Update on Sima at Kalighat
You may recall I have previously written about a few of my favorite patients at Kalighat. The latest development with Sima is surprising.

The open wounds on Sima's legs, which previously were putrefied, green and full of maggots, are now, while still open, showing nothing but new pink tissue. Cleaning Sima's wounds is still very painful for her, and we require a third person to sit near her head to hold her hand, sing to her and give her water. Sometimes we have to put an adult diaper on her before wound care, as I learned the hard way that her digestion and excretion systems work quite well. Two days in a row during the treatments she poo-ed right on the bed, and we had to stop so I could clean her up. A few days ago after Susan finished up with our 1.5 hours of wound care on her, I gave Sima a lollipop. The following day I did the same thing. Now, during wound care each day, she'll grab my arm, smile a huge, charming smile and say, "Lollipop? Lollipop?"

Thursdays are the volunteers' day off, so Friday morning I arrived at Kalighat and asked Sister Pei Ling if anything interesting had happened the day before. "Oh yes," she replied, "with your Sima." Apparently Sima has family. Her son had come into Kalighat looking for a woman that fit Sima's description. He had been looking for her all over Calcutta; she had been missing, I guess, for almost two months. It turns out that Sima is an economist for the Indian Government, and has a PhD. I am not sure if she has had ongoing mental health issues, but apparently one day she lost it, left work and didn't return. Her family had neither seen nor heard from her. No one knows what happened next, but in observing her leg wounds and bed sores, it's clear she hadn't moved much for a period of time: likely she found a spot to sit at Howrah train station and didn't leave it for several weeks. That's where she developed such serious bedsores on her rear, and that's how some cuts or bites could have turned into infected, gaping wounds. Howrah is where volunteers found her in this shocking condition and brought her to Kalighat.

I sat beside Sima, and she looked at me. Not expecting a response I said to her, "Do you know economics?" I said this more out loud to myself in her direction, as I was still amazed by the story of her son. Sima replied, "I am doctor." Startled, I paused for a second and then asked, "Do you work for government?" Sima's reply bowled me over: "Of the people, by the people, for the people." My jaw dropped. She was educated. She could understand a little English. She knew the Gettysburg Address. I looked around to see if anyone else had heard her. Sima then grabbed my arm, smiled a huge, charming smile and said, "Lollipop? Lollipop?"

Sima's son is currently arranging to take her to a private hospital, one that won't immediately amputate her legs (Sister Pei Ling says she's seen worse, and Susan agrees amputation is no longer necessary due to all the new growth). It is obvious Sima has mental problems and needs treatment for that, too. I'm just so grateful to find out she's not destitute, she hasn't been forgotten. She is the very rare exception rather than the rule at Kalighat. So until her son comes through, I enjoy hearing Sima tell me each morning, "I am doctor."

Cricket is Not Just a Green Insect
Take a walk through the Maidan, which is Calcutta's version of Central Park (except with very few trees, not much grass and some litter here and there), and you'll witness at least fifteen different matches of cricket being played. When Calcutta shuts down due to a transportation strike (which has happened twice since I've been here), boys take to the streets with their friends and start up a makeshift game of cricket. Native Calcuttan Sourav Ganguly is the Indian national cricket team captain. To say India is absolutely crazy for cricket is an understatement. To wit: India and Pakistan are playing their first one-day and test-match series against each other in 14 years, and for the first one-day match, practically the entire country closed up shop so all good Indians could watch or listen to the match. The outcome of the series might well affect the current peace talks between the two countries.

"It's like baseball, right?" I ask my volunteer friend Paul from Australia. He looked at me for a moment, probably thinking of what he would say to this poor, deprived American who managed to go through life without ever having watched cricket. That day was a transportation strike day, so we walked out onto Sudder Street and watched one of the groups of kids playing street cricket. He explained the rules, and except for a few details, it seemed pretty straightforward. I shared my new-found knowledge with another volunteer friend Melanie (a Canadian), and she said, "Why don't we organize a game?" Thus, the Great Volunteer Cricket Match was born.

Paul, with help from fellow Australian Father Stephen, led the rag-tag band of eight volunteers out to an empty spot on the Maidan one Thursday morning. Melanie had scored a cricket bat and ball at the market for 300 rupees (about six dollars); Carolyn and I provided our backpacks to be used as stumps (or wickets), and we were good to go.

The rules: Cricket is normally played with two teams of eleven. The middle of the field is called the pitch. A pitch is a hard, flat strip of dry ground (kind of like the area between a pitcher and catcher in baseball). Two batsmen are at the pitch at a time, each at different ends, with one facing the delivery of the ball from the bowler (the pitcher, in baseball). The bowler runs up to the pitch where he bowls the ball overarm. One bowler bowls six balls (six times), which is considered an "over." A one-day match consists of 50 overs for each team (50 overs x 6 balls per over = 300 balls per team). Teams score by getting runs: running from one side of the pitch to the other and passing the crease (the "finish line" so to speak, right in front of the stump) equals one run, batting the ball hard enough on the ground to roll over the outfield boundary edge equals four runs, and batting the ball in the air over the outfield boundary edge equals six runs. The batsman can run as many times as he likes, but the batsman can get out if his stumps are hit with the ball by a fielder before the batsman reaches the crease. The bowling team will score a point for each out they get against the batting team. In the first one-day match, India beat Pakistan by five runs, 349-7 (349 runs and 7 outs) vs. 344-8 (344 runs and 8 outs). The first team bats through their 50 overs, then it is the next team's turn to bat through their 50 overs, after which the match is over.

