He sat there, bored and a bit aloof, and, I really couldn’t blame him.

His 15 years of living had been mostly filled with this little room and the knowledge it had to impart.

The 20 x 30 foot space was not lost on him; he knew every deviation and modulation of the rough floor as well as he knew the nearby Himalayan skyline. 

He knew, because there were no desks in the room, and all their work was done on the floor. 

And they lined up in rows, youngest in front, to the oldest in back.  And the room was full, just like it was today, every day. 

And just as warm, under the tin roof, as the insects and outside air filtered through the large openings in the concrete walls.

And he knew what it was like to share that space with 40 others, day in and day out. 

He was the oldest now, but he could easily see himself as one of the little 3 ½ year olds that were just beginning their own personal journey under their beloved pedagogue.

The irony of it all surely wasn’t lost on him either.  He knew why this school was here.  The thinly veiled references to Christianity and the songs they sang all talked about it in one way or another.  And even though his village was predominately Hindu, and even though Christianity was excluded, taught against, in the evenings and the rest of the week, it was the only school they had, so he went to it.

He followed the movements of the two young men as they set up the flannel graph tripod, placed the board on it, and then watched as his teacher ceded his authority to them for the next 45 minutes. 

He didn’t pick out any songs to sing, even though he did help sing them; he had had his turn at such, now it was the younger one’s turn.

He listened as the flannel graph Bible story was told.  Likely he had heard it before, and his good training showed in his courteous and mannerly attitude.

He took the paper with the picture they were supposed to color, and I caught myself rebelling for him.

But he didn’t.  He crouched down like all the rest and began coloring.  Some of the smallest ones quickly colored theirs, and then, their short attention span depleted, ducked into daydreams that nodded off into short naps before the rest were done.

But not so with him. 

He took the colored pencils from the two young men and surveyed them and his picture carefully.  It was then I saw that what could have been a project to sneer at, from his lofty age, became a challenge they all shared, according to their various ages.

He carefully worked the color into the corners, deftly moved it along the straight lines, then skillfully shaded in the broader areas.  And when he was finished, he handed his picture to the two young men for them to sign and leave a kind written remark, just like all the rest.  He knew that his picture would be judged by his own merit and the amount of hard work he had put into it; not by how it compared to all the rest. 

He accepted, without ceremony, the piece of candy one of the young men gave him and went back to his place to wait until all the rest had finished, and one more song would be sung.  Then he could go home.

But it took a little longer to finish this time, because a small one, maybe four years old, who couldn’t speak any English at all, wanted two pieces of candy.  He quietly stood near one of the young men, bumping up against the young man’s knee, and held out his little hand.

We all watched as the young man kindly told him in his native tongue, that he could have one color or the other, but not both.  The little one quietly begged; no words were spoken; his big almond eyes telling the story.  He could wait; he wanted the candy, but, maybe, he wanted the presence of the young man even more. 

Finally, school was dismissed, and they all left, some in ones and twos, some in groups. 

He left by himself.  And a part of me went with him, somehow.  He seemed so quiet, so aloof.  I wanted to make friends with him, but my time with him was over. 

I watched as he broke into a jog, then into a run and I saw the ground slip beneath him with surprising alacrity.

In just seconds, he had vanished from my sight. 

The two young men took the flannel graph board and tripod down.  One of them spoke some kind words of encouragement to the schoolteacher, who was there on his own hook, and because of his love for Christ. 

We soon packed ourselves away into the Scorpio, and one of the young men told us to roll our windows down and hold our hands out, because the schoolchildren would be lined up along the road out of the village to high five us as we went by. 

We drove slowly, and, tears were never far away as we touched their hands and told them Namaste, Namaste.  Because it felt like I loved them.  And they were my friends, even though I didn’t even know their names.  And I knew I’d never see them again.

I looked behind to see many of them standing, just where we had met and high fived, looking on as we slowly left their little place.

We rounded the last curve and turned onto the main road.

And there he was. 

The last in a long line of friends all lined up to say goodbye. 

More than a half mile from the schoolroom. 

Standing in his own confidence, perfectly in control of himself. 

His eyes looked deep into mine, and mine did into his. 

I didn’t high five him. 

I gripped his hand and held it as long as I could as we slowly rolled by.

Because I knew why he left early and ran hard.