There lived, until recently, a lady who went by the name of Baby. Her husband passed when she was pretty young, and being childless, she lived on for another 30 years all by herself in what could have passed off as a mud hut.
In order to make a living, Baby worked in many houses in her village from morning till evening. And, whatever time one met her, she always wore a smile; she always seemed to care about whom she met, and shared what little she earned.
As she grew older, it became difficult for her to walk. In time, she found it difficult to move and had to remain within the confines of her room. Yet, she could not let go of the kindness in her.
She was always concerned about the well-being of others, and she worried if she thought the going was not good for them. Having nothing for herself, she desired a world of good for others, and in that manner, spent her last days.
Baby was a Hindu who sometimes prayed in church and lived a good life.
In order to make a living, Baby worked in many houses in her village from morning till evening.
If Baby was a living angel to the many who knew her, Santan, another lady, was queer and yet a good lady who lived on the streets of Panjim.
Unlike Baby, she had no roof; could not work, but showed that a good life could be lived on the streets of Panjim.
Santan liked her cigarette, her drink in the evening and relished the biryani left behind for her by people with whom she occasionally interacted. She did not need to beg because people gave her without asking.
Despite having no place to sleep, Santan never worried because she thought life had to be accepted, and that as long as God was her best friend, it was the bad who needed to worry and not she. This made her smile special.
This thought of hers, explained her happy attitude, her good nature of sharing with someone who she thought had less than her. She shared her cigarette, her food and even the little money her friends gave her.
Santan liked her cigarette, her drink in the evening and relished the biryani left behind for her by people with whom she occasionally interacted. She did not need to beg because people gave her without asking.
Who were the friends of these two ladies? People who saw the good in them; who saw positivity in their smile and those whose own lives got pepped up by just being witness to the beauty of acceptance because these two ladies were special, because they lived their lives with God as their friend.
Baby and Santan were not special because they were women who survived, but because they were two humans who understood their life to be designed by their God, and hence, goodness was their nature.
Baby passed on a few months ago with a smile on her face, and Santan cannot be seen in her usual places. Wherever she is, she must still be smiling. And, it is those who knew her who will be missing that smile.
The thought of Baby and Santan kept bobbing up as the novenas for the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary started on Tuesday.
For many, Mary is the beacon of goodness, and the figurines of Baby and Santan appeared to dance by her side.
As they danced, Emily Dickson’s words flowed:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without words,
And never stops at all,
And the sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird,
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chilliest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet never in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
