Everybody has a story: Manicures in India brought volunteer closer to God

Almost seven years ago, I was sitting in my living room with several close friends answering the question, “If you had limitless resources, what would you do?” Answers ranged from realistic to ridiculous.

“I would set up a nice spa in a Third World country for oppressed and poor women,” I said. I was sort of kidding. But only sort of. I was picturing women from the Democratic Republic of Congo, Rwanda, Sudan and Afghanistan emerging from oppression and entering spiritual revival to the tune of massage and exfoliation in cozy white robes.

Well, almost three months ago, I sat in a remote village in northern India where I was volunteering with four other women my age. We were brought there by Resonate Church, based at Washington State University in Pullman. We worked with some friends of ours in a city called Lucknow who requested that we come and “pamper” women in villages on the outskirts of the city. Lucknow is located in Uttar Pradesh, India’s most populous state.

My four travel companions and I thoroughly enjoyed our two-week trip to India. We saw the Taj Mahal, traveled by train, explored, made lots of new friends and went shopping in several of the markets. The smell of curry, cooking oil, cow manure and exhaust, along with the sights and sounds of bicycle rickshaws, taxis, Hindu and Islamic worship, foggy gray skies, blaring horns from some of the most chaotic driving I’ve ever seen, and vividly colorful clothing all combined to assault my senses in an unforgettable way. Despite occasional unpleasantries and scenes of horrifying poverty, I loved being there.

Over six days, we volunteered in nine villages. At our last village, we set up two facing cots under a large tree next to several mud huts. On one side our team sat and offered free manicures and hand massages to the Indian women seated opposite us. One by one, the women gathered around our little makeshift salon. We washed their dirt-stained hands, filed their shredded fingernails and used lotion to massage hands that felt like leather. From young to old, their hands were strong and rough from long hours of work.

Although I made eye contact with each woman, language barriers prevented me from asking endless questions about their world. In them, I saw a great deal of mutual curiosity. One lady talked up a storm while I painted her fingernails. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Hindi,” I said, smiling. Didn’t matter. She kept on telling her rather animated story, anyway. When I began to massage lotion into her hands, she became even more animated. The translator laughed and told me, “Basically, she wants to know where she can get some of that lotion.”

I was later told that the women in these villages perceived our team as high and themselves as very low. They looked at us and saw educated, white, wealthy Americans. (They would define “wealthy” as having enough education to read a book or having indoor plumbing and reliable electricity.) They saw themselves as poor, uneducated, lower-caste Indians. As a result (and especially in this last village) many of them could not understand why we wanted to serve them. Why did we want to even touch them? Wash and massage their hands? Paint their fingernails? Both hands?

I know that these women understood fingernail polish and pampering to some degree, because we almost ran out of polish remover. These women are the type that, despite their poverty, still get decked out in bangles, earrings, and saris just to work in the fields, make bricks, or prepare cow manure to burn for fuel.

I began to wash the hands of another Indian woman who refused to sit on the cot facing me. She sat on the ground instead. She believed that she should always be lower when around one of higher social standing. Call me American, but I wanted us to be equal. I was tempted to sit on the ground next to her but was advised beforehand not to do so, as village outrage would not be worth the gesture. As I hunched forward to file her nails, I stared at her face and wondered what she was thinking. I don’t think she ever stopped smiling once during the whole manicure.

We never exchanged any words, but God spoke to me through her. She was Hindu. I am Christian.

In this woman I saw a vision of myself — ordinary and common, a small person with a seemingly small life. I felt like God was trying to teach me that He has no qualms about coming down to my level (whatever level that may be) and sitting with me wherever I may find myself in life. He has no qualms about touching my every inner wound in his own timing and in his own way. And I think He derives great joy in touching what society deems untouchable and marginal. Perhaps when I serve others, especially those so thoroughly different than myself, I best understand who I truly am and who God really is. I also grow to understand that on a deeper level we’re not all that different. Our need for love, acceptance, purpose and inner peace is universal.

As I sat there staring at this woman and her hands, I recalled a conversation years ago, a dream about a spa for oppressed women, and then I smiled as I painted a second coat of red on her fingernails. OK, maybe I didn’t envision cots under a tree or flies in my chai or a bush next to the sugar cane field for a restroom. But somehow — oddly, strangely — this was better. This was real.

Everybody Has A Story welcomes nonfiction contributions of 1,000 words maximum and relevant photographs. E-mail is the best way to send materials, so we don’t have to retype your words or borrow original photos. Send to neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA 98666. Call Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.