I think I’m in love with a 158-year-old woman.

I know of Amy Carmichael from my school days - Mum and Dad used to get us some books, and one of those was an Indian young reader’s version of Amy Carmichael’s story titled, God’s Madcap. So the word, Dohnavur, was not alien to me.

Then, Appa would visit Santhosha Vidhyalaya (SV) multiple times, for conducting school missions and things, and in my head, I tagged Amy Carmichael, Dohnavur and SV together.

In reality, SV was started in 1982, on lands leased from the DF, and has very little to do with Amy, apart from the fact that these lands belong to the DF and many of the buildings at SV still bear the தமிழ் names bestowed upon them by Amy.

During my recent visit to SV, I asked if I could visit the DF, and this is a chronicle of those brief two-point-five hours on a Saturday afternoon.

A bit of context before I dive into the mutton in this biriyani: if you love Jesus the way Amy did, I tend to nurture an extremely soft corner for you. In my life of 41 years, I probably might’ve seen just a handful. So my fascination for Amy Carmichael stems from this truth.
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3.10 pm on a Saturday afternoon. I am just wrapping up a meeting with the SV staff when I’m told that the ‘guide’ has come to take me on a visit to DF.

Heart gush with emotion, mind expectant, I walk out to see this short, aging lady in a simple plain blue saree.

She asks me how I’m going to come.

I’m bemused. Walk is the only option, right?

She gestures to her bicycle.

I’m sure one of my eyebrows shot up.

Now MY turn to gesture to her bicycle.

“You will ride?” I asked, incredulous.

Such a sneer of being looked-down-upon, I don’t think I’ve ever received. Especially from a 78-year-old.

She wordlessly grabbed a handlebar, hoisted her saree-clad body onto the saddle, and rode the cycle in a small circle to illustrate that yes, of course she can ride her bicycle, cos why not.

There are times in my life when all possibility of word or action or thought leave me. This was one of those times.

A bystander graciously offered their own bicycle, I accepted, and we were off - me still an incredulous expression, while thinking of the fact that this 78-year-old lady in a simple blue saree was actually cycling. And leading me. AND she was faster than I was, what with me not being used to bicycles for close to two decades.
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Our first visit was to the church that Amy built.

As we parked our bicycles and I was beckoned to enter the church, I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t believe that it was finally happening. That I could get to see the remnants of the work that Amy had started more than a hundred years ago.

Malar, introduced herself and with such joyous and child-like passion, informed me that her தமிழ் name was given to her by Amy herself.

She then asked if I’m okay with climbing up the (fifty? I forget the number) numerous steps to the top of the church’s bell tower.

After I convince this 78-year-old lady that I’m only 41, and not a 100, we both walk up the many, many wooden steps.

Amy built this. Amy lived here.

My mind just couldn’t settle.

We reach the top, and there’s this never-before-seen instrument which is a set of tubular bells.

With gusto, Ms Malar jumps onto the platform on which the bells rest, picks up a hammer, and asks me with an inquisitive smile: “What song shall I play?”

Me, still recovering from the fact this lady rides a bicycle, climbs up ~50 steps, and the fact that she now wants to play a large xylophone-esque instrument, am stupefied.

Unable to process anything, I ask her to play anything.

She proceeds with rendering Joy to the World with absolute delight and excellence.

I posted the video clip of her playing this on YouTube: https://youtube.com/shorts/50I9F6NkWyI

While still at a loss for words, she asks if I have a phone.

What kind of magic will you weave with my phone, now?!

She gestures with her hand, saying she’ll take photos of me.

I pass my phone to her.

I tell you, never in my life have I met someone above the age of 40-50 who has got me to pose repeatedly, in multiple poses, and tried taking photos from so many angles. By the end of the evening, Ms Malar would end up taking more than 200 photos of me. That includes a video which she took after telling me that she’ll go on ahead and I can come cycling after her, so that she’ll take a video.

