Thanks for this strong song and the accompanying video. Helps keep things real. Here is a chapter from my book "Embracing the Gray: A Wing, A Prayer, and A Doubter's Resolve" that echoes some of the same message:
POUNDING ROCKS
I have a photo hanging over my desk in a forest green frame that nicely accents the aqua blue bandana and almond skin of the subject: poised with a hammer in striking position above her head, surrounded by piles of battleship grey granite, and withered clusters of nyctanthes bushes…also known as Trees of Sorrow.
It’s been a frustrating several weeks with my job…not because of the trip to Brazil---which was stunning—nor the last minute plans for my inaugural visit to Ethiopia. Neither has it been a hassle to see so many needy kids getting life-changing help through the radio events I help organize and implement. That part of my work is satisfying beyond compare. But there have been some issues having to do with management and direction that have gotten me down…. even perturbed.
This is why I have this visage of Anjali hovering above my computer. I’ll never forget meeting her 3 years ago in searing 104 degree heat along the dusty two lane highway between Chennai and Kamaraj Nagar in southeastern India. I had noticed her swinging away as we drove by at 7:30 in the morning and asked our driver if we would be able to stop and visit with her on our way back later that afternoon. I was curious about what exactly she was doing, and made a mental note of landmarks so I we wouldn’t dash past her on our return.
Sure enough, at 5:30 PM, we pulled up across the road from her, and she was still pounding away. Several of us poured out of the Range Rover, stretching our legs and backs from the cramped quarters, squinting at the relentless glare of the summer sun and oppressive heat that slapped us like a steaming towel as we vacated the AC of the van.
Our guide and primary interpreter, Helen, accompanied us as we strolled up to this woman who appeared to be in her golden years. She was hunched over in that all-too-familiar squat position that one sees nearly everywhere in the developing world. She swung one of several hammers in her repertoire, decisively fracturing shoebox sized chunks of granite into smaller shards. On this 100-foot stretch of land that hugged the pitted asphalt of the roadway, this determined little lady had a dozen piles, each at least 4 feet high, of various sized pieces of gravel. Some as small as a marble, other mounds graduating up to about tangerine circumference.
She was pleasantly flustered by the interruption. My guess is she rarely ever spoke to anyone in this lonesome outpost. We introduced ourselves, and she painfully straightened herself upward and extended a gristled, leathery hand of greeting to each of us. “I am Anjali. I’m honored to meet you. How may I serve you?”
“We are here to see what God is doing in your beautiful land,” I answered. As we were driving along to visit a church school where many children are being assisted, we couldn’t help but be fascinated by what we saw you doing here.”
“Oh that is so wonderful. I have 4 children of my own, although they are getting older now. As you can see, I break rocks for a gravel company,” the smiling woman stated, as sweat glistened on her neckline. “They take these different size stones that I cut and use them in driveways and walls for rich people’s homes and offices.”
One of our group members, John, asked “How many hours each day do you do this?”
“12 hours,” she meekly responded.
Then Tracey queried “How many days a week?”
Anjali looked quizzically at Helen as she translated the question in Hindi. She looked at Tracey with a furrowed brow as if to say, “I don’t understand?” Helen then rephrased the question.
“Oh…” Anjali replied when she comprehended. “I work every day.”
“Seven days a week?!” Tracey said, almost incredulously.
“Yes…I work every day.”
Donald followed up with “Do you ever get time off for your children?”
“Well...I got to take off 4 days for the birth of my 4 children…but other than that, I’ve been blessed with good health, so I never miss work.”
John interjected “How many years have you been doing this?”
Anjali paused, staring off at some unseen calendar in her mind. “Let’s see…I think it has been 28 years now. Yes. 28 years,” she said proudly.
Then Tharren politely posed “If you don’t mind me asking, Anjali, how much do you get paid?”
With dancing eyes she beamed “I earn 50 rupees a day.”
We had been in the country long enough to do some quick math in each of our heads. Her backbreaking labor was earning her the equivalent of $1.07 for each 12-hour day…about $7.49 each week. A rousing $389 per year…a grand total of about $11,000 in nearly 3 decades.
We stood motionless, staring at our shoes.
After an awkward silence from us, she brightly exclaimed, “I am so happy that I have a job!”
You could’ve knocked us over with a feather.
“I hope you this is not considered rude, Helen, but could you ask her how old she is?” Verne politely queried.
“I will be 48 in September,” she replied through her broken smile and chiseled, sun burnt features. She looked at least 20 years older.
She proudly told us about her children and husband, and about where she lived 3 miles away. She asked our names, and about our families, and how we were enjoying our time in her country. When asked about the heat, she said it was better than the days during monsoon season when it rained constantly and she would blister and chafe more easily.
We had to keep ahead of the building traffic flow back into the sprawling metropolis of 5 million in Chennai’s teeming streets, so Helen told us we needed to leave. One of our group slipped Anjali a 1,000-rupee note as we were saying our goodbyes. As we climbed into the van, we looked back across to see her eyes about to pop out of her head when she unfolded the currency. She waived wildly, yelled blessings, and blew kisses as we drove away.
We sat silently in the jostling bus for a while…humbled by whom we had just met. Our conversation hadn’t lasted more than 5 minutes…but we knew we would never forget her.
So, as I am grousing about some irritating disappointment with my job, I sit under the visage of Anjali busting up rocks.
I say another prayer for her. And ask for forgiveness.
