Nunnin' Is Tough Business
As I've mentioned before, the most beautiful women in the world are in fact the sisters of the Missionaries of Charity. It's a different beauty, one more rare than anything you'd find in In Style magazine: it is a combination of a loving heart, clean living, simple lifestyle and gracious, peaceful spirit devoted to God. In the chapel of the Mother House, there is a sign that itemizes what a Missionary of Charity is:

• A carrier of God's love, especially to the poorest of the poor, setting all on fire with love for Him and for one another,
• A healing touch of God that cures all diseases,
• A soothing smile of God that warms all hearts,
• God's own language of love that all hearts understand.

Right on, sisters.

Four sisters at Kalighat are particularly near and dear to my heart. Sister Georgina is the "head sister" at Kalighat; she's in charge. She can almost always be found at the desk near the front of Kalighat, taking care of MC business regarding the sisters, expenses or patients, and always with a huge smile and some encouraging words. Sister Pei Ling is from Singapore, and she's in charge of all the patients. At no more than 5-foot-2, Sister Pei Ling's compact and efficient body scoots from one project to another, whether it's finding medical supplies, making a patient take her medicine, or consulting with Susan or other volunteers trained in the medical profession on care for a particular patient. She has a high, loud voice, and is one tough cookie. Sister Arul Prakash smiles more than anyone I've ever known. She's originally from an area near Chennai in Southern India, and loves to show me the handful of "snaps" she has of her family, and even of her before she joined the MC's. Sister Arul Prakash handles the finances for Kalighat, and if you get her talking, she loves to tell you stories. She likes me in particular, because my name is close to that of her grand-nephew, Denny, and when he came to visit Kalighat, we had a grand old time playing together. Sister Olinda is another native Indian, hailing from a small village near Darjeeling in the North. Sister Olinda, funny enough, lived in Dallas for 4 years working out of the MC house there, so we've bonded over that. Apparently my name is rather challenging to pronounce for Indians, so it comes out as "Dennis." I love hearing the sisters calling me Dennis; it never fails to make me grin.

After the daily volunteer tea breaks I walk upstairs to the roof, where Sister Olinda picks out the sweet green peas for me from the kitchen, and sometimes we fold laundry outside. We talk, and I can understand only about every other word she says (her English is good, but with a thick accent). But that really doesn't matter, because her smile and her eyes are so expressive, delivering peace and comfort to whomever engages her in conversation. She's a little bit of a thing at 5-foot-2 and has a worn-out tattoo in the middle of her forehead, an indication of her tribe from her village. You never can tell how old any of the sisters are (some look about fifteen); she looks like she's about 40, but in truth she's 50. The highlight of my day is spending time with Sister Olinda, even if I can't understand everything she says.

Odd Things

• Looking out from my favorite rooftop perch at Kalighat, I surveyed the street below. I noticed a yellow cab pulling up outside and two men getting out. Nothing unusual here . . . except that when they opened the trunk, four goats jumped out. I wonder if they were required to pay?
• Taxi meters come in two varieties: older ones and newer ones. The fare registered for older ones require the rider to roughly triple that number to arrive at the correct fare. For the newer ones, the rider should add an extra 40% to the number. In fact, the Calcutta municipal taxi authorities have created special fare conversion charts that all cab drivers carry to help passengers easily do the math, depending on the kind of meter. Who needs an accurate meter with this efficient system?
• Because Calcuttans, for the most part, all wear sandals or flip flops, our feet are subjected to the dirt and grime of the streets. Therefore, we volunteers develop a "perma-scudge" on the bottoms of our feet from all the walking we do all day. No matter how often we wash or how diligently we scrub, this black layer does not fully come off. My friends Paul and Courtney win the awards for Most Impressive Perma-Scudge for men and women, respectively. Congratulations to them both.
• Cecil is a boy living at Daya Dan, the MC home for handicapped boys. He's probably six years old. We suspect Cecil's eyes were poked out when he was a baby. One eye is missing, and though the other is still attached, the muscles and nerves are severely damaged. Nevertheless Cecil is a happy kid with a great sense of humor. At his young age, he is turning this tragic physical impairment into a great party trick: he can partially remove his eyeball from its socket. And he does so often. While volunteering at Daya Dan one may hear another volunteer lovingly yet firmly instructing, "Cecil, put your eyeball back in, please." Not something you hear everyday is it?

"Unclean! Unclean!"
In Biblical times, when a person infected with leprosy traveled anywhere he might encounter people, he was required to shout "Unclean! Unclean!" to warn others not to come near for fear of contamination. Leprosy is most common in warm, wet areas in the tropics and subtropics: the World Health Organization estimates that of the10-12 million patients with the disease, fully half are in Africa and India. Leprosy in all ages has been considered one of the more despicable diseases, and victims have been despised throughout history and kept in separate places, like leper colonies. Here was another group of people, Mother Teresa thought, who were not just forgotten about by society but actively shunned and spurned. People with this disease do not cease to become people, and are too God's creations. So began the Leprosy Centre Titagarh in 1975, about 45 minutes outside Calcutta near the train tracks.

Leprosy is a chronic infectious disease that attacks the skin, peripheral nerves and mucous membranes (eyes, respiratory tract). To contract leprosy, one needs to be low nourished or have weak immunity systems; healthy people usually don't contract leprosy when exposed. The disease damages nerves and causes numbness: as an Indian leper walks barefoot, case in point, he or she may not feel the ground, and can easily develop cuts or ulcers. Unaware of such injury, wounds become infected, go untreated, and extremities (toes) can be lost as a result. The sad part is that leprosy is an easily treatable disease; it simply goes untreated.

Most every "resident" at Titagarh is missing fingers and toes. I know because I saw them. Susan, Rita, Clare and I visited Titagarh one morning, and it was not what I expected. It wasn't a Ghetto of the Damned; it wasn't filled with moaning people in sorrow and pain. There was no suffering to be seen: these people were happy. Titagarh was a hive of activity: men and women busily worked at their thread wheels or looms weaving the saris and towels used by Missionaries of Charity homes across the world. Children were in the classroom learning "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" in four languages. The gardens were filled with leafy green vegetables and brightly colored flowers. Residents smiled at us and wanted us to take their picture. When I took a photo with my digital camera, I was able to show the person the picture immediately, which absolutely delighted them to see themselves. One man was giving a wall a fresh coat of bright blue paint. I passed a woman to whom I gave the traditional Indian greeting (my hands in prayer), and she responded by placing her bandaged, fingerless hands together in prayer as well. The schoolteacher explained to us what the children were learning that day, and had them perform for us their ABC's and to sing us songs: when they were done, the teacher applauded the children. I noticed he was missing most of his fingers. This educated, dignified man in a suit and tie was a resident! This place was an oasis.

Titagarh is virtually self-sufficient. Eight MC Brothers (men can be part of the Missionaries of Charity, as brothers or fathers) are in charge of Titagarh, with various helpers and volunteers along side. Titagarh contains a dispensary for medical treatment, hospital facilities, private family dwellings, acres of vegetable gardens, rice and wheat "mill," a shoe cobbler, a prosthetic workshop and classrooms for children. There are 600 residents, all of whom have been treated for leprosy, and almost all of whom have deformities of some sorts. As there is still a serious stigma in India of having leprosy, these people would be unable to get jobs on the outside. Titagarh allows them to belong, to have purpose. Titagarh is a place that restores dignity. Since its opening over 65,000 people have been treated for leprosy. Those are 65,000 people that received some level of respect, grace and love . . . they were not in fact "unclean." To date, a leper colony is the prettiest, happiest place I've seen in all of Calcutta.