Milkha, Milkha

                     There had been no one in our guest room for a while now. It was looking sterile and uninviting. I went and changed the bed linen. I looked in the washroom and toilet to make sure they are clean. Changed the towels and the toiletries and walked back to the bedroom. It looked and smelt aseptic, devoid of any character, I thought.

Other tasks beckoned me, so I left the room to attend to work in the kitchen.

                                   I am Tara, a homemaker. My work is, I always feel, never done. There is this thing to do in the kitchen or that thing to store in the larder. I must remember to order this from the grocers, That from the butchers, and so on. The work goes on and on. Never-ending. Not that I am complaining. I am happy and content with what I am doing.

                                   We have no regular work hours, trade unions, no salaries or perks to speak of. In fact, we are the most hardworking people, I feel. But enough of this for the present.

                                        As I sat enjoying my cup of coffee, most work done, I  started musing about that empty guest room. To make ends meet, my husband Ken and I take in paying guests and they live in that spare bedroom we have.

                                       We conveniently placed this room away from our main living area. It has a separate door leading outside. As I do most of the cooking for our family anyway, it is only a little more than I have to cook for a stranger.

                                   The guests have to eat whatever is provided for them. This is made clear to them at the beginning. Most of them oblige. They all feel home-cooked food is good for them. If at all they feel like going out for eating, we instruct them to let us know so the food won't need to be prepared for them.

                                   "Tara, Tara," my husband was calling. Getting up from my cozy nook,  I spoke up, "Yes darling, what is it?"

                                   "Just got a call, dear. It seems there is someone wanting to come and stay with us for a few months. Shall I say yes?" He was all ready to leave for his work.

                                   "Make sure and list out all our conditions. I feel we need to send them ahead to enquirers like this. Get his or her email. I will send an email to them."

                                   "Done. Tara. Now I am off to work."

                                   Hurrying to the door, I kissed Ken goodbye. "Bye, Darling, May God go with you."

                                   Ken and I are a God-fearing couple. Both of our parents brought us up in the fear of the Lord. We had prayed for a long time fervently before we got married. We got confirmation from God before we decided to marry each other. We believed that the Lord Jesus Christ was the Saviour of the world and yearned to share this truth with others.

                                 Being active in the local church, we helped the Pastor and the committee in as many ways as we could. Married for over three years, we had no children yet and were presently praying about that issue.

                                Our faith was such that we spent time praying both individually and as a couple every day. The Lord had been kind to us and we were managing to live within our means, contentedly.

                                 Milkha, the prospective paying guest came to see us the next day. He looked like a typical Indian. He was sporting a white turban and a thick vermillion line on his forehead. The moment he came in, our room was smelling of garlic and onions. I was finding it difficult to breathe!

                                   Ken started asking him questions. Milkha had a typical Indian accent. He just had a passable knowledge of English.

                                    "We are a law-abiding and quiet couple and expect the same from you. I trust all your papers are in order. We don't want the police or detectives to come into our house."

                                   "Sirji, I too come from good family in my India. I do not break any law in India or here. Believe me Sirji."

                                   "What is your business here in this town, and how long are you planning to stay with us?"

                                   "I am, what you say, learning English at the Town Hall. I complete in three-four months and then leave. Am trained plumber but not knowing English, not able to get job."

                                   "Which part of India do you come from?"

                                   "I come from the North, Punjab, Sirji. Do you know it?"

                                   "We have heard of Punjab. I hope you are not into terrorism? We heard a lot about terrorism in Punjab."

                                   "Me? No Sirji. Am not terrorist. My father is a Police Constable who fights them. We are real Indians. Proud to be so, you can enquire Sirji, if you don't believe me. I have papers."

                                      Doubtful whether this stranger, Milkha, could stay with us at all, I asked him gently, "Will you be able to eat the food that we prepare and eat?"

                                   "Er. Sisterji! Me, Punjabi and me eat more Rotis and vegetables. Can I make Rotis for myself?"

                                   Ken and I exchanged glances. We had a small kitchenette attached to the guest room, but no one so far has used it to cook meals for themselves. "It would be a little easier for me, perhaps. “But what about the costing?" I thought.

