I am James

James has been working at Calcutta Rescue for the past 18 years. He commutes 2.5 hours per day by way of 3 buses, the combined transport cost of which is over 1/3 of his salary, an unimaginable 1200 Rs out of a salary of less than 3000. He recieves no transportation allowance, and has not gotten a substantial increase in salary throughout his years here. He lives in the humble home of a friend, while he slowly builds his own home on the property bestowed upon him by Mother Theresa. However, it has been four years, and he only has some of the foundation made. He cannot afford the roof or windows because the cement cost is 350 Rs/bag, he needs 60 bags, and 10 kg of rod costs 12000 Rs. He needs to do this before the monsoon rains arrive, or the current foundations will be ruined. With his salary, he sometimes manages to save about 60 Rs per month. He is getting older, but cannot marry, because he would not be able to support a family on this little money. He has requested a raise three times, with no response.

James lives in the village, of which he is proud. "Boys' town" it was once called; now it is known as Gangarampur. He was raised there at one of the homes of Mother Theresa, where he also attended school. He was proud that he chose to continue his studies rather than start working immediately. At a young age, he was forced to seek the charity of the Missionaries because of a tragedy in his family. His father was murdered when he was three by some men at work, and his mother was later killed by one of James' brothers. At this point, he resolved never to speak to his family again.

He sleeps on the floor, among ants and sometimes scorpions. Luckily he keeps the antidote for a scorpion sting in his bedroom.  James wakes up at 4:30 am, bathes, puts on the rice for his lunch, cooks the curry, makes chapati for breakfast, makes tea, eats, washes dishes, and leaves his home at 6:30 am to arrive at the clinic around 9. He works until around 3 pm, diligently doing his work even after the clinic is closed. He completes it thoroughly with striking care. When he gets home, he prepares dinner, does washing, gets the drinking water from the neighborhood tube well, and manages to read or visit the poor people there. He always makes time for the poor people, who he loves. He sleeps at 9:30 pm. He shares his food and tea with the friends who live next door. He cannot store food to make his daily tastks easier because he has no refrigerator. He cannot call friends for lack of a phone. He cannot use the bathroom in his home; it is broken; he must use the one next door.


He is proud of the many fruit trees that grow outside his house--papaya, mango, jakfruit, kot bel, banana, and guava. It is fantastically green and peaceful there. He teaches me how to make chapati the short-cut method, flipping the patties in such a way as to preserve the gas. He shows me the 2 tube wells he uses to pump water--the one he shares with his neighbor is only for washing because it gives iron-tasting water, and the one a ten minute walk away is shared by the whole neighborhood for drinking water. It is quite expensive to drill the deep wells for the drinking water.

The people here are happy for the cool breeze, the silence, lack of pollution, the community, the fruit trees, ...village life in Boys' town they call it. But beneath their smiles, you see how much work it takes for these people just to maintain a reasonable quality of life. Just simply to survive requires an enormous effort.

I think about how dedicated James is to continue working for an organization that pays him squat simply because he knows that he is working for the good of the poor. The patients love James. And he loves them. But I am not surprised that he is looking for another job. Only saddened.

Today all I want is to be deaf

To cease to sense all auditory stimuli.

To relinquish the ability to process spoken language, to understand sound, even to utter one word. 

Communication has become far too much for me. 

I'd prefer the silence of naivete. 

The peace of inactivity. 

QUIET

All I need to hear are my thoughts. 

Why can I blink, 

Shut my eyes to the world, 

Achieve an escape from visual assaults. 

But I cannot blink my ears. 

They sit on the sides of my head

Absorbing far more sound waves than I can process or appreciate, 

In fact, so many that they become irritating, 

Disturbing, 

And indeed maddening phenomena. 

Sound clings like a parasite, bothering me no matter where I go! 

Cat calls

Phone calls

Screams

Lies

Accusations

Voices!!!!

Terrors of the reality of Human Nature

Infiltrating my ear canals

But these are not schizophrenic episodes, 

Hallucinations. 

This is all too real life. 

True madness cannot be discounted as delusions. 

