The Story of Steffi

We brought someone back with us.”

Mahsa looked at me apprehensively as she said this to me. Katherin looked pretty apprehensive too. Since like most Europeans I knew, they were sympathetic towards all gods’ creatures, I was sure they lost their heart to a little chimp or a lame puppy on the street or something to that effect. Hell, they had just driven back from Goa only a few hours ago. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a full-grown black bear in the boot. “So, what is it?” I asked. Before she could say anything, a tall fair blond young child, more striking than pretty, with facial characteristics unmistakably German jumped out of the car with a boisterous exuberance that could come only out of extreme youth. “Hi! Im Steffi!” she chirped, shaking my reluctant hand.

I cocked an eyebrow to Mahsa, who laughingly said she’ll explain later. Later on, sitting in their overpriced little apartment, she did. Stephanie was someone they had met on the beach and later in a bar. being German, they got talking and realized that she had been in Goa a really long time, did not have a steady job, no family no money no prospects nothing at all in the whole world. She needed to come to Bombay as she had a friend here who could help her get a job. He would also give her a place to stay. So they were to give her a ride and a place to stay for the day and would drop her off to a friends house the next day.

“Is that a good idea?” I asked. I was 21 and much too realistic and snarky for my age. A hereditary strain of sarcasm and cynicism didn’t help matters. “How do you know she won't murder you in your sleep and run away with everything you have? I agree, she’s from your country but that isn’t always the best judge of character. ”

She’s seventeen” Katherin remarked dryly, “ I don’t think she’s gonna kill anyone anytime soon.”

Seventeen!! I looked at her, just getting out of the shower, blond hair dampened darker, singing loudly and tunelessly, carelessly wrapping a towel around herself. She seemed much too old for seventeen. Even by non-Indian standards. I thought she was twenty five or more. Definitely not seventeen! That little bit of information didn’t ally my fears at all. She didn’t look or sound or behave seventeen. Something was definitely fishy i thought.

She bounced into the room. “What should i wear to a photo gallery?" She asked the room at large and bounced right out without waiting for a response. Okay, she was definitely behaving a little younger now.

The photo gallery in quotation was the Express photo exhibition held annually. A collection of all the best photographs taken by photojournalists all around the world, it was something I looked forward to, every year.

In the longish car ride getting there, Stephanie unfolded her life story bit by bit, emotional yet candid, about how she was hooked on crack by age six, was thrown out of her conservative household by age nine, how she wandered illegally into Switzerland and lived on the streets for a year, busing tables, waitressing doing anything to get her fix. Eventually she hooked up with a couple of students, all on their way to India. They all pooled in for her airfare, brought her to gGoa and she’s been there ever since. Her narrative didnt potray herself as a victim or without responsibility. Something i found quite refreshingly different about her.

“How did you live there?” I asked.

“ Well, I did all the stuff I did in Switzerland, I danced some because Indians like me. And when nothing else worked, I did soft porn. Nothing dirty!” She hastened to add, seeing my aghast face. Mahsa looked sideways at me and decided to say nothing for the moment.

From the closeted conservative upbringing that I have had, I was scandalized. Porn was not even an option for most people I knew. In morality-ridden Indian society, even more not an option. And definitely dirty. In fact, the conceept of clean porn was alien to me. I was so shaken I was speechless. The rest of the ride passed in silence.

We got to the venue eventually. Then we meandered in different directions looking at the different photographs, each forming our different private interpretations. Half an hour later, I had just wandered around corner when I heard uncontrollable sobbing. Stephanie was sitting on the floor, mascara running down her cheeks, crying over a … photograph? A closer inspection of the photograph showed me a picture, a sepia toned study of two crack addicts, mother and teenage son lying on a bed smoking their crack pipes.

I sat down on the floor next to Stephanie, watching her cry, not knowing what I could do, and not knowing what caused her such anguish. Fifteen minutes of heart wrenching sobs, a glass of water and much hiccupping later, she calmed down enough to talk. She missed a family, she never had a moment like that with her mother, father or sister, no happy little family traditions, no silent Sunday afternoon naps with her family, no mother daughter shopping expeditions, nothing. In that moment sitting on the plush floor of an upmarket gallery in the middle of Nariman Point, I saw Steffi for what she really was, a lost little child craving her kin, someone who needed a family to ask about her.

