Once upon a time, there was a girl named Maggie. Maggie liked lists a lot. More than lists, she liked fun. One day, she made a list of 100 things she wanted to do during her lifetime. One of the things on the list was to participate in a giant food fight.

Several hundred of her closest friends received a Facebook invitation to participate in a giant food fight in a small park in San Francisco, bearing multiple tubs of Cool Whip. When invited, friends fell into one of three categories 1 – That’s the most awesome thing ever – I can’t wait for Saturday to arrive! 2 – That sounds pretty cool, I’ll come and watch or 3 – I’m not sure what I’m doing on Saturday, but it most definitely will not be that.

About 50 of her adventuresome friends showed up at the appointed time, including a girl named Lori and a boy named Stas. The group bonded together to prepare the site. Tarps were laid and pegged; containers of Cool Whip and spray cans of whip cream opened and positioned around the edges of the tarp. Excitement filled the air as people prepared to battle.

The call was given, and Cool Whip began to fly. Unbeknownst to most, Cool Whip catches air well and travels great distances when flung. Unbeknownst to most, Cool Whip + plastic tarp = hilarity. It’s one thing to watch slapstick comedy. It’s quite another to participate in it. The group of fifty was happy.

In a matter of minutes, the Cool Whip was gone and the group was covered from head to toe in white goo. Laughter filled the air as people gathered the empty containers and rolled up the tarps.

Stas approached Lori and pointed at his hand. She looked, noticing it, like the rest of him, was covered in Cool Whip. She also noticed that the wedding ring that he had received barely a month ago was not there. They stared at each other. This was not the happy ending they had hoped for.

They surreptitiously search the trash and when the ring was not found Maggie took charge and organized a search party. The 50 people lined up across the area that moments before had been covered in Cool Whip. Inch by inch they searched the grass. Nothing was found.

Someone shouted, “You should rent a metal detector.” “Yes! A metal detector!” echoed the crowd. The perfect solution to a ring lost in a field of grass. To everyone’s bewilderment, there are no businesses that rent metal detectors in San Francisco. So Stas drove an hour south to rent a metal detector (and the friendly proprietor threw in a poking stick for free). As he returned to the park, the fog rolled in over the hills. Cold and shivering, the search began.

Stas’ wife, who did not participate in the Cool Whip fight, arrived with fleece. Lori, Stas, and Bryan, still with remnants of Cool Whip in their hair and behind their ears, pronounced her an angel as they layered in sweatshirts and jackets and scarves and hats.

Dusk fell as they took turns using the metal detector, prodding the grass, and searching on hands and knees. Many dog owners frequented the park, throwing balls for their dogs to retrieve. Most eyed the search party suspiciously. As Lori passed by with the metal detector, one asked, “Did you lose something?” She looked at him quizzically and said, “A wedding ring.” He nodded. “I wondered. Your boots are too nice for you to be a homeless lady.” She assessed her mismatched, though warm, outfit and agreed.

After hours of searching, with nothing found except one dirty quarter, the group abandoned the search and went to drown their sorrow in beer and sangria.

Stas, the ringless husband, and Coreen, his beautiful wife, returned to the park the next morning to conduct one last attempt to search for the ring. They employed the metal detector again, talking to the dog owners as they surveyed the grass. Again, the search was futile. They left the park, sad they did not have the lost ring, but happy to have each other. Moments after leaving the park, they received a phone call from one of the dog owners, instructing them to return to the park. The ring was found!

And everyone lived happily ever after. The end.

My colleague is maneuvering through heavy traffic. It is start and stop, stop and go. We are stopped when we are rammed from behind. I snap my head around to see what monster of a vehicle has hit us. It’s a small tuk-tuk. My colleague does not get out of the car, doesn’t show any anger, doesn’t show any acknowledgment of the crash. I look over at him. He shrugs and says, “Sometimes that happens.” This is my new motto.

In the restaurant, I order Bengali fish curry. The waiter asks if I want rice or naan with it. I say neither. He says I have to order one, that I can’t just have the curry, that it’s meant to be eaten with rice or naan. “Fine,” I say, not really wanting either, but knowing it isn’t worth the fight, “I’ll have the naan.” He says, “No, madam, it’s never served with naan. That’s not a good choice. You must eat it with rice.”

We’re trying to cross the street. I take one step forward, then jump back as a tuk-tuk nearly runs over my toes. My colleague has gotten halfway across the street. He turns around and sees me continuing to stand on the side of the road. He comes back, grabs my hand and pulls me. “You just have to walk. The cars will not stop.” I simply close my eyes and trust I’ll get to the other side.

I’m sitting in one of the government schools we support with a library and books. The children are seated cross legged on the floor in their classroom, no desks available. They smile shyly and giggle and avert their eyes when I look at them. I ask them about their favorite stories and one by one, they come up and recite poems or re-tell their favorite tale. They’re speaking Hindi and Telugu and I’m mesmerized. They recite with such intensity and such seriousness. The girls have matching onyx braids, plaited and looped to form twin pigtails with strands of jasmine tucked in. Their outfits scream with color – fluorescent orange, deep crimson, brilliant turquoise salwar kameezes and dresses adorned with gold thread and sparkling jewels. The boys sport identical short spiky hair cuts, their spindly arms and legs protruding from dingy short sleeve shirts and navy shorts that are too big, gathered at the waist with a rope or belt. Their dark eyes appear so big in their tiny faces.

After the last recitation, the teacher, a big serious man, calls a beautiful little girl to face me. She’s wearing an orange floor length skirt with tiny mirrors sewn along the hem. He stands behind her and lifts up her skirt above her knees. I’m taken aback. What is he doing? He jerks his head to her legs. “Look.” I see before me two tiny deformed legs, bowing outwards at unnatural angles from her knees. I lift my eyes to the girl’s face and she casts her eyes downward. I’m speechless. I don’t know why he is doing this. I want to scream, “What are you doing? Let the girl be. Why are you embarrassing her like this?” He says to me, “The water is contaminated. Fluoride. Her sister is the same.” This does not make sense to me. I sit there, still speechless, not sure what he is expecting or what is the appropriate thing to say in this situation.
After a minute or so of silence, he says, “You will help her. You will fix her legs.”

I continue to sit there, all eyes on me, all the children, all the school staff. I feel embarrassingly uncomfortable. I stammer, “Uh, uh…” How do I explain that I don’t have the connections to fix her legs? That I don’t know what her condition is, much less what could be done to fix them. I realize that they think I have access to unlimited resources. How do I explain I don’t? How do I respond to this request in a country where no one uses the word “no”? How do I not make promises that I know I cannot keep?

I wish I could say that I responded with a culturally sensitive, gracious response. I wish I could say that the tense silence was broken with the girl understanding that I wanted to help, but I didn’t know how. Instead, I, like the girl before me, cast my eyes downward.