Day 22, Sept. 1

Father Gregory is the pastor of St. Anthony’s and, formally, my host. He seems to be a self-assured man fully in charge of all that’s in his care. He has a resume that would put him in the running for a diocese of his own some day. Knowing that I was looking at various projects for Love & Care, he wanted me to go with him to see his pet project. It was across to Hooghly River in Howrah. Crossing the bridge, his appearance changed. He looked happy and free of the cares of management. By the time we arrived at the Bess Crawford Center (named after an Australian benefactor), he was a joy, proud to show me this part of his life. Sure enough, it was a place where children who dropped out of school were picked up and taught by high quality teachers at their own pace until they liked learning and were able to be re-admitted to school. Primary school children were learning English. (That’s a big deal here.) Such knowledge alone could practically guarantee them a job, if they persevere. They put on a program of songs for me and impressed me greatly more by their discipline than anything else. It’s a super project. And the teachers get paid about $20 to 50.00 per month. I’ve been asking about the economics o the country. I’m only beginning to understand how things work here. Suffice it to say for now that people can get by on that amount but not very well.
We had lunch back at the parish. After about an hour of housekeeping in the cozy bin that serves as my room I was off to the Motherhouse to participate in another day of the novena before Mother Teresa’s feast day. I got there in time for the rosary and concelebrated Mass with three other priests. One was Fr. Eric from Lisbon whom I met yesterday. The other was Missionary of Charity (MC) Father Steve. He hails from Australia mate. I asked him if I could see him the net day. He said 2:30 is the best time for him. I agreed. However, there was another priest whom I met at St. Anthony’s ho came with me to the Motherhouse. He enticed me into going with him to his parish in which there was a leper colony. My time is flexible; so, I agreed to go with him. I thought his place was somewhat close. Now during the negotiations for time, h had a say. We would meet with Fr. Steve and then hurry to catch a bus. That done e returned to St. Anthony’s or supper and bed. Supper is about 8 pm and bed soon follows t 9 or so. Usually, by that time my body gives out. I’ve been walking a lot as I hd planned and the humid heat takes my energy away. That is the way I planned to get back in shape. I hope to keep to that regimen for the rest of the trip.

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.

Day 20, Aug. 30


I had a longer sleep than usual due to the fact I was scheduled to say the second Mass at the Cathedral. The first one was in Nepali, the local language. This is an 1 hour and 45 minute Mass with a lot of chanting. Darjeeling is very British, however, in its manner and style. It is also a military town. Just 5 kilometers, the road is closed for military operations. There seems to be infiltration of soldiers or arms going on. It’s not a joke. But, there is no tension.
Mass was quite nice with seminarians leading the Music. Guitars, bongos and a synthesizer were enough to lead the relatively small congregation. The people gather include tourists from France and a newly married local couple who just got back rom their honeymoon in Thailand. They stayed on an island I spent a day on two years ago.
After the Mass I was invited to tea at the Loreto Sisters cnent which is attachd to the Cathedral. The newly weds were there and she told me of a project Love & Care might be interested in. Then I went to the rectory for a final meal and some help getting a vehicle to take m down to the railway station 65 km. awy. It cost me 1200 rups to come up. The price going down came to 180 rupees. That was paying for two seats to he the front seat of the SUV to myself. The SUV only went to Siliguri. So I had to sspend another 150 rps to go the rest of the trip.
The train was on time. I found my car easily. And the first person I saw in the train was the Muslim who helped me on the trip to Darjeeling.

Day 19, Aug. 29

Saturday stated out promising in Darjeeling. Fr. Swed was going to Sikkim where he has a parish that he serves on weekends. He offered to take me; but we couldn’t get back in time to make the train I had a ticket for. I really would like to have gone. It’s a new place for me even higher than Darjeeling and the parishioners are tribal folk. Too bad. We talked about my return in October if possible.
No sooner had he left than he called me saying the hills were visible. I had to finish something first, then I gathered my stuff and headed out. By now, I knew my way to some viewpoints. When I got out, it my have been too late or the view was on another viewpoint. I chased the elusive mountains for a few miles and gave up. I did see some trainees learning to climb the major league Mountains. Even the simple maneuvers were beyond my capacity. So, I went back to town and shopped for trinkets to take home as souvenirs.
There as a shop that a Jesuit helped establish. It sold the products made by tribal women and other women who had no other source of income. They knitted in a style peculiar to this point on the globe. I wanted to support the program and get some lightweight (and easily shipped) goods with a story. That done I looked or myself. Yesterday, I realized (duh) that the natives of Darjeeling are Ghurkas. There were signs all over supporting secession from its State (West Bengal). They wanted a State of Ghurkaland. The priests all supported the effort and there are compromises in the works. And, yes, to all you military these are the most respected soldiers in the world with accolades for deployments in wars throughout the last century and this. I began to covet a famous Ghurka knife, especially when I found they were plentiful and relatively inexpensive. I had promised to go back to a store that would sell me a current army issue knife for less than a nearby shop. I went back and he had jus closed for the weekend. To make the story short for the sake of time I found the same knife for only a little more than the one I found. Later, in the old bazaar section o town they had an older version of the knife, also Army issue but from WWII vintage for half the price. It’s coming back by mail. I don’t think I can get away from some transportation agent not letting it aboard a train, plain or a bus.
For the rest of the evening I had supper, good conversation in the Bishop’s house and I packed for the long trip the next day.

