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 THE SWEEPER - Jaadu Wali 
Here is another of the East Indian Ladies from the series "Work is Worship."  This lady who sweeps the ground in front of her home to make way for a special visitor is a portrait of a woman I watched every day at the ashram in India. She swept the stone floor after all the devotees were settled for darshan (viewing a holy man) and before Sathya Sai Baba came out to walk among us in his bare feet. She was remarkable in her attention to even the smallest ant in Swami's path.


This Doll is available to purchase! If interested, please email us at


  • Size: 16" tall figure; 18" overall

  • Face: needle sculpted Swiss pima cotton knit, hand painted  

  • Base: 12" x 12" x 2 Ĺ"  black floor tile, wood 

  • Accessories: Indian broom fibers, gold bangles, toe ring

  • Hair: natural gray mohair


When I was in India in 1996, I noticed an Indian sweeper, an older woman, whose job it was every day to prepare the stone floor for Swami's appearance in the area outside the temple. She was an expert with her broom. She could spot a piece of dirt the size of a needle's eye or an ant and swish them away with her facile broom. I watched her, fascinated with the look of happiness and concentration on her face.

Truly this was worship. I knew I had seen this look often, whenever I saw someone truly adept at their chosen task and performing it with great love. 

This was the conception of the series: Work Is Worship. The poem about her took shape in my mind shortly after I finished her. I had an Indian friend pose for me so I could get the correct bend and tilt of the back and placement of the arms.


The Sweeper
        © Jane Darin 1999
Just when I think to sweep for You, my Lord,
The boundaries blur and I wonder,
ďAm I the sweeper or the swept?Ē
Intent on clearing Your path of debris,
I neglect my own and yet,
I know You are me and love is us.

Here! There! I answer the pointing fingers
To scoop up a twig, a stone, a leaf
I keep my gaze down lest they all see that
I do it only for You, my God.
Yet when I point, I am wounded with the knowledge
That three point back at me.

I think to empty my heart for You, Dearest
And pour out my feelings in a passionless stream
So that You may fill this vessel with Your bliss.
I think to smooth Your path to my heart, Lord
Lest entering, You bruise Your soft bare feet.
Imagine my shame when You come
To stand on the one pebble Iíve missed
And I cringe with the pain of it all.


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