My uncanny and everpresent awareness of my mental instability exacerbates the torture. 

I do not want to speak for fear of contributing to this cacophony of chaos, to this symphony of disaster. 

For all communication is a weapon of destruction. 

All noise merely disrespects peace. 

All sound provokes insanity. 

All cries are testimonies of pain. 

All speech a means of manipulation or deception.

Mouths are only orifices to excrete what empty bellies vomit: despair and devastation.

Bombarded by multitudinous displacements of air, 

Which attack my ear drums ceaselessly

In ferocious persistence, 

Without my permission

I've had enough

Break them! 

Pierce them! 

Before I am so far depressed that I can no longer appreciate music. 

G. Das

We discuss the fate of a 17-year old boy. He has been diagnosed with Lymphoma that has metastasized throughout his entire body, including his bone marrow, making the prognosis of recovery with continuous chemotherapy only 50% likelihood of survival. His chances are probably less given the advanced stage of his cancer, and relapses even with therapy are common. It will cost 15,000 Rs/month for the therapy itself, plus medicines and other expenses. The total will come to around $500/month for full treatment, which would be continued for at least 6 cycles. This is about how much one might pay for a month's rent in the US. 

Perhaps the chemotherapy would lengthen his life. Perhaps in a miracle, it would save it. Perhaps it would be a waste of money. 

Indeed, the latter is what the doctors think. We could pay for the treatment of 10 patients with that money. There is budget enough for 6 more cancer patients this month. 

Today is the day when the life of a young man may be extended but when there is not enough money to do so. And it is up to us. The doctors decide not to fund his care. 

We protest. 

But we have not met G. Das. 

Do we sentence him to death? 

What is money well spent? 

Such a young man? 

Is it not our medical duty to do our best to treat? 

Could he not survive? 

Can we at least try? 

We decide to meet the patient before making a decision. If we raise money from abroad, perhaps we can fund the first cycle of chemo to see if the patient looks likely to respond. 

If not, we'll move on. 

What is the value of a human life? 

Playing Doctor When There is None

Little bodies
puppy dog eyes
baby hands
with swollen bellies
What worms are living there?
Let me see your feet
Your toes are tiny and perfect
Your arm is beyond the limit of severe malnourishment, an alarming circumference of 12 cm.
Your lungs crackle with a respiratory infection
At least your heart beats strong
Your conjunctiva is wrinkled with the first signs of Vitamin A deficiency
Your hair brittle and discolored
Open your mouth
We find dental caries in every molar.
The corners of your lips cracked with angular cheilosis
Your lymph nodes swell
I cradle you on my lap
Your ear hurts?
You have chronic diarrhea?
Malaria three times?
You are four years old

Grateful to find you here.
We can help you
Take this Mebendazole to deworm your tummy
And this Vitamin A to heal your eyes

But where are the doctors?

Future husband?

Sitting across from a former telemarketer
Law office clerk
Football player
Large,
Reeking of cologne
TV lover
Rides a motorcycle
And is looking for a foreigner to marry so he can get out of India.
Dola has set salty snacks in front of us and left us in awkwardness to munch in humiliating silence.
We have nothing in common.
He tried to go to Austrailia to visit his uncle, but they required he be married to obtain a visa.
Now he has found perhaps the one person least interested in marriage, and the most bombarded by requests to help people to America.
He literally asks me if I will help him with a
"Marriage of Convenience."
Many foreigners help out Indians this way!

Sorry. In my country we don't do that. We marry for love. 

Silence.

Why don't you find a job or go to school?

The only job I can get is cruises and it is too much work to get those jobs. I don't want to continue any studies, school doesn't interest me.

So basically you are the most unappealing person asking me to marry you for the purely selfish reason to leave your country out of your own laziness to get out by your own merit.

But since I could not say that to him I instead focused all attention on consuming the bowl of spicy fried rings and feeling entirely demeaned as a woman, until Donovan asked me to have a date with him.

I don't like dating boys and I will never get married.

He seemed to get the message.

