The Saint from Mumbai

There once was a remarkable man who stood in my kitchen and told me stories of God. He was as unlikely a saint as any corporate colleague who finds himself on a business trip, sitting through days of meetings, and invited into a teammates home for dinner. Yet, he was a radiant beacon of hope and encouragement and belief – and his presence warmed my entire home one bitter January night.

He had traveled from Mumbai through the most auspicious circumstances which he relayed with such glee that you couldn’t help but nod in wonder and belief yourself. He relayed the story of his visit to a visa office in India where he had nervously watched countless people denied visas to the United States. He earnestly prayed that God’s will be done and decided to march around the visa office seven times – Joshua style – before entering for his visa appointment. Inexplicably the woman at the desk smiled and handed him an approval. He headed directly to the church across the street and gave thanks to God who had surely made a way. At the conclusion of his story he was so overcome with joy that he threw his arms around my husband saying, “I just need a hug!”

My children were drawn to him just as readily as the adults, and they drug him by the hand to their playroom where he knelt and admired their treasures. After many minutes of genuine interest in all that they had to say and share, he graciously turned in my direction and commented, “This is remarkable, in India children often have only one toy.” I was struck by his delivery, not a measure of malice or irritation, only wonder and gratitude for this moment – these children – this place.

As we sat for dinner, he welcomed our children’s prayers for grace, so simple and short, and he asked to take their picture so he could share this moment with his church back home. He listened to their stories from school that day and shared his own stories from home in India where he lived in a small apartment with his brother and parents. He praised the meal and took two more plates full, saying it reminded him of his mother’s cooking. His mother’s cooking, he shared, is her ministry. She always makes enough to share with neighbors or his coworkers. When his coworkers ask what her secret is to such delicious food, he tells them it’s the prayers for those who will enjoy it.

His faith poured out of him like pure light. Not in dogmatic rules or judgmental dualism, but in genuine love and joy and peace and hope. Every story he shared was strung with a thread of God’s goodness and when he listened to others speak his eyes were full of grace and patience.

Before departing that evening, he insisted we pose for pictures. Though their encounter had been brief, he and our four-year-old daughter had made fast friends and he asked for a picture to remember her by. Only three months later she would be overcome with months of medical challenges and he would send beautiful messages of encouragement and prayers from back in India.

The short visit was over in a matter of hours. Over the coming months he would send greetings and well wishes for our daughter’s health, and prayers. His emails were a bright spot in my inbox, a little light of joy through the wires across the world.

Eleven months after he filled our home with so much warmth I received a call that he had been killed in a train accident in Mumbai. As with all tragedy, I could not understand why this would happen to someone so pure of heart. I was devastated to think of the light that had been extinguished, a light the world needs so badly in this time. I was also so grateful for the few hours my family had experienced with him in our home. I will never forget Aloshe and the glow he brought to our home one cold January night. I pray a bit of the light he radiated can be reflected in his memory.