Life & Death on the Ganges

Once again we traveled by train through the night to Varanasi, the most holy Hindu city on the Ganges, or Ganga, River. In the past, the city has been known as Kashi and Benares, but its present name is derived from the two rivers that converge at this spot, the Varuna and Assi. As we rolled into the city, we crossed the Ganges. On one side of the river were alluvial plains covered in a soft, velvety carpet of green, while the other side was an entirely built environment with back to back ghats lining the river and mosques, temples, palaces, and other buildings in the backdrop. At the train station at Varanasi was a special information center for tourists, and, by the time we left the train station to find our hotel, we were well-informed for our two-day whirlwind tour of Varanasi. Once settled at our hotel, Peter and I set off to find the general post office and explore the nearby vicinity. A hotel employee, who was headed to the market, accompanied us part way and then directed us for the remaining short distance to the post office. The streets of Varanasi are even more chaotic than Kolkata because in addition to all types of vehicles, including animal-drawn carts and auto, human and bicycle-powered rickshaws, cows and goats meander the streets at will and cars and other vehicles park in makeshift rows on the side of the road. As you walk the streets and sidewalks, you must constantly dodge this eclectic collection of moving vehicles, humanity and large piles of cow feces and puddles of urine and occasionally an ornery cow who doesn’t feel like moving to the side to allow pedestrians to pass. In addition to the above bodily fluids, many men chew beetlenut, which turns the mouth and lips an opaque orange, and are constantly spitting the resulting spittle into the street. Yet another environmental hazard to contend with in the cities of India. When I blew my nose the other day I found black grime on my tissue. My hair follicles and villi are working over-time to filter the dirt that is so pervasive, especially in the urban environs in this country.

I suppose all this chaos is appropriate for a city that claims to be one of the oldest living cities in the world, a cradle for civilization for over 2,000 years. Mark Twain, who uttered one of my favorite and telling quotes about San Francisco (“The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco.”) captured the essence of Varanasi when he said: “Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together.”

A local, Arun, arranged by our hotel, led us through small, winding sidewalks to the ghats, sacred stairs that lead to the Ganges River for Hindu pilgrims and faithful in search of spiritual cleansing and direction. There are 365 of these ghats, each bearing its own unique significance; some were built by maharajas from different parts of India and others are devoted to specific Hindu spiritual practices or Hindu gods. For instance Panchganga ghat stands for five rivers—“panch” means five, and “ganga,” means river in Hindi, and Manikarnika stands for the diamond earring that Shiva’s wife lost—“mani” means diamond and “karnika” means earring or jewelry.

We also visited a sari shop where we took off our shoes and sat on mattresses covered in white sheets to sample different types of silks and saris. The silk comes in all varieties, colors and sizes, and we were served hot chai tea as the attendants unveiled, with a grand flourish, stunning sample upon sample. I was suited up in a sari and modeled the elegant, traditional Indian dress for my appreciative audience. After my introduction to the different styles of saris, I have decided to purchase a less-expensive pre-made Punjab outfit, a more modern version of the sari with pants, a simple dress and a scarf.

Night was beginning to fall when we left the sari shop and we headed back to the river to catch a boat to Dasashwamedh ghat, one of the largest and most popular ghats, to see evening prayers. Along the way we saw one of the principal Muslim mosques, Alamgir Mosque, and the Golden Temple, each with its distinct architecture, and silhouetted against the deep blue night sky. From a distance, you could see and hear the festivities at Dasahwamedh. Several altars were elaborately adorned with leis of flowers, multi-colored lights and brilliant silk cloths. Amidst an aura of incense, spiritual leaders performed dances with torches and offerings in what looked like brass receptacles as the music blared and people gathered to pray and watch the spectacle. On the way back, we caught an auto rickshaw and the driver told us about how his brother had been killed in a bombing at a Hindu temple last year. He prayed to the gods that his brother would return through his baby soon to be born. He did indeed have a son and it brings him some comfort to know that his prayers were answered and that his brother’s spirit is alive in his son. Apparently the tensions between Hindus and Muslims persist even today, rooted in the Muslim incursions of earlier centuries throughout India during which Hindu temples were raided, looted, razed, and replaced by Muslim mosques. The Ganges River remains a strictly Hindu sacred river. Muslim mosques are not allowed on the river. Alamgir mosque is currently under tight security because of threats of retaliation by Hindu extremists.

