Like a Young Man in Love

As I walked in the villages, I felt like a young man in love. I felt as if I were walking on air and could lift off and fly. Vibrations ran through my body, as if I were a flute. I had no idea who was playing that flute, or what tune would be played, or when or how. I didn’t care. I felt the strength of ten men and, yet, a sublime lightness. I was dancing with my soul. What more could one want?

It was during one of my trips to India that we were invited to visit a remote village near Allahabad, where our team had helped villagers plant fruit trees. There were about a dozen people in our group, including three American visitors.

At the outskirts of the village, our party was greeted by a large group of people under a homemade banner. Children placed flower garlands around our necks and sang welcoming songs as we were introduced to the village elders. Then they eagerly took us on a walking tour of the village to show us the fruit trees they had planted. 

Knowing that foreign visitors were a rare occurrence in such remote places, and that many children would be face-to-face with an American for the first time, I wanted our foreign visitors to be the center of attention. As our little procession snaked through the narrow streets, I fell behind to the tail end of the group and was talking to a handful of villagers. 

I noticed an old woman walking briskly toward us. She had obviously missed the reception and was trying to catch up with the rest of the villagers.

Upon reaching our group she said without hesitation, “Tell me, who started all this?”

Dressed in my native Indian clothes, I was indistinguishable from the local Trees for Life volunteers. She could not have guessed that I had also traveled from America.

“Started what?” I asked her politely.

“All this,” she said as she pointed at the trees around us.

“Everyone here,” I said. “Each one of you started this.”

The old woman reached over and grabbed hold of my left arm. 

“No,” she pleaded. “Who started it?” Even though her hands were small, her grip was firm and there was urgency in her voice.

I looked up at the sky and pointed upward.

“I know everything starts there,” she said. “But to manifest that spirit, someone had to take the leadership. Who is that person?” Her grip tightened as she spoke.

She had put me on the spot, and I was embarrassed. My eyes focused on the ground, and my foot was nervously digging at the soil. 

“I was handed that responsibility,” I confessed. 

She let go of my arm. Sensing my uneasiness, she moved back to create a comfortable space between us. There was a pregnant silence before our eyes met again. 

“Why is that so important to you?” I asked. Her eyes were full of fire.

“This is selfless work in a very selfish world,” she said with intensity. “It requires courage. You will need great strength to withstand human frailties. Don’t give up. Selfless work is the only salvation for our world. May Shakti guide you and give you all the power you need.”

Her body and voice were animated as she expanded on her message. She quoted examples from ancient Indian mythology. It was evident she was not pleading—she was charging me with a mission and holding me responsible.

I looked at her. Her soiled white clothes indicated that she was a poor widow. She was probably not as old as the harshness of life made her appear. Perhaps surviving that harshness had given her wisdom and integrity.

After conveying her message, she clasped her hands and bowed gently, as if asking the spirit to bless me. Her eyes moistened. Then, as briskly as she had joined us, she walked away into the crowd.