I Met A Child-Saint: Poem by Jan Freundschuh

Reader's Digest had a feature:
'The Most Amazing Person I Ever Met'.
This is the little that I knew of a
Seven year old Saint.

I first saw her, in India
Outside the Ashram's walls.
She was six or seven, dressed in rags
Her hair matted, her face filthy,
But what shocked me....as so different,
Was the snot running down her chin,
And mixing with her tears,
As she cried, aggressively, dramatically.

All the beggar children were dirty
And numerous.
Westerners dared not look at them.
This was for two reasons:
First there were too many to help
There were 50, no,100, no more,
And more.
And second, if you gave them something,
A coin, or a piece of food,
You were immediately engulfed
In a free-for-all,
Of grabbing hands, clothes-tearing hands,
As the children considered it a sport,
Laughing, to surround you,
Even chase you.
I'd seen it happen,
Even been in a mini-skirmish, until,
Saved by a stern Indian person
With gravitas, and a scolding demeanor,
'Do not behave so! ', by their own upper classes
Was enough to part the seas
Of beggar children.
But although they were cheeky
They did not cry...........
Life was much too hard,
For such a luxury.

But not for this ragamuffin,
She stormed and she fumed,
I felt she was crying,
The tears I'd never cried,
So, totally in love with her,
Snot and all, I broke my rule,
And offered her a banana
From the vendor.
She accepted with a nod,
Interrupting her 'self-expression'
But indicated with gestures,
I'd have to feed the others.
So I gave plenty of money
To the vendor with the fruit cart
And the children came running
From all corners.
The tear-stained one
Directed all her companions
With a very stern eye
And commanding tone.
When all had eaten,
She and I just looked at each other.
Maybe I gave her a Kleenex
I don't really remember.
I gestured, What's your name?
'Amaya' (No illusion)

I asked around about her
I was told that she'd been born there
To a prostitute who was a drinker.
She had a younger brother
That she often was seen tending to.
One could not help her, they said,
As her mother sold all gifts
She might be given.
Others had given clothes,
Had given money,
Given jewelry, given food,
Her mother sold it all,
For liquor.

My identification with Amaya was so strong,
I had to give her something.
So I gave her a cheap amulet,
Of my guru, for protection,
Too cheap to be worth selling,
And it lasted half a day.

One day i came upon her,
Carrying her younger brother,
I hesitate to say this,
Because children are all God's children,
But if ever meanness was in the face,
Of a 2 or 3 year old,
It was there in her arms.
I was afraid to look at him,
Yet she staunchly held him
Her responsibility,
Her loved one.


She had him with her most days,
Minding him, watching him,
Then the Festival day arrived,
Maha-Shivarathri
Darkest night - of the No-moon
This night a special night
That devotees stayed up,
Praying to Lord Shiva,
For the end of interference
Of the interfering moon -
The affecting, maddening moon,
Looking, on this special night,
For Grace to control the mind.

I thought that I would join them,
And seeing dirty Amaya,
I thought this sainted child
Would grace the whole ashram
With her presence.
But I knew the guards did not
Let beggars in,
So I asked her with my eyes
If she wanted to join me.
She nodded, but she had
That boy baby in her arms.
I knew she would be quiet,
In respect for the devotions
But what trouble would the little
Brother bring?
I was worried, anxious,
But not to have the presence
Of this rare and knowing child
Seemed worse than whatever mischief,
Her brother might cause.

She knew to take my hand,
As there's no way they'd let her in,
But a western lady,
Sometimes had some clout.
So we managed to get in
And I sat her down beside me,
Proud, as if she were my child,
Or my precious little sister.
I don't remember, truthfully,
How difficult her brother was
But I think that he was noisy
And there may have been some frowns.
But suddenly she sprang up,
And then she scooped him up,
Out she marched, with confidence...
I was so sad to see her go.
For me it had been a privilege
To be near her on Shivarathri.

20 minutes later, she refound me
Where I was sitting.
No brother, just a big smile.....
And listen to what she did:
She clapped her hands together,
More like she slapped them by each other,
Slap! , Slap! ,
Meaning something like 'good riddance',
Something like, 'taken care of',
Something like, 'problem solved',
It's a gesture I remember
From my Jewish family members,
From my New York City neighbors,
I never thought it was Universal,
Or even international.
But she gave me the gesture, smiling,
In the most conspiratorial way.
Love cascaded from her eyes
Into my adoring heart,
As she sat and kept me company
In peace, and in companionship.

That's all that I remember.
I don't know when she left,
I don't even know when I left.

I never saw her again.
Years later back in India
I tried to track her down
The villagers said she died
A few years back.

Amaya, with no illusion,
Enlightened child,
Thank you for your moments,
Thank you, thank you, .... with your tears,
And your snot....
That taught me, it was now.....
O.K.
To
Cry