In the summer of 2007, after the rest of the team had left to go back home, and I had come back to Mahabalipuram to spend a last 10 days with my parents before embarking on my own homeward journey, I spent some time with a girl named Tingkai. She was in her mid to late twenties, and from Shillong, in North East India, and was a teacher at the Christian school in Mahabs. She was beautiful, but I was not interested in her, I just didn’t have any friends around and her and her “cousin” were the only people I knew relatively close to my age.
Her cousin was not really her cousin. He was a high-school student who had somehow found his way from Shillong to somewhere in Tamil Nadu and because, apparently, Shillong is a pretty tight-nit community, Tingkai was keeping an eye out for him.
Both of them had had severe cases of TB, and Tingkai had spent around 9 months in the hospital. I remember that one, or both of them, had scars on the side of their bodies where there had been pipes going in to their lungs. After recovering, Tingkai had worked at a call center somewhere in India where she had earned, from what I remember, 13,000 rupees a month. 13,000 rupees a month was, at the time, just over 300 dollars a month. Definitely enough to live on in India, and to live somewhat well by their standards, but still not a whole lot. She talked about that job as if it had paid really well, and I suppose it did, in retrospect, that it did.
But my most distinct memory of Tingkai was standing in her tiny little studio apartment in Mahabalipuram. Mostly bare, with a mat on the floor to sleep on, a very menial kitchen and a tiny bathroom, there were no luxuries that I could see. And yet I remember standing there with her and her cousin, and her exclaiming with all sincerity how blessed she was to have that place, and how thankful she was for it.
Her and her cousin shared their meals with me, and made me tea. We both sat while she cooked, and then we all ate the chicken, or potatoes and rice together. What little they had, they were happy to share. She even brought sandwiches over to my parents house once, and walked the whole way to bring them to us.
I had never forgot Tingkai and her amazing heart of gratefulness when I returned to Mahabalipuram this last Christmass, and it was with a grave heart that I learned the news that she had died. She could not have been more than thirty when TB finally got the better of her. I can only imagine that she stayed hopeful till the end, and I know that any time I am tempted to think that my life has been hard or unfair, to think that I’ve been dealt bad cards, or that I’m not as rich as I’d like to be, I’ll remember Tingkai and know that no matter the circumstances, The Kingdom of Heaven can come from within. No matter the hardships, God’s Spirit can overcome the world, and fill my heart too with sincere joy and gratitude, with peace and rest and thankfulness for what I have, and joy for the good things that life has brought my way. I’ll picture myself in that little yellow apartment with no beds, and Tingkai exuding her thankfulness, and I’ll remember that no matter what comes my way, as long as I seek God first, and his Holy Spirit in me, I will easily do the same.
Hi,
You don’t know me but I happened upon your blog and I just wanted to comment to say thank you for what you’ve written. It was not just encouraging, but a huge challenge hearing some of your words. So thank you.