My girls

Every so often, after a shower or while brushing my teeth in the morning, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. There’s this unfamiliarity that stares back at me. Not startling or scary, but a new face. This face looks tired but strong, pensive yet free. Something in these eyes tells me that much has transpired since leaving the comfort of the United States, something much more than any planning could have prepared us for. 

This look isn’t caused by battling the ebb and flow of sickness, heavy humid air, rancid smells, harsh noises, and jarring sights. It’s something else. It’s love.

Each day each member of our group opens their heart and pours out an immeasurable amount of love. Yes, we really do love these people. It’s such a unique and profound experience to feel so much for a stranger.

Everyday at Prem Dan, which means ‘Gift of Love’, I rush through the laundry to see ‘my girls’. I mentioned this thought out loud and another volunteer responded. 

 Sister Elizabeth said ‘If you can call them your girls, then you’ve answered the call. You’ve done what you’re meant to do at this service.’

I was blown away by her sage words while washing soiled linens. After being here for over a week these women really have become ‘my girls’. There are few women I look out for each day. I would share their names, but the thing is I don’t even know them. We’ve had the exchange several times but it usually results in us calling each other bondu (friend). 

My first bondu is a wild one. She’s on the younger side, I would say 18 years old. I knew we would be friends as soon as I saw her running around causing fights with the older women. Something drew me to this troublemaker. We’ve been hanging out everyday. I usually massage her legs, arms, neck and face with lotion. When I put lotion on her face and look into her eyes, I realize just how darn young she is. This home is clearly a better alternative than the streets but it must be tough being her age and being surrounded by all these significantly older women without any peers. I can’t blame the girl for grabbing every volunteer that walks by  and crying out for attention. She’s got all this youthful energy and no way to express it. Even just in these past 10 days or so I feel like we’ve been through a lot. Her asking me to feed her when she is more than capable to feed herself, her demanding the lotion in the most endearing way, her dragging me to the nail polish box when she’s tired of me not understanding Bengali. She’s funny. She has spunk. 

She’s just a girl and her future is so dim. Things become real when I see the massive, deep scarring on the back of her head or when she hits someone near her. Her frustrations come out and the pain that was forgotten for a brief moment amidst the teasing comes rushing back. 

When my bondu isn't in her usual place my heart races. The immediate thought is 'did something happen to her?' But as soon as I turn the corner, that worry is relieved. She's there, she's safe. We have another day together.

I didn't realize how much I cared for this girl until Anne shared that she lost her bondu today. Imagining that loss is truly heartbreaking. 

These women, men and children that we work with touch our lives in such a profound, inexplicable way. There's a deep connection that is forged.

It’s love that draws us to our bondus. It's love that exhausts us. It's love that created this new person staring back at me.

“True love is love that causes us pain, that hurts, and yet brings us joy. That is why we must pray and ask for the courage to love." –Mother Teresa