This is Sandhiya.
She’s a green-eyed, soft-spoken thirteen-year-old with whom I spent many not-long-enough hours toward the end of my stay in Semmandakuppam. We spent most of our time together sitting quietly, fully absorbing the precious, numbered moments. Indian children are very expressive of affection; Sandhiya often held my hand or rested her head on my lap while we sat in the empty, open-doored chapel. Her gentle presence reminded me of a light-footed fawn.
This is something they grasp much better than we do. We’re people bent on explanation, and I by nature crave precise articulation of what I feel.
But some things are best articulated without saying anything at all.
The evening before I left, Sandhiya gave me a goldtone ring with four stones, two pink and two clear. Whenever I see it, I remember the beauty of still and quiet love — something she helped me see with brand new eyes.
In a world where everyone wants to be heard, sometimes we need silence more than we need the louder voice. Unspoken doesn’t always mean unheard.
Maybe quiet love speaks loudest of all.