Tea and Bread

Familiarity. A routine waiting to be picked up and re-experienced. The chilly morning my only companion along Alimudden Street. Wrapping my shawl tightly around my shoulders for extra protection. My apprehension was nothing more than a release of nerves. The street was otherwise entertained. Yellow taxi's and lean men covered in soap suds, as vehicles, bodies and undressed clothes are washed together. Sounds of 'mooing' escaping from behind closed doors, betraying the notion that city houses are only reserved for city 'people'. Fat fried breakfast roti's lining up on top of gas cylinder stoves. Young boys dashing between others strides, bringing home the hot delivery parceled in yesterday's grease stained paper. Today's news plastered to the brick wall, as a row of men stand silently squinting. I remember my old conundrum of if two papers are pasted for public reading, or is only one side read? My body jumps slightly as it reacts to the ground next to my feet moving. A bundle of a body has just woken up.

The Mother House welcomes me through her cold and stony entrance and ushers me towards the lively sounds of the volunteers meeting room. Team Korea were diligently pouring chai from the industrial steel kettle, which was standing to attention in thick plastic cups. At their side, a nun was filling the next step in the breakfast production line and fervently slices doorsteps of white bread. The bread was only momentarily suppressed from the machete like kitchen knife, before bouncing back to a nearly 'normal' position. Volunteers lined up grabbing hot tea to which they could suffocate and dye the bread. Despite the breakfast rush, Team Korea plus Sister were totally committed to their mission. The scene seemed to perfectly explain the roots of the term 'missionaries'.

Hot chai in hand, and bread sunk and floating, abandoned or perhaps just waiting to be sucked up with the grains of sugary tea. I loitered around listening to the melody of languages jumping into my ears behind the visual backdrop of a huge world map. Spanish mingling with French, American English, Spanish English, the excited laughs of a group of Portugese women. One-day volunteers queued up in front of a Sister with a rather depressing name – 'Mercy' – waiting to register for their day of Charity. When she had handed out the last paper square, with her ordained scribble of permission, she opened the prayer. Turning to read the familiar words, I thought how awkward Catholics must feel in yoga classes – chanting mantras and humming 'oms'. But then again its all social conditioning. Now I was just feeling like I was at school. Perhaps it was the previous thoughts of Team Korea, but the memories of school assembly began to transform into the low rumble of a war dance. The collective energies being gathered and directed towards the 'mission'.

I stood with words silently passing through my consciousness as those around me mumbled through the daily prayer. Words of gratitude for the privilege of working with the poor, wishes for singleness of purpose and strength for the day ahead. The mission? In my mind, facing poverty, seeing suffering, not just crossing the road or reading what 'fate' might lay in wait for those we wouldn't feel comfortable touching. Despite my reluctance to move my lips and despite the groups clearly very different motivations, the importance of a common goal felt reassuring. 'Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!' jumped out, as controlled claps followed the rhythms of gratitude directed to those leaving and continuing their journeys – home or onwards.

I found what I was looking for. Two committed smiling Spanish women who were long term volunteers in Shishu Bhavan. I needed moral support to walk into the orphanage, and the women's chit chat about the kids and their experiences, providing just the right amount of comfort.

Breakfast was worth it. Its good to be back. Its good to be part of a collective of energies working towards compassion – despite the religious camouflage and culture confusions.