Several years ago, George (creator and director of HHI) came to know of aid needed in the village of Mantralayam and decided to start a children's home here. They began in a small structure near the rail station and regularly scoured the tracks for abandoned children. Mantralayam is a place where idol worship is widely practiced and a famous temple in the town is known for its high prostitution rates. Many times when prostitutes become pregnant, they will leave their unwanted newborn babies on the railroad tracks to dispose of them. After a terrible flood in 2008, the children of the home were displaced and went missing for a short time. George was devastated and from Mantralayam took a train to a nearby city called Raichur in search of them. He recognized a small boy playing in the street as one of his children who was then able to lead him to the rest. Amazingly, not a single child was killed in the disaster, but in the chaos of escaping the floodwaters, 2 children went missing and sadly are still unaccounted for to this day.
Pastor Yohan and the children of the Mantralayam home
In the months leading up to now, George has faced severe opposition to his projects in Mantralayam because he is a Christian. Many of the local people have been hostile, flooding roads among other things in attempt to keep him out. Just last year he arrived moments after a child sacrifice took place, a family's sick attempt to secure wealth from the gods by killing their 3-year old. After almost weekly visits to the village 6 hours away, George has been able to quell the animosity towards him, and now when he arrives the villagers slowly gather to hear him speak.
At 11:30 Sunday night we headed out on a road trip bound for Mantralayam. With George behind the wheel we cruised through the countryside all night and arrived at the Sri Lakshmi Venkataramana Lodge at the wee hours of the morning. After a short rest we set out for the 20 km drive to the small village. It was a short distance but the broken roads and meandering cattle made the drive last close to an hour. As we pulled up to the village a large sign bearing our names greeted us along with the many villagers who had gathered to gawk at our fair complexions. (They seldom, if ever see a white-skinned person here.) We were received by the children dressed in their best clothes and belting out Telugu songs. They gave us the traditional Indian welcome with a heavenly scented jasmine garland lei and gift of a shawl. We spoke a few words and were shown around the premises, then fed them a lunch of rice and dhal and passed out candy.
receiving my garland and shawl from one of the orphans
Dovey giving out some candy to the village children
The boys live in the single room 'house,' and the girls stay in the pastors house which is barely larger than the other. There is a fan, but due to poor electricity it scarcely works and the soaring temperatures in Mantralayam can make the heat unbearable. The bathroom is a sort of outhouse that doesn't yet have a door and there is no running water in the community. In the center of the village there is a large water tank, but there is no distinction between drinking water and that used for everything else, so I can only imagine all the harmful bacteria that is constantly ingested through it.
Nina doling out dhal
George sitting with the kids and telling us of the backstory of the Mantralayam home
A far cry from what George has experienced in the past, the people were friendly and inviting, crowding us for handshakes and photos and after our day there, gathered to wave us off. Though it was a short visit, there has been much to digest. I thought coming to New Hope was humbling, but compared to what these children have, we might as well be staying in Daddy Warbucks' mansion. It is absolutely shocking to come to a place where people leave their helpless babies on the train tracks and still carry out child sacrifices in hopes of becoming wealthy.
Village kids
George, the pastors, the village elders, and the children
After we left the village we continued to drive far out into the country to a compound of half structures, shacks with satellite dishes, and one-room thatched roof dwellings. Here we met George's 'Church Planters' a group of pastors that come to the tiny space in the middle of what seems like nowhere to train. The dozen or so dedicated men (and one woman) come to study on Fridays and Saturdays, and even though it was a Monday, they traveled from all over to meet us. One man in particular, greeted us with a big smile and enthusiasm for our presence. He had one leg and got around on crutches, yet travelled nearly 80 km that day just to see us. I am overwhelmed by the extent of their gratitude.
George and the Planters
From the place where I stand it is hard to see the big picture. I feel like these people are making too big a deal over us and what we are doing, but they see things differently. We are their connection to the rest of the world, we are their hope for the future. As my days here are passing quickly and the end is approaching, I am beginning to realize that my work here has only just begun. My real job begins when I return to my home country and try to find ways to fight for the help these people so desperately need. The need me to pass on the word of their existence, how they struggle, and the problems they face. The responsibilities that George carries are only going to get weightier and more intricate, his heart is heavy for those in need and the number of children in his care is constantly growing. I will go back to a place with running water, more than enough food, a closet full of clothes, and a machine to wash them. My 'family' will remain here, struggling to feed the growing number of hungry mouths and transform their lives with a good education. I have learned the true meaning of struggle and need. While we're complaining about bills and responsibility, George is on his knees praying for the means to feed his 120 some odd children. They may not get all the nutrients they need or all the school uniforms required, but they are loved and they are fed and they have more faith in their pinky finger than most of us can conceive of in a lifetime. That is how they survive. From here, it is my responsibility to share their story so that they can continue to grow and support more of these grassroots people, to transform the coming generations into the future contributing citizens of India. I have a lot of work to do.
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