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The Tiger's Eye, Angels in Mumbai

By Scott B. Delaney

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Prologue


Mumbai, India
1:45 p.m.
June 2, 2022

An absolutely amazing study of contradictions. This is India! Beautiful and Filthy. Highly educated and desperately illiterate. Vegetarian and Non-Vegetarian. Indescribable wealth and abject poverty. Hindu and Christian. Muslim and Sikh. Tea or Coffee. Milk or No-Milk. I could go on forever.
Walking through the Dharavi slum in Mumbai always reminded me of the most extreme side of the contrast compendium. Today was no different. As we made our way through the tiny alleyways that led from the busy main street into the heart of the Mumbai slum, the smell of raw sewage and fermenting rubbish filled my nostrils, causing me to reflexively gag on a couple of occasions. The walls of the poorly constructed shantytown seemed to bend and sag in areas, making it seem that this unnatural world might completely swallow us, never to spit us out again. We weaved our way through the labyrinth of poorly built shanties and filthy hovels, tiny pop-up salty snack carts, candy and produce vendors, stray dogs and cattle, and scurrying children with tattered garments and matted hair. Manoj motioned for us to keep up the pace. Manoj Gupta, having spent over fifteen years as a missionary in this section of Mumbai, knew these tiny passages as well as many of those that dwelled here.
I could not help but feel a bit claustrophobic as we continued through the cramped, yet bustling and electric maze that made up this area of the slum. Bodies darted in and out of tiny doorways, through windows, bumping into me over and over again in passageways barely wide enough for one-way foot traffic. Each time one of the residents collided with me or my daughter, a quizzical stare would stop them in their tracks for longer than comfortable as they carefully eyed the light skinned and light-haired intruders, both of us clad in much more expensive clothing than was typical in this part of Mumbai. We had never ventured this far into the depths of Dharavi, and for the first time, I was acutely aware of how well the Oscar award-winning movie Slumdog Millionaire had portrayed this amazing and mysterious entanglement of steel, concrete, wood, rock, brick, dirt, and exposed wiring that formed this world famous slum.
On a couple of occasions, I was reminded of the overwhelming sinking feeling I had experienced while making my way through the abandoned mine back in Creede, Colorado only a couple of years back; heart racing wildly, dizziness coming and going, uncontrollable sweating, labored breathing, stomach cramping. It had never occurred to me prior to my time in that titular, cold, dark mine shaft that I had a fear of cramped spaces. Of course, the darkness and complete quiet of the mine might have also exacerbated that fear, but these tiny alleyways that snaked their way through acres of filth and squalor had a similar effect. Prayer had been the best answer for me as I searched the mine, and as we continued to move through the maze, I whispered prayer upon prayer for protection, for the people that lived here, for peace in the middle of this scary and unsettling environment. Once again, prayer was the right answer.
My thirteen year old daughter, Alisha, caught up with me and reached for my hand. This was uncharacteristic for my uber-confident and self-sufficient baby girl, but very much welcomed. As my father would always remind me, “The nut didn’t fall far from the tree with that one.” She was obviously struggling in this strangely inhumane and unfamiliar place just like I was.
This was my third visit to this particularly rundown area of these sprawling slums since we joined the Global Calling Ministry team and moved to India. Unfortunately, the sounds, smells, and sights had not become any more bearable. The percussive sound of car, rickshaw, and truck horns created a cacophony of noise that literally pounded my ear drums to the point of severe headache and palpable anxiety. The Dharavi slum started as a tiny fishing village in 1884, growing in popularity due to its proximity to the rail lines on either side that provided residents with convenient and affordable transportation in and around Mumbai. In a city where rental costs are among the highest in the world, Dharavi provided a cheap rental option for those moving to Mumbai to earn their living. Each tiny room had three essential items. Number one was continuous electricity, often poached from power lines that ran above the shanty city. Number two was a cooking gas stove that also served as a source of heat when needed. And number three, arguably the most important worldly possession to slum dwellers, was a big screen television, the bigger the better.
As we continued through the tangled mess of humanity, wandering feral animals, twisted steel dwellings, dented and dirty food carts, and cramped huts, I inadvertently stepped into what looked like a small puddle of water but was actually an almost eight inch deep pothole filled with muddy sludge, the residual byproduct of a wetter than average monsoon season. I twisted my ankle just badly enough to make the rest of the walk to meet the good Dr. Nehru much more difficult.