We arose early the next day to observe the early morning Hindu prayer rituals along the river. Hundreds of Hindus flock to the shores of the river to bathe and pray in the river. They douse themselves with water and then fill brass receptacles with water, hold them up and circle them several times to all the points of the earth, I believe, like an offering of atonement to the mother god of the Ganges.

A few of the ghats are burning ghats where the dead are burned in an elaborate funeral ritual. Many Hindus come to the Ganges to bury their dead because they believe that all buried at this sacred site are released from the cycle of birth and death and ascend directly to Nirvana. At Manikarnika ghat, funerals occur 24 hours/day, and families were gathered in vigil around burning bodies as we paddled past the ghat the night before and that morning. In the morning our boat parked very close to one family and their burning loved one. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking at until the guide pointed out the feet sticking out at the bottom. The whole ritual is quite involved. First the family washes the body in the river in a final purification ritual. The body is then set on the steps to dry completely. In the meantime, the family must attend to legal and business matters, registering the dead loved one’s name and address with the police and making arrangements with the ghat’s owner to pay for the fire wood needed for the burning. Once the ghat workers have created a wood pile, the family brings the body wrapped in a white cloth and strapped to a bamboo mat and places it on top of the wood pile. The oldest son of the family, clean-shaven and wearing white clothes, walks around the eternal fire of Shiva (god of destruction) that burns continually in the ghat five times, lights a stick, and returns to the steps of the ghat and ignites the wood pile. The family remains with the body in a sort of accompaniment in this final mortal journey until the body is completely incinerated. This takes 2.5-3 hours. Usually the chest bone remains for a male and the hip bone for a female. A clay pot is broken and these pieces along with the remains of the body are thrown into the river to signify the final breaking of ties with family members in this realm, allowing the dead loved one to ascend unencumbered to Nirvana. Finally, the whole family bathes in the river and the ritual is complete. This elaborate and deeply significant ritual allows the family to intimately experience the cycle of life and death, and, as in other spiritual traditions, the meaning of “from dust to dust” and resurrection in a profound, albeit graphic, way. For Hindus, this practice here in Varanasi on the shores of the Ganges River is extremely significant religiously and culturally.  On one ghat, this message was printed in large, bold letters: “Ganga is the lifeline of Indian culture.”

I was impressed with and moved by how publicly and so full of rich symbolism the matters of life and death were dealt with and the similarities between the symbolic rituals and elements of different world religions. In our Catholic Christian tradition, we too use water to cleanse and purify and have sacramental rituals for inducting the faithful into the Christian community (Baptism), healing the sick and blessing the dying (Anointing of the sick and dying), and on Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, our period of fasting and sacrifice, we are blessed with ashes on our forehead, a reminder that “we are dust and from dust we shall return” and that, in our life in this mortal realm, we strive to live in such a charitable and loving way that we will ultimately join our God and the communion of saints to live in eternal peace and joy in His heavenly Kingdom. I think, however, that Western culture, with its emphasis on realism and rationalism, has diminished some of these more powerful traditions and rituals, and death is even a taboo subject. But, here on the sacred shores of the Ganges River in this vibrant, yet plagued country, these most intimate mysteries of the human experience are expressed in the daily, utterly unpretentious rhythm of everyday life in a poignant, public and natural way, devoid of ulterior intentions as Hinduism is not a proselytizing religion and is not in the business of seeking converts. Amidst the funeral rituals and flocks of Hindu pilgrims, young and old, lay and Brahman, coming to the river to bathe and pray, the natural clatter of ordinary life unfolds: Young men play cricket and older men play board games, while young children scamper upon the steps. India's famous dobis ferociously wash laundry, flushing the clothes in and out of their buckets in a rhythmic beat, heaving the wet mass of clothing high over their heads, beating it with clubs, and laying it out to dry in a brilliant mosaic of multi-colored saris. The pilgrims come in group tours from all over India, bedecked in their brightly-colored saris and garments, and moving enmasse across the ghats and the Ganges.

