Heb 13:2-“ Be not
forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels
unawares.”
On a little
hillock, beside a lively stream, overlooking a brightly-colored congregation of
wooden cottages stood our large, proud, rose-colored bungalow. With gates as
high as the heavens, the intimidating structure, over the years, had done well
to keep uninvited visitors away. It was the fall of 2003 in Shillong, and like
every fall, the skies had gotten greyer and gloomier, the winds had gotten
stronger and chillier, and the trees had gotten barer and browner.
Every evening, from
five to seven pm, Mum would entertain poor patients, and treat them for free in
her little office attached to the house. Sometimes, I would peep through the
window to see her patiently attending to all these terrible looking and withered
people. I often wondered how she put up with all their exaggerated wincing.
“Must be a very
depressing job to do” I used to think to myself. Perhaps, it was this thought
that sub-consciously influenced me against taking up this profession.
One chilly October
evening, as Mum was fixing supper, there was a sharp knock at the door. I
opened it to see a truly awful looking man, “Why he’s hardly as tall as me” I
thought as I stared at his stooped shriveled body. I had seen many a woeful
looking patient, but none as appalling as this; his face, disfigured from
swelling, his skin, rumpled and raw, his weak hands, pale and shivering.
“Good evening, Is
Doctor Memsahib at home? I’ve come to get some treatment.” His voice was
pleasant.
Mum was visibly
tired that day, and it was already half past nine, so, I lied.
“Doctor Memsahib is sleeping, Could you please
come back tomorrow at five? I will tell her your name.”
“I come from a
village very far away; I took the bus this morning that unfortunately got
delayed, I have been hunting for a room, but no one seems willing to offer me
one. I guess it’s because of the way I look. Could you spare me a place to
sleep for just one night; I will go back after treatment tomorrow.”
“Please wait, I’ll
call Memsahib.”
Mum hesitated for a
bit, then looking at his condition said, “We’ll get you a bed, but, you will
have to sleep on the porch. I’ll treat you after supper; you can go back in the
morning.”
I was understandably
piqued by this unnecessary act of benevolence.
“You should take
care of yourself too, you know.” I said to Mum.
After Mum had
finished her treatment, I went out to speak with him for a few minutes. It
didn't take me long to realize that this old man had an over-sized heart crowded
into that tiny crippled body. He told me he was a farmer, and worked to
support his widowed daughter, her four children, and his wife. He didn't say
this by way of complaint. In fact, every other sentence was prefixed with a
‘thanks’ to God for a blessing. He was
grateful to my mother for having given him treatment; he thanked God for giving
him the strength and to keep him going to support his family.
When we got up in the morning, the bed-sheets
were neatly folded and he was out on the porch. Just as he we leaving for the
bus, benignantly, as if asking a favor, he said “Could I come back and stay the
next time? I won’t put you out a bit; I’ll sleep on the chair.”
He paused a moment
and then added, “Your son made me feel at home. Grownups are bothered by my
appearance, but children don't seem to mind."
Mum said he was
welcome again.
Over time, the tiny
old man grew fond of me. Every time he came, he
brought for us a basket of the most wonderful strawberries and peaches we had
ever seen or tasted. During the following months, there was never a time that
he did not bring strawberries and peaches. Knowing how little money he made,
his gifts were doubly precious. He once told me of little white rabbits that he
had in his farm, and I asked him to get one for me.
Unexpectedly, my
father received his transfer orders to another place and we were to vacate the
house in two weeks. We were sure of meeting him at least once before leaving, but,
he never came. Mum informed the neighbours and left a note with them containing our
new address and telephone number, hoping he would call. He never did.
Mum and I never
forgot about him and we will always be grateful to have known him. “From Him”,
Mum said, “We learned to accept the bad without complaint and the good with
gratitude to God.”
Ten years hence, there
was knock on our door. I opened it to find a young lady carrying a little white
rabbit in a wooden basket. There was a note attached to the basket.
“I apologize for
not being able to meet you before you left. Here is the rabbit you asked for. I
shall always be grateful for all the help I received from you.”
The same day, Mum
and I were sauntering about in our new garden. As she showed me the flowers, we
came to the most beautiful one of all, a golden chrysanthemum, bursting with
blooms. But to my great surprise, it was growing in an old dented, rusty bucket.
“Shouldn't you put this in a better pot?”
"I ran short
of pots," Mum explained," and knowing how beautiful this one would
be, I thought it wouldn't mind starting out in this old pail. It's just for a
little while, until I can put it out in the garden."
Mum and I laughed delightedly.
"Here's an
especially beautiful one," God might have said when he came to the soul of
the sweet old farmer. "He won't mind starting in this small body."