My near fall caused Alisha to drop my hand and she stopped just a few feet ahead of me, turning back in my direction. “Dad, how much longer before we get to the temple?” We had already walked in the sauna like maze for over thirty minutes, her reddened cheeks and sweat soaked Roxy t-shirt confirming this fact. This was certainly not turning out to be the ideal afternoon in the mind of a teenager, or her father for that matter.
It was hard to believe that it had already been three years since I, along with my colleague and trusted friend, Trevor Haas, braved an epic winter storm to rescue my family from the abandoned silver mine in Colorado. That brutally cold, eerily dark mine shaft, where my family had been imprisoned by an evil mercenary and his dangerous band of henchmen, was turned into a terrifying prison that still haunted our entire family. Nicolai Virshenko, a military trained assassin, had been hired by a greedy and morally corrupt, secret society to kidnap our family in what turned out to be a foiled attempt to disrupt the successful and fast growing Christian based ministry known as ‘The Call.’ Trevor and I, along with my wife, Beth, my son, Cade, my daughter, Alisha, and several other church leaders, had all become targets due to our leadership and affiliation with this rapidly growing movement. Remarkably, my daughter seemed to be dealing with this unimaginable trauma better than any of us. Her seventeen year old brother, Cade, had not fared as well, still struggling with the difficulties associated with post-traumatic stress.
Since the escape from Niki’s hideout in the Mountains near Creede, Colorado, Alisha’s faith had blossomed, and once our family moved to India, she took a strong interest in the ‘Global Calling Ministry,’ the worldwide extension of ‘The Call’ movement. Alisha was now a curious and excited regular on many of my trips through the slums of India, but today the intense heat and humidity put a damper on much of her usual zest for ministry and adventure.
“Only another couple of alleys over, I think.” I sat on a concrete block and rubbed my ankle for a minute or two and asked Manoj if he had any idea. I wasn’t completely sure, but the hand drawn map that had been given to Manoj by Dr. Nehru’s fourteen-year-old son had been fairly accurate to this point. His cartoon-like drawings and descriptive roadmap creation made finding directional landmarks very easy. We were coming to what looked to be a dead end. Alisha glanced over Manoj’s shoulder at the map, the arrows showing we were to take a right at the neon green water tank. In the margin, a note gave additional information that read, “the tank is sitting on top of a run-down restaurant that leans over the small alleyway to the building’s left.” Once again, his description left no room for question. I stood up and followed Alisha and Manoj, now with a mild and uncomfortable limp, to the right, down the larger alley as the map had instructed. Manoj estimated that we would reach the community’s common area in another two hundred or so steps.
“Mr. Andrew, you can tell we are getting close. Can you see how much nicer this area looks than the rest of the slum?”
“You know what? Now that you mention it, I can definitely see a difference. No trash. Buildings seem to be in much better shape.” I looked around with a heightened sense of the remarkable cleanliness in this area of the slum.
“I am telling you. This is because of Dr. Nehru. He has provided the people with a new sense of pride for Dharavi. And your ministry has indeed contributed greatly to the effort.”
“What do you mean? Global Calling?”
Manoj stopped and turned to look back at me, “Do you remember the water refurbishment project?”
“Yes. When was it? Maybe a year back?” I vaguely remembered a mention of this from Rajiv in one of our ministry update meetings.
“Yes, sir. Not quite one year.” Manoj placed his hand on my shoulder as he continued. “Dr. Nehru used the promise of clean drinking water as a metaphor for a cleaner Dharavi. For months, the people that live here removed mountains of trash. Many craftsmen also donated their time for much needed construction and renovation. You can’t even recognize the place.” He smiled with obvious hometown pride.
As we emerged from the tiny alley, the common area was not much of an area at all. The total size of the square could hardly be more than two thousand square feet, the size of a small house back in the States. In the center of the space, a crude yet colorful open-air temple had been constructed with its clay colored concrete floor raised about eight inches above the grassless dirt yard. No more than twenty chairs in various shapes and sizes were set up in four rows facing a small lectern at the far end of the temple. Obviously, this was where Dr. Nehru would address the crowd that was expected to gather at 2:15 for the weekly service, which was traditionally followed by a meal of Naan bread, Dal Makhani, Aloo Tikka, and Gobi Manchurian for all that attended. And, back by popular demand, Manoj, and his sister Dharvana would make up a large batch of their famous sweet mango lassi, a blend of yogurt, water, spices, and fruit that was especially popular among all the children that attended.
