LATEST REPORT:
MISSION REPORT #6 FROM MUMBAI, INDIA

JULY 6, 2008

Greetings from Mumbai, India!

I apologize for not finishing my previous email. I had intended to include the full three days I spent with the medical clinics when I started writing the email, but time was against me last week. I didn’t finish the last email until 3:15am and it was getting to be a sizeable length, so I decided that breaking it up wouldn’t be such a bad idea in regards to reading or writing. (Of course, I do not get much time to finish this one either, as I will only get 3 hours of sleep before having to wake up at 3:30am. Monday is the Indian equivalent to our Labor Day, so Fr. Joe has organized a mountain climbing trip with some of his friends and I will be joining them.) One other point I would like to clarify from my earlier email is that Sr. Rosa is a member of the Canossian Daughters of Charity.

Last week Saturday was my third trip with the Sister Rosa to the medical clinic. Since I’ve been around some of the same nurses for a few times now, I’ve learned that almost everyone can speak English, just not very fluently, which meant that conversations were limited in my early trips due to our accents. This time I was able to help in more ways and I took initiative when we arrived by sweeping the debris out before one of the women could take the broom from me.  Sr. Rosa instructed some of the men who had come to aid the driver in cutting some wood outside the clinic as the Vardoli convent was running low on firewood due to theft. A few able-bodied people still stood around, which led to a stern lecture by Rosa, who chastised them for coming and expecting to receive but not being willing to give back in return. As I was standing next to her during this speech, she pointed to me and used me as an example of how much love I have in my heart to come halfway around the world to help those in need. This was not the first time Rosa has lauded me either privately or publicly and it’s still astounding to me that a woman who has dedicated her entire life to serving others praises me for coming for a mere two months.

I initially sat with Sr. Rosa so that I could take some more photos for her benefactor, as some of the ones I had taken from Thursday turned out poor due to the rainy conditions. The first patient to be examined started the day out with a bang. A woman with leprosy, who I remembered for my initial visit, came in her checkup.  However, she got the date wrong and was not supposed to come for another two weeks. It turned out this woman was aware of that, but she had gone through all of her medication and wanted a refill. She was initially given a month’s worth of various medications which she went through in two short weeks since she believed it would help cure her more quickly. The stern version of Rosa immediately reared its head as this woman was scolded very badly by the nun for a serious lack of judgment and for not following the instructions. Sr. Rosa warned her of the potential implications of such a misguided decision as she could have a horrible reaction to the overdose or damaged organs. I’ve noticed that when Rosa talks sternly, whether it is today or one of the other visits, people listen and do not argue or mutter a word back. The respect she commands among these people is truly astounding and I wish to liken her to something the younger email recipients may remember very well.  Remember those Chuck Norris jokes? Thought so. This woman is the female version of Chuck Norris; if you fill “Sr. Rosa” in place of “Chuck Norris,” they’re all true.

Another patient I examined with Rosa was a young boy who was diagnosed with leprosy on my last visit.  I remembered him as I saw Sr. Rosa test for leprosy by using a very simple technique: all she does is take a pin to the potential patch and scratch. Since leprosy leaves the nerves dead, the patient would not feel anything. Just to make sure it’s leprosy, they poke the patch with the pin to draw blood and if the patient still feels nothing then it is for certain leprosy.  The good news with this boy is that after only 4 weeks of medication he has drastically improved as the leprosy patches are decreasing in size and they haven’t spread to any other part of his body.  It was encouraging for me to be able to see the results of their work by coming back.  If I, or anyone, came for only one visit, all we would see is the terrible condition of these patients brought on by these maladies and they would be left with nothing but pity and sorrow.  By coming back to the same place a few weeks later, I can attest to the progress which is being made with several patients and not just this boy.  Seeing people improving physically brings great warmth and hope for me and I can surely assume it does for Sr. Rosa as well.

As the line at the makeshift pharmacy counter grew, I headed over to help Natalie (who is exactly my age and pursing her degree in Nursing) with filling the prescriptions. Working as a pharmacist is not something I would want to do for a living as it becomes very monotonous work having to count out 27 of the same pill over and over again. I did notice that most of the prescriptions Natalie and I were filling contain many vitamin supplements, which seemed so basic. Then I realized that these people live in areas so secluded that they are unable to obtain the necessary foods containing these vitamins.



The Canossians do not require any payment if it is too much of a financial burden for the patients, but if possible they would like one. As I took a few payments, I noticed that most the prescriptions cost the patients on average Rs 50 – a whopping $1.62. I asked Rosa about the medication afterwards and she said that it is one of the most expensive parts of their work and they try to subsidize the patients’ payments through the generous support of their Italian benefactor.  