Day 18, Aug. 28

When I arose, the chill was gone from my body but not from the weather. The day started out with rain and chill. I was asked and enthusiastically agreed the previous day to say Mass at a convent. I didn’t pay attention because of my slight illness. This morning, I realized I was being led to the Loreto convent where Mother Teresa spent her novitiate, was professed, and went for retreat. It was located just across the street from the Bishop’s House where I am staying.
A seminarian from the John XXIII Center, next door, led my way at 6:15 am. He crossed the street went past the Cathedral (which is little more than a chapel. In fact, it was the Sisters of Loreto chapel until they gave it to the new Diocese of Darjeeling.) The sisters’ residence is connected to the Cathedral. That’s where I was led for Mass.
The chapel there looked like it had been a living room of sorts where guests were met. The sisters sat on stools and there was a low (coffee) table for an altar with a small chair behind it where the celebrant sat. They gave me a saffron shawl (much the same as at the Ashram) instead of a chasuble. Remembering the Masses at Anjeli Ashram, I said Mass with the same intensity and devotion. The sisters appreciated it. There were only five or so of them.
They invited me to breakfast. It was not the fare I’ve come to expect in India. It was a typical Irish breakfast. It was great. So was the conversation. They let me know this was the place Mother Theresa spent a lot of time. Then, they proceeded to give me a grand tour. I was shown the choir loft (on the side of and above the main altar) where the sisters and novices attended Mass. (Lay people sat on the pews down below facing the altar.) Looking down from the loft I could see the floor Mother prostrated on before being professed. Later, I was bought to the place she lived and the summer site of the novices’ quarters. It was a tin shed with nothing to keep it warm. The whole experience there (including the mandatory tour of the two schools on the premises [one private; the other a government school both run by the sisters] was marvelous. That was the main reason I wanted to come to Darjeeling. The other was for a retreat-like experience. I was receiving that at the Bishop’s House. All that remained was to see some of the spectacular scenery for which this town is noted.
That came 15 minutes after I returned from the convent. Fr. Swed put me under the guidance of a worker there. Just at that moment, the sun made an appearance. I got a glimpse of the hills and the tea gardens with their bushes geometrically dotting the hillsides. As we drove, some o the more distant mountains appeared from the clouds. The similarity to the Smokies was uncanny except for the 8,200 meter (25,000+ ft) snow covered heights dimly teasing me in the distance. I barely saw them; but the postcard photos pod they are real. My trip here was indeed a success. If only the ‘toy’ (small gauge) railway were functioning it would have been perfect. How could I have missed learning not to expect the perfect in this world? I will gladly accept what I have received this week.
Later in the day I was guided on a shopping expedition. Theology books are cheap here. There is a mostly religious bookstore with a Catholic section that features some deep and narrow topics. I could have bought them all. At those prices, ($2.25 to $5.00) I could have but I would have to drag them all over India for two more months. I’ll find more of those shops later, I hope.
The day ended with another priest guest joining us. We had dinner together followed by an evening of great conversation centering on the concept of forming base communities in our parishes. The conversation included many an anecdote (most of them funny). Parish priests are connected, I relearned, all over the world.

Day 17, Aug. 27

Before I went to sleep, I thought I had a version of the flu (it had killed 26 people in Bangalore since I arrived). Now, I awoke from the longest sleep I have taken while in India quite refreshed. The only problem was the constant hard rain. My host insisted that today be spent resting. Since I needed an excuse to start catching up with at least 10 days worth of blogging, I took the advice. This would be a complete day of rest.
I came to Darjeeling as Mother Teresa did in 1946 for a retreat to discern her future. The weather was a message to remind me of my mission. I did want to see the beautiful mighty Himalayas. From all reports, the rest of my time would be spent in fog and rain. I resigned myself to this fate and hoped to find time to return in October when the weather is much better.
Besides the blogging, I found some good literature especially on John Vianney and did what I was told to do.

