|
||||
Father Jim McCartney continues his story on his trip to India. |
||||
 In these my final days of
visiting India I spend some time with the various departments of the Catholic
Bishops Conference. I see a very vibrant Church touching the lives of millions
of people and working side by side with the predominant faith communities of
other traditions. In the mosques, temples and churches, I see a people of a
deep faith. I find it very moving watching Sikhs entering the Catholic
Cathedral and being told of the Christians who will also reciprocate the
journey by attending the Hindu Temples. I am reminded that we have so much in
common as we walk on this journey of life. Each one of us has an opportunity to
embrace the transcendence and mystery of God. We can learn from each other's
traditions. The journey of life can also be shared with the Hindu, Muslim, Jew and the diverse family of humankind. It can provide us with a period of spiritual awakening. There are common issues facing the human pilgrim. Our faith can make a difference, It puts God at the centre. Today more than ever before, there are so many people who don't want to be given a religious label. " I am the God of my own life," is the mentality of the secular world. Religion has become irrelevant to many sections of our global family. Most certainly in our western society, it interferes with our hectic agenda. India is 75% Hindu with around 750 million people. Yet in this land a tiny old fragile lady touched the hearts of a nation. Mother Teresa's Christianity has ignited a lasting legacy, her memory will live on. Equally, Muhatama Gadhi's approach to life has inspired many Christian writers over the years. One of his great contributions to the world was to call everyone the children of God. I believe when we stare into each others eyes we can see the wonder of God. Peace is one of the deepest desires for every person of goodwill. Here in India I continue to see the children who try to earn an honest living in the makeshift motor repair garages across the city of Delhi. Their palms are burnt and their eyes are red. These are the children who have to work with all kinds of acid for a living. They work on radiators, batteries and engines. Many are illiterate and don't know the names of the different kinds of acid they use. Such acid burns their skin and causes irritation. The following day I read in the Times of India a story depicting this terrible situation. It quotes leading a professor who speaks about the infections and respiratory problems created by contact with such acids. Children are often the victims, ruthlessly abused by the hands of others. Regrettably, child labour is a source of income for poor families. In many cases it is considered essential for maintaining the economic level of households. In other cases the expense of schooling leaves children with little else to do but work. Nevertheless, the Indian Government still does everything it can to eradicate this awful activity. It is almost midnight and I look out of my window. I see a woman with a piece of rag down below my window. She nurses the rag in her hand and puts it close to her breast. I look closer and I see tiny feet beneath the torn garment, here I see with my own eyes a human life of a child. Gently she lays the baby on the ground and cradles it to sleep. No where else to lay their heads. The following evening I meet this woman out on the street who comes asking me for milk for her exhausted baby. The next night I look out of my window, I see this woman again putting her infant asleep. The child's legs are dangling in its mother's arms. It looks totally exhausted. There is no cot or blanket, except the concrete ground. I stare out into the darkness of the night. The images of the day perturb me. I am irritated and find it difficult to sleep. The face of a young boy I met early on in the day still haunts me. He was orphaned at the age of four. His aunt took him in and severely physically abused him. His face is twisted and disfigured with the scars of where he was burnt by boiling water. He only has one eye and the right side of his body has I a litany of open wounds. I feel alone and confused. Never before have I discovered this form of human existence. I can not sleep. I open a book of poetry that is my companion on this journey. The woman beneath my window seems to speak to me through the words of Edwin Muir "Unfriendly friendly universe, I pack your stars into my purse……. You are so great, and I am so small: I am nothing, you are all: |
