That was a beautiful, misty morning when I met him but at an unusual place, over an areca nut tree. He was skidding down the trunk with both hands when I saw another cute little face under the tree busy collecting the areca nuts. . ”Amma, Had Chandran chettan brought these kids for plucking the ripen areca nut?”I asked my mum looking at the pus coming out of the boy’s leg.
I believe every event has a reason for its unique occurrence .That helps me to take inspiration from my surroundings as God’s revelations and propel towards goodness. The very feeling had a visit on me when I saw the wound over that tribal boy’s leg which hoped for heal like his soul. Rest was the making of the most touching story I ever heard in my life. The story of a tribal boy who is supposed to play near his 5th standard classroom but lost his mother, left by his father, moves along the heights of areca nut tree, smoking a packet of beedi for every break he takes and earn his living . I looked into his eyes beautiful and beady, I saw in them pearls .No … Seeds. Seeds -which longed for a sprouting .Sprouts?
Seasons had changed when I reached the martyrs chest, where the ferment of a Cambridge mission had molded a nation’s dream. There I met dreamers with indomitable spirit that turned ‘I’ into ‘we’.
The unworthiness of the background we come from is our advantage and motivation. Inside the tribal settlements, we saw a beautiful and intricate culture cut off from our world but breeding poverty. When our local newspapers reported a tribal girl of our age molested by the ‘privileged’, the old tribal woman who used to come to one of our home saying she starved for 2 days and later disappeared, it required hard heart to do nothing about it. So we are here, focusing the next generation to embark a venture that could help them dream for a better future.