Kalighat

About 60 beds, all full of patients, stood closer than reaching proximity to one another. Light streamed in through the rows of open windows. Breakfast was in full swing. Volunteers seemed to go into automatic pilot and donned aprons before grabbing stainless steel trays of food. No instructions were given. No “Do's” or “Dont's” but just a whirlwind of activity. I managed to intercept a Sister to ask what I could do and was given the answer, which lay at bed number 40. The majority of the women at Kalighat were very old and with shaved heads, matching gowns and a massive language barrier meant that it was hard for them not to become a number. None have any family, and if it wasn't for The Mother house, would probably be lying on the street – or under it. Number 40 was no exception. She looked emancipated and incredibly frail. I picked up the plastic spoon and slowly she began to eat her now cold porridge. I found myself concerned that she wasn't ready for her next mouthful while my spoon hovered before her toothless mouth. We seemed to take far longer than all the other patients and volunteers and by the time she had finished, the plates had been washed and the beds stripped. I followed the stream of sheets through to the adjoining area with the men's ward, where a highly organised system of washing the laundry was under way. I joined a young Japanese girl and an older Spanish man who were fishing out sheets from a large stone sink with a bamboo stick and wringing them out. Neither could speak English. We wrung our way through so many sheets, pillowcases, aprons, rags and trousers that I finished the morning with red hands and happy biceps. For a complete workout I would just have to move down a notch on the washing conveyor belt; next to me jumped a volunteer wearing a T-shirt which read :

Americans brought electricity to my ass before they brought it to my house. Word on the Street, Baghdad.

The 'jumper' or rather 'runner' must have ran a mini marathon this morning as he stomped the clothes clean using a technique similar to that used to press grapes. He was Italian. A energetic energising Korean lady rushed through, peeling the wrappers of Cadbury's chocolate éclairs as she went. As if on automatic feeding pilot she popped a sweet in each of out mouths. “Amen” laughed a jumper. Behind the swashes of the water and the pounding of the feet came the raucous laughter and singing from the Indian helpers. “They sing all the day, that is until they decide its time to shout” smiled Baghdad T-shirt jumping man. It was essential balance needed to the painfully quiet lifeless living ward on the other side of the stone wall.

Back in the ward the ladies were either sleeping, lying or sitting. If I was able to catch their eye I took it as a opening in the gate between the expansive public space and their private bed and gestured if I could sit with them. I gave as many hand massages as I could. Rubbing joints that felt like stone and holding hands that I could hardly feel. One lady kept holding out her steel cup, repeating the word 'pani' as if it was her own private mantra. But no matter how many glasses she would sallow, her fever remained. She motioned to her head as if she were spinning. I massaged as gently but with as much focus as I could. And yes, if anything, in those few minutes perhaps I did something useful with my day.

A little bell rang – tring a ling – and the volunteers and Sisters filtered out of the ward and up the steps. We spiraled up and up, taking steps which would be impossible for the ladies below. Our journey finished standing in the warm breeze and gazing down onto Kalighat square, onto the streets where our patients once lived or slept. No one talked about the ward. We just sat or stood, and ate our chai with the help of large missionary wheat cracker, watching the daily life as if it were a soap opera performed to entertain rather than to live. It was the perfect place to observe and yet not to be observed. We were joined by a group of Swiss visitors with an Indian guide who asked where I was from. Scotland I replied. “Ah Scotland! Did you know that Calcutta was founded by a Scotsman? Mr Job Charnock in 1686!” I replied in my head, “or long before that when the land Kolkata stands upon was owned by the Bengali family Sabarna Ray Churdi.” Calcutta – Kolkata. Bengali – British - Indian. Such thoughts were not to be voiced. Not here. Not now. His foreign guests asked me why I volunteered. I replied that the Mother House was easy to access – it required no application, no interview, no 'volunteering fees' and no maximum time. They nodded and thanked me. I felt guilty for their thanks. Those to be praised sat behind me. Those who had been here for months and years, not hours. Their voices echoed down the stairs and faded into the horns and shouts of the street.

During my warm cold shower later that night I ran on top of my clothes, stamping out the dirt and the wringing them dry. It was much quicker than usual. The washing process was strangely therapeutic. I hung up my kuta on the washing line I had constructed from the shower pipe to the rusty hooks in the corner of my mini bathroom. I stepped into my mini bedroom to bathe in the breeze of the ceiling fan and took pleasure in being cool for the only time that day. The shower pipe banged to the floor behind me. Sleep was delayed with calculations of the large ceiling fan falling on top of me.