In the far corner, immediately behind the left most column of the poorly constructed temple structure, six preteen slum residents were engaged in a game of gulley cricket. Because of the cramped space on this miniaturized pitch, the makeshift wickets, two roughly sawed off PVC pipes that might have been pulled from a nearby rubbish pile were set only fifteen to twenty feet apart, not the typical twenty two yards that one would find in an actual cricket stadium. The cricket bat for this neighborhood match was an oversize plastic whiffle ball bat and the ball being used appeared to be a dirty, well-worn tennis ball. As I watched in surprisingly gratified amusement, I noticed that they had created a boundary by placing rocks in a semicircle that almost reached the corner of the temple and extended to the left and right wall of the common area in a relatively haphazard arc. As Manoj would explain later that afternoon, balls hit over the boundary in the air would receive a score of six runs, balls that rolled over the boundary would receive four runs and any hit that was not caught in midair by the fielders would require that the batsman run back and forth between the wickets with the opportunity to gain as many runs as possible before either the ball was back at the batter’s wicket or the runner was tagged out.
I watched a couple of overs and noticed that one of the neighborhood kids, standing behind and to the side of the far right boundary, would carve notches in a piece of wood with one of the sharper rocks whenever runs were scored. This was the score keeper for the match, and he was very serious about his responsibility. On several occasions, a player would run back to his position, looking over his shoulder, with a dramatic pointing of the index finger, appearing to question his carefully inscribed scoreboard. The scorekeeper would summarily shoo the player away with the hand holding the rock writing utensil and turn the scorecard upside down indicating that scoring was not subject to player review at any time. This kid did not mess around. The scorekeeper was infallible, and the players had to defer to his expertise. Period.
As the teams switched again from fielding to batting and vice versa, I walked around one of the rear columns that held up the thatch covered roof of the small building and noticed Dr. Malik Nehru approaching us from the alley that entered the courtyard from the opposite direction of where we had come in. “Hello, Dr. Nehru,” I said with a sense of relief that we had once again been able to navigate to our desired location without any real trouble. Just a sprained ankle and a buildup of sweat and body odor that was less than desirable.
“Good afternoon, my friend from the West. It is always great to see the world famous Andrew Morrison.” Dr. Nehru greeted me with a hug in his uniquely bombastic way. “We are thrilled to have you join us for today’s event. I hope that you all have come with a hefty appetite. The Dal is a special recipe from my favorite Indian restaurant here in Mumbai. Maybe not quite Bukhara worthy, but close. Might be a little spicy for you Yanks with the sensitive tummies, but you will like it.” His formal education in Great Britain had created a somewhat dry sense of humor, but a sharp wit that always lightened the mood.
“Sounds delicious.” My daughter had appeared at my side, appearing a little more shy than usual, likely due to the foreign surroundings and having never met Dr. Nehru. “Oh, I am so sorry…Dr. Nehru, this is my daughter, Alisha. After hearing about the impact your team is making here in Mumbai, she was adamant to join us today. Frankly, I can’t blame her.”
A grin of excitement washed away any of the shyness as she reached out to shake hands with Dr. Nehru. “Thank you for inviting me, Dr. Nehru. I can’t wait to meet some of the children.”
“Fantastic. Actually, if you are willing, I would like you to help supervise some of the younger children with my daughter, Dharvana.” He motioned for his daughter to join the group. “She is thrilled that you are joining us today. And, yes, our love for this area of Mumbai was influential in her receiving the name Dharvana.”
Dharvana put her arm around Alisha’s shoulder and said, “Come. Follow me. I will introduce you to some of the kids. They are super excited to meet an American girl!” Her excitement was palpable and contagious. I could tell that Dharvana had an amazing heart and a true love for people. Part of me wanted to follow Dharvana myself to meet the kids and watch her in action, but we had to prepare for our responsibilities as well.
Dr. Nehru watched the two girls walking together until they disappeared through a small doorway at the end of the common area. The sign on the door was written in Hindi script, but under the black, connected letters that looked like artistic scribbling to my American eyes was the English word ‘Nursery.’
Dr. Nehru extended his arm towards the altar area on the temple stage. “Alright. Now that kids are in very capable hands, let’s go over the schedule for the service today.” He turned and pointed towards a couple of empty chairs in the middle of the courtyard before looking back in my direction. “By the way, is Trevor not joining us today? I have only known him for a few months, but he is usually not one to miss a good Indian meal.”
