The Roofs Above

Kalighat was harder today, and the only thing which made it easer was that it wasn't my first day. Yesterdays new volunteers were no longer new. We knew the bus ride, where to find the key for the volunteers locker, that we had to collect and don an apron, that washing the laundry would be a drier affiar if we rolled up our trouser legs and that breakfast a little cleaner if we rolled up our sleeves. I walked into the ward and saw much more than I had let myself see yesterday. Today the ladies didn't seem so old, but just sick – so incredibly sick. Today their agony was contagious. As one women cried out, other cries would follow, and rather than seeing the light stream through the windows, I just saw the wrinkles of distress it revealed on their faces and within their expressions. I picked up the breakfast plates and began to distribute the food. I found bed 40. She looked like a skin bag of bones, while a stream of water streamed from the sides of both of her eyes. “Diddy!” I shouted to her. “Nameste Diddy.” Breakfast! Khana (eat)? Despite having her eyes slightly open she was not responding. I placed a hand on her chest, but the physical contact achieved no reaction. I held the plastic spoon of gruel to her lips. "Khana?". Yesterday she had opened her mouth, today she cared not to. "Diddy!" I pulled the pillow higher up above her head, and let the gruel touch her lips. I caught the eye of an Italian lady who was clearly a long term volunteer. This women was radiating energy and talent; she had a clear ability to communicate with the patients despite the language barrier. I asked advice with as few words as was needed but with a look that said it all. She told me to shout a phrase (which I can no longer remember), but more over she told me her name, and bed 40 suddenly transformed her into “Parbatti”. It worked, and Parbatti began to open her mouth and let me drip the food in. To her right side was a younger lady covered in bed sores, and as thin as her skeleton. She was refusing to eat and a Korean Sister was trying to persuade her:

Your body is very very angry with you! You must eat. You are so thin! Your mind
is being very naughty. Your body is so hungry! You are so thin.

But she was no exception. The painful thinness of the patients was superficially masked by the massive night gowns which they wear. But once these are lifted or removed, eyes need to stop processing thoughts to the head. And this is a skill which I have yet to learn. Today, the phrase “to have a strong stomach” made sense to me. I felt myself wanting to wretch throughout the morning. Parbati was bleeding into her cathertar. A lady had spat out her beatle nut tabacco, leaving a red pile of mush of the floor drawing the first of the scouter ants, women turned to reveal carnivorous bed sores or openned legs to show malignant lumps and incontinance was everywhere. I knew I could never be a nurse and I have always admired those who choose it as a profession. And yet the irony was Kalighat is not a hosiptal. It is to give the sick a safe place to recover, or to let the sick die in dignity. The people I watched work were not doctors, or nurses. They just cared.

The laundry was my refugee. While bandages were changed I joined the washing production line. Boiling, stomping, scrubbing, rinsing, wringing, hanging. I carried bamaboo baskets of sheets, tousers, night gowns, aprons and rags up the spiralling stone stairs to the roof. I paused to breathe. I felt the sun on my face and the moving air brush past me. Drying the laundry was "rocket science" despite the claims of the Irish man on the opposite roof to the contrary. There was a strict system of what dries on which roof, and at what angle to ensure maximum utilisation of drying space. Lines of trouser pants lie nearly touching. The legs of which are to point away from the temple. “Don't ask!” Warned Mr Ireland. Pieces of soggy cloth everywhere, faded and worn, torn and mended. I balanced my way across to a free distant space and began to lay down bed sheets, folded in half to stop the wind from taking them sailing. The slant of the roof tried to push me down. I climbed back up. I wonder what happens in the monsoon?

I found a list of rules for volunteers today. They included not bringing in food or gifts for the patients and not socialising with other volunteers – it was a reminder that we were here to work, and it was true. Although advice was shared, and the odd comments exchanged to lighten a situation, we worked and chat was saved for outside. And even then some things are better left unsaid. It is bad enough to feel your thoughts demoralise yourself, let alone contaminate those who have been fortunate enough not to think them. , you walk out and try to leave the patients inside. To bring them with your mind is too hard, and is a crash course in self-protection for the medically unqualified.

Back in the ward I watched the other volunteers and felt an incredible amount of awe and respect. "Pizza Fungi!" screamed an ancient Indian lady. "Tagietteli!" echoed an authentic accented responce. The air no longer seemed to contain the freshness of the light it radiated. I felt it to be overly warm and repressive. I turned to another volunteer, saying I needed some 'fresh air', I would wait outside. She laughed and called after me, “let me know when you find that fresh air..”

The inability of the women to control any aspect of their daily life. What to eat, when to eat, and if they are unable to feed themselves – how quickly to eat. If they were able to pour their own water I would feel a small amount of satisfaction. Watching carers pushing food into refusing mouths, I try to stop my mind thinking. Words spun in and out of my consciousness. Nature. Society. Eating to live. Living to die. Humanity. Inhumanity. Confusion. As I said. Today was harder than yesterday. Perhaps today will be my last at Kalighat.

I find these words hard to write. I want to share the reality with those who may have their eyes closed in places far away where its easy not to see. I don't want to disrepect those I have been honoured enough to meet. I don't know if I possess the skill to relay the reality of far too many people in a way which remains "humble". My friend, I am sorry if I have failed.