Yeah, she was something else.
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We climbed down from the bell tower of the church, and we looked around a bit. There was an ancient, rustic quality to almost-everything in the church.

Many things were just simply different. Like the way the wooden frames were carved. The way the windows near the ceiling were built with shutters.

It gave me the impression that Amy must’ve been the kind of person who knew exactly what she wanted, and wouldn’t budge until she got it. As long as God gave her the green-light, of course.

Ms Malar then gestured me to sit. But she wasn’t happy with our positioning and drew up a chair to - as she put it - be able to see me and talk to me, better.

She then proceeded to tell me the story.

As she finished telling me about Amy’s birth and launched into the story of Amy’s tryst with blue eyes (she had brown eyes), my face reacted.

Ms Malar stops the story and asks if I know the story.

I say, yes, I know the story.

She asks if she should skip it.

I said no, tell me the story again, it is worth retelling.

She proceeds with her storytelling.

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After the story at the church, and dozens of photos, we moved to the actual residence of Amy Carmichael.

I do not think that words exist enough in my vocabulary to explain what I felt.

I am entering Amy Carmichael’s house. I am standing where she trod. “Amy, I’m here at last.”

I learn more about her daily life, where she sat, what object lessons she derived from the photograph of the Matterhorn, from the fishbowls she kept around.

I saw the place she used to sit in the mornings and write. And read. And talk to Jesus.

The writings on the wheel of the bullock cart, with which she aimed to dispel casteism and classism.

Amy, what kind of a stalwart have you been! Intelligent, and you put things into action!!

She spoke and wrote fluent தமிழ்.

She wrote poetry, some of which she composed as songs, and to this day, the people at DF sing some of them.

My goodness, who were you, Amy?!

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After being bedridden due to an accident in 1937 (and the lack of facilities to quickly reach a hospital), she felt she might pass away soon.

Amy called all her ‘girls’ together, and said, “Listen, when I pass into glory, none of you should say that ‘Ammai has died’. You should only say that I’m with Jesus now. And you shouldn’t weep. Please get everybody together and sing so many happy songs, for I’ll be with my Saviour.”

She even forbade them to place a gravestone atop where she would be buried.

And told them to call it a garden instead of a cemetery.

So that’s where we went to next.

Standing near the birdbath that someone had placed after Amy passed in 1951, I was overcome.

I’m trying to fight my tears cos I don’t want this 78-year-old lady to think that something’s wrong with my constitution.

And then this 78-year-old lady asks me to move closer to the bird bath.

I refuse.

How can I stand next to Amy’s grave? I am not worthy.

She insists.

With a silent apology to Amy in heaven, I knelt next to the bird bath.

Two tears dropped to the ground where Amy lay buried.

My soul, awash in the knowledge of everything that Amy had come and accomplished - and everything that she couldn’t - due to lack of time and resources.

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As we wrap up, Ms Malar has become a ‘friend’ of sorts. She asks me questions about my life. Which town I live in. What do I do for work. And so on.

I answer without much thought - my mind is numb.

God, what does this mean for me?

To be honest, I still don’t have an answer.

To visit DF and learn of this non-Indian lady who came to our lands so many years ago, and just threw herself into the work of saving women and children, was overwhelming.

Plus, she did it by wearing sarees, by staining her skin with coffee, by learning தமிழ் fluently, and by never, ever, ever going back to her home country of Ireland, UK.

Stories of her faith - after a tiger’s visit, when finances were tough, when she faced opposition from locals and authorities - are the stuff of legend.

I don’t know if there is (or even should be) a deeper meaning to all this.

All I know is, like I said to a friend after my DF visit: if Amy were alive today, I’d be crushing on her so hard.

Thank you Jesus, for giving Amy brown eyes, so she could come to India and accomplish everything that she did.

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Note: All inset lines in this blog post are from a poem/song I wrote about Amy Carmichael the night of this visit in November 2025, at 9.42 pm.

The song is actually really nice - feel free to give it a listen at https://suno.com/s/PltNJXeS5m8SH6rs