Nirmal Hriday is known among MC's and volunteers by its shortened moniker "Kalighat," because the home is next door to the Kali Temple and the Kalighat subway stop. The name Kolkata (Bengali for "Calcutta") is said to be named for the terrifying goddess Kali. Kali is regarded as one of the principal deities of Bengal. She is an incarnation of the Hindu goddess Parvati, who is the consort of Shiva, one of the Big Three Deities. Kali is regarded as the destroyer or liberator and is often depicted in a fearful form: she has jet-black skin, a long red tongue dripping with blood, and a necklace of human heads. Clearly the kind of gal you want to take to parties. The Kali Temple attracts thousands of devotees daily to give puja, or sacrifice. The puja can be flowers, incense or (soon to be not) live goats. And believe you me, those goats look nervous.
There are about 80 "patients" at Kalighat, roughly half men, half women. Most of them are older, and those who aren't sure look older. For instance, we have Markie in the books as age 30. Upon further investigation, we've discovered she's 14. It's incredible what hard living on the streets can do to the way one looks, much less the way one feels. Most of the patients are found on the street or brought in by a team of volunteers who "work station," which means they go to the Howrah or Sealdah train stations every morning and walk back and forth looking for those who need medical assistance. Often times the volunteers will do wound care on the spot; for those who need serious attention, the volunteers bring them to Kalighat. You wouldn't believe things for which these men and women need "serious attention." So hold on.
Some days, Kalighat is like a scene from Dante's Inferno. Because of neglect and inaccessibility to health care, mosquito or rat bites turn into skin ulcers that turn into open wounds that get infected that eventually just rot away giant areas of the leg or arm or face. Often the wounds have maggots. Often the patients have scabies and lice. And many of the patients have tuberculosis and distended stomachs. Some of the patients are skin and bones. Some of them have families; most don't. Some have mental illness. None of them have homes.
What's The Story?
Every volunteer has a story or eight from Kalighat of putrefied flesh, filth, human feces, body parts where they're not supposed to be. But this belies the true state of the men and women patients. While their eyes suggest great suffering and abandonment, they also sparkle with beauty. The women's ward is filled with the most beautiful, sweetest women who love on all of us volunteers. Shima has crazy gray hair and is quite strong. Every day Susan and I spend one-and-a-half hours of wound care on her: she has seven large, seriously infected, deep open wounds on each leg. I now know what tendons look like. She suffers during wound care: Susan cuts away dead tissue and flesh with a scalpel and hydrogen peroxide. But every once in awhile during the procedure Shima will sing us songs. After we bandage Shima up, we feed her a big lunch and chai tea. She smiles, kisses me on the cheek and sometimes massages my arm. She has the most peaceful smile.
Nilima recently had a stroke and cannot move her right arm or leg. She is one of the women that clearly have eaten well before arriving at Kalighat: moving her around is a challenge because she's pretty big. One of the volunteers is a physical therapist and she works with Nilima every day to stretch out her limbs. In the mornings I come by Nilima's bed to say hello and hold her hand. She is excited to show me how she can lift her right leg or move the fingers on her right hand. This is tremendous progress. Yesterday while doing wound care on Shima, I saw Nilima across the room stand up with the aid of a walker. She caught my eye and grinned from ear to ear with delight. Nilima has the funniest old-woman cackling laugh, and it is infectious.
Sabita is a quiet one. I'm not sure exactly what her story is, but she's been at Kalighat awhile. Like Nilima, she cannot move the right side of her body. She has an enormous abdominal cyst that makes her appear eight months pregnant. She loves to receive massage. Since I have no directly applicable skills for medical care, the one thing I definitely can do is give good massages. Sabita often looks pensive but she never complains (and rarely speaks, for that matter). She observes the other women and quietly keeps to herself. When I enter the women's ward each morning, she's the first woman I wave to from across the room. After I massage her, she sometimes squeezes my hand and kisses me on the cheek.
Bed 29 has her name in the books officially as "Unknown." She talks constantly in words unintelligible to the MC sisters, wraps her bed sheet over her head and rocks back and forth chanting. She loves the volunteers, and insists they park themselves right across from her so she can massage them, instead of receiving a massage herself. All the while she chats away and giggles. She is a crack-up and never fails to make me smile.
Portha arrived at Kalighat just last week, and is about 20 years old, I believe. Portha was found on the street after having been repeatedly raped by several men. The physical damage was severe, in addition to the other health problems she has . . . not to mention the emotional damage. We do not know much more about her except that she lives in a tough area, has no family nearby and no money. She has no clear drug addictions, but knows where to find hard drugs if needed, which is not exactly a difficult undertaking in Calcutta. After a few days of rest and healing, we're seeing Portha's personality surface. She really responds to all the love and affection given by the volunteers; she smiles nearly all the time. The other day the woman in the back corner of the ward all looked a little bored, so I danced for them. I recalled a little traditional Indian dance I'd seen during my Palace on Wheels tour, and threw in a little swing dancing besides. It was not pretty. But it did amuse all the women greatly, as laughs and claps filled the air. Portha stood up and twirled her arms in the air to show me the proper dancing technique. She and I danced together a bit, and knowing I'd been clearly bested on the dance floor, I let her take a bow. Now every day she wants to dance with me or with any of the volunteers. She's safe here, and even finds joy.