My host mom tries to arrange my marriage

So, tell me. Why do you ask about arranged marriage? See I have this friend who works at the office. About your age. He's a young, beefy chap—a nice nice fellow. He wants to go abroad, but you know, he doesn't have the money or the means. But I hear many Indians marry foreigners over on Sudder Street. I told him I have an American girl staying with me here and I'd ask you if you're interested. It would just be a marriage of convenience you know, just to help him get out of the country. Since, you know there's no future here.

Picture His Grace Sitting Upon a Volcano

As I enter the majestic gates of the Archbishop's home, a gigantic blue and white palace with gardens and courtyards, my stomach turns as I prepare to bring the epitome of poverty and corruption into the world of exorbitance and power. It has come to this--after numerous failures at getting help for the starving children of the orphanage, I have resolved to contact the Archbishop of Kolkata in a desperate plea, or rather confrontation, in an attempt to bring justice to them. I wait in the Archbishop's Parlour for the His Grace to meet me. Not only does the luxurious architecture intimidate me, but the fact that I will meet the city's head of the Catholic Church terrifies me. I am relieved that he appears humbly dressed in a mismatching combo of plaid shirt and shorts and he shuffles in calmly with his grandfatherly beard. As I begin to address him, he closes his eyes, not in rudeness, it appears, but in deep concentration.

"Your Grace, I come to you on behalf of the medical staff of Calcutta Rescue to alert you do a crisis we have discovered at the Bess Crawford Seva Niketan School and orphanage, a place with which I believe you are familiar. We come to you after finding serious medical concerns among the children, as well as terribly incompetent management. Brother Christopher and Father Gregory, members of the Catholic Church, are responsible for running this organization. Thus, because we believe it is the moral responsibility of the church to rectify the disastrous situation we have discovered, we call this issue to your attention. I have documented details in this report. In particular, we have been disturbed to find 39 Vitamin-A-deficient and many other generally malnourished children, based on physical signs on the children's bodies. This disaster is a direct result of the home's incompetent management, insufficient funds, and unhygienic conditions. The management has been uncooperative and in fact, indifferent to these problems. Because the children's eyesight and lives are at risk under the care of these men, CR has been compelled to take further measures to protect these innocent children, particularly the orphans. We have called upon several other organizations for funding and assistance, with marginal success. This inhuman state cannot continue. For the sake of these children's eyes and lives, please take action."

He sat with his eyes closed for a few moments, as I wondered if he had heard any of my monologue.

"This makes me very angry. This is very abnormal. The lack of accomodation, they don't even own the property! There is no proper structure, there are so many children, boys and girls sleeping together. I have come to question their legitimacy!" Not only did the blatant abuse of the children anger him, but the implications for causing trouble as a representation of men of the church. He explained the history of the church's interactions wth these men.  Apparently, they have been operating this organization without the required permission of the Archdiocese; they have not abided by the church hierarchy.

"Are you a Catholic?" He asked me. I was tempted to lie, but stuttered, "Um, well, personally, no."

"Then I don't know if you will understand." He explained to me the levels of order that operate the church, wherein Brothers and Fathers live under the Archdiocese in their respective parishes. All Catholics are members of a parish, and must report to their local parish and the city Archdiocese. This ensures that all Catholics attend church, frequent the sacraments, go to confessions, and abide by a Catholic lifestyle. Anyone must obtain permission from the Archdiocese to conduct any "good works." Archbishop Lucas Sirkar did not support this operation in the first place, because their presence there was not condoned, they had no assignment to work there. Indeed, he agreed that this was not "good work" at all. He was worried most about the name of the church since there have been numerous scandals with child molestation, and this worried him even more worried than the health of the children. But he did agree:

"The tragedy is that these kids are suffering as a result. My advice to you is to run away from the whole situation. I'm sorry I can't help you. We have nothing to do with this. We are not responsible for anything going on. These men are disobeying the Canon Law! I want nothing to do with them. Who made Father Gregory president of this thing? We need order to our parishes!! Who knows if these children are living Catholic lives? Who knows if they are being taught catechism and how to go to confession? What an embarrassment to the Church!"

