Eyes of the Poor

   
              I was in America. I was actually in my own bed nestled into the plump duvet; wrapped in it like a sleeping bag. The fan blew gently on my face and the white noise lulled me into a sweet slumber. Suddenly, a pebble hit my bedroom window. Then, another and another in swift succession. I opened my eyes abruptly and the thin layer of blur went away with a few blinks. My bedroom soon became a street in Delhi and my duvet became the thin sweaty shirt that was clinging to my back. The car, truck, and motor bike horns beeped into the smoggy air--creating a nervousness within me that had vanished in the moments I had drifted to sleep. Again, that stone-on-glass sound pinged in my ears. I looked groggily to my right and saw a small brown hand reaching up to me from the street.

             A little girl slowly stood onto the running board of the taxi and she was then at eye level with me. Her shirt was torn in places--revealing patches of her light brown chest, stomach, and shoulders. There were traces of where a pink floral pattern used to be. The sleeves clung tightly to her arms and the bottom hem of the shirt was undone--exposing a small part of her stomach. The shirt was meant for a two year old; this girl was about five. Her hair was matted down to her head by its oily condition and just under the strands of hair falling into her face, I could see her dark chocolate eyes. She lifted her hand up to her  mouth as if to say, "I need food". I was fixed on her eyes, though. I tried to look away, but couldn't. Her eyes were so unique and so intriguing. They weren't the eyes of a five year old, but the eyes of a an old woman--so tired and weary. For a moment that seemed to outlast any measurement of time, we starred into each others eyes--blue into brown and brown into blue. Then, she was gone.

           I looked behind our taxi as we drove into traffic and more children begged along the road. She stood in place for only a second and then she was at the next car pleading for help. She hadn't been aggressive in the way she begged, but rather gentle. I could tell she had been rejected again and again, but still held out some hope that Westerners would give to her. Soon, we came to the place in the road where I could not see her anymore. I leaned back and closed my eyes once more--this time praying for this girl and dreaming up a good life for her in my mind. In that moment, I named her. She was given a name that I had dreamed about months earlier--a name I had never even heard before, but turned out to be a legitimate name when I researched it.

          I named her Ashima, the Hindi name for "limitless" and "no boundaries", because one day I believe she will be rescued off of the streets and meet the God that has hope and a future for her that even the sky cannot limit.