“Without a doubt. He was bummed to say the least. He let me know that his stomach was angry and may need some time for forgiveness, but the rest of him sends his best.” Dr. Nehru chuckled as he took a seat in the metal folding chair across from where I was now seated. I adjusted my chair so that I was facing Dr. Nehru more directly and continued, “He is over at the stadium making final plans for tomorrow’s event. With over a hundred thousand expected at the stadium, he wants to be sure that everything is perfectly in order.”
“Understood. Trevor is quite the character, but a great person.”
“One of the best, Dr. Nehru. One of my closest friends on the planet. And when it comes to planning and the details, he is as buttoned up as they come.”
“Dharvana and I will look forward to seeing him tomorrow. Thanks again for the tickets.”
“My pleasure. Should be an amazing event.”
With Dr. Nehru’s notebook open on his lap, we went over the day’s agenda. Once finished, Dr. Nehru waved to a beautiful, dark haired woman near the banquet tables, encouraging her to join us. As she approached, Dr. Nehru stood and introduced us. “Andrew, Nisha. Nisha, Andrew.” Nisha was a diminutive, articulate, and soft spoken woman that would serve as my interpreter for the service, converting my English message into Marathi, the mother tongue of this region in India.
“Pleasure to meet you, Andrew.” She bowed gently as a sign of adoration and respect. “I have heard so many good things about you and brother Trevor.”
“Thank you, Nisha. Trevor was disappointed that he could not make it today but looks forward to meeting you soon.”
Dr. Nehru walked over and grabbed another chair from behind the pulpit and placed it next to where we had been sitting. “Please…join us. Have a seat.” He patted the seat that had been set for Nisha.
After we had all settled back into the chairs, I turned my attention back to our interpreter. “My understanding was that the common language was Hindi here in Mumbai.” My comment was more question than statement.
“You may not be aware of how dramatically Mumbai has evolved over time. The city has become extremely cosmopolitan,” Nisha explained, “The official language of Mumbai is Marathi and is the most widely used language in this entire state of Maharashtra. Of course, Mumbai accepts many other languages like Gujarati, Kannada, English, Telugu, Konkani, Dangii, and Varhadii, but Marathi is definitely the most widely used in this part of the city.”
“How does Hindi fit in, then?” This was the first time that I had contemplated how many different languages existed in this wildly diverse country. India didn’t just simply have different regional dialects, it had different languages altogether.
“Great question, my friend.” Dr. Nehru retook the reins in my continued education. “There is a popular aphorism here in India. Kos-kos par badle paani, chaar kos par baani. In English, it means that the language spoken in India changes every few kilometers, just like the taste of the water.” We all laughed at this all-too-perfect description.
The doctor turned sociology professor continued, “Hindi and English are now considered to be the mode of communication of the educated elites of the major cities in India and English is the preferred language of business throughout India. We can thank our British friends for that.”
As if appearing out of thin air, two gentlemen presented the four of us with Masala Chai, each small teacup set atop a tiny china saucer with a small spoon and two sugar cubes sitting next to the cup. “Miel, no miel?” One of the Chaiwallah gentlemen asked more forcefully than I expected.
“Excuse me?” I didn’t understand the question.
“Miel, no miel?”
Nisha quietly explained, “Would you like Milk with your tea?”
“Oh. Oh, yes. No thank you.” I turned a shade pink with embarrassment for not understanding. It should have been fairly obvious since he was holding a small creamer as if ready to pour into my steaming cup of tea precisely when he had asked the question.
Dr. Nehru continued without missing a beat in his proper English tinged Indian accent. “Quite a good idea to stay away from dairy products that are not fully frozen, my friend. Typically, these products are not homogenized and can really wreak havoc on your insides.” The always caring doctor pursed his lips just a bit, indicating that he was very serious about this warning.
A devious but playful smile replaced the more serious cautionary look. “If given the proper chance, Andrew, even the softest of bathroom tissues, when used out of a far too frequent necessity, can play the part of sandpaper, if you know what I mean.”
I smiled with him at this attempt at toilet humor, but the thought made my stomach turn a small somersault as my mind wandered in this direction.
The service went off without a hitch. Over two hundred people had crammed into the small courtyard, craning their necks to see and hear the message of love, compassion, and peace being brought by the intriguing, silver tongued American preacher, a message that was translated beautifully by Nisha. Amazingly, I was neither nervous nor frightened to speak to these people. There was a warm, curious, and embracing nature in the people standing before me that eased my nerves and made me feel comfortable at home behind the lectern.
