A Scalp Massage for the Dying Destitutes.

I always feel honoured when someone trusts me to give them a massage. Especially if there is a language barrier. I run my fingers through her thick, white hair, rubbing coconut oil into her tired scalp. She looks at me with a deep gaze in her hazy blue eyes. A weathered, beautifully leathery face smiles up at me and speaks softly in Bengali. I’ve done the rounds this morning. The nun suggested I offer the women scalp rubs and hair masks. But I can tell Chapa (name changed for privacy), as the label above her bed reads, is especially appreciative of this. She sits very still, and within five minutes, falls asleep onto my lap. I don’t know her story, how she ended up here. But I know she trusts me.

A few beds from her, I speak to another resident, Indira (also not her real name). One of the only patients to speak English, she is avid to tell me her story. She is at heart, a teller and consumer of stories. She recounts with nostalgic longing that she used to be an English teacher. She misses her students. She lost everything after her daughter disowned her, and now resides in Mother Teresa’s home. Indira says she doesn’t get on with the other women. Her only friends are her books, especially the Bible.

These are some tender moments shared with some of the residents at Mother Teresa’s original home, Nirmal Hriday, home for the ‘dying destitutes.’ It’s not as grim as it sounds. Essentially, this is the place where people who society has forsaken and forgotten, can find some dignity, rest, and community. I volunteered here several years ago, and it was a joy to visit again, if only for a morning, on my last trip to the city of joy.