The streets of Kolkata are usually clogged with humanity but at dusk on a Friday night they become jammed with every form of traffic in existence. We arrive, on a late afternoon flight, with our team of eight. We jam our mish-mash of luggage and our dog-tired bodies into the extended van waiting just outside of the terminal. We have one goal in mind and only an hour to reach it. I’m doubtful. I’ve driven through these insane thoroughfares before. It is easier to navigate through a stampeding herd of bull elephants than the streets of Kolkata, especially during rush hour. But our driver, as confident as a pit bull against a pack of poodles, puts on a good face and barrels into the fray. Abusing his horn, he honks like an angry Godzilla sized goose. I watch rickshaw drivers run for their lives, and parents (still hundreds of feet away) grip their children in fear. Tonight, the lame had better stay on the sidewalks. Our driver can taste the petrol in the air and he is invigorated by the challenge. Nothing will stop us from reaching our goal.
Streets and alleys slide by. A blur of colors, like a watery rainbow, passes as we drive down a street filled with dozens of flower stalls. We pass both hovelled neighborhoods and luxurious hotels. Beggars and buyers meld together. Kolkata was designed for three million people, yet ten million live in a town center that is approximately the size of the Dallas/Ft. Worth International Airport. We are traversing the perfect example of the tipping point between city planning and corpulent overpopulation. How do they keep this city operating? Yet Kolkata thrives.
Finally, on a broad street in the center of town, we pull into an unlikely open parking space. As we exit the bus, a palpable peace hangs over us. It’s like a giant soundproof dome has been placed over this block. The team members, most of whom have never visited this place, stop and crane their necks, as if they are trying to clear their ears of any clogs. There is no neon sign to point us down the dark alley towards our desired site. No one on the street points us in the right direction. But I’ve been here before. The unassuming nature of this building is one of its immediate charms. I lead the team down the nondescript alley to a small, open doorway. We enter the Mother House of the Missionaries of Charity.
Best known as the house Mother Theresa built, the Missionaries of Charity stand unrestricted to outsiders for a few hours a day. In reality, anyone in need can enter at any time. But hundreds of thousands of pilgrims, tourists and curiosity-seekers come during opening hours to take a peek at Mother Theresa’s massive white marble grave and the simple room that she lived in for over fifty years. The building is massive, but the majority of it is a hospice for the outcast and infirm. We show up during the last half hour of open doors. What most of us do not realize, is that we have arrived during the Epiphany Mass.
Nearly a hundred worshipers fill the tiny chapel that contains Blessed Theresa’s crypt. A priest quietly leads the Mass. The crowd is reverent, some openly tearful. A few kneel or bow in reverence while others place a hand on the smooth, cool marble. Every day, the sisters place yellow and orange flowers on the grave, to spell out one of Mother Teresa’s famous quotes. I walk to the crypt and read today’s: GIVE UNTIL IT HURTS. I lean down and kiss the stone, crossing myself as I straighten. I barely understand what it means to give, let alone give until it hurts. “Blessed Teresa, I want to learn.” I whisper to myself. I wonder if I mean it. Too late. I’ve prayed. No take-backs at this point.
We all wander to and fro throughout the complex, taking in the treasured few minutes we’ve been given. One of our team, Jason, stands just outside the chapel door observing the Mass. A small Asian nun, barely shoulder height, warmly puts her hand on his arm. She whispers something in Jason’s ear but he doesn’t understand. Seeing his confusion, she grabs his wrist and leads him to the front of the chapel. She smiles and signals us to follow. At the end of this Mass, a special blessing is given to all who attend. We obediently stand in line. The priest takes a large wooden cross and touches the head of each penitent one by one, praying for God to touch their hearts. It is not until I am almost at the front of the line that I notice the cross contains a small glass compartment, in the centerpiece, containing a relic from the Blessed Teresa. As I move to the front, I bow my head. Feeling the glass touch the sweat on my forehead and hearing the impassioned priestly prayer, I ask God for a dewdrop of the mercy gifting that Teresa walked in. It is probably all I can handle.
Epiphany catches me off guard as Mother Teresa grips my heart. As she wrote, ‘The world today is hungry for love; hungry to be wanted, to be loved.’ May the Spirit of Christ teach me to love, not like Teresa, not like Shawn, but like Christ.
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