Being here in this cradle of Hinduism and experiencing these mysteries of life and death have strangely strengthened me in my own faith. I remember our Muslim friend, Ayub from Afghanistan, telling me just this—that his commitment to and practice of his Muslim faith were reinforced since arriving in America to study. I now understand what he meant: My own faith has been reinforced predominantly by the faithful spirituality of the people of other countries and similarities in the teachings that all the major religions share, as well as a deeper appreciation for the traditions and tenets of my own faith. The realization that we of different religions are bound more by our common beliefs than differences renews my faith that humankind will transcend the perceived differences between religions that have caused so much strife and division in the world.

That afternoon we visited several Hindu temples in Varanasi. These temples were less accessible than the Buddhist temples of Southeast Asia, I think because Hinduism is not about congregating on Sunday to worship but more a way of life and a connection to the fundamental elements of the earth. As we temple hopped, however, we became acquainted with Hindu gods, practices and scripture. At the Durga temple, we watched from the open perimeter above the main temple as people gathered for noon prayer. As people arrived, they rang bells to rouse the resident deity’s attention as they prayed. Later the faithful proceeded through to other stations, clockwise, receiving blessings of holy water and other symbolic markings, many derived from one of the five elements central to Hindu teaching—fire, water, earth, wind and ether. The primary Hindu gods are Shiva, god of destruction, Brahma, god of salvation, and Vishnu, god of reincarnation. For Christians who believe in one God this can be seen as a radical departure from Christianity but if you look closer at Hindu sacred writing, you discover that these attributes represent aspects of the one God. At the temple at Banares Hindu University, I found this scripture inscribed near the entrance to the main altar at the heart of the temple:

Ø       “The wise call that one god by various names.” –Rigveda 1, 164, 46.

Ø       “He is Brahma (the creator), Shiva (the auspicious one), Indra (the Lord). He is immortal. The highest. The self-ruled. He verily is Vishnu (the all pervading), the vital energy. He is Kala (the destroyer) fire and moon.” –Kaivalya-Upanisad, 1.8

Ø       Salutation to God—all pervading, omniscient, eternal, incommutable, salutations to god—existence absolute, knowledge absolute, bliss absolute.

I was very intrigued by these Hindu proverbs that sounded very much like the proverbs we find in the Old Testament, also found inscribed on the walls of the university temple:

Ø       Both the better and the pleasanter come to a man. Going all around the two, the wise man discriminates. The wise man chooses the better, indeed, rather than the pleasanter. The stupid man, from getting and keeping, chooses the pleasanter.

Ø       Not he who has not ceased from bad conduct, not he who is not tranquil, not he who is not composed, not he is not of peaceful mind can obtain him by intelligence.

Ø       The heart of the worldly man is like the worm in a dung hill. The worm always lives in the dung and loves to therein. If by chance someone takes it out of that filthy habitat, it does not like it and returns.

January 1, 2006

We celebrated mass at the cathedral that overlooks Kangchendzonga and is adjacent to the extensive Himalayan botanical gardens in town. We shivered along with our fellow Catholics in the large, vacuous and uninsulated building as the mass bore on for nearly two hours as several adult baptisms and confirmations were incorporated into the special holy day service in honor of Mary, Mother of God. After mass, we walked to Chowrasta, the upper-most plateau/central plaza in Darjeeling, where locals and tourists alike sit on the benches on the periphery of the square, bask in the unobstructed sun, people watch and soak in the phenomenal view high in the clouds. Along the square is a bookstore, stores selling wool clothing and Tibetan and other local handicraft, and small restaurants. The place hops by day and night. At night, many of the establishments are outlined in lights and the plaza twinkles with the buzz of people and ambience. This late morning, we found a table near a sunlit window at Fiesta, a restaurant with western and Indian food and ordered cheese pizza, a waffle, and a veggie omelet and it was good. You can’t always count on western food hitting the mark in foreign countries but we really enjoyed our fare at Fiesta’s.

