Calcutta

I don't know why, in July 1998, I thought of it. I was tired. A love affair that wouldn't work out, a double job that left me no time to 'recover', the dissatisfaction that accompanies our everyday life even though we're allowed to have the superfluous too, and a great wish to think a little about myself..... I set my departure for February! Two weeks of relaxation..... Maldives, Caribbean, Mexico...... I was spoilt for choice, but alone, where should I go????

Since my school days I'd had a very strong desire to see India but had never had the chance to go, maybe the moment had come!

I didn't want an organised trip, but at the same time I was afraid I wouldn't manage... I decided to rely on one of the many volunteering organisations operating in India; having at least an initial point of reference was essential. The Indian consulate in Milan put dozens of books at my disposal to consult in order to decide which one. Leafing through one of these books, a little piece of squared paper written by hand that had fallen to the floor gave the address of Mother Teresa's Mother House in Calcutta. Chance had chosen for me.

I told Cristina, my friend and former schoolmate, at once. She said nothing, looked at me with incredulous eyes, but after only two days of silence she told me she would come too. We found ourselves on a plane with a thousand feelings quarrelling among themselves: euphoria, fear, uncertainty, curiosity... and a terrible stomach ache!

In a guidebook some time ago I read 'Calcutta, a violent and unexpected punch in the stomach...', and so it was, but inside ourselves we discovered an unexpected and unknown strength that made us react immediately. We found accommodation for the two weeks that awaited us and the next day we went to the Mother House to register as volunteers. When our turn came, they asked us where we would prefer to work: orphaned children, abandoned children, malnourished children, children with disabilities, the dying, tuberculosis and hepatitis patients, the mentally ill... The children seemed the most bearable situation, so we opted for the malnourished and disabled children, at Shishu Bavan. Cristina would spend two weeks there, I only one day; my plans were changed by meeting an Italian volunteer who convinced me to try a day at Prem Dan, a hospice/hospital, also run by the nuns.

Here the mentally ill find comfort, the dying — some rescued even from the rubbish — the infirm, the TB patients. They needed help even more because volunteers prefer to choose the children and not the adults. I ended up in a dark structure, once the site of an English chemical industry donated to Mother Teresa, all in concrete: the walls and floors were rough, few sources of light, very high ceilings, iron beds, thin mattresses... The structure housed around 150 patients. I didn't know what to do, where to go, what to say. I was afraid of what I saw, of the dressings, of the sores, of the smell and the diseases concentrated in there. The smiles of the volunteers, of the patients, but above all Bruna and her friendliness, calmed me down, at least outwardly. After the first trial day, the following morning I couldn't get out of bed... I vomited for at least 8 hours.

Whatever I tried to drink or eat wouldn't stay in my stomach. Extremely worried that I had caught some nasty disease, it was Bruna who raised my spirits, explaining to me — with her Veneto accent and a lovely smile — that it was a normal reaction to everything I had seen, a shock that can manifest itself in many different ways. And so it was, because the next morning I was in excellent form and couldn't wait to get to work. The day starts very early, the alarm goes off at 5.15 every morning (00.45 Italian time), we leave our hotel still sleepy and we don't get lost only because our feet know the way. After Mass and the breakfast offered by the nuns — tea with milk (chai), bread and bananas — we set off for work.

I walk to Prem Dan passing through the Park Circus neighbourhood, through a beautiful and colourful market where there are the little women who sell only eggs, men who sell fish, or potatoes and onions, or live chickens, or cauliflowers, or rice..... each has their own 'speciality'. I stop at my 'favourites' and do the shopping: 1 kg of rice, 4 eggs, 1 kg of potatoes and some onions. A good shop for a total of 40 rupees (0.80 cents)...... I continue on my way and, having reached the railway, a few hundred metres from my workplace, I find a SLUM of about a hundred huts..... I pass in front of their doors and everyone greets me. I leave the bag of shopping with someone, at least I know that for that day they will eat. The huts are full of flies, impossible to go inside, I don't know how they manage to sleep in them! The smell is strong, everywhere someone is relieving themselves....

and the piles of rubbish are crowded with children, women, dogs, crows and cows, hoping to find something to eat. At Prem Dan everything is cleaner.... even though it's a terrible place it seems an oasis of serenity. I like following Bruna in the dressings..... now I have such a stomach!!!!! At 8 work begins, until 12.30. The nuns do everything by hand, from the cleaning to the laundry, and the presence of volunteers is a precious help. The morning passes among little brooms to clean the floor, laundry done by hand sitting on an upturned bucket, three flights on foot to hang it out on the terrace. Then there was the work with the patients: cuddling them, massaging them with moisturising creams to prevent bedsores, combing their hair, making them laugh, feeding and giving drink to those who can't manage.

Big smiles tell you thank you, deep looks show you the pleasure of having you there with them. The afternoon remains available to rest or visit the city. Those who feel up to it can work, but it's hard. At 19.00 dinner.... and then... there's very little to do! Street families prepare their mats for the night and we return to our room. What luck..... a room and with a bathroom!!!!!

A holiday that was born by chance has now become a fixed appointment. I have met Italian volunteers and volunteers from all over the world, of every creed and faith, united for the same reason. I always speak of it with great enthusiasm, as if it were the most beautiful place in the world, but the impact is not easy. What you see in the streets of Calcutta is not normal, the smells, their habits, the destitution, the 'houses' on the pavements, the traffic, the heat, the pollution, and until you try it you can't know how our reaction will be. It is a choice and a very difficult journey that should not be undertaken lightly. When you find yourself before children with cleft lips, with serious disabilities, the dying or tuberculosis patients... the magic of the holiday disappears. You have to confront yourself, your weaknesses, your fears.

It happens that you have to wash clothes or sheets full of faeces, infected faeces of very sick people. They may ask you to clean a sore full of worms or to disinfect holes caused by bedsores... or 'simply' to stroke the hand of someone who is about to die. I am happy to have reacted and not to have run away, because from that moment on I have met wonderful people, I have seen smiles I will never forget, demonstrations of affection from street people and displays of generosity from the poorest of the poor.

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