Beyond what is seen.

Every morning I unscrew the lid to my malaria medication, grab a pill between my fingertips, and swallow quickly with water. I’ve found that the pills substitute for a great countdown device. There is one for each remaining day in India. So far, I haven’t made a dent in the heap of pink pea-sized pills—evidence that I’ve just barely scratched the surface of my time here. The new malaria pill countdown gives whole new meaning to the “glass half-full” phrase. I can’t figure out if I want this glass to be half-full or half-empty. In some ways, I wish there would be no end to the pills so I could stay in this place forever.

The day before yesterday was one of those days. Morgana told me we would be leaving in the afternoon to visit the “Divine Fellowship School for the Blind.” Five of us hopped into the hospital van to travel the short distance across town. Raul, a volunteer, sat next to me with a bag brimming with balloons, ridged paper, acrylics and peacock feathers—all tactile objects possessing definitive texture for the students to explore, feel, and create art projects with. An emerging feather tickled the surface of my leg and goosebumps immediately grew on my skin—a reactive combination of the feather’s movement and my nerves.

Ten or fifteen minutes through an agglomeration of typical Kolkata traffic—horns incessantly wailing and throngs of pedestrians dodging taxi cabs—we arrived at a gate painted in royal blue reading “Divine School of the Blind.” I shared a locked glance with another volunteer before the gate began to inwardly open. A security officer waved us on to park just outside a building where children were affixed to their books, reading diligently in braille. With the sound of the approaching car, a number of them glanced upward, their smiles intensifying from wiry close-lipped smiles to full-toothed grins. Highly contagious, we started smiling too.

Many children were standing outside in anticipation of our arrival. Instead of approaching us, they stood in a huddle, cautiously awaiting us to venture closer to them. The moment I extended my hand to the young boy in front of me, he gripped it tightly and began shaking it up and down like a toy rattle, his smile beaming and his eyes moving from still and rested to blinking in a hundred different directions.

“How are you?” I ask.

“I am fine, thank you, Miss,” he replies, continuing to recite the extent of English that he knows. “My name is Bittu. I am in reading class, level two. Your name is?”

“Abbie.”

“Abbie, Abbie”, he repeats smiling. His hand remains attached to my wrist the entire time.

After a few minutes of greeting, I turn around to see eight children lined up seated biggest to smallest—like a Russian nesting doll—on a nearby wooden bench.

“These are the children you’ll be interviewing,” Morgana tells me.

I had a few hours to ask each of the eight questions about their blindness, their families, their hobbies, their life at the school—all for the purpose of raising information for potential donors. Most of the children’s families have absolutely nothing; certainly not enough to provide their children with the medical attention and treatments they need.

The first girl I interviewed, Pinky, was newly seven years old. Pinky had very limited speech and could only speak two words—“yes” and her name, “Pinky.” One of the school teachers told me a bit of Pinky’s history; her mother just died two months ago and she was new at the school. Before arriving, she didn’t know how to walk. In just a few months she was walking completely on her own.

Pinky’s interview was interrupted by a small set of hands wrapping themselves around my right leg. I looked down to see who was squeezing so tightly and I saw a little girl dressed in orange, latched like a leech below my knee.

“That is Supda,” the teacher told me smiling. “She is very, very loving.”

Loving was an accurate word. I bent down and looked at Supda in the eyes. Though she couldn’t see me, she smiled, her long eyelashes beautifully encasing her deep brown saucer eyes. Supda had incredibly smooth skin, with the exception to a protrusive red bump bulging from the center of her forehead.

“That one came when she fell down,” the teacher explained, pointing to the injury. “Supda is very active. She loves to dance. Sometimes I think she forgets she can’t see. She is constantly hurting herself from dancing.” Even then, Supda was smiling wide as she was swinging back and forth in a rhythmic motion. “Supda has only been blind for two years,” said the teacher, “it was completely unexpected.” My heart turns a bit. I bend down and give Supda a tight embrace. She immediately hugs back without a hint of caution or reservation. After a brief pause, Supda reaches for my head, placing her hands like bookends on my face—one on each cheek. First she kisses the right side, then the left, before hugging me again. I hug her right back. Supda can’t stop smiling as she rattles something off in Bengali.

“What did she just say?” I ask the teacher.

“She said, ‘This miss is very sweet. She really loves me’.” Supda was right. How could love not be the response to such a precious little girl who was so willing to give her heart quickly. Supda was a refreshing light to the other children around her. During our entire stay, she was continually marching up to other children and showing them affection, holding their hands to guide them, or giggling with them about little secrets. I look at Supda and over the entire crowd of blind children. This is a special group, I think to myself. By this time, the children had received balloons from Raul and they were all fascinated with them. Some were throwing and catching their balloons while jumping in place, some cradled their balloons like baby dolls; others blew loud sounds into the latex to feel the excitement of the unfamiliar vibrations echoing inside.

As I gazed over the balloon-fascinated crowd, one girl stood out to me for reasons I can’t describe. She was by far the smallest in the group, wearing a petite yellow dress with scattered blue flowers. She looked like a peanut with her cleanly shaven head and minuscule frame. She stood alone—like a little beacon in her canary dress. The Holy Spirit started prompting me to walk over to her. As I approached her, she began rocking back and forth, sensing my nearing presence.

“Hello,” I said. She didn’t reply, but smiled a bit. I grabbed her up in my arms and held her close to my face. Her eyes were completely shut—as if they were glued in place—without possibility of opening. Where Supda reached out to my face immediately to touch me, this little toddler held back. She didn’t struggle though, and it was obvious she loved being held. I asked her more questions. I asked her if she knew Jesus. Yesu. When I said his name she smiled, revealing two perfectly white rows of baby teeth. With that response, I began singing worship songs to her. The more I sang, the more relaxed she became. She leaned backward, her frame over my arms and her tiny legs dangling like shoestrings. She looked utterly at peace. Even though my English was incomprehensible, she wouldn’t stop smiling as I sang melodies about Jesus in her ear. I wish I could’ve seen what she was seeing in that moment. Regardless of the absence of sight, I like to believe she had a moment in Jesus’ presence. I imagined Him approaching her, overwhelming love exuding with each step he took closer, until he came right up to her, kissing her forehead. But that is just an imaginative venture. I am sure what she alone could see was something much greater—inexpressible. An encounter that I pray will change her life forever.

Reluctant, I set the sweet little one down to walk to the car. It was time to leave. We drove away, watching colorful balloons jump in the arms of waving children. My heart was heavy, but also full. I glanced at the stack of completed interview notes on my lap, internally praying for each of the eight names and the hearts that would be rendered by their stories.

Taking my malaria pill between my fingers this morning and checking off the seventh day since I left home, I remember the powerful encounters with the children at the Blind School. Part of me wants to put the pill back in the jar, in hopes it will buy me more time to stay.

Photos from our visit to the Divine Fellowship School for the Blind:

Getting love from Supda.

One of the children at the School for the Blind (notice Morgana taking photographs in the background).
The children and their balloons.
Tania, one of the interviewees.
The sweet little one (I never did learn her name).
The sweet little one, again.

The children reading braille in their classroom.
With two of the girls I interviewed, Sangita and Pinky.
Interviewing Bittu.
The children loving their balloons.
Some of the boys were incredible musicians. They played in a drum circle for us.