12 Tiny Moments

Some fleeting moments are so powerful that they throw their long shadows into the future and far into the past. They elicit meaning where none could be found before and give all else a frame, a structure, a shape. These moments reverberate through time, transforming lives and shaping identities.

I am lucky to have experienced such a moment as a child - a moment in which a tiny stranger stood up for an outcast who didn't even know her name.

Her act of kindness, so bravely and freely given, has had a greater impact on my life than I could have imagined, and shown me its potential to change the world, one person at a time.

So, now, I pass that gift to you.

This is her story, my story, our story. The moments that came before and the years that came after, shared in 12 numbered, interconnecting vignettes that span my truths from Germany, India, and the United States of America.

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1993, Germany

1. It sneaks up on you, the knowledge that you’re different. You pull on a pair of socks, shrug on your school bag, and slip your small five-year-old hand into the warm softness of your mother’s. On the way to school, you walk by some almost-men saying, “Ausländer raus!” (Foreigners out!) Crude laughter laces their voices, cigarette smoke lazily frames their faces. Squeeze your mother’s hand tighter and keep walking, head held high, just like hers.

2. On the playground, after your bottle of sickeningly sweet strawberry milk, the other children ask you whether you roll in poop every day. Sometimes the older boys and girls call you “dirty trash,” and demonstrate what that means by throwing crushed, empty juice boxes at you, the straw still sticking out like the front end of a bayonet. One day you look up to see two curious faces looking down at you from the tops of the bathroom stalls on either side. “Wir wollten sehen ob du überall so dunkel bist,” (We wanted to see if you are dark all over.) they say, snickering. They don’t understand that you are warm molten chocolate, a drop of difference in an ocean of milk.

3. Sebastian and Julia really want to play with you, but you know they won’t. You pass the teachers, their arms folded across their chests, speaking to each other in low tones, their eyes scanning the playground. Pass your classmates playing with Barbie dolls on the stairs at the entrance of the imposing school building. Pass the boys fencing with imaginary swordsticks. Pass the ones you know, then the ones you don’t know. Some of them pointing at you, maybe laughing, maybe whispering to each other. Pass. By the time your brain registers that a tiny angel had said, “Lass Sie doch! (Leave her alone!) She’s just as much human as you and I!” you have already passed. When you stop and turn to look, you see her there, highlighted in the rays of the afternoon sun, her whispy blonde hair a halo, her tiny fists balled at her side, her posture leaning forward, facing the bayonets, glaring, unafraid. She laughs at them. For you. And when she turns and smiles at you, it blinds you with the reality that you are real. You matter.

4. It is alright to run, to be afraid. When something scares you at home, you run right into your mother's arms or climb up onto your father's lap. On the playground, your fortress is a bush at the far end. It's alright to hide there, to gather your wits, to be an observer. For now. When you stand on your tiptoes behind this bush, you are the mighty queen of the universe, the rest of the playground spread out in front of you like a widescreen movie theater. One day, through the leaves, you see a boy kiss a girl right on the lips.

5. At some point, adventurer that you are, you discover that you can crawl into the hollow stomach of the bush. From somewhere out of sight, the squirrels protest loudly. You find a tangle of small twigs, hair, feathers, and old bits of eggshells. The baby birds have grown their wings and flown away.

1995, India

6. “We’re home!” Daddy had said that morning when you woke, sprawled on the still unmade bed next to your soundly sleeping sister. You are Tamil, in Tamil Nadu. You look just like your classmates; mustard pinafore over a crisp white collared shirt, almost knee-high white socks stuck in shiny black, slightly-heeled Mary Janes, white ribbons woven into two black braids, tied securely. But it’s not long before the others know that you are different. Your accent always gives you away.

7. Sometimes, you stand in the shade of the wood-apple tree and watch the other girls play in the bright afternoon sun. “Have you tried shot-put?” the teacher says, standing next to you, muscled arms folded across her broad chest. “You look like you have a strong arm.” You will never forget the moment you first wrap your fingers around that rough, cool ball of iron. When you toss it (wrong grip, wrong form, wrong everything, you’ll learn later), it goes beyond the qualifying line, then beyond the dent in the earth that marked the winner-until-you. Before you know it, the captains of your team sign you up for Javelin and the hundred-meter dash, the hundred-meter hurdles, and the high jump.

