There’s a moment that happens on a bus ride home from a field trip that captures something most of us spend our whole lives chasing — and it took a seven or eight-year-old named Asha, who cannot speak and cannot see, to teach us what it actually looks like.
Picture the scene: a busload of blind children returning from a day of temple visits, river splashing, and carnival rides. Asha, mute and wearing a maroon cap, had spent the entire outing anchored to a volunteer — literally standing on his feet to avoid walking, discovering early on that this particular adult would stay put, would be there. By evening, as passengers dozed on the ride home, she woke and made her way up the aisle, feeling the legs of sleeping strangers until she found what she was looking for: track pants with three raised stripes. She didn’t need a name or a face. She needed those three stripes.
What happens next isn’t complicated, but it’s profound.“Her shoulders relaxed and she clambered onto my lap where she quickly fell asleep.”They rode the rest of the way home hand in hand — his sciatic nerve screaming in protest, neither one moving. Not because they had to. Because presence had become more important than comfort.
We live in a world obsessed with grand gestures and big declarations. We’re trained to believe love needs eloquence, visibility, perfect conditions. But Asha knew better. Love doesn’t need eyes to see or words to speak. It just needs someone willing to stay still when staying still hurts. It needs three stripes and the willingness to let your leg go numb so another person can feel safe.
The real invitation here isn’t sentimental — it’s practical. Be someone’s anchor without needing applause for it. Hold space for another person, whether it’s a child, an elder, or a stranger, even when your own body protests. Especially then. Because that’s when love stops being theoretical and starts being real.
About the Author
Andrew Johnson
Andrew Johnson is a contributor to LocalBeat, covering local news and community stories.
