I passed a woman (old I'd thought) on Kedgaon Road, who looked to be four feet tall—her back hunched into the letter "C" under a heavy burden—and thought of Stephen, my second husband, saying, "This is the body of Jesus" to people in his sound healing workshop gathered around a volunteer lying on the massage table.
That was so personal.
So I stopped my car to give "Jesus" a lift as far as "He" needed to go, driving straight past my left turn home.
Giving her my name—Majhe naw Prema ahe—I asked for hers. It was Shantabai, and in village Marathi I told her that I worked for the Trust.
When she signaled me to stop, I took out my camera and waved it, indicating I'd like to take her photo. She rubbed her thumb and first two fingers together signifying money, but I shook my head "No."
As she stood by the roadside, her face was impassive, as I see in Indian visa photos when I’m waiting at Foto Fast, so I looked over my camera, smiling widely, to get an imitated move—and she followed.
I watched her walk a ways further before turning up a slight dirt hill and wondered why sh'd ask to stop back here? And what was she carrying? And why did her family allow her to walk so far with such a heavy, lumpy load?
Returning to my lane I felt Jesus had just been in my car—Shantabai, the bent woman who was perhaps younger than I was.
My realization is, "A stranger may enter our life giving us an opportunity to live in practicality the words—God is in everyone."