We boarded our eighth flight in twelve days. We had seen twelve projects in four cities, missed a flight, were delayed by many, traveled hours over bumpy roads, negotiated our overweight luggage, found lost passports, and passed medications to whomever was sick at the time. There were six of us, ranging from 16 to 58 years old, so conversations went from dating boys to church history in the span of the appetizer course.

Our last stop was in Mumbai. As we left the airport and weaved our way through impossibly crowded streets, we couldn’t help but feel taken in by the energy of the city. We went to the Bombay Teen Challenge HIV treatment and health clinics supported by Wellspring in the world famous Kamathipura red light district. As we stepped over goats and rubbish in the street, we entered the familiar building and the faces I have come to love warmly greeted me. Minutes later, a little girl with dark hair in pigtails walked in wearing bright orange Capri pants and a white and orange striped t-shirt. They estimated she was seven years old, but she was tiny for her age. Her mother worked in a brothel down the street but had been missing for a few days. The brothel owner called BTC to let them know the child was now living there alone. While they investigated the mother’s whereabouts, the little girl had to remain in the brothel. But she sat for a visit, swinging her legs and making funny faces at us.

Some time later we walked the crowded streets filled with people hovering over gas stoves, animals sunbathing, and traffic bustling. Amidst this we heard someone calling for our attention. As we followed the voice, my eyes looked toward the nearby brothel. The windows were covered in bars, and I looked up to see a tiny hand thrust through the bars and anxiously waving out the third story. For a few seconds I merely wondered, and then I caught a glimpse of an orange sleeve. I saw the dark eyes and flash of a smile. I weakly raised an arm and waved back. As I walked down the street, every step away seemed so heavy and I could only hang my head. 

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the shelter for children in the red light district, fully supported by Wellspring since its inception in 2005. We excitedly clapped as the small audience for dance and song performances. We sang “Happy Birthday” to one of the little boys there named Ravi, celebrating with chocolate cake and potato chips being stuffed into our mouths from the clutch of small hands and enjoying the contagious, amused laughter. 

Late that night we drove to the airport, driving past the Taj Hotel where we always stay, past the Gateway of India, the storefronts, and through the crowds of people. Five days later, I sat at home and watched in horror as the same streets were filled with gunfire, weeping family members, and chaos. I could only grieve and search for impossible answers. 

Within weeks, Mumbai claimed the front pages with a story of turmoil and loss and with the lights of Slumdog Millionaire and eight Oscars. My sister pointed out that at the close of the powerful film, a sincere kiss to a scar powerfully sent time traveling backwards as if to heal or erase the pain of the initial injury itself. And the only answer I could find was that here, in the center of this turmoil, was always the opportunity to travel through time with another—and this is exactly where we are supposed to be.