Nirmal Hriday

The name of Mother Teresa's Home for the Dying is "Nirmal Hriday." No one really uses this name though, I guess because it sounds so funny when English speakers pronounce it. When refering to the home located in the southern part of the city, volunteers usually call the place "Kalighat." Like New York City has many different boroughs, Calcutta is divided into many parts as well, and Kalighat is one of those parts. Named for its famous Hindu temple to the Goddess Kali, Kalighat is where Mother Teresa's ministy began. A sign at the door declares the home to be "Mother's first love." This fact always surprised and amazed me, that Mother Teresa would want to minister first to the dying people of Calcutta, and across the street from a Hindu temple at that. So much foreign volunteer and mission work is geared toward children, young people, even orphans. But dying people? Children are easy to love. Their smiles linger just under the surface of their skin. But at Nirmal Hriday, some of the patients I never saw smile.
To get there, it was a 20 minute bus ride from where I lived. I actually prefered the bus to walking, because even though most city buses charge you 5 rupees to be more packed than any late night campus bus I've seen in Chapel Hill, at least no one was asking me for money or food, or if they were, I felt like I could give them something without being swarmed on the street. And I don't want to leave out that a lot of Indian people show a great sense of common courtesy. I think people who can afford to ride the bus are doing alright in life, and they often slide over to make a seat for me in the "ladies only" seating (men and women don't sit next to each other on the bus) and some bus workers (the man who gives you a ticket/takes your money) have asked me where i'm from and how long I'm in town. Mostly, I think they want me to find them kind and ride their bus again. Because while many of the buses have similar routes, the bus workers make money in proportion to the number of people they pack on. And like any big city, you have to watch your bags on the bus. and on the metro. which I only took a few times.
Upon arrival in Kalighat each day about 3 pm, I put on my apron and got to work. Each of the patients rest in a cot marked with a number over his/her head. The arrangement of the cots is such that one row is just a step below a higher row and so on. My first day I expected some explanation of my duties or an orientation of the premises, but there was nothing. The first of my duties was to help with administering medication. A sister gave me a pill with instructions to deliver to patient number 17. Getting over the original shock caused by the realization that the patients were known by numbers rather than names, I found a number 17, fed her the pill, and gave her some water to drink. Looking around at the next volunteer, I discovered that I had read the number at the foot of the patient rather than the number above the patient's head. I had given the pill to the wrong person. I was immediately horrified. And that's how my first day at Nirmal Hriday began.

A Cup of Tea--or Two or Three

There is no place or time in Calcutta where a cup of hot chai is not appropriate, even in 100 degree weather. At first I thought this was senseless, wiping away beads of sweat from my upper lip to avoid salting my tea. But after a bit of research, I've been told that the chai actually helps one's body cope with the heat. Whether or not this is true, I still prefer my sweetened, southern, ICED tea at home. But tea is more than a drink here, it is an offering of hospitality. When I shop at the open air market I am offered a seat and a cup of chai in anyone's shop who can afford the space. When I wake up in the morning, chai is on the breakfast table. It is served to the volunteers at every Mother Home. It is a snack, a treat, an afternoon rest. My first Sunday afternoon in Calcutta, I had the opportunity to take chai in the home of some native Calcuttans along with a missionary couple based in the city. The wife, who I found out was scarcely older than me, was five months pregnant. But this did not stop her from waiting on me hand and foot as I sat shoeless on her family's big bed, which also served as an eating area. The bed was filled with dishes; Calcutta is famous for its sweets. By the end of the affair I thought I might be sick. The sugary coatings of all the treats paled in comparison to the sweetness of this family, urging me adamantly to eat more and more. Seeing how they lived, I knew that a tea time like this was not usual. I was disappointed that I could not finish all the food, but I was glad to have not been sick all over their one room home. There was a back balcony area, which connected the fourth floor home to other families' dwellings. I stepped outside with the young wife and her mother to cover our heads during the Muslim call to prayer around 5:30 pm, because we had to leave the men alone in the room. When it was time to leave, I made my way down the steep stone steps to the street below, where I think the "sewer system" delivered all the waste of the whole building. I think. ...Actually, I'm pretty sure. But it didn't bother me--I felt more filled with thankfulness than with food, and the hospitality of these humble people overcame everything else.

Good Morning Auntie

I spend my mornings with the lucky children. By this I mean that, while they are orhpans, the kids at Shishu Brevan are clothed, well-fed, medicated, and even loved and cared for my Indian workers and volunteers. The first obstacle of the day is getting everyone seated and calmed for our morning prayer to begin class. This is often a challenge, as obedience is not one of the strongest qualities of my pupils. I was surprised the first time Dhulika (age 12) looked at her assignment and then at me and simply said, "No." But according to insight from one of my Indian friends, many children respond only to corporal punishment here, and as soon as they know that the volunteers won't strike them, they know their cooperation in the classroom is optional. In my school experience, however, to tell an authority no for any reason was unacceptable. But it's absurd to compare my experience with Dhuika's. After prayers, the next obstacle in my classroom is one that exists outside as well--communication. Bengali, Hindi, and English words buzz around the room like Indian mosquitoes, threatening only to infect the little ones with learning. My work there is truly enjoyable, and by eleven it seems the morning of classtime has flown by.

Auntie Arrives

Were it not for my sense of smell, I would've sworn my midnight ride into Calcutta, India was merely a roll of tape at the movie theatre. But my olfactory glands are intact, or they were, rather, on May 18th when I landed in sticky, stinky Calcutta, the biggest villiage I've ever imagined. Sadly after I've lived almost 5 weeks in downtown, the sight of a rickshaw driver asleep in his vehicle or a group of men bathing publicly at their water spicket no longer seem cinematic to me. On the other hand, it seems that the people of Calcutta will never get used to the sight of me, the girl with yellow hair. Perhaps it is my occasional exposure of my ankles that warrants the attention, but my western upbringing says that at 100F and 100% humidity it's permissable to show my ankles. I don't mean to say that everyone gawks at me; I've met very warm, loving people randomly on the bus or visiting West Bengal's folk art collection. Most are curious about America or my work at Mother Teresa's homes. One little boy standing in line at a chicken roll vendor's informed me "Every young Indian wants to go to the United States. Why did you come here?"
On bad days I ask myself the same question. Why did I come here? A "drop in the bucket" might be a generous description of my contribution to the summer wave of mostly 20-somethings who came to volunteer. Ultimately, though, I know that the person who will be touched most by my summer in Calcutta is myself.
While th Christian population of India is about 2.3% most people smile at the mention of Mother Teresa's name. What started with Nirmal Hriday (meaning Pure Heart), the "Home for the Dying" in the southern part of the city is now a ministry of 7 different homes for orphans, battered women, mentally and physically handicapped people, the elderly, and the destitute throughout the city. But even with these 7 homes and countless other NGO's and charitities, this city of 20+ million people continues to lack everything but need. West Bengal, the only communist state in India, seems to have no proviison for the beggars who literally make the sidewalks their homes. In fact, only recently has a law forbidding public urination and defecation been passed. Unfortunately for me, it only becomes effective in 2010. So each morning on my walk to Shishu Brevan orphanage, the orphanage where I teach 5-10 year olds, I excuse myself as I walk through the dwellings of big-eyed, often bony families. Some sip chai or wring out laundry as I pass; others just sit quietly or roll over, attempting to sleep in another hour amidst the rising sun and temperatures, and the rising frequency of taxi horns. A wave of relief always greets me at the gates of the orphanage, signaling the end of my short, but often depressing walk. The call of "Auntie, Auntie" floods the classroom along with children at 8:30 am. And thus begins my day.