Welcome to The Mother House

The fan whirls above my head, sending streams of warm air across my body. I open my eyes and my head begins to process the unfamiliar bed, the open door, the enamel squat toilet, the barred wooden door. Clearly my goodnight mantra had not survived dawn and it took several seconds for my mind to catch up with my eyes. Finally...ah yes, India!
Choruses of “Good Morning Madame!” welcome me as I emerge from my room. The street is bustling and it is time to explore. I walk straight into a stranger who is a friend of a friend. Of French origin, and a resident of Kolkata for four years. Street children collide with us and explode into howls of pleasure as they share affection and jokes with this old friend. We are welcomed like locals at a local restaurant. He orders in Bengali and tells me of his work; every morning he volunteers at a small dispensary at Kolkata train station. He dresses wounds and distributes what medicine is available. It is the definition of basic first aid, and with no medical background he has quickly become indispensable. With his four colleagues they work non-stop from the time they open the doors to the time they close. The dispensary is funded by the Mother House of the Mission of Mother Theresa here in Kolkata. I asked my new friend how he personally managed to stay for so long? His reply: "the universe will find a way" and since arriving both old and new friends who appreciate the importance of his work, had provided the necessary donations. Does he find the work difficult? Challenging? Draining? He confides that as he hands out medicines he is “selfishly” fuelled by a constant source of natural endorphins from helping. The work, he tells me, is addictive and he loves it. Does he miss home? “I am home” he replies. I like him immediately and he draws me a map from the tea shop to the Mother House.

First junction on the left, through a maze of food vendors, tea stalls and the human rickshaws. Car horns everywhere, and the yellow taxis, the same as New York – fifty years ago. Cows grazing in the piles of rubbish, a goat tethered to an iron gate, nose posed to sniff protruding food as it is wheeled by. Food being cooked and consumed everywhere. Steaming roti's, rising on top of hot plates before being fished out to fall on a bamboo tray, lime juice, lemon juice, pommegranite juice. Piles of miti (sweeeet Indian sweets), travelling icecream, the list is endless as I walk through this conveyor belt of 'fast food'. Somewhere in the middle men and boys crouch at the side of the road, washing from buckets the same size that tourists in Thailand drink mixtures of redbull and samsung whiskey from. Dirty water splashes across my flip-flopped feet, and is momentarily refreshing, as I step over shattered pieces of discarded pot chai cups. Men queue to fill empty water containers and I look twice as I see a man crouch to fill an upside down dead pig. My second look registers a complete pig skin, only missing the head. I pass the chai tea stalls smelling of gasoline and cinnamon and selling the same tiny clay cups full of chai, frothy with spice and boiling milk. I pass the open air butcher stalls, displaying skinned lengths of meat, surrounded by flies, as it releases the suffocating smell of blood into the warm air. Dressmakers seated behind Singer sewing machines and rolls of colours. Walking straight through this maze of food, transport and business I feel as if I have been here for months rather than one day. Perhaps my senses are recalling the familiar smells, sounds and sights from Nepal, but whatever it is I feel relaxed, comfortable and totally alive.

The Mother House is an immediate sanctuary – a concrete courtyard of relative quiete. A scattering of Sisters, wearing the trademark white robe with blue trim and from all nationalities – European, African and Asian. Giant sized posters of The Mother herself; her creased face smiling down through the habit, hands posed in Nameste. There are several rows of wooden benches filled with about 10-15 foreigners, predominately female. Two wandering British girls, cameras in hand, are redirected to the Mothers tomb, while the rest of us are waiting to register as volunteers. We are welcomed and given a brief summary of the work of The Mother House. This includes subsidiary 'Houses' to help every possible category of the sick and destitute that is imaginable – Houses for street children to the mentally disabled, for those suffering from curable diseases to those who will never leave alive. Volunteers are needed to help the sisters in everyday practical duties from cleaning to feeding, exercising, massaging, teaching and caring for patients. We were told that the residents of the Houses were there because they had “absolutely nothing and absolutely nobody” left in this world. Short or long term voluntary help – whether it be one week or one year – was essential. Volunteers assisted the Sisters in a very practical way, helping them to manage the never ending work load proffered by one of the poorest cities in the world. We all individually met the Sisters, who asked how long we would be staying and what our background and experiences were, and in which House we would prefer to work. Volunteers working for less than one month, were discouraged from working with the street children as would be unable to provide the desired stability.

My name was called. I would like to work where I was most needed and with a smile, the face of serenity sitting opposite me picked a tiny silver disk of the 'other Mother', brought it to her puckered lips, placed a kiss and handed it to me along with my work pass. She thanked me for my time and the next name was called. I start tomorrow. I am registered to work the morning sessions at the Kalighat House for the Destitute and Dying. I am petrified.