They were amazingly attentive. No, they were much more than attentive. They were laser focused on the message. No one was perusing their cell phone for incoming text messages, googling my background, or yelping for a restaurant to visit after the service. No one was carrying on a side conversation. No crying babies in the crowd. Fortunately, the young children were all being watched by our daughters. I would later find out that having a crying baby during a service was considered disrespectful to the speaker and was considerably frowned upon by the weekly attendees.
The sermon centered on love for one another and the gift of God’s love for all people throughout the world. Following Dr. Nehru’s advice, I intentionally spoke at a third grade level, understanding that most of the listeners had very little formal education. I was careful to contrast some of the Hindu and Muslim beliefs with the basic tenets of Christianity, hoping to plant an initial seed which might germinate in the weeks, months, or years to come through Dr. Nehru’s teaching or to continue to water seeds that had already been planted in weeks or months before by other much more gifted speakers.
When Nisha would translate in the beautiful local language, I could see the nodding of heads in agreement or understanding. At some points, people would simply bow their heads in prayer. Some wept openly as Nisha recounted the promises that God makes to us even in the midst of poverty, oppression, despair, or grief. I can only imagine how that message of hope might feel to someone that lives in this environment.
In our preservice meeting, Manoj mentioned that the crowd would include individuals at varying levels of their faith journey. Since his family had started this weekly ministry over a year ago, over fifty residents had accepted Christ as their personal savior, and more than half had been formally baptized. I could see the pride and joy well up in those huge brown eyes.
Behind the continuously growing crowd of onlookers, I noticed that many of the younger children had come back into the courtyard and had started to play a game of miniaturized cricket with Alisha and Dharvana acting as referees and coaches. They darted back and forth between the wickets, some running towards the crowd in search of their mothers, Dharvana and Alisha occasionally having to leave the game to corral the escapees. At one point, I noticed my daughter glancing at me over the crowd, using the back of her sleeve to wipe the sweat from her forehead, and the uniquely daughter to father telepathic communication was abundantly clear. ‘You are going long, again. The kids are getting pretty restless. Might want to start winding down, father.’
As I concluded my message, I nodded to Manoj and he hit the play button on his iPhone that was Bluetooth connected to a portable Bose speaker that he regularly carried in his backpack for this purpose. Philips Craig and Dean rang through the packed quad with a beautiful rendition of ‘Shine on Us.’ The simple verse was quickly picked up by the crowd and by the third stanza, most of the crowd was singing along in full voice. There was a different level of reverence, a different feel of awe that I hadn’t experienced in many years. This was what real hunger for the Word of God looked like. This is exactly why we were here.
“Amen.” I said softly under my breath as the song faded. “Amen.”







Madness in Mumbai




“O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head as is a winged messenger of heaven”
― William Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet



“Time spent in India has an extraordinary effect on one. It acts as a barrier that makes the rest of the world seem unreal.”
- Tahir Shah



1

Mumbai, India
7:09 p.m.
June 3, 2022

Over eighty-two thousand people from all over India filled the seats of the recently built, and the world’s second largest cricket stadium prominently set in the Andheri East section of Mumbai. The attendees had started to arrive early in the morning at Kingsford Garden Stadium with a palpable sense of anticipation growing throughout the day, working towards what would be a billowing crescendo of cheering and chanting, an energy packed explosion of emotion that was to be expected at these rallies.
The monsoon season had come early this year and the rains over the last several days contributed well towards the impeccable air quality that was uncommon in early June. Typically, the forecast for Mumbai on my iPhone’s Weather Channel App would include the words hazy, dangerous, or smoky, but today’s skies were an almost fluorescent blue with a few clouds scattered about with no chance of bad weather that might ruin this event. Rajiv Bansal, the leader of the Global Calling Organization based out of Delhi, was making his way through the tunnel below the stadium near the visiting team locker rooms, towards the large stage at the south side of the pitch. With him were three members of his team from Delhi and two strikingly large bodyguards that had been appointed to him by stadium management. Rajiv had become quite a celebrity in India over the last two years, reaching almost rock star level status, blessed with a commanding voice, a strong and confident physique and a gift for storytelling that was capturing the attention of the world. This event would mark the fourth in a row where a stadium in India was completely sold out due to excitement to hear this charismatic leader. The difference today would be the sheer size of the audience, more than double the size of the most recent event held in Udaipur.
