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.

Hour Out

Once a month the some of the children from Shishu Bhavan have the opportunity to go to an evening Children's Mass at the Mother House. I figured that any opportunity for the children to leave the room must be justifiable. All the children from the 'active' section were to attend along with a select 'active' if assisted 'inactive' children. The children were dressed in their matching outfits, hair/ lice tied back and shoes fitted. I was in charge of carrying one of the two Princesses who was given a green fridge magnet in the shape of a letter G as backup entertainment. I carried her downstairs which was an adventure in itself as she usually just totters around the room. We paused outside the perfect babies so Princess Josephine could give a wave of solidarity. One American volunteer asked if we were going in a bus. I responded with a laugh - after all the Mother House was not even a five minute walk from Sishu Bhavan and all of the children could walk unaided apart from a handful who just required some extra patience and assistance. It was only a short walk – but enough to feel the street and to see other people walk by, and the buses and cars and maybe even a crow or a wandering cow. Within seconds a big Missionaries of Charities van reversed and the children were piled in.

There was an exception. A small princess who was so silent that it was not noticed that she was sitting in my arms. I felt privileged to show her the world from on the street rather than from above it. She sat on my arm as if it were a little throne and rotated her head this way and that – an outside table full of cooked potatoes and a small naked baby, chickens hanging upside from from a bicycle which wheels by as a taxi slows to a stop. A pitter patter of bare feet preempted the running rickshaw man. Lull lull goes his warning bell to clear the road for his VIPs. A bunch of spick and span white shiny school uniforms; faces munching down on tiffin. So noisy, so smelly – no matter how many lives can be piled into one room there will always be so much more life on this street.

We arrive at the Mother House and walk into the room which extends out around the Mother Teresa's tomb. I always think it is a very large tomb for such a small lady but as time seems to be turning her into a Saint perhaps not. The children are all arranged in front of the alter. Cross legged and seated on the floor. Apart from Lipstick Girl who manages to procure a chair and the Sisters who are kneeling in a appropriately subservient and Christian way. Princess Josephine is still silent, that is of course apart from the rotation of her head which won't stop swiveling around. The room fills up – with people standing along the walls and in the doorway.

Something started in regards to the service, perhaps a prayer or a hymn, I am not sure but I know that from then on I really began to see the masked intelligence of an eleven year old girl from Shisa Bhavan. The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World was sitting on the floor – unattended but Watching and Enjoying. And then everyone around her stood up. She was left on the floor – flapping her arms and tilting her neck back -so desperately wanting to be part of the standing congregation. I quickly deposited the Princess with eagerly awaiting arms and went to The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World. Now The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World wears calipus – these are material and metal straps wound tightly around her legs and which lead down to her surgically adapted shoes. Ultimately it is really quite hard to push her from sitting to standing – especially if she is perched on top of you. So I levered her up and down and up again throughout the Service – each time become increasingly paranoid that I was somehow offending the congregation by my disruption to the proceedings and at the same time becoming increasingly frustrated at the lack of Christian help. It appeared that eyes were the only proactive part of the watching bodies. Eventually I managed to work out a system whereby I wedged her between me and the Mother's Tomb and used it to help me lift her up. I figured the use of the tomb was not disrespectful but perfect opportunity for the extra small dead Mother in the extra large box to help us both out.

The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World seemed to agree and took her new position in the center of the room as an opportunity to flash one of her most beautiful smiles in the world at all the new faces who were drawn to her. I watched as the New Faces would either pretend they hadn't seen or awkwardly grin back . As the Service went on The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World became increasingly desperate to make the most of her time outside of The Room. She began to fling her arms around, hitting whatever and whoever was between them. The 'Receiver' would initially look horrified but then their eyes would lead them to the most beautiful smile in the world and their mouth could not help but try to imitate. The greatest challenge however was when Communion was offered. I rapidly began to understand why one of the Sisters had been madly motioning to me – we were seated in the popular path right next to the Mother's Tomb, between the congregation and the alter. This meant that as I tried to nudge The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World away from the traffic she was positioned with the prime opportunity to show her Love to all the strangers in the room and her excitement in able to touch them – Whack Whack Whack – as I tried to support her standing body weight while at the same time controlling her arms.

Then it was our turn to join the line. We climbed our way over – one locked leg at a time, arms swinging and mouth grinning and eventually arrived in front of the Priest. The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World pulled her hands together and in a combined Prayer/Nameste and then placed a large drooling kiss on the large silver cross held in front before bowing her head to touch it. I was so shocked and amazed and disappointed at myself for not really seeing what level of understanding my silent swinging eleven year old friend had. I knew she loved babies as she always tried to Hug them from the confines of her wooden cushioned chair in The Room, and during the Mass she showed me that she loves strangers. However, that she is really aware of her surroundings and can follow and remember instructions was something of a revelation to me. We turned around and I asked her if she enjoyed the mass? She moved her arms to bring her hands sort of together and the Most Beautiful Smile in the World was certainly there. Then I had to deposit her back in the bus to be shipped back to The Room. At this point we briefly thought that Monkey Boy had gone on one of his adventures and had been swallowed up in the massive Mother House. Un/fortunately for Monkey Bot in reality he had just been walked back to Sishu Bhavan by a brave volunteer.

The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World had a medical assessment yesterday. One of the recommendation for her Care Givers was to “make her stop swinging her arms around when becoming excited.” I wondered how else The Girl With the Most Beautiful Smile in the World - trapped inside a body which cannot talk or coordinate - was going to be able to show her emotions? Can her Smile become any more Beautiful?

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.