We the volunteers, however, played a modified version of the official way because the group was mostly Americans and we sucked. Paul and Father Stephen, on the other hand, were giddy as schoolboys reliving their days as young boys playing backyard cricket with their mates in Australia. Carolyn and I both played softball for years, so we picked it up fairly quickly and delivered decent performances. For my last ball at bat, I smacked it high and long . . . it was destined for a six-pointer, and quite a beauty. Unfortunately my impressive hit was unfairly thwarted by an amazing diving catch from Father Stephen, who clearly had prayed immediately beforehand for God to give him superhuman catching abilities. Being the self-respecting American athlete I was, I began trash-talking the priest. "You'll get yours, Father Steve!" I shouted. Remind me to look in the Catholic handbook to see if I'm going to Hell for taunting a priest.

The sun was beginning to beat down and we were all hungry, so we wrapped up our match and headed back to Sudder Street for lunch and a play-by-play breakdown. I proudly announced to the lunch table that Paul had told me I was "a natural bowler." Carolyn replied that Paul had told her that she too was a natural bowler. We then proceeded to argue over who was better and then decided to just be mad at Paul, because, well, he's a man. The next morning I felt every one of my 33 years in each aching, sore muscle. Cricket is a terrific game, and I too glued myself to the television to watch India and Pakistan play thereon out.

Sister Olinda's Kidneys
Sister Olinda has lousy kidneys. As such she goes to the hospital twice a week for a four-hour dialysis session. When Sister Olinda went to the hospital last Friday for her regular dialysis session, there were complications. I had no idea how she was doing or when she'd be back . . . and the hospital was very strict about visitors (read: I was not allowed to visit). I was getting increasingly agitated and concerned about my dear friend. Each day I came into Kalighat, I asked Sister Georgina if Olinda was back: each day the answer was no. Not knowing is always is the worst part. One morning Sister Georgina found me and said, "the one you love, Sister Olinda, is upstairs . . . you can go see her." I was elated, so I ran up the stairs and gently opened the doors to the chapel. In the chapel there was a simple altar, a crucifix, a statue of Mary, and Sister Olinda, sitting on a little kiddie-looking stool all by herself, looking up at Jesus. I took off my sandals and walked in quietly. She turned her head to look at me, and I found myself kneeling beside her. Tears streamed down my face. She had been gone six days. I told her I was so worried, and that I was so happy to see her . . . I could barely choke the words out. And she just smiled and looked at me. "You've been gone and I missed you!" I said. She put her hand on my shoulder and told me that she was fine now. "Were you scared?" I asked. She smiled again and said, "Oh no, no . . . if it is time, I am ready." Ugh . . . there is one rock solid person.

I had been so eager to see Sister Olinda. In her I found gentleness, a sweet spirit, a warm smile and equanimity. And yet the whole was exponentially greater than the sum of those parts. All of the above are nice things, and you and I have all seen them in someone from time to time, but in Sister Olinda it was different. These gifts weren't delivered in a response to our being taught to be nice to each other and to share our toys in the sandbox. They weren't presented as a result of reading books and trying to be a better person. Her gifts are just there, emanating from a source of pure love from The Great Love of her life.

It was as if she had been dead and was now alive. And then it hit me: she was Jesus to me. When Sister Olinda spoke it was Jesus speaking, when she smiled it was Jesus smiling, when she laughed it was Jesus laughing. She was living the Catholic prayer, "Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace." In her company was a safe place to rest, an embrace of trust and peace. I felt at home, at home with Jesus. And that's what I was longing for, why I came to India, and why I had such an unexpected, inarticulate reaction to her being back. Of course I was happy to see HER and missed HER, but in truth I was happy to see JESUS and missed HIM.

Henri Nouwen's book Return of the Prodigal Son discusses the biblical parable of the Prodigal Son: Nouwen identifies with the son when he asks his father for his inheritance early and leaves home, for a life that he later finds is utterly unfulfilling and devoid of love. Clearly not coincidentally, I read an excerpt from Nouwen's book later that same afternoon: "Yet over and over again I have left home. I have fled the hands of blessing and run off to faraway places searching for love. This is the great tragedy of my life. Somehow I have become deaf to the voice that calls me 'you are my Beloved, on you my favor rests.' I have left the only place where I can hear that voice, and have gone off desperately hoping that I would find somewhere else what I could no longer find at home. At first this sounds unbelievable. Why should I leave the place where all I need to hear can be heard? The more I think about this question, the more I realize that the true voice of love is a very soft and gentle voice speaking to me in the most hidden places of my being. It is not a boisterous voice, forcing itself on me and demanding attention. It is the voice of a nearly blind father (from the Prodigal Son story) who has cried much and died many deaths. It is a voice that can only be heard by those who allow themselves to be touched."

I have allowed my heart to be touched for the first time in a long time. Jesus's voice was a very soft and gentle voice, expressed through Sister Olinda. It was not boisterous and forceful, demanding my attention, like the voice of my job, the voice of my television or the voice of my insecurities. Or especially the voice of my own ego telling me how intelligent or how capable I am, and that I don't need God or His help. I thought Jesus's voice should have been boisterous and forceful, because I thought that's what I needed, indeed what I deserved, for my thick skull, for my lack of faith. I had naively and foolishly left for ultimately unfulfilling destinations in my life, thinking I'd surely find my worth and fulfillment in my jobs, in my relationships or in my abilities. As the end of the parable goes, "He (the son) was lost and now he is found." So instead of a scolding, demand of penance or an "I told you so," God simply welcomed me home into his restful, loving embrace . . . at this moment given to me through a tiny Indian woman in a white and blue sari, with lousy kidneys.