Days 15 and 16
Aug. 25 and 26


The day began with an unexpected continuation of the previous day’s joy. I celebrated Mass at the Missionary of Charity’s Novitiate not far from where I was staying. The Mass proved to be another memorable experience for me as I looked at the sixty or so novices and sisters with aces representing every continent but Antarctica. Another of Mother’s legacies is bringing the whole world together at one event, namely the giving of one’s life for the poor and suffering. Here was yet another focal point. At this Eucharist, the world came together to experience its redemption near the cross of the thirsting Christ.
After Mass, as usual on this trip, I was served fine breakfast by the sisters with good conversation. One again I was given a tour of the spacious grounds. Mother loved to be here. One of her greatest joys, if not the greatest, was being with the novices. Her presence is still here. More than a novitiate, Green Park cares for mentally disturbed people of all ages. They are separated into various groups such as women, men, older children and younger. In one way it could have been an ordinary mental health hospital in the US. In an important way it was not. The clients knew they were loved and acted accordingly. When I arrived in a sector, I was met with smiles and requests for blessings. I even started giving the adults high fives. They loved it. Sister smiled. I hope Mother did too.
Returning to Fr. Susai Manickam’s Proggaloy, Father, like the excellent host he was, made sure the next leg of my trip would be enjoyable. I wasn’t sure where I would stay in Darjeeling. He made all the arrangements necessary telling me it was better for me to stay at the Bishop’s House. The bishop was in America and his secretary was in charge. He would take good care of me. (As I finished that sentence, that same man just came to my room and poured me a glass of Indian red wine. He has taken excellent care of me, indeed.)
Now, all I had to do was wait for Peter. He sad he’d come at 11:30. By 2:00 he was still delayed. I had to move my baggage to St. Anthony’s and get to the rail station to catch the 17:45 train to Darjeeling. I needed to get there early. I knew the station would be a mass of humanity and I wasn’t sure how to negotiate one of the largest stations in the world. I needed Peter and I needed him fast.
He arrived at 3:00. He then hired a nearby taxi. The driver was an old, slow, and extremely dirty man with bad body habits and a dilapidated cab. But, he managed to get us to town in time to stow my bags at the church and race to the station. We got there with time to have a snack. My train was not on track 29 but on platform 8. I found my name on a list indicating my car and seat/berth assignment. All was well. Finding my place was a bit of a hassle made easier by Peter. Before I realized it, the long train was chugging its way out of the station.
In A/C First Class one might expect serenity and luxury travel. Of course not! The sea of humanity was lessened. (There was no fighting to get on board as there was for the lower class cars. I would not have been able to survive that.) As it was, my compartment comprised four beds. Before I got aboard, a large Muslim man had already sprawled his belongings into my area. He spread his supper on half his seat/bed and his ready-for-bed self on the other half. Know that another passenger had a right to half that space until nightfall when the beds would be deployed. By the way, Ramadan (Ramzan in India) began a day ago. He could not eat until sundown. He kept looking to his watch in between prayers. The other two men sat on my side. One of them left for a while. I took out my Liturgy of the Hours to pray. My remaining companion noticed it and asked if I were a Christian. When I answered in the affirmative, we became friends. He, too, was Christian. He worked for a gas company. When the conductor arrived to check tickets, I had a question to ask him that I had trouble asking. The Muslim answered my question and saw to it I would get off at the right station.
Speaking of the station to which I as headed, it was New Jalpaiguri. My ticket said I was to change there for the toy (narrow gauge) train to Darjeeling. In fact that train has not been running for months due to landslides in the mountains. Fr. Susai had prepared me for this. What I had to do at NJP was to hire an SUV to take me there. He gave me a price range that would be reasonable.
Before that critical moment, I had another problem. Before I left Tennessee I knew I’d get sick. I was told it would be in the second week for up to seven days. After my 14th day I thought I had it beat. As soon as we got into our berths I realized I was in trouble. Whoever is the Indian equivalent of Montezuma was having his (o was it the goddess Gnesei) revenge on me that night. I made my way to the end of the train car (a buggy in the local lingo) to reach the toilet. My hopes were shattered. I saw what I feared most – the toilet was Indian and not European. That means it consisted of a hole, two foot pads, a sink and some handles to draw water. I held on, stooped and hoped for the best. I’ll spare you the details. It wasn’t pretty; but it went better than I feared. I only had one more round with the necessary room that night. Thank God for the small packs of Kleenex tissues. Toilets d not come with paper.
It was now the next day. The train arrived at 6:15 right on time. The Muslim made good on his word. He did tell me the right station to detrain. He even assured me the previous stop was not my station. Only a few got off. The haggling I expected among the SUV drivers for fares to Darjeeling seemed not to exist. Finally, descending the station steps a little boy and a young man with an older companion did approach and asked if I were going to Darjeeling. I seem to have been the only customer for the morning. Father told me not to go over 1200 rps. That would be a fair price if I were the only passenger. I was and I was sick. I didn’t want to haggle. So, foolishly, I accepted. Later, I found out I could have lowered the price considerably. At any rate, the scenery was spectacular; there were many landslides; the toy train’s tracks were in bad shape; and we had a flat tire. But, they got me to Darjeeling only a five minute walk from the Bishop’s House.
No one was there when I arrived except the caretaker. After denying that I was expected, he showed me to my room and gave me the key. Strange! Feeling a little better, I decided to see the amazing views my guidebook had promised. The caretaker told me which way I should go. I found out the weather had changed for the worse with cold dark clouds obscuring most overlooks. I went on anyway. Without knowing it, I stumbled upon the zoo and mountaineering school. The experience was good. There was a great museum of the mountains with the actual equipment of Hillary’s climb of Everest. The founder of the school was Hillary’s guide hen he climbed Everest. Then, the rains came down. I was dressed for the rain; but it still penetrated my clothing and I was drenched. All my clothes were wet. Back at the house, I began to shiver. I was getting sick for real. I showered and came down for dinner. It was good. My new host proved Fr. Susai a prophet. I excused myself and used all thee of the heavy blankets on the bed as well as the heater and some Tylenol.