Day 21, Aug. 31

The train was supposed to come in to Howrah Station at 5:10 in the morning. Thank goodness it was over an hour late. However, it did cause me some apprehension. I had awaken in plenty o time to g down the hall getting ready for the morning. I returned to my berth and slept a bit longer. I re-awoke at 5:13 and saw countryside gliding by my window. It couldn’t be I slept through my stop? After all, Kolkata was the last stop. Tht thought scared me for about a half hour until I noticed everyone was still aboard. This led me to meditate on fear. I have tended to be afraid of shadows in most all of my endeavors. Being fearful is not the mark of someone in the Kingdom.
When the train actually did arrive, I was on my own in the crowded depot along with thousands of passengers and as many hawkers tying to get someone to hire a taxi. I knew they were cheats who would charge more than double the right fare. I was going to the pre-paid booth where one gives the destination and the agent gives you a slip to hand to a cabbie. Then you pay the agent and go to the cab # assigned. I found a booth with no one in it. About 10 cabbies told me the office was closed today and could they help me. I chose one. We settled on a price which he jacked up when we made it to my destination. I was taken again.
I had lunch at St. Anthony’s (my new home for the next 5 days) and was given directions to the MC Motherhouse for rosary and Mass (part of a novena before Mother Teresa’s feast day. The directions were sketchy at best and, later when I showed them to others a source of laughter. I made it on time. But I was off by about 2kms. At the end I was on the correct street but going the wrong direction. When I asked yet another person where the Motherhouse was, he made his son drive me on his motorcycle. He didn’t seem to like it at first. By the time we arrived he refused my offer of money and l0oked as if he were proud 0of doing a religious act.
I was welcomed immediately into the Motherhouse once I mentioned I was a priest. They pointed me to the upstairs chapel where lots o people wee gathering. I asked if I could concelebrate. My question was met with a “why do you have to ask’ look. I prayed the rosary fearful I was to be the only priest there. At the third mystery another priest did come. Later a third came. He, like me, was a foreigner from Portugal. The Mass as always was special as fearfulness was a minor theme through the homily. I remembered the train incident and smiled. I just got a message I have the power to do something about.
The trip back took a more direct route. Yet, toward the end, not wanting to tackle a tangle of little twisting streets with no signs filled to the gills with humanity at its lowest, I hailed a rickshaw driver he should know thee neighborhood and get e home expeditiously. Wrong! He ran pulling the cab at a pretty fast pace. However, despite his assurance, at the end he went around in circles. We were both asking people where 19 Market Street was. Finally, I gave up, exited the rickshaw and paid him more than e bargained for. H started arguing with me for more money. Unfortunate for him, I heard those arguments before from the cabs. I thought this poor driver w0ould be different. I didn’t give him what he wanted. About 40 minutes later I found my way home for dinner and bed.