Smothered by a blanket of heat, I entered a small stuffy room. Gray paint peeled from the walls. Kids sat on the floor along the baseboards, playing with donated toys. Above my head, a small fan rotated aggressively, as if trying to break off and escape the heat. The sounds echoed. I felt lost and overwhelmed with how loud and strange everything was; the buzz and wind of the fans made it hard to speak normally, and I understood no one. My family spoke Bengali, but since we were in Pondicherry, India, everyone spoke Tamil. What had I gotten myself into?

After a week, my work at Sharana Cresh got easier. I began to enjoy sitting in the stifling room. I learned how to greet people and introduce myself in Tamil, and I grew accustomed to my newfound routines and companions. One little girl in particular, Bhoomika, skipped into the room every morning, her pink dress hanging off her shoulder, grinning through a mouthful of jagged little teeth. Amazingly, children like her from India’s slums arrived every day with smiles on their faces despite their destitute home lives. Seeing them content to be crowded in shacks with their families made me realize how oblivious western culture is to the hardship of others.

“Good morning, Miss!” they all chanted cheerily each time I walked into the room.

“Vanakkam,” I replied with a smile.  In the afternoons, I helped the children learn to write. I sat on the ground with a pencil and eraser in my hand, patient with each mistake they made. Bhoomika sat closest to me in her school uniform with her hair in two pigtails high on her head. She tried to write the number 6, but the pressure from the pencil dug into her notebook. I watched over her shoulder and carefully guided her hand with mine so that she could learn how to properly draw the number.

After we practiced English writing and reading, we went out to the terrace for some art therapy. It was much cooler outside, though my clothes still stuck to my skin from the sweat. Red paint splattered the walls and cement from messes created in years past.  I tried to guide them to glide their brushes across the paper neatly, but it rained paint as they splashed colors everywhere with each flick of their brush. Happy to have a creative outlet, the kids expressed themselves through artwork. Bhoomika locked her eyes onto the paper as she focused intently on each careful stroke.
        

After the children left, the employees had tea and cleaned the building. Then, after a short, bumpy ride on the back of a scooter, the social worker and I were at the entrance to one of the four local slums. Stray dogs roamed the dirt path, but the puppies playing under a tarp grabbed my attention. I walked passed them, gripping my fists so I wouldn’t get the urge to run up and snatch one. We passed the ramshackle huts, and Bhoomika came out of one. I peered inside to find her emaciated grandma on a wooden cot and her mother cooking in what I assumed was the kitchen. Bhoomika wore large, dirty pieces of fabric and followed the social worker and me to the temple. The children gathered on the ground and began reading stories about the topic for the month, hygiene and health. I sat in the corner with flies swarming my feet, my eyes fixated on the rope swing hanging in front of Bhoomika’s house. This is where she is growing up, this is what she comes home to everyday. How can she find this comforting? How can she live without a big bed and a room to herself? Does she ever have any privacy? I thought about how I would not be able to live there. I’ve grown so accustomed to my privilege that it seems impossible to understand her poverty. I snapped back into reality.

“Enora please come help the kids color and hand out food.”

We always offered snacks for the children and their families, something with protein: beans. The kids dispersed and immediately returned with all sorts of containers. Excitement spread as they lined up to collect their food. Once they finished eating, they sat down to draw. I handed out pencils and watched as the children left their reality behind and jumped into one filled with imagination. I picked up a pencil and began coloring as well. Soon my surroundings disappeared.
        

By the end of my trip, I stopped counting down the days and wondering when I’d be lucky enough to lay in my own bed. I felt guilty thinking about how fortunate I was,  and I started enjoying my time in India. I looked forward to seeing the bright smiles and seeing the kids succeed. There comes a time when we need to stop worrying about the value of what we could have, and start focusing on the value of what we do have, especially if it’s intangible.