Trevor and I were moving down the home team’s tunnel, approaching the field entrance from the opposite direction that Rajiv and his team were taking, with a team of over twenty U.S. and European leaders of our respective Global Calling regional offices. This event in India would be the largest event in our group’s history and an opportunity for the leaders around the world to become even more united in the mission that was laid out before us. The excitement was intoxicating. The atmosphere was breathtaking. In my mind, I imagined that this is exactly what it must have felt like at the Billy Graham crusade meeting at Yoido Plaza in Seoul, South Korea in 1973, a gathering of over a million people, the largest audience in the history of his ministry. We could feel the rhythmic thump of the music inside the walls of the tunnel as we continued through the almost complete darkness toward the stage entrance.
The global appeal was amazing. The world seemed to be starving for a message of love, peace, generosity, charity, and acceptance that was at the core of our global vision. The recent resurgence of ISIS attacks across the world, the growing animosity between superpower nations, the persistent and depressing problem of abject poverty in third world countries, and the failures and atrocities as a result of misdirected socialism in many poorly led countries seemed to ignite a passion for change that the world had never experienced. From Singapore to Belfast, from Sao Paulo to Mumbai, people were looking for a new answer, a new world view. The political and social turmoil, the hunger for power and the obvious perversion of many different religions for the purposes of individual, government and corporate greed had grown old. In all parts of the world, hearts and minds were becoming changed for good, and the mobilization of this new ideology was starting to accelerate.
As I got closer to the entrance that led to the cricket pitch, the roar of the crowd over the pounding lead guitar and drums continued to swell in my ears and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride and accomplishment, as Global Calling was a natural world wide extension of The Call, the organization that Trevor and I had started and helped lead for almost three years in the United States, until we were both given the opportunity to relocate to India to help Rajiv and his team manage the unprecedented growth of the organization. Trevor and I had been working out of the Goa regional office for over five months and had been fortunate to travel all over India during that time. Global Calling was not simply a rally organizer, but it demanded a local presence as well, working with local charities, churches, and other religious organizations to provide for the welfare of those living in impoverished and underserved parts of their respective geographies. Trevor and I were acting as Human Resource Directors as well as Operational Directors, hiring over one hundred regional managers in the first six months, and then providing direction and funding to support the initiatives planned for each target area.
My wife, Beth, my two children and I had been welcomed into the Goa community with open arms. The people of India are truly beautiful. They are warm, caring, generous, loving, trusting, and always willing to help when needed. On our first visit to Panjim, our driver for the day informed us that this was normal, and that Indian culture has deep roots in the belief that guests are supposed to be treated like Gods. The fully embraced level of hospitality stems from the ancient Sanskrit phrase Atithi Devo Bhava, which embodies this Indian Hindu-Buddhist tradition. We were blown away by the reception.
Alisha started school at the Immaculate Conception Catholic School, only a half mile away from my office and only a couple miles from our new home in Panjim. Cade, a Boerne High School class of 2021 graduate, used the move to India as a convenient excuse to take what he alone deemed to be “a well-deserved” gap year. With Rajiv’s help and after a number of online interviews, Cade was offered conditional acceptance into a highly regarded Computer Science and Molecular Chemistry combination program at the prestigious Birla Institute of Technology in South Goa, often referred to as ‘BITS’ by the local residents of the greater Goan region, if we would agree to begin his studies in August of 2023. The class starting in 2022 had already been filled and this specific program only provided for twenty-two deserving students.
In a slightly less than successful attempt at humor, the Dean of Admissions told Cade, after providing this conditional offer of acceptance, that unfortunately, “The school would not be willing to give a ‘BIT’ of consideration to adding an additional student this close to the start of the school year, pun intended.” The Dean let out a quick snicker of laughter at his clever joke. For Cade, with or without the joke, the mandatory year of a study sabbatical was welcomed with great enthusiasm. What better excuse could be provided for allowing him to become one with his prized new possession, the highly anticipated, recently released, must-have gaming system, the PlayStation XT6? Brilliant!
Because Goa was once a Portuguese colony, it is truly a multi-cultural showcase in India. The Portuguese ruled in Goa for as long as four hundred and fifty years, until the liberation of Goa on December 17, 1961 under the Indian Prime Minister at the time, Jawaharla Nehru. If you were to ask my kids, they would tell you that the best part of the Portuguese influence is the impact on the food. The spices used in Goan curry, for example, are much different from those that you would typically find in other areas of India and the prevalence of good seafood, from prawns to Lobster to fresh fish, makes eating in this area of the world a true pleasure. While we all like traditional Indian food, like Chicken Tikka Masala, Lamb Kabobs, Butter Chicken, Gobi Manchurian, and Samosas, the food in Goa feels more like home.