8. You are no longer watching from the sidelines. It's alright that it still feels strange. It's the semi-finals for the hurdles. After warm-up, you are told to start from lane six on the dirt games field, right between this year's favorite and your best friend, Sunita, who stops being your friend after this race. You focus on the pink, green, blue, red, and purple skirts at the end of the course. They mark the ones who are to catch you, save you from running into the whitewashed brick wall enclosing the field. The whistle blows, and you’re off. Faster than anyone expected. Your feet churning the dirt, your body flying over the hurdles, not resting, not hurting, not stopping. Not stopped. You hurtle headfirst, hands barely braced, right into the wall. When you wake up, your vision fuzzy, your ears ringing, you smile. And that's alright too.

2001, United States of America

9. Tuesday morning, September 11, 2001. Your first day of school in yet another country, yet another culture. Head high, shoulders back, and a soft smile on your lips, you confidently walk to first period. English. Pacing at the front of the room, Ms. Waters reads out loud from A Separate Peace. You squint as you try to listen. You know the words, at least you thought you did, but American English sounds like a brook noisily tumbling down its rocky bed.

10. That day, during the early afternoon, everyone talks about planes. Images of planes hitting buildings, buildings burning, and buildings crumbling stream over the school TV sets above the heads of huddled, quivering students. “I was in a plane coming from India five days ago,” you say, offering to add to the story. But they only look away. When you close your eyes, you can still make out the tall gray-backed seats, the navy blue blankets that are warmer than they look, and the small yellow pillows.

11. It is alright to smile encouragingly into Ms Water’s red, tear-stained face and to thank the janitor for opening your locker. It is alright to wonder if the principal of the school calls meetings in the big room (the auditorium, you’ll learn later) every day. It is alright to worry about your sister. How is her first day? Does everyone cry so much here? How does a locker really work? It is all right because later, when you go home and finally understand what happened, you forgive them.

12. This concrete playground doesn't have eggshell bushes for you to hide within. But, getting used to the lonely familiarity of just being there, is easy. Everyone sees you the way they see the blue and yellow plastic chairs in the cafeteria. Every day you pick a table in the far corner, away from the lunch line and most of the noise, and eat the cheese and lettuce sandwich your mother lovingly prepared for you that morning. Sometimes Pauline and Sophie will sit with you and talk to each other in French. Sometimes you slip out of the school building for just a few minutes. There’s a spot for you there, right next to the lunch aide by the fence of the commons. From here, you watch with silent dignity as the other teens jostle each other for the swings at the end of the paved playground.

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Two decades and then some have passed since that time. I've taken the gift with me to Australia and then to the United Kingdom and I've experienced moments of kindness and goodness and compassion that continue to ripple out into time.

People aren't always kind. Just last week, my sister and I were on a bus when an older man called us rude names and flipped us the bird... simply for being. I can't help but wonder if he'd still be that way if he had witnessed a tiny act of kindness. Would the world not be a kinder place if we stood up for each other more? If we smiled a little more often? If we regarded each other with dignity and compassion?

In the end, our lives are woven together by sometimes fleeting, sometimes lingering transformative acts that create a beautiful tapestry of humanity that spans the world. I hope this story serves as a testament to the reverberating power of a single act of kindness, and that each of you is inspired to find the little gifts you've been given, and pass it on to create more moments that echo.

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Author's note:

Thank you, dear friend, for reading my short story, "12 Tiny Moments." I hope it touched your heart and inspires you to be a catalyst for kindness more often in your life. I'd love to hear from you about the moments that have echoed in your lives.

By sharing our stories, we create a community that celebrates empathy, compassion, and the power of human connection. Let us come together and create a ripple effect of kindness that reaches far and wide.

Please share your own experiences of transformative acts of kindness, whether you've been the recipient, the giver, or even a witness to such moments, in the comments below👇

I look forward to reading your stories and learning from your experiences.

Always in your corner,

R. J. Rani