Since I had aided in decreasing the line size for filling prescriptions, the line for injections was growing rather rapidly.  Sr. Rosa told me to go join Catherine (who is a lay nurse that has been working in the Canossian medical clinic for nearly 40 years now), as she would teach me how to administer the injections so that I could help.  For the first one, I wanted to watch Catherine administer the shot so I could get a visual lesson on how it was done.  It’s a fairly large needle, maybe 1”-1.5”, and it is given right in the butt and the needle goes down all the way.  After watching, I had my turn as Catherine watched me deliver the injection to a 40-year-old male.  She helped in finding the spot to deliver the injection, which I cleaned it before doing so.  It was a rather odd feeling with the needle piercing the skin as it took a brief moment before I went deep into his flesh.  Since I had never done this before, I was trying to find a way to push down on top of the syringe and did it a rather unorthodox way, but luckily I held it steady and did it properly. The man was very good at taking the injection too, as he didn’t flinch once even though I had to push the needle in so far.  Afterwards, Catherine showed me a better way to hold the syringe so that I could more easily deliver the next one. 

In all, I administered about 20 injections; all of them went well, too. There were a few where I made a small mental error before administering the injection, like attaching the new needle improperly to the syringe (which became very obvious the second I moved the syringe), but that was easily fixable. Since I gave so many injections, I began to take note of the drugs being administered; most of them were vitamin based. The one I had to give most often was a B-12 shot. Either these Canossian sisters are supplying these people with essential vitamins missing from their diets or they’re creating the next baseball gods on Roger Clemens’ “miracle drug.” 



Most the patients I administered the injections to were women, but no one was uncomfortable having a male administering it in their rear. All of them were very steady while taking the injection. The good news for a few patients was that by having a leprosy patch on their butt where I could give the injection, they wouldn’t feel a thing. The only person to flinch was a young boy, which startled me for a second as I pulled back for him to readjust and position himself again. There was a mother and baby who both came in for injections; Catherine administered the shot to the woman as I played with the baby boy on the ground as he waited his turn. When his turn came, I put him up on the table and had to contain him in such a way that he would not buck the needle out of him. I placed a hand over his upper body to pin his arm to his torso and I placed my other hand around his butt and leg so that Catherine had an unobstructed spot to stick the needle. It was rather odd since, when she poked him, his body went rigid in my hands but he didn’t make a sound for the first few seconds. Of course, that was short-lived and he soon began to cry, but we were able to get the entire injection off in one try.  

It was a very back and forth day as I assisted in numerous ways multiple times throughout the day.  Either I was sitting in on patient examinations to take pictures of Rosa at work, filling prescriptions, administering injections, or distributing grain from the four 110 lb. bags we had brought along.  I have never been the type of person to sit back and think “how awful” in bad situations as I’ve always had an attitude of “what can I do to help.”  For me, it was personally gratifying being able to lend a hand in an effective manner rather than sitting the entire time looking at these patients as if they’re museum exhibits. Eventually Sr. Rosa finished with her examinations and came out to check on everyone else’s progress.  When she saw me moving from task to task, she went to get my camera (which I had left with her in case she needed it) to take pictures of me at work. She went from being the female Chuck Norris to being Georgia O’Keefe as she tried getting as many picture of me doing all the various tasks, but also because she enjoyed the quick display of the digital camera. It became rather hard not to laugh at her fascination with using this camera.

As we finished up our work earlier than expected, Rosa asked if I would join her for a late lunch at their convent. Since it was 3:30 and the Gnanmata lunch table would be cleared and their Vardoli convent was not far, I agreed. When we arrived, she beckoned me into their dining hall immediately, where I met about 5 of the other Canossian sisters; some of them I had previously met as they come to Talasari for Mass on Sundays. They immediately began bombarding me with questions as to what I wanted to eat and they wouldn’t take “whatever you have leftover” as an answer. Four of them headed to the kitchen to promptly start making an omelet while the other three sisters prepared other food. Basically, I went into a house that consisted of five grandmothers. Sadly, it felt a little too much like grandma’s home as one sister heated up the chapatti (a pita bread of sorts) on the open flame of the stovetop.

When they brought the food out, there had to be seven different dishes and they immediately began piling on different foods. As I began to eat, they would say “Try one of these,” and plop it on my plate.  Or “Try one of these” and do it again, but then add “Well, if you’re going to take one of those, you need to have it with one of these” and plopped something else on my plate before I could even say a word. Yup, just like Grandma’s. After I finished, I quickly ran to the sink to wash it before they could take my plate and do it for me. Of course, they tried to wrestle it out of my hands, but I had a few years on them and was able to get a quicker jump to the sink.



