James Wilson left Boston on a blustery, cold day in November, 1835 along with his wife and a fellow missionary, John Newton and his wife. After almost four months at sea on a ship called “Georgia,” they arrived in steamy Calcutta. Wilson and his family soon departed for Lodiana in the Himalayan foothills. In the course of his mission to India, Wilson translated a number of works into Urdu and sired at least one if not several of my ancestors.
Thursday afternoon, I was greeted in Urdu by an old friend who I had not seen in a while. Being a man of more advanced age than I, his whole story was not known to me. As it turns out, he served a mission to the region known after Partition as Pakistan where he learned Urdu and that he was the one in need of conversion. There he also met his wife of almost 50 years. We did not discuss the siring of progeny.
We did discuss the impending move of he and his wife of almost 50 years to “the old folks home” to be among the “inmates.” Given that this “old folks home” is run by Episcopalians, it has the cheapest, best booze in town and is something of a guilded cage for the “inmates.” My friend does not want to leave the farm which he has cared for now for about a decade. He holds the hope of seeing other old friends as a consolation for this exodus.
Among those old friends was my luncheon companion today. Although he had been ill over the winter, he looked much more robust. With a bit of prompting, he recalled our Urdu speaking incarcerate. My friend returned greetings and also extended them to the director of the community center which I have recently joined. Having delivered one set of tidings, I received another.
When those are delivered, I am sure to receive yet another set. There are times when it seems as if these obligations will always be waiting, like baby birds chirping for a worm. Other times, however, these ties bind me in connection to the people near me and the people who have gone before. Their story becomes my story, and mine theirs. I think that if we looked long enough, we would find that our story is yours too.