Lost.

A flurry of activity. The head-throbbing pain of incessant honking. Hand-drawn rickshaws, donkey-pulled carriages, elephants, auto-rickshaws, cycles, motorbikes, buses, and trolleys. Stalls and stands selling everything from food to bicycle parts. Street corners laiden with shoe pollishers and beggers. Throw in a few million people and you have an average street in Kolkatta.

But this morning the streets tell a different story. It's five o'clock as I make my usual brisk morning walk from the hostel to the Mother House where if you're late for mass, you're locked out. The sun hasn't crepped over the horizon yet but already the heat and humidity have invaded the narrow street, swooping in like the parent chaparones at a high school dance when you get too close to that new crush of yours. A respite from the heat is impossible. The streets are still lined with men, women, and children sleeping - some underneath make shift tarps and others on top of their food carts. The drug addicts are passed out, their empty bottles and used needles lie next to them. Even the dogs are still sleeping.

Shop gates are just beginning to open. The owners stare out into the street, groggy eyed and tired - perhaps thanking God for the simple miracle that they woke up to see another day. Their faces all express similar emotions - what is this white person doing up so early? The street begins to fill with delicious smells and the crackling of grease as dough is dipped into the frier to make roti and somosas, kotis (a fried sweet shaped as a pretzel) and other baked goodies. Men bathe near a water spout which continually pumps water into a type of bath; small children - not more than seven or eight - are carrying and caring for even younger children, just infants...washing them and feeding them and holding their hands as they walk, preventing them from running off.

As I turn a final corner, a familiar sight greets me - a family of five; a woman and five children. Samil, the oldest at 13, greets me. He and his sister, Rani, act as translators when we run a street clinic in the evening, serving the homeless and drug addicts. They run to me and jump on me, treating me as a human jungle gym as they usually do. But their mother expresses a different look. Her face is grave, and Samil quickly explains to me that two days ago their younger sister who is mentally challenged wandered off and they haven't seen her since. Although she usually wanders off, she always returns within a few hours, but this time is different. They suspect a man, posing as a "Missionaries of Charity" worker who was driving around a van the previous day claiming to be picking up children for one of the MC orphanages, has taken her. I explain again to the mother that MC does not do this and this man is not who he says he is. But to what avail? Although she has reported her missing daughter to the police, there is no picture of her, and little to no chance of finding her. This was three days ago...

Call me calous, I don't care. And yes, perhaps I have grown hard to some of what I have experienced because I myself have no other way I know how to handle it. But such is the life in Calcutta for the average family on the street (many of whom in this small area I have gotten to know personally). All you can do is continue the daily fight for survival, hoping against hope that you will have enough food to feed your family, and that tomorrow, you will wake up to see another day...

CM