After lunch, Rosa took me on a tour of their convent and campus.  We walked down their gravel road with three rice paddy fields in the center of their land; they try to produce most of the food they eat and had workers come and tend the fields for them. At the far left corner of their property was a Marathi girls’ boarding school.  Sr. Rosa took me inside their kitchen and then into their girls’ quarters, where I received many looks. Rosa gave the girls a stern look for not saying hello to me, which students are supposed to do for elders and teachers (and, of course, the girls obeyed Sr. Rosa). Afterwards, we walked out and back onto the gravel road. We passed a house Rosa said was occupied by nurses-in-training and another house occupied by their fully certified nurses. From there we entered the Canossian hospital, which is broken up into two parts – the first being the leprosy hospital which Rosa oversees, the other being like any regular hospital (only with a special ward for TB and other highly contagious patients). 

The leprosy hospital is rather large as it contains two stories and has a courtyard in the middle of it. We walked the corridor where two people were standing, neither looking like a patient. We came to the corner room where a patient was in bed, so Sr. Rosa entered and I followed. This man was sitting on the bed with his a bed sheet covering his hands and another covering his feet – I assumed because he was uncomfortable with his appearance. He greeted Rosa and me very warmly and smiled at the both of us.  Rosa talked to him for a few brief moments then left. As we left, she turned around and said that he has always been a favorite patient of hers since he has such a wonderful heart.

I then followed Rosa into the dining area and when I entered the room grew very quiet as people turned to look at the both of us. All of a sudden this one woman stood up and said “NAMASTDAI!!!” (Rough translation: Greetings/Hello). A few others chimed in as well. I looked around and I saw most people’s faces brighten because they had visitors and it was hard not to smile back. I was rather surprised that they did not care I had come to see them, being clearly an outsider. It dawned on me that it didn’t matter that I had come to visit due to their leprosy infection, but that I had cared enough to come to visit regardless. Leprosy patients are left to fend for themselves by the government as it offers the people no relief from its symptoms, thus continuing the ages-old social stigma.

Contracting the disease depends on two things: 1) Genetics (only 10% of the world population is at risk for contracting leprosy); and 2) Living conditions (leprosy is known as the disease of the poor as they are the ones at highest risk for contracting it due to their contaminated water, insufficient diet, and lack of body immunity). It is possible to contract leprosy even if you don’t live in these conditions, but it is highly unlikely. For your reassurance, my nose has not begun to cave in or anything. So for these impoverished people, the fact that someone cares enough about them to visit when they are extremely sick means a lot. 

Rosa showed me one woman who had lost both of her hands up to her wrists and her feet up to her heels. Sr. Rosa turned to me and looked me in the eye and said she had no idea how this woman manages to live day-to-day and accomplish tasks we take for granted each day. This was the first time I saw despair behind Rosa’s eyes. I watched as this woman pinched the cup between her two stubs of arms and drank from it without losing her “grip” on the cup. Looking at the mangled mess she called a body (as well as those of some other patients), it reminded me more of victims of a bombing or land mine disaster than a disease.

As we left, Rosa and I spoke candidly to one another. I asked why she had chosen leprosy to be her main focus. She replied that she took courage and pleasure in fighting a disease that leaves people in states that others cannot look at them as equals anymore. It’s a challenge to overcome the social stigma of leprosy in order to help these people and she was willing to face that challenge. The diseases and what they do to these people did not startle me; rather, I was overtaken by the compassion and love of the people I saw working at the clinics and the hospital. I am truly thankful not simply to see the Canossian sisters’ ministry, but to be given the chance to work side-by-side with them.

Compassion And Love Have No Boundaries.

God Bless
~Greg





MISSION REPORT #5 FROM MUMBAI, INDIA

JULY 6, 2008

Greetings from Mumbai, India!

Fr. Joe was coming into Mumbai for the day, so I tagged along so I could spend time with the children of Snehasadan again.  However, I wish to dedicate this email to another topic I promised I would come back to – the medical clinics run by the Daughters of Charity. As a forewarning, some of the details I provide here do not lead to pretty mental pictures and are not always stomach pleasing.  Thus, reader beware.

During my second week here, I joined Sr. Rosa from a convent 3km down the highway who directs various medical clinics in the area. The nuns asked me to join them for the first time on June 14, since it was one of their lighter patient days in order that I could be exposed to their work. They picked me up in the Talasari market in their ambulance.  We preceded a little east, but stopped next to a barbershop at the side of the road before leaving Talasari since we were ahead of schedule.  The only reason I mention this is because I looked into the barbershop and watched the barber shaving a customer while his eyes were intently focused on me.  I had to turn away to laugh since I figured he was the one with the knife and offending him would be bad.  Plus, I was glad not to be the customer getting the shave just then.

Anyways, this place, the Udhawa Clinic, is on the property of another convent about 20km from Talasari, so it was not a long drive. When we arrived, Rosa opened the gate and the three women began to set up their supplies, as patients were already waiting and lining up. I tried asking if I could help, but unsuccessfully as neither of the women spoke English particularly well.  (Sr. Rosa does, but she was tending to some other business.)  