I certainly didn't care about the religious piety of the children as much as about how much food they were getting, but perhaps the bureaucratic hierarchy could finally work to my advantage in this case. Indeed he could  help me, by disciplining the men who are essentially abusing children through neglect, if not for this very sin, then simply for their refusal to abide by the structure of the Archdiocese of Kolkata. Whatever the reason, I don't care, as long as these men are somehow forced out of power.

He said he would send another letter of admonition to them to request making their work "proper" with the church, demanding the details of their funding, operations, staffing, and legitimate record-keeping, all of which they will be unable to produce. Hopefully, their inability to do so will threaten their positions as preists and brothers.

His Grace then requested my picture to show to Father Gregory and Brother Christopher. I took his to show to my grandchildren.

"This makes me very worried.  We have a legal problem on our shoulders. All people connected to this are a danger, morally, legally, and socially. It is like sitting on a volcano."

May it erupt.

Hospitality

It is difficult to document such an abstract concept as hospitality, except to describe the absolute fullness in my belly from the mounds of food and repeated portions I have been served even after refusing the subsequent and unnecessary helpings, the heartfelt gratefulness of being pampered as a guest where I am forced to relax and constantly asked if I need anything, and the frank surprise at the love given to me by complete strangers who have taken me into their humble homes, given me everything they have and even things they don't have, and treated me with such care and welcome that tears arise to my eyes. My astonishment is partly due to the the fact that you rarely find this exceptionally generous and in fact insistent hospitality in America, partly because of my guilt that some of the poorest people in the world are sharing with me what it has taken them an absurdly unfair amount of effort to earn, and partly for the simply touching nature of giving that is so essentially human but which is so frequently eclipsed by selfishness and thoughtlessness and is thus a rare jasmine blossom amidst the putrid and multidudinous waste of this place.

Road-shetting

As I lay my exhausted head to my pillow, my mind closes in desperate peace, in grateful relief at the absence of stimuli. Just then, the current shuts off. "Road-shetting," they call it, a term I have yet to decode but which means a temporary blackout caused by overuse of power and resulting delay in service, an incident that occurs all too frequently. One may not think electricity to be so necessary, especially at night, with no need for lights. But one realizes the single electrical apparatus upon which wone wholly if unconsciously relies--the fan. As the device ceases to turn, lacking power for the unforseeable future, the temperature immediately rises. The air becomes thick and heavy, the moisture creating an unwanted insulatory layer around my body, which has decidedly begun to sweat profusely in response to this undesirable climate. I lay in a puddle of my own sweat, which, at least serves its purpose of attempting to cool me, but which soon becomes its own burden as it merely contributes to the suffocating moisture that stagnates in the airless room. Meanwhile, mosquitoes joy in the dark, humid, motionless environment, where a body lies vulnerable and ripe for blood-sucking since this nighttime guest has stupidly left her mosquito net at home. The all-out mosquito device that emits a toxin no longer poisons them for lack of electricity. With no light, I cannot even spot the thirsty beasts, and I only can defend myself by feeling their first injection and attempting to swat them dead in time to avoid their venom and resulting itch. Usually it is too late. Paranoid, every minute dermal sensation I slap my skin in anticipation and fear of bites, moving and tossing myself ceaselessly as the predators continue to prety upon me. My motion makes me hotter, as my metabolism adds to the rising heat of the room. Though my body and mind are ready for sleep, I cannot, for the necessity of constant vigilance simply to protect myself and avoid deadly overheating. To ease my discomfort I resort to a hand-held fan as I wait in the most cruel torture chamber for the power to return, an event which may take anywhere from 1 to 10 hours, and which will most certainly repeat itself in the near future, at unpredictable intervals.

Robbery

The epitome of depression arrives when one discovers that in our midst lurk thieves who have been embezzling medicine from the pharmacy in a disgusting misuse of the resources of a charitable organization for the poor, and that when one attempts to track the records of these robberies, based on eyewitness accounts of years of stealing, one finds either no discernible record of their pilfery, or the reality that such poor upkeep of documentation makes it impossible to distinguish clerical errors from theft.