A Zoo in the Himalayas

Full of good food and enthusiasm for the day, Peter, Paul and I set off to see the zoo and the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute (HMI), and it reminded me of our Peter, Paul and Mommy adventures when my boys were younger. Since several of us have been afflicted with diarrhea since we arrived in India, our first and urgent stop was the public toilet at the zoo. The zoo features Himalayan animals and they were remarkably active that early afternoon so we were able to see all of them on display at the zoo—the endangered yak, that bore an uncanny resemblance to the ancient wooly mammoth, sambar deer, common leopard, snow leopard, the majestic Siberian and Indian tigers, small civit cats, the endangered red panda, a cross between a raccoon, bear, and cat but is its own species, and the funky-looking Himalayan black bear with its afro-like head dress. The conservation center at the zoo has had considerable success breeding the smaller red panda but few of the larger mammals have been successfully bred in captivity. On the premises is also the HMI and we saw a display of the equipment that was used to surmount Everest back in 1953 and how that gear has evolved over time. The early climbers looked like astronauts with their bulky gear and, though the high-tech clothing and equipment is considerably more light-weight, the gear needed for survival at those altitudes still looks mighty cumbersome and daunting with full-masks or helmets, respirators and layers of insulation. A large section of the museum was devoted to Sir Edmund Hillary, from Australia, and his Tibetan sherpa Tenzing Norgay, the first to climb Mount Everest. Tenzing Norgay, a native of Darjeeling, is revered in these parts. He is known for his extraordinary knowledge of the area and mountain-climbing, deep spirituality, and kind, gentle personality. He and Sir Edmund Hillary shared a close friendship throughout their lives and Sir Edmund Hillary funded a special memorial in honor of Tenzing at the highest point at the institute, a bronze statue of him with a brilliant smile and his gaze lifted to the mountains and a tomb that contains his remains. The two families have remained linked over the generations and recently Tenzing Norgay’s granddaughter and Sir Edmund Hillary’s grandson climbed Mount Everest on the 50^th anniversary of their grandfathers’ historic ascent.

It is quite remarkable to note that 14 of the Himalayan mountains are over 8,000 meters or 26,000 feet, hundreds are over 7,000 meters or 23,000 feet, and that the entire expanse encompasses 2700 kilometers.

We returned to Glenary’s, our favorite bakery, for late afternoon tea and cinnamon rolls and to check e-mail at Digital Donuts, the Internet café at Glenary’s. For dinner, we returned to Fiesta’s for another round of pizza. At the entrance we were greeted by the smell of freshly popped popcorn and each got a bag and enjoyed the fresh, roasted morsels.

December 31, 2005

Tibetan Refugees in Darjeeling

At the summit of observatory hill is a Hindu temple surrounded by hundreds of multi-colored prayer flags in the trees, and there in the backdrop through the trees looms the majestic Mt. Kangchendzonga, its presence emanating its own spiritual aura. Throughout the day as we wound our way through the mountain roads of Darjeeling, I found myself becoming aware of its presence even before I saw it. You literally feel it, calling you to admire the beauty and awesomeness of God’s creation. On a particularly dramatic hillside facing the mountain is the Tibetan Refugee Self-Help Center. Founded in the 1950s, this village is now a dynamic community of Tibetan refugees committed to sustainable cottage industries and the preservation of their culture, religion and identity as a people. Villagers demonstrated knitting, weaving, painting, sewing, and leather art. Many of the designs and colors reminded me of the handiwork of the Mayans of Guatemala, also a hill people. Further down the winding mountain road, we came to Tenzing Norgay rock, where the Himalayan Mountain Institute teaches rock climbing to visitors. Peter and Paul hooked up to the rock climbing safety gear and with amazing agility scaled the rock. Japan, one of the Nepali climbing guides at the rock, took a liking to Peter and took him down the hill to show him some more dramatic sheer faces that he likes to climb. He enthusiastically told us about his adventures climbing Kangchendzonga and showed us his hands, damaged by frost bite, and his scalp, partly crushed by an avalanche he got caught in on the mountain. Yet, his love of the mountains and climbing was undampened, and I think he wished he could take Peter under his tutelage and show him these magnificent mountains. As I kept remarking, “Fantastic,” to my surroundings, he taught me how to say it in Nepali, “Ramro!” As we waved goodbye, he promised to send us a picture of him climbing Kangchendzonga.

