There is a beautiful quote by Fredrick Buechner, an American writer and theologian that I would like to share.

“Maybe nothing is more important than that we keep track, you and I, of these    stories of who we are and where we have come from and the people we have met along the way because it is precisely through these stories in all their particularity … that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally.”

When I planned my third trip to India this past Summer, I had no idea what to expect, as usual.  I have learned that traveling to India with any kind of expectation is unrealistic and takes the excitement out of the experience.  I did know the center I would work with, as well as the research I would do in my area of expertise, so I had at least that.  I also knew that my focus would be on Muslims in India (as it has for my last two research trips), but when Dr. Engineer, the Director of the Centre for Study of Society and Secularism in Mumbai suggested I speak with and learn from Muslim women who live in the slums of Mumbai, I was really interested and excited.

Meeting, listening to, and understanding these strong, beautiful women inspired me beyond belief.  They helped me understand that not only are the lives of women in India extremely difficult (which I already knew), their lives are full of challenges that many will never face.  Lack of educational opportunities, alcoholic and abusive husbands, lack of adequate healthcare, lack of work opportunities, “suspension” from their own marriage by their husbands, “rape within marriage,” “triple talaq,” lack of potable water, inadequate housing, and widowhood, are just some of the challenges these women face and shared about with me.

My daughter and I teamed up, she the photographer, myself the researcher.  As we were introduced to some of the most resilient people on the planet, in slums such as Santa Cruz, the Mahim Fort, and Bandra East, we witnessed terrible living conditions, stepped over and through raw sewage, saw malnutritioned babies, and surveyed what it is like for people to live in such conditions.  This kind of anthropological work, I am learning, is more valuable than any course I could ever take in the classroom.

We ventured into slum after slum and toward the beginning of our journey, we came across a woman whom I would like you to meet.

We were first introduced to Chandbee as we walked into her one room dwelling that was approximately 7’ x 7’.  Her grandchildren were so malnutritioned that they were rolling around on the floor, completely oblivious to the fact that we had entered the room.  As I turned and saw Chandbee’s listless body on the cot and smelled the stale urine and feces, I realized that this woman was dying, literally.  Chandbee’s daughter, incredibly thin herself, was working with some grain while sitting on the floor.  She would not make eye contact and barely acknowledged our presence, as if to say, “Yes, it is bad in here.  There is nothing I can say or do.”

As I processed the situation, I was so overwhelmed that I began to gag and had to leave the room.  As I walked away, I had to catch my breath as well as calm my soul, which was in uproar.  My western frame of mind could not grasp what I witnessed and I needed to get out.

Upon returning to our apartment and I had time to reflect, I felt the need to go back—to talk to Chandbee and let her know that I recognized her existence, that I did see her, that she was important.  This, honestly, was more for me and my state of mind than for her.

Five days later I found myself walking down the now familiar, dark hallway of the Santa Cruz slum and walking through Chandbee’s doorway.  Still lying there and still dying, I took a breath, sat down on the edge of her cot (asking God to sit between us), took her hand, which actually woke her up, and through a translator, began talking with her.  Chandbee, 93, had paralysis and diabetes.  She was in the state I witnessed for at least a month because her family did not have the money to get her medications, nor the needed pads/adult diapers to catch her urine or feces.  At one time, a strong, beautiful woman, her dark eyes sparkled as she spoke, her skin was somehow still beautiful, her hair, matted, white and falling out in places, Chandbee responded to my human touch by gently squeezing my hand.  Originally from a small village, Chandbee found herself living in Santa Cruz after her husband died.  She worked odd jobs to support her family until she got too old and ill to work.  She was happy that we were there.   Regardless of her illness and the fact that she was in great deal of pain, Chandbee was still there—she was still alive, even though she was dying.  This frail, dying woman was at one time, a daughter, a wife, and a mother.  Now, she was a burden.

It took everything I had to hold it together as I sat there and held this lovely woman’s hand.  But that moment was not about me.  It was about Chandbee.  It was about acknowledging her—in my eyes, my daughter’s eyes, and in the world’s eyes.  Me, an ordinary woman and Chandbee, an extraordinary woman, from two very different worlds, yet we connected for ten minutes.  Those ten minutes gave me a sense of what we, as human beings, are to each other as we move through this thing we call life.  That moment was a, “Why we are here?” moment; a, “What is our purpose?” moment.  That moment was also about understanding and acknowledging that there are countless Chandbee’s out there—not only in India, but in all our developing countries.  I had moments of wondering where God was and why He would allow suffering on such a level.  But in those ten minutes, God was there, in that simple exchange between Chandbee and myself.  In our touch, in our words, and in our smiles—He was there.

How am I changed?  Encountering Chandbee affirmed my understanding of religion on a humanistic level.  Encountering Chandbee unveiled suffering to me.  Encountering Chandbee created and confirmed anger in me.  Encountering Chandbee left me frustrated and with the desire to seek more answers.  At that moment, I didn’t care that she was Muslim (90% of people living in the slums of India are Muslim).  I didn’t care that she did not believe what I believe as a Christian.  I didn’t care that we had very different lives and cultural norms.  No, at that very moment, I only cared that she was a human being.  I appreciated and revered that she was a fellow sister that was beyond my equal.  That she endured hardships living in a place that I could leave every day.  That she lived for, loved, and cared for her children.  That she struggled and survived for 93 years in a country that is not always good to women.  That she prayed.  That she laughed.  That she loved God.  As Buechner wrote, there is nothing more important than people’s stories and how we relate to those stories, because it is in those stories that we find God.

Finding God in the Slums of Mumbai was, at times, impossible and somewhat implausible.  I did find Him though—in a woman named Chandbee.