I led her out of the gallery and sat down with her on the wall facing the Arabian Sea, listening to her shaky voice talk. For an hour I listened. About her struggle with cocaine, her victory, about her still occasionally smoking hash when she gets a craving for something chemical, about how she hoped to go back to Germany and look up her parents.

“Suppose they don’t accept you, suppose they aren’t willing to let go of old wounds?” I asked. I’m a product of Indian morality, remember?

“That’s okay. I just want to see them once. If they don’t want to accept me, I’m okay with that. I wont ever stop being their daughter. “ She smiled.

I shrugged noncommittally. In my head, it’s all very well for people to talk about it, try being in it and lets see what you have to say. As if she read my mind, Steffi reached out and grabbed my hand and said one of the wisest things I’ve heard to date.

“ Happiness is about little things, you can’t hold on to grudges forever. There is happiness in forgiveness, in letting go. There is happiness in small places. You just need to let them find you. Miracles do happen.”

Discomfited by undeniable wisdom from one so young, I grunted noncommittally and bought a bag of chopped up sugarcane from one of the street vendors. As she ate, I watched the juice dribble down her chin and the ocean lights reflected in her eyes and wondered at the mettle of the girl that had brought her halfway around the world into the care of total strangers. It suddenly struck me that her undeniable faith that brought her to us and not to unsightly characters so abundant in the city.

Of course her faith was tested again, she borrowed my cell phone to make a call to her friend in Bombay to see what he could do for her. Turned out he was on a chemical high that night when he made all those promises to her. Now that he was home and in his senses, it didn’t make that much sense. He’s sorry and he wishes her all the best. Steffi couldn’t be bothered. She sat chewing her sugarcane bits, faith in the her private little system intact.

It worked too. There was a job fair happening pretty close by and we wandered in there later just to use the loo. Five minutes later, Steffi got a job offer as a waitress on a cruise liner going to Frankfurt. She would leave within the week.

At their house that evening, Katherin, Mahsa and I watched Steffi sleep wondering at the power within this child- woman. The thing she wanted the most at that time was her family and she had already made her peace with the fact that they may not want the same thing from her. In my head, that took a lot of strength. Along with breaking a cocaine habit, something i hear is nearly impossible. that girl had acquired a lifetime of strength in sixteen short years. The path she wove through the universe could have gone so awry. But she never lost faith in miracles. Or the happiness.

I likt to think it was because she is young. Whe we were younger, we believed in guardian angels, in Santa Claus, in the tooth fairy, you name it. When we were younger, we were happier because we believed there was someone looking after us, we believed in the inherent goodness of the world, we trusted until there was a reason to distrust.

Early next morning, something woke me up and I wandered out into the living room. There was a Steffi-shaped indentation on the couch, still warm, but no Steffi. My wallet was also missing. My heart had just decided to scream when the front door opened and Steffi walked in casually and tossed my wallet back to me. “I had gone out for a walk and found this on the stairs.” she said. At the time, I didn’t know whether to believe or not. Later, when my inherent cynicism forced me to check my wallet, it was untouched. Everything was as it was. It was time I learnt to keep the faith.

A few days after that, we waved goodbye to a cab with a tearful Steffi in it. The cab would take her to the liner which would take her to Frankfurt, where her parents lived. She didnt call ahead. She wanted to surprise them. I, who used to pride myself on being unemotional, found it difficult to get rid of that lump in my throat.

Today, three years later, I still wonder what happened to that child. I wonder if she reached home okay. I like to think she did. I like to think her parents welcomed her with open arms and forgiving hearts. I like to think she would have had some well earned family moments with them. With her unflinching faith in the universe, it would make a rightful ending to this story.

But every time I look at the glittering moonlit sea or look at a sepia toned photograph, I think of a young lady who waltzed into my life, forcing me to look at things positively. I used to believe in angels a long time ago. Maybe Steffi was my angel's messenger. I like to think so.