On our way back to town, we passed Sacred Heart Catholic Parish and visited the church for a quick prayer. On our way out, we met the parish priest, a young Nepali man originally from the area. He loves being in hill country and says that the Christians, Buddhists and Hindus of this community live remarkably harmoniously together.

In the streets, you see many children playing a game called chungi. It’s basically hackey sack except the ball is made of loose rubber bands. 

December 29, 2005

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Zoo

Today, we set off in the early afternoon with the intention to visit the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute but when we arrived, we discovered it was closed on Thursdays. But it seems that God had other plans for us. Also at the locked entrance to the facility were an Indian man and his wife by the name of Andre and Sahara and their two-year-old daughter. We began talking to them and found out that they were both teachers at a local private school for boys, St. Joseph’s. They told us about the local Catholic parish in town where we could attend mass this Sunday and invited us to see the school and for tea at their home located on the campus. The school was built in the late 1800s and was a remarkable architectural fortress that had handsomely withstood the test of time. We visited the chapel and launched our prayers from the upper balcony overlooking the altar. The school serves 1200 boys from all over India and many, many more are waiting to get in. In the immediate foyer, we were greeted by a portrait not of the school’s founder, a Belgian Jesuit priest, but Mahatma Gandhi in his later years. The trophy case was crowded with trophies from the school’s victorious competition in cricket, soccer, badminton, and volleyball, the country’s most popular sports. On our way to our new friends’ house, we passed a large cricket field. A tournament was in process and the children and Steve were thrilled to see this as yet undecipherable sport in person. When we arrived at Andre and Sahara’s house, we met Andre’s mother, Joan, and his brother, Lenny, and were ushered into their home festooned with Christmas decorations! We felt immediately at home as we soaked in the familiar, but little seen décor of Christmas, and nestled in for tea, fruit cake, a sample of other Indian desserts, and conversation with our gracious hosts. Andre connected us with his sister, Michelle, who works for a trekking agency in town and was able to advise us about treks in the area. We found out that the roads were quite icy and the weather on the ridges extremely cold and all treks had been suspended. We were very grateful for this information and will certainly be content to admire the view from our rather spectacular vantage right in Darjeeling. Andre’s mother and father, both teachers, moved the family to Darjeeling from Uttar Pradesh 32 years before and now Andre, Lenny and Andre’s wife were carrying on the proud teaching lineage at the school. At one point, Steve couldn’t contain himself any further and abruptly turned the conversation to cricket. It turned out that Lenny was a former cricket player and Peter, Paul and Steve enthusiastically began firing away question after question about this perplexing sport, whose only American equivalent is baseball and that’s a very rough approximation. When Andre appeared with the cricket “bat,” they were all eager to have a go at it. It was getting dark and very cold when we finally had to break up the game, bid leave of our friends and head back into town. Once again, I was amazed at and grateful for God’s providential workings and how this unexpected encounter colored our day so richly.

December 28, 2005

Morning has broken… over the Himalayas!

