Mother Teresa

Friday March 19, 2010

Calcutta was home to Mother Teresa for most of her life. It was where she established the Mother Charity missions that now exist in many cities around the world to help the very poorest “destitute and dying,” as well as orphans. It was important to me to visit the sights of Mother Teresa’s life and work because they are an example of excellent mission charity work and because Mother Teresa was my mother’s namesake.

I was surprised to learn that the mission openly accepts any foreign volunteers who show up at their door. They will put you to work the next day, after a brief orientation session, at one of their various locations in the city. I was interested in volunteering but I don’t really believe that a volunteer can do good work if he/she is only around long enough to learn the ropes. I wouldn’t have more than a day or two to spend, and honestly, I discovered the work was far too personal and intense for me.

I’ve never been to an orphanage before. I’ve always highly considered adopting if/when I decide I want children. The mission’s orphanage was exactly the scene I had always imagined a well-run orphanage would be. With an older Indian couple (who I think were interested in adopting) I was shown several rooms of the complex.

A nun dressed in white cotton robes took us first to the top floor, where in a bright, colorful room there were about 25 beds with low bars and an open space where equally as many children ranging from 4-10 years old were interacting and being cared for by busy volunteers and nuns. These children were all physically and/or mentally handicapped from birth or accidents in some way. They were shy but smiling, clinging to the women for guidance and love. One volunteer was soothing a trembling, blind 4 year old boy after some recent incident. In an accent I would place from Southern Spain she cooed, “Mi monito, no llores, no llores, estoy aqui.” Just then a young boy, who may have had cerebral palsy, fell to the ground and let out a cry. Calmly she stood the blind boy on his feet and anchored him to the side of the bed by wrapping his hand around the bar, “esperame,” and rushed to comfort the fallen boy.

Aside from these occasional tears the children seemed happy and busy either with each other or the women. They were drawing, playing, eating or sleeping. They seemed remarkably healthy. I was more concerned about the nuns and volunteers who were clearly exerting everything to care for these children. And yet they still had time to smile at us and ask us if we needed anything as we observed their work! I thought about the parents who had to give up these beautiful children because they couldn’t care for their special needs, or perhaps the parents who abandoned them because of their differences. Would these children ever know which the case was for them? Would they live their whole childhood in the orphanage? What would happen to them as adults? Was there any movement to adopt special needs children in India?

As we were about to leave the room I noticed the Indian woman looked as though she was about to cry, and so was I.

We headed downstairs with the melody of “row, row, row your boat…” growing louder. We were led into a smaller room with 20 cribs instead of beds and 20 toddlers playing in a pile on the floor with an assortment of toys and recorded children’s music filling the room. Again, they looked happy and healthy. But here there was only a single woman watching them, monitoring the fair sharing of the popular toys, and food and toilet needs. As soon as we stepped over the fence into the room each I, the husband, and the wife had 3-4 toddlers at our feet, hugging out legs, smiling bashfully at us, begging us to hold them. I sat on the floor and in seconds someone had claimed into my lap, a little girl with the biggest eyes and little black pigtails. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t show me anything, and she didn’t demand anything. She just looked up at me with the biggest smile as though I had just given her a huge ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles, what a delight to be on my lap! I played with her for a bit but there was a queue for my lap quickly forming, girls and boys (though the ratio reflects the societal preference in India for sons, 3:1 of girls to boys) vying for my attention. After a couple more hugs I couldn’t take it anymore and we left that room as well. The married woman was holding an infant girl and looking completely overwhelmed. The young children were just what I would expect orphans to be. They were simply and mostly in need of physical affection. I asked the nun that was guiding us through the building if these children were all up for adoption. “Yes, adoption office open tomorrow morning, 8am. You come tomorrow?” No, I’m not adopting, not yet, definitely not yet, I tried to tell her. She smiled kindly and sadly. I learned that Mother’s orphanage is home to over 200 children at the moment. When my visit was over I headed to the Mother House to visit Mother Teresa’s tomb feeling emotional and hormonal.

Mother Teresa’s main personal mission had been to care for the poorest of the poor, the destitute and dying. Near the main Kali Temple of Kolkata is Mother Teresa’s original home for the sick and dying. I visited the temple briefly and waited half-an-hour for the “home” to open it’s doors at 3pm for visitors. I tentatively entered, not at all sure what to expect. Just beyond the door I was in a room with about 30 cots, each occupied by an old, fragile man. Some were sitting, some sleeping, some eating. Volunteers moved between them checking comfort and needs. I hadn’t expected to walk straight into the facility. The lonely planet said the home was, “surprisingly small.” I didn’t realize that meant it lacked any type of lobby or hallway. A young Canadian woman came up to me and asked what she could do for me. I told her I had just stopped by to visit, but I wasn’t sure what that entailed. She swept me with her along her rounds in the next room where all the woman lay. She was cheery and conversational. Asking me many question about my travels. She was a nurse in Canada and had come to Kolkata specifically to volunteer at Mother Teresa’s home for the sick and dying for 1 month. I asked some questions about the woman and the operations of the home but I was quickly overwhelmed watching the patients and the minimal conditions and supplies available. The Canadian woman told me that some of the people come to the home themselves; some are found in the slums and brought there. If they had no one to care for them they would rest here until they passed away. I barely looked at the patients, focusing on my conversation with the woman, not allowing myself to connect to the place. I left not 10 minutes after I arrived, avoiding the emotions and memories I knew would flood in if I remained there longer.