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.