Today we witnessed the sun rise over the Himalayas! What an amazing experience! The night before, I found myself wakeful, stimulated, and heard God calling me to be prepared to be inspired. I was not disappointed. We arrived at 5:30 a.m. at Tiger Hill, along with hundreds of other visitors clambering for a view of this awesome phenomenon, the dawning of a new day. Paul and I went in search of an unobstructed view and wedged ourselves in along a railing with an eastern view. I wrapped my shawl around him and watched as the black of the night gave way to a pale white then blue and the stars and brilliant quarter-moon faded as the rays of sun illuminated our universe. We watched in hushed reverence as God with one brush stroke created yet another new day, full of promise, hope and, as yet, untainted beauty. Holding my son in my arms, I found myself singing, “Our God is an awesome God. He reigns from Heaven above. With wisdom, power and love, our God is an awesome God.” and a few rounds of “Morning has Broken” over and over again. Before the sun actually broke the thin cloud layer on the horizon, Paul became very cold so we sought refuge in the pavilion to watch the rest of the rapturous process. Suddenly, someone began running back and forth and yelling, “The sun is rising, the sun is rising,” causing a major commotion as the masses of people, most of whom had been huddled around the east-facing windows, became aware that not only was the sun’s outline breaking the horizon but its brilliant rays were also illuminating the majestic Kangchendzonga to the north, the third largest mountain in the world, in an ethereal pink hue. The crowd quickly abandoned their hitherto coveted seats and went crazy running back and forth between the two spectacles. In the meantime, recognizing what was going on, we capitalized on the mayhem and jockeyed for a seat right between the two, opened the windows and contentedly watched the panorama unfold from our front row seats. Slowly, the entire Himalayan skyline came into view and we were thrilled to see the very top of Mt. Everest, with Mt. Makala in the foreground and Mt. Lhotse to its left. It was hard to wrench ourselves away from such an arresting view and we were the last to leave. For the rest of the day, we could not stop marveling at the awesomeness of this experience for truly we had witnessed one of God’s most glorious masterpieces.

December 27, 2005

We left the evening of Christmas Day on the night train to Siliguri to the northern reaches of West Bengal, India, and contracted a jeep to climb high into the Himalayan foothills to the picturesque hill station of Darjeeling. Built literally on a mountain side, the town consists of homes and storefronts along steep, winding, and narrow stone streets. Many of the edifices are outlined in vivid colors while the interiors are paneled in wood and decorated with Asian carpets and the colorful and ornate art characteristic of Nepal, Tibet and other hill peoples of the area. Colorful strings of laundry or multi-colored prayer flags dot the roof top panorama. On our way to Chowrasta, a plaza at the highest plateau in town, one evening, Paul and I decided to follow a line of locals up a short-cut, a flight of stone steps, to the next level. The spry locals and youthful Paul alighted these steps with hardly a sigh, while I, unacclimatized to the higher altitudes, embarrassingly huffed and puffed, took several breaks and arrived depleted off all reserves at the plaza! Pathetic! Ill-prepared for the very cold mountain climate, Paul and I went on a serious shopping spree, purchasing angora wool sweaters, shawls, and socks, and wool sherpa hats and gloves and then scurried home to distribute our treasured parcels and thaw our bodies in a hot shower.

December 24, 2005

Christmas at Mother Teresa’s

We were honored to celebrate the Christmas vigil with the sisters and volunteers from Mother Teresa’s Kolkata mission. We gathered with the volunteers and other visitors at the Salvation Army hostel, where many of the volunteers live. At about 7 p.m., we began lighting our candles and processing through the streets of Kolkata enmasse, sharing the coming of the Light of the World. As we wound our way through the streets lined with people, I was reminded of Mary and Joseph’s journey to Bethlehem and through the streets of the city in search of a room to stay. Many onlookers greeted us with a “Merry Christmas,” while others watched us with a friendly curiosity. I was moved to sing some of my favorite carols, much to my eldest son’s chagrin! But, it seemed like this was the moment, like none other, to proclaim the glory of the newborn King! When we arrived at the convent, the sisters, who were lining the halls and balconies, met us with warm greetings and smiles and ushered us into the courtyard. As we were filing into the courtyard, some one pointed out that the Christmas star had appeared in the night sky and sure enough, we looked up in the sky and there framed by the open foyer of the convent was the ancient star that had once guided the shepherds to the manger where the baby Jesus lay. Once all of us were in, the volunteer chorus assembled and the carols began. I was delighted to sing carols with others and realized how much I had missed this tradition of singing carols together with friends and family. They sang all my favorites but when they sang Silent Night, I felt as if I was carried on the strains of the music and connected with loved ones half way across the world. It was very moving as groups of volunteers from around the world sang the song in their mother tongue. A young man from the audience even joined one tiny sister, gifted with an angelic and powerful voice, to sing it in Korean. As this beautiful song filled the night, I was overcome with the awesomeness of this opportunity to celebrate the birth of Christ with the sisters of Charity and in the company of Mother Teresa’s spirit, her tomb in the adjacent room. Another group of volunteers had prepared a Christmas play that explored the tension between God and Satan before Jesus came into the world and how Jesus, God’s ultimate manifestation of Love, was perhaps the most powerful and confounding response to evil. After the play, we all began making our way to the chapel upstairs to celebrate mass. At the beginning of the service, Peter had to quickly get out of the way, as the celebrant walked right where Peter had been sitting to place the baby Jesus in the manger. The young Indian priest, who gave the homily, talked about the star as one of his favorite Christmas symbols. He urged us to be stars of God’s light and love for the poor. As we left the chapel, we were given a special prayer card and medallion of Mother Teresa. The sisters had prepared refreshments for us and we began talking to a couple of the sisters before we left, sisters Lynn and Callista. Interestingly, Sister Lynn is a member of the team that is preparing the documentation for Mother Teresa’s canonization. She works with a canon lawyer and other experts to compile all the paperwork for the case. Though the Sisters of Charity have pledged a vow of simplicity, Sister Lynn does have a computer which I was glad to hear. I just couldn’t imagine preparing such a mammoth submission without a computer! We finally said our last goodbyes and walked back to the hotel.  

