Greetings from Kolkata,
This was my day, my first day on a journey among many…
At the Missionaries of Charity, I chose to work at Kalighat, the Home
for the Destitute and the Dying… out of all of the homes, I was oddly
drawn to this one, and not for any particular reason. I spent four
hours there... Doing laundry, washing the dishes, cooking, spending
time with the women and talking with other volunteers. The nuns were
cold, some had smiles and warm hearts, but I can still see one of them
yelling at one of the women to get up and somehow move her lifeless
body to the other side of the room on her own. It was intense. The
women lay in their beds, a select few have the strength to sit up.
Faint moans coat the room, and frightened and helpless faces lie in
each bed, portraying excruciating pain that haunts their every moment.
There is no relief in their lives, pain shows no end… where is hope? I
spent my time with them nervous. Nervous that my life wouldn't and
couldn't somehow manage to touch theirs… however miniscule. Nervous
that my young muscles would crush their frail old, dying hands. Scared
that I was bringing more pain instead of comfort. and terrified that
my way of showing love, was misinterpreted and somehow conditioned by
my culture and just couldn't make it past those cultural boundaries.
But I sat there on her bed, and held her hand as her eyes watered.
All I could see was pain that taunted her frailness. She lie crippled.
And all I could think to do was sing. If I sang to her, maybe somehow
my voice could make her pain run away, to make her worries melt, maybe
she could find peace, if I just sang. And so I did. I sat there and
held her hand and sang to her softly, gazing into her eyes and
wondering if I could ever manage to relieve her of her solitude with a
song that might somehow transcend the silence. Even just for one
second.
And then I moved on. I went from one woman to another massaging their
frail arms and backs, adding some moisture to their dry and cracking
skin. One lady sat with me and laughed as I moisturized her lanky arms
spotted with soars, laughing as she thought up every word she could
possibly think of that I might understand (in English) … looking for
any real verbal communication, as I know no Hindi or Bengali. So she
quietly and dazed sang to me her abc's and 1,2,3's, that quickly
eradicated any and every awkward tension as they were accompanied with
our light hearted laughs. And this was only the beginning of many
daunting days.
It came time to make my way home through the streets of Kolkata. I
briskly walked through the bustling market, and made my way far down
the stairs into the busyness of the underground Indian Metro system,
held on tightly as the cool air condition brushed my face… a
melancholic kiss against the backdrop of the tainted humidity of the
hot Indian sun.
And then there is the reality… My story is just one among many. And
yet this is just our effort to do, what Mother Theresa calls, small
acts … with great love.
This was my day, my first day on a journey among many…
At the Missionaries of Charity, I chose to work at Kalighat, the Home
for the Destitute and the Dying… out of all of the homes, I was oddly
drawn to this one, and not for any particular reason. I spent four
hours there... Doing laundry, washing the dishes, cooking, spending
time with the women and talking with other volunteers. The nuns were
cold, some had smiles and warm hearts, but I can still see one of them
yelling at one of the women to get up and somehow move her lifeless
body to the other side of the room on her own. It was intense. The
women lay in their beds, a select few have the strength to sit up.
Faint moans coat the room, and frightened and helpless faces lie in
each bed, portraying excruciating pain that haunts their every moment.
There is no relief in their lives, pain shows no end… where is hope? I
spent my time with them nervous. Nervous that my life wouldn't and
couldn't somehow manage to touch theirs… however miniscule. Nervous
that my young muscles would crush their frail old, dying hands. Scared
that I was bringing more pain instead of comfort. and terrified that
my way of showing love, was misinterpreted and somehow conditioned by
my culture and just couldn't make it past those cultural boundaries.
But I sat there on her bed, and held her hand as her eyes watered.
All I could see was pain that taunted her frailness. She lie crippled.
And all I could think to do was sing. If I sang to her, maybe somehow
my voice could make her pain run away, to make her worries melt, maybe
she could find peace, if I just sang. And so I did. I sat there and
held her hand and sang to her softly, gazing into her eyes and
wondering if I could ever manage to relieve her of her solitude with a
song that might somehow transcend the silence. Even just for one
second.
And then I moved on. I went from one woman to another massaging their
frail arms and backs, adding some moisture to their dry and cracking
skin. One lady sat with me and laughed as I moisturized her lanky arms
spotted with soars, laughing as she thought up every word she could
possibly think of that I might understand (in English) … looking for
any real verbal communication, as I know no Hindi or Bengali. So she
quietly and dazed sang to me her abc's and 1,2,3's, that quickly
eradicated any and every awkward tension as they were accompanied with
our light hearted laughs. And this was only the beginning of many
daunting days.
It came time to make my way home through the streets of Kolkata. I
briskly walked through the bustling market, and made my way far down
the stairs into the busyness of the underground Indian Metro system,
held on tightly as the cool air condition brushed my face… a
melancholic kiss against the backdrop of the tainted humidity of the
hot Indian sun.
And then there is the reality… My story is just one among many. And
yet this is just our effort to do, what Mother Theresa calls, small
acts … with great love.
Peace, Love and Blessings