One of the benefits of living in India, as opposed to many other countries outside of the U.S. is the fact that most Indians speak understandable and very proper, English. The British ruled India for almost two hundred years and one of the residual effects was that the English language had firmly established itself as the language of administration and trade by the mid-1700s. By the mid 1800’s, universities had opened in Mumbai, Kolkata and Chennai. English was gaining popularity as the language of government, of the social elite, and of the national press in India. After living here for half the year, it was easy to understand, that because of the similar language used for communication, companies from the U.S. generally enjoyed doing business in India.
As we rounded the final portion of the dark tunnel, our group almost bumped into Rajiv and his party, meeting in the large breezeway that led to the field and lower level of the bleachers.
“Greetings, friends,” Rajiv said in his very formal English/Hindi accent. “Sorry we were not able to arrive earlier. Our flight from Delhi was delayed by over three hours. Many prayers have been lifted up for this momentous occasion.” The lift in his voice and his beaming grin clearly indicated his excitement for this event.
We clasped hands and gave each other a warm embrace. “Good evening, my friend.” I was always glad to see Rajiv. Our greeting turned into a collective reunion as both groups gave the appropriate handshake or hug and all manners of greeting pleasantries. “Not a worry. What an exciting, moment! Have you seen the crowd?”
“Yes…wow…indeed,” Rajiv was giddy with anticipation. “I was informed by my administrative assistant that the event has been fully sold out. I am telling you, my friend. This is absolutely amazing.”
“I was told that there are over thirty thousand more that are immediately outside of the stadium that are simply hoping to hear the message and music. We have already asked the stage crew to make sure that the speakers are pointed slightly higher so that the sound will carry outside of the arena,” Trevor added with the same level of excitement.
As a collective group, we eased toward the entrance and peered out over the stage at the remarkable crowd. The entire stadium was jam packed with thousands of people standing immediately in front of the stage jockeying for position. We could see and hear the band, Points of Light, playing on stage. We had first come upon this group of tremendous musicians at a conference that was held in Delhi during the second week of January. They had been recommended by the Director in the Delhi office due to their crossover style between Indian Classical and Contemporary Christian genres. I had come to really enjoy the mix of old and new in this creative musical expression. The four vocalists, two males and two females, had a unique and perfectly balanced harmony that reminded me of a group I had listened to during my college years named First Call. Adding the Sitar and the Tabla along with other Indian traditional instruments added an ethereal quality that I found to be very pleasing to the ear.
As per our instructions, we waited in the wings until the stage manager, standing behind the twenty four foot tall back curtain, waved at us to make our way to our place on the stage. Today, I would be sharing keynote speaker honors with Rajiv. I was excited and nervous. He was a superstar all over India. Was I really expected to follow the “Bono” of India? I was still relatively new to this amazing country and my comfort level and confidence in public speaking, which was typically very high, had not yet reached the level I would have hoped for in a moment of this great magnitude.
As soon as I made it to the left side of the stage, and before the music had ended, I was jolted by a sound that I assumed must be the band blowing out a speaker. The stage rocked dramatically to the left, throwing me off balance. I landed hard on the steps that led down to the field, my head bouncing off the landing and up against the railing. Dazed and confused, I reached for my temple and felt the unmistakable moistness of blood. Another explosion rocked the arena. This one seemed further away from my position and the stage remained in the same position.
Disoriented, but still alert enough to assess that something was wrong, I crawled back to the floor of the stage and surveyed the situation. The crowd was scurrying in every direction, obviously looking to escape the arena. My ears were ringing but the sound of what seemed like fireworks started to get louder and louder. Pop. Pop…pop. Pop…pop…pop. There was no mistaking it. This was the sound of gunfire. There were obviously multiple shooters as the sound of rifles discharging multiple rounds per second was coming from all directions.
Looking into the crowd from my crouched position, I could see puffs of smoke rising above quick bursts of firearm discharge in many areas of the arena with people fanning out in all directions away from the gunmen. I watched in horror as many shots found their mark. From the upper deck, I could see a handful of bodies falling some fifty or so feet to the mezzanine below as terrified members of the crowd were frantically pushing people in the front rows as they looked for an escape. Those people that were able, could be seen leaping over rows of seats as they tried to flee in all directions from the gunfire.
