, I glanced around the room and was overcome with the sweet sight… the 8 precious women gathered on the floor around me had become friends and sisters over the past few weeks, and my experiences with them were so dear to me. As they were about to leave, Deepa called me to the balcony and pointing to three boys playing cricket in the dirt below, said, “mine.” Her young sons waved up at me, and she asked, “Teacher—you coming Monday?” With tears building in my eyes, I shook my head and said, “No, sister. I am leaving tomorrow.” “No, teacher! Stay!” She grabbed my hand and spoke quickly to the other girls in the room in Hindi, and she must have told them I was leaving because they exclaimed, “No, teacher! When you coming back?” I told them I would try to come next summer, but I wasn’t sure. I hugged each girl goodbye, and whispered, “yadhara” (miss you) to each one…until Suman walked up to hug me for the last time. She was a 16 year old orphan, and I had grown the closest to her during my time there… as I wrapped my arms around her, I felt hot tears welling in my eyes and had to force myself to let go of the precious girl, “Bye, Teacher.” Her big dark brown eyes glimmered up at me, and I struggled not to burst into tears as I told her, “No, Suman, I am not teacher. I am your sister.” Pointing to myself, I said “dost” (sister in Hindi), and her face lit up as she laughed and said, “Oh teacher!” and hugged me one last time. She slipped on her flip-flops and looked back at me and waved as she walked out the door, and I felt like she had hooked my heart with fishing line and was pulling me with her. I was quiet as I packed up the bracelets the girls had made and lifted my backpack onto my shoulders, glancing back at the oven I had bought which was sitting in the corner of the kitchen, and imagined a baking sheet with cookies inside. I uttered a soft prayer that the oven and 8 baking sets would be used, and that the woman who committed to selling some biscuits in her shop in Baina would be able to one day. Stepping into the hall, I locked the door to the apartment for the last time…this summer, but hopefully not forever.