A long time ago (but not that long ago), I was 19, and I was hurting.

I should have been happy – I had just graduated from high school, and I had a year ahead of me to “figure things out” before I went off to school at a nameless, still-to-be-determined university — but I wasn’t, for a lot of reasons. For one thing, I was in a terrible relationship that I was stuck in like a caged bird. For another, I had no relationship with God — for some, there’s something about catholic school that just squeezes the patience out of you and makes your faith feel like a chore. Of course, I’m grateful now that I had that kind of education, but at 19 my mind was still closed and my heart just wasn’t ready to accept it.

That day, and all of the days before it, I wasn’t grateful for my life, I was resentful. I resented God for giving me this life where I felt so lost. Trapped. How was that fair?

It was hot that day, over a hundred degrees, and it was wet, eighty percent humidity. That was the day I learned that your thighs can stick to a hot plastic seat even if you’re wearing jeans. The ride from Bandra West in Mumbai to Thane is, according to Google Maps, a 53 minute ride by public transportation, but this is false. The ride from Bandra West to Thane is, perhaps, 53 minutes if your journey isn’t complicated by a crooked taxi driver, or people trying to sell you things, or cows standing obstinately in the road, unyielding. That’s the thing about India — you can never count on being on time, because India always finds a way to complicate things.

Of course, our trip to India wasn’t really supposed to be a pleasure cruise. We were there on business, God’s business, and there was little time for the so-called creature comforts of home, like an air-conditioned vehicle or normal road rules. But I digress.

We had gone to Thane that day, visiting the You Can Free Us Safe House, dressed conservatively and armed with several water bottles to combat the mercilessly hot weather. After a full day at the Safe House, Kelly, my partner, and I were exhausted and starving.

On the rickshaw ride back to Mumbai, the temperature climbed to 110 degrees. We had water with us, but little else; we needed to stop for food before we fainted in the worn back seat of the rickshaw. Kelly asked the driver to pull over at the shopping mall about an hour outside of Bandra and went in by herself, as the rickshaw driver wouldn’t stay and wait if both of us went in. I waited, uncomfortably aware of the driver glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I held my bag protectively over my chest, avoiding the eyes of staring passersby.

After a moment I noticed the driver gesturing at me, trying to catch my attention. When I looked at him, he made motions with his hands, pointing at my bag. Instinctively, I held it closer to my chest, but he shook his head and continued to motion, saying something in Hindi that I couldn’t understand. I asked him in Hindi if he spoke English, and as I spoke I could hear the nervous tremor in my voice; I wasn’t well enough versed in Hindi to communicate fully, and I wished Kelly would get back already and neutralize the situation. He shook his head again; no English.

He continued to gesture at my bag, so I relented finally and opened it, showing him the contents. The driver pointed inside, so I pulled out my wallet and a water bottle. He pointed directly at my water bottle and spoke again in Hindi, and though I could not understand his words, the tone in his voice was a question, almost a plea. I nodded and handed him the water bottle. He drank slowly, taking care not to let his mouth touch the bottle. After just barely a sip, he tried to hand it back to me, thanking me profusely in Hindi, but I held up my hand and shook my head, gesturing that he should keep it, and showing him the extra bottle in my purse. His eyes widened dramatically as he accepted the remaining water, continuing to nod and thank me as he uncapped the bottle again and drank the rest. I tried to offer him the other, unopened bottle, but he refused, holding up a hand and saying, “no, no” in English.

It occurred to me then that the water I gave him might have been the only clean drink the driver had all day; most rickshaw drivers live in the slums, where clean water is basically nonexistent. At home, a clean bottle of water on a hot day is just an accepted fact, something I always had; in India, it was a precious rarity, particularly to those entrapped in the never-ending cycle of poverty that so dominates the culture of India. I was overwhelmed by his gratitude at the seemingly innocuous gesture I made, and I realized, more than I had previously, what a gift I had, to have been born into a country where clean water was plentiful and I never had to worry that I wouldn’t have enough to drink. This was my “third-world country epiphany;” only then did I fully appreciate how blessed I was.

A long time ago (but not that long ago), I was 19, and all at once, I knew what it meant to be grateful.