                                   I ventured, "You would have to get your own pots and pans and do your cleaning yourself. Is it okay?"

                                   Ken said, "And we are going to charge the same amount, as I told you earlier."

                                   I thought that would deter Milkha. But I was wrong. He seemed to be eager to agree.

                                   "Yeah, Sirji. Yes. I will be coming."

                                   So Milkha Singh became the stranger in our guest bedroom. We were soon assaulted by pungent odours and smoke. He was a novice cook and burnt up his Rotis many times. But he survived somehow. And we too developed an acquired taste for the smells and sounds from Milkha's room.

                                   This stranger we took in was very eager to know what was happening. He eavesdropped on us as we sang a hymn in our Family evening prayer. One evening he approached me. He seemed to be less in awe of me. He calls me, Sisterji!

                                   "Sisterji!" He started, "Why do both Sirji and you sing songs in the evening? Is it a form of Bhajan?"

                                   "We praise and worship the Lord God with our songs and prayers every evening, Milkha."

                                   "I understand Bhajans. Our family also does it. But which god or goddess do you worship?"

                                   Praying silently to God, a short and swift prayer, a Nehemiah prayer,  I turned to Milkha, "Our God is The Creator of all the heavens and the earth. We call Him Yahweh."

                                   "But I hear about Jesus? Who is he then? A little god?"

                                 I took a deep breath and started, "It is like this Milkha. God created the entire universe by the word of his mouth, in the beginning. He also made man and woman, Adam and Eve from the dust of the earth, with his hands. He breathed into them and made them live. That was how our first parents were created. We are all the descendants of this first couple." I paused.

                                   "Is it so? Then what happened, Sisterji?"

                                   "God put the first couple in a beautiful garden, Eden, which he created. He asked them to look after it. He only told them not to eat the fruit of one tree. All the other fruits they could eat."

                                   "Okay. Did they obey God?"

                                   "They did, for a while. Then Satan, the devil came in the form of a wily serpent and tempted them. He told them lies that they will become like gods if they eat the fruit of that tree. They were deceived and ate of that fruit."

                                   Milkha was excited. His eyes were twinkling as he asked, "Did they become little gods then?"

                                   "On the contrary, they lost their innocence and glory and became shameful of their bodies. They quickly grabbed some fig leaves to sew clothes for themselves. But God called them to account for their sin and sent them out of the Garden. He made some leather dresses for them before He sent them away."

                                   "But why did He send them away? Was He angry?"

                                   "No Milkha. God loved his creatures, men. But because He is a holy God, sin, and sinful people cannot stand in His presence. That’s why He had to send them away. Later on, He sent his own Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, who was God himself, in the form of a newborn baby to a little town called Bethlehem."

                                   "Yes, I heard about Bethlehem, the Christmas Story."

                                   "It happened really Milkha. Maybe 2000 years ago. Jesus grew up, as a true man and God. He preached peace, harmony and did many miracles, healing many people. He even made dead people rise. But the religious leaders were jealous of him and arrested him. They tortured him and then crucified him on the cross where he died. All his disciples and friends were very sad."

                                   "I know. It happened on Good Friday!" cried Milkha.

                                   "But that is not the end of the story Milkha! On the third day, the Lord Jesus Christ rose up by himself from the dead. He came out of his grave and appeared to his disciples and others. Some of his disciples went running to the grave to find it empty!"

                                   "I did hear something like this too Sisterji. But how can it be true? And how does it affect you and me today, so many years later?"

                                   "Good questions. Let me try to answer. Jesus, because he was the Son of God, was the only sinless man on earth. By his death, he paid the penalty of all our sin on the cross. Because of that, if and when we repent from our sins and turn to Him, ask Him to enter into our hearts, He will enter and cleanse us from all our sins. We will become forgiven sinners and free from the punishment of sin! I wish you also, Milkha will become like us, a forgiven sinner!"

                                   "Sisterji, thank you for your invitation. Let me think about this. Please give me a simple write-up, a part of your Bible so that I can do some meditation and come to a decision."

                                   Silently I offered a prayer of thanksgiving to God. I unearthed a Hindi translation of the New Testament which an Indian student paying guest had left with me, and gave it to Milkha. And I am continuing to pray for his salvation. Can you join me too?