Thank You, Nishrun

A part of my adventure today:  

     The windowless bus rumbles off again after its brief stop, and I take a quick survey of the situation.  Now I’m the only girl on board.  I’m also the only white person on board and half a foot taller than all the other passengers.  I guess that makes me the sore thumb.   

     That quick glance over my shoulder didn’t go unnoticed.  “Bula!” travels up the bus from somewhere behind me.  I turn around again.

     A young Fijian guy in a rugby jersey greets me with a huge smile, eager to make contact.  I stare blankly at him for a moment.  Sometimes I interact strangely with men.  

“Bula,” he makes another attempt, as cheerful as the first.

“Good morning.”  

Suddenly he’s in the seat behind me.  

“So, what are you doing on the bus today?”

“Visiting my friend.”  

“Ah.  Where does your friend live?”

“Near the primary school.”

“Ah.  So you’ve been on this bus before?”  

“Yes.”

“Ah.  Well...where are you from?”  

“America.”

“Ah.  Well...do you like Fiji?” 

“Yes, I like Fiji very much.”  

     We continue on like this, a little painfully (probably because I can be so painfully awkward), for a few more minutes when the bus halts at the primary school.  

     “Well...goodbye.”  I give the bus driver my dollar and jump out onto the road as the bus rattles onward, kicking clouds of brown dust up to the blue June sky.  

     All around are rolling sugar cane fields.  The silvery white tufts on top of the cane show that it’s harvest time and sway in the hot morning breeze, covering the land like feathers on a hen’s back.  The cane frames the entrance to my friend’s little road, what one might call a driveway.  

     As I’m walking up her hill, she comes rushing down.  Her long black braid flips back and forth as she hurries toward me, looking concerned and apologetic.  

     “Brittany - I’m so sorry I’m late!  I was just washing the dishes from breakfast and suddenly I saw the bus passing by!  Are you alright?  Ohhh, I’m so glad to see you!”  We finally reach each other and she gives me a huge hug.  

     I sit my backpack down on her living room floor and pull out a plastic grocery bag with several pairs of little shoes, pink and white velcro sandals, light-up sandals, blue and green flip-flops, all for a little girl.  Three little babies are crawling around, fussing, while a chicken pecks through to the kitchen then out the back door on the other side of the little tin house.  “Oh, these are perfect!  Aunty Laura is always such a blessing to us.  I thank God for her.”

     She pulls the tiny blue and green flip flops from the bag and then stows the rest neatly beside her family’s one bed.  “I’ll just quickly go wash these and then we can take them to the school for Nishrun, if you like.” 

     Mulomulo Muslim Primary School is a neat white building with a forest green tin roof, about the size of half a football field.  Each room has an open doorway with the title painted overhead in green.  Class 1, Class 2, Class 3, Urdu-Arabic, Kindergarten, Office.  Students peek out at us excitedly - boys in dark green collared shirts, girls in clean white headscarves - all smiling shyly through the slatted open windows.  We’re headed for the kindergarten.  The children inside perk up when they see us, and my friend quietly places the flip-flops outside the door.  The teacher inside takes notice, which isn’t hard with all her kids acting up, and invites us inside to sit.  

     Nishrun spots us immediately, and her face breaks into a smile.  She wears a dark green kurta and pants, her dark hair tied into two neat little pigtails.  A small white bandage is wrapped tightly around her tiny left foot, covering a wound from walking to school without shoes.      

     My friend talks with the teacher, a stately looking woman dressed from head to toe in black, about her little sister’s school progress.  So far, she’s behind by ten letters of the alphabet and all the other kids have stolen all her school supplies.  I can tell from the teacher’s posture and voice that she cares about her students, though I can’t understand her Hindi.  Later, on our walk back to the house, my friend will tell me that my suspicions are confirmed; the teacher really is very nice and wants Nishrun to learn.  “I need to work with her every day now,” my friend will say.  

     Now, though, 6-year-old Nishrun waits patiently, trying to stand straight and still while her progress is discussed.  When they finish, she hugs and kisses me.  “Thank you, aunty,” she whispers in my ear, then hugs and kisses her sister and hurries back to her seat on the mat. 

    No, thank you, Nishrun.  Thank you, Jesus, for this honor.    

[I wish I had a picture of Nishrun to share with you all, but I don't.  Instead I'll share this picture of Fiji's "Sleeping Giant."  Can you see him?]