December 23, 2005

We visited Mother Teresa’s mother house and convent, something we have all looked forward to doing with great anticipation. We were greeted at the door by one of the Sisters of Charity in their simple cotton white robes with blue accents. We first visited Mother Teresa’s tomb which is simply adorned with a plaque inscribed with Mother Teresa’s favorite scripture passage from John 15, “Love one another as I have loved you,” and flowers and petals in various designs. Today, because it is advent, the message is: “Come, Lord Jesus, come.” On her tomb was also a box for intercessions to Mother Teresa and we all wrote our prayers and deposited them into the box, feeling remarkably lighter of heart.

There was a small museum devoted to Mother Teresa next door to her tomb. The exhibit began with this scripture from Matthew 5:14-16, “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” This is the scripture that reminds me most of my dear friend, Janet Dunn, who died unexpectedly two years ago. I felt her presence as I sat in the company of Mother Teresa’s spirit at the convent. A few of Mother Teresa’s belongings were displayed—her bible, pen and notepad, and satchel in which she always carried something to give away, according to her adage, “Never go to the poor empty-handed.” Paul sat at the bare wood table and bench that was the only other piece of furniture in her room besides her bed. We met a volunteer form South Korea who was lovingly dusting the display cabinets in the museum. He had been there for two months as a volunteer working at the convent doing whatever work was needed. He was leaving in a few days and you could tell that he was filled with peace and contentment and was sad to be leaving this special place.

Some of Mother Teresa’s writings and letters were also on display. Here is her moving reflection on “Jesus is:”

“Jesus is:

The word I speak

The light I lit

The life I live

The joy I share

The strength I use

The hungry I feed

The naked I clothe

The homeless I take in

The sick I nurse

The child I teach

The lonely I console

The unwanted I want

The mental I befriend

The helpless I help

The beggar I welcome

The leper I wash

The drunkard I guide

The bread of Life I eat

The sacrifice I offer

The cross I carry

The pain I bear

The prayer I pray

The loneliness I share

The sickness I accept.”

Mother Teresa was a great advocate of the family, as well as the recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize, and I carry these favorite sayings of hers close to my heart:

• “Keep the joy of loving God in your hearts and share this joy with all you meet, especially your family.”
• “Remember the family that prays together, stays together.”
• “Works of love are always works of peace.”
• “It is not how much we do, but how much love we put into our actions.”
• “We can do no great things; only small things with great love.”
• “If we really want to love, we must learn how to forgive.”
• “Instead of death and sorrow, let us bring peace and joy to the world.”

Just before we left, we gathered with the sisters for their noon prayers in the chapel. A couple of the sisters noticed us trying to follow along and gave us their own personal prayer books so we recite the prayers with them. Afterwards, we joined them in the stations of the cross. I was touched when at the end of the prayers at each station, the sisters kneeled together and prayed in unison, “Jesus, make me meek and humble like you.” Once I realized what they were saying, I joined in enthusiastically, knowing that I needed that humility and meekness of spirit far more than any of these profoundly humble and giving sisters.