On the opposite end of the stage, I watched as a man in a wheelchair was frantically powering the wheels of his chair in the direction of a large crowd of people that were completely bottlenecked in front of a large field level gate that led to the stadium’s north concourse. As the young man in the wheelchair approached the crowd of over one hundred frightened, I watched him dismount the chair and sprint towards the concession area where he must have just entered the arena. As he disappeared into the tunnel, the chair exploded with more force than I could have ever imagined. People nearest the chair were killed instantly and shrapnel from the blast must have covered a two hundred foot radius around the epicenter. At least fifty people were lying motionless in a morbid circle of humanity around the spot where the chair had been strategically positioned. I covered my face with both hands wishing with all my might that this horror show would end.
The rapid fire gun shots started up again. Immediately in front of me, I saw two of the crowd members go down, one young man with a shot to the shoulder and one in the back of a teenaged girl’s head. I was paralyzed by the shock and horror of the situation. I stood motionless watching the carnage unfold in front of me. I wanted to go to them, but my feet were cemented to the ground. Where was my team? Where was Rajiv? Where was Trevor?
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ananth, one of Rajiv’s bodyguards sprinting across the stage in my direction. He was yelling something at the top of his lungs, but I couldn’t make out the words due to the ringing in my ears and the cacophony of sound in the arena. He tackled me as if he were a linebacker sacking a quarterback and rolled with me in his arms until we were behind the backstage curtain. “Are you alright, Andrew?” He stammered, completely out of breath.
With a resounding whoosh as the only warning, a flash of light lit up one of the unused entrances to the arena on the top tier of the stadium. A rocket screamed towards the stage, hitting its mark immediately below the supports that held up the right side of the stage and the catwalk that led backstage.
“What is going on?” I was still a little dazed and groggy after the initial fall, but this explosion again sent me reeling. My ears emitted only a high pitched ringing tone. I was sure that my ear drums had popped. Propping myself up on my hands and knees, I looked at the right side of backstage, which was now completely leveled. There was only smoke and a pile of splintered, black painted particle board that had been the stage floor only moments earlier. I could see that at least half a dozen stage hands had been blown to the below stage turf, one of them impaled through the thigh with a piece of the stage, most of them writhing in obvious pain and some not moving at all. One had clearly been decapitated.
“There were multiple explosions around the arena. Suicide bombers, I believe. I think that there was a bomb under the stage.” His speech was frantic but concise. “Rajiv was hit in the leg, but Ananth was able to carry him back into the tunnel.”
The gunshots continued all around us. Deafening cries and horrific wailing could be heard immediately in front of the stage. A bullet ripped through the thick felt curtain that provided very flimsy cover from this type of fire power, ripping a nine inch gash that was only inches from our position.
“We have to get you out of here,” he shouted over the roar. “Follow me.”
He sprinted off towards the tunnel entrance and I followed him as quickly as my fifty-two year old legs could take me. He was only twenty yards ahead of me when I saw the bullet explode through the side of his head. My protector was killed instantly, and his momentum carried him over the railing onto the field ten feet below the gang plank that was affixed to the stage from the entrance.
I kept my pace and made it into the tunnel, tears welling up in my eyes. Looking back, I could see this brave man in a heap, lying motionless on the field below. I was sure that the bullet that took his life was meant for me.
My heart was racing, as I limped towards the darkness that would provide me safety. I could hear the loud echoes of what sounded like a team of horses coming directly towards me from the center hallway under the stadium. I backed up into a dimly lit doorway and watched as thirty or forty armed military officers ran past my position in the direction of the stage entrance.
I slid down the wall into a sitting position and prayed for protection. I hadn’t been this frightened and unsettled since my trip from Boerne to the ranch country of South Texas in the back of Niki’s jeep a couple of years ago. “Not again, not again…” I remained still, ears still ringing and head pounding out the wild rhythm of my rapid heartbeats. “Why Lord? Why?” I muttered to myself as I consciously took in one deep breath after another, trying to escape the incapacitating fear that now gripped me, stronger than I could ever remember. The highlight reel of my life flipped image after image in my mind as I closed my eyes while my subconscious uncontrollably led me down the very dark path that included the possibility that I might never see my family again. I buried my sweaty forehead in my hands and rocked back and forth as I recited the Lord’s Prayer.

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