December 22, 2005

The streets of Kolkata are full of life in all its forms and manifestations. They say that India assaults your senses, and Kolkata, as the largest city in India and one of the poorest in the world, does this like no other place on the planet. It’s a place of paradoxes—overwhelming poverty yet culturally, religiously and historically rich; unbelievably polluted, filthy, unsanitary yet the beauty of its humanity and character spills over and mutes the gray bleakness; a people afflicted with disease and oppressive conditions yet so radiant and vibrantly alive.

Like Kolkata itself, my images of Kolkata crowd and clamber in my head. The streets are lined with people, small window stores, larger stores, fruit and vegetable vendors, food stalls, and of course more people. The small window shops generally stock a very specific commodity neatly assembled in their always tight quarters—tobacco, beverages, small trinkets or toys, and during the season, tacky Christmas and New Years decorations! Many of the larger stores showcase the lovely silks and other materials of India with multi-colored saris and other traditional clothes piled in stacks and on display in the storefronts. Food vendors sell and/or prepare all manner of fruits, produce, and Indian breads, sweets, curry, lentils and lassis. Aaah, the lassis are a favorite of our family! The preparation of this wonderful yogurt concoction is extremely complicated, requiring several, laborious steps. The final phase of preparation is absolutely mesmerizing to watch as the curd is rhythmically and patiently stirred in large vats over an open fire. Oh, and there are multiple sweet shops on every block! Yes, Kolkata has the most sweet shops of any city in the world!

The roadways too are full of every manner of vehicle, the most prevalent being taxis, buses, and cable cars, followed by automated rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws and man-powered rickshaws, and of course, ubiquitous the world over, the private vehicle. The cable cars are so old few of them have windows and as with every corner of Kolkata, they are always overflowing with humanity. A word of caution to the pedestrian: Always be hyper-alert when crossing streets or intersections because there is a deadly sense of urgency in the flow of traffic. Apparently, cable cars and buses are responsible for injuries and deaths every day but they are on such an unrelenting schedule of transporting this mass of humanity, they simply cannot stop. To cap off the madness, the brake systems on the cable cars, though generally effective, are deafeningly squeaky. Of course, all vehicles are armed with either horns or bells or loud drivers and there is a nearly constant cacophony of blasts and blares and shouts in the interminable pulse to push through the clogged arterials of this massive city!

The homeless sleep in blankets along the streets and entranceways of hotels throughout the city but come the morning, most of the blankets are neatly folded and tucked up on a nearby ledge, while these people without shelter seek whatever meager means of subsistence on the streets of the city. Most of the people begging for money are quite direct and often will follow you for quite some time. The women are the most persistent; they are usually carrying babies and grab at your arm to arrest your attention to their plight. Yes, it’s terribly discomforting to see the overwhelming poverty, yet the resilience and rich diversity of this land and its people are also so palpable in the inimitable experience that is India.

While in Kolkata, we stayed at the Majestic Hotel, a hotel frequented by Indian tourists. We were enthusiastically served by Nabin, a young Nepalese man, and Ruby, a Muslim man from Kolkata. One afternoon we returned to the hotel to find the whole sidewalk and entrance to the hotel blocked by Muslim men in noon-time prayer. We realized it was Friday, a Muslim day of prayer. Our friend Ruby was among the Muslim congregation of men in prayer and he signaled for us to wait until prayers were over before entering the hotel.

December 19, 2005

I was surprised that Bangkok was so close to India. We departed at 8 p.m. on Thai Airways, what has become our favorite airline, and two and a half hours later, arrived in Kolkata (formerly Calcutta), India. In regular coach, you are treated with first-class service on Thai Airways. When we traveled from Los Angeles to Bangkok, we were constantly attended during that exceptionally long flight with hot-scented towels at the beginning and end of the flight, wonderful multi-course meals, a fully-stocked beverage cart, snacks, and several movies. The flight from Bangkok to Kolkata was only a couple of hours but we were still served a delicious full-course meal and several beverages. The airlines also has one of the top safety records world-wide. Fly Thai Airways next time you’re traveling the Pacific Rim or Asia!