Rosa came back soon after finishing her task and began telling me that the total number of patients would be lower since the heavy rains deter people.  Rosa showed me some of the gathering leprosy patients who, as a result of the disease, had either deformed, curled, or claw-like hands.  Most of the patients ended up this way since the disease had gone untreated for so long.  A few were missing multiple fingers, or they were stubs, as they slowly disintegrate into nothing.  Even those who had just claw-like hands (hands that still had all five fingers and no finger is quite a stub) would eventually end up like the patients missing all five fingers because the blood flow would never be completely restored to the hand.  Eventually all those who had lost the blood flow in their hand(s) would lose everything up to their wrist.  One woman had lost everything but one finger and one toe (if you could call it a “toe”) and she was forced to tie a string (or someone else was) around her ankle just to make her sandals stay on (kind of).

The nurses kept patients’ information, medical history, and prescription history on large note cards, which the patients receive and bring with them into the examination room.   Rosa told me to sit with her as she met and examined patients in her room.  Already, it became quite a different experience than an American medical facility in terms of privacy as I was allowed in, the door to the common area remained open, and other patients looked in and listened.  However, it didn’t bother any of patients, nor were they bothered by my presence being a violation of their privacy.  Rosa asked if I had brought a camera along, which I had just in case there was something I wanted a picture of.  She told me to pull it out and take pictures of the maladies.  I listened to her even though it seemed rather rude to go and snap photos of these suffering people.  However, not one of them cared that Rosa told them I was going to take pictures.  Even more baffling was their demeanor.  Almost all of the patients I met seemed very pleasant and, if you will, at peace with their maladies – even the severe leprosy patients.  I was at a loss trying to comprehend how these people who were losing their fingers, toes, hands, and feet (etc.) seemed at ease and (I would say) at peace with themselves although their bodies were crippled for the rest of their lives.  I tried to find some sign of despair or hopelessness in their eyes, but nothing!   I just could not make sense of it.

Some patients of note that I met:

One woman tried a “homemade” remedy for the patch of leprosy she had on her leg which consisted of mud and ash.  Rosa became very direct and strict with her due to the serious lack of judgment.  I think this patient is a statement on how poor the education is in rural India that she thought this “remedy” would work.  

It is not uncommon for patients to be infrequent visitors whose last visit was months or a year ago, not just weeks – the reason being that the medicine they were given improved their ailments so they stopped taking it and stopped coming. As a result, not surprisingly, the leprosy came back and spread.  Rosa was very stern with these patients as well, since they were serving as their own greatest enemy in trying to cure themselves.

One woman, 22 years of age, was a perfect example of this. She originally had a patch of leprosy which started on her back and she came for initial treatment in September 2007, then in January 2008, and then again today.  As a result of these sporadic visits, the leprosy had spread to her calf and her nose. Sr. Rosa had me examine the patient as well by feeling the back of her calf, which felt as if a strand of muscles running from the knee to the Achilles were missing, creating a “gorge” in the middle of the entire muscle group.

Sr. Rosa told her that the leprosy spot on the nose would continue to expand and she would eventually lose it if it went untreated.  Her nose had already begun to flatten out. Rosa was also direct with her in saying that it would be pointless for them to administer her treatment if she wasn’t going to continue it consistently. The woman decided to wait on making a final decision, as she wanted to consult her husband on the course of action; she then left.  Sr. Rosa pointed out how patriarchal this culture can be and this woman either felt unable to, or was forbidden to, make this decision even though it concerns her long-term life and health.

Now most of the patients were women and a decent number of the patients were 17-19 year-old girls.  Sr. Rosa explained how it’s imperative for these girls to seek treatment and get better as soon as possible since their physical maladies would serve as a huge deterrence as these girls look for potential husbands; it’s basically Social Darwinism.



The one patient who really affected me was a 5-month-old baby boy, who was running a very high fever and Rosa couldn’t figure out why.  He was absolutely miserable and crying non-stop, which made it difficult to give him cough syrup. Rosa and one of the other nurses had to force it down his throat by laying him on his back, pinching his nose, and then pouring the syrup into his mouth, which he initially gargled through his crying before he swallowed it. For me, that was the only hard one to watch.

Malnutrition and starvation were both very prevalent with the patients, especially the older and elderly ones, who were literally nothing but skin and bones.  There were women both young and old who had ailments high on their thighs and it didn’t bother them rolling up their garments with me present in the room. Some had parts of their breasts exposed and it didn’t bother them showing that either, young or old.

The next time I went with the nuns was on July 3rd.  The village we were going to was further inland and it would take an hour and a half to reach it as we had to enter the jungle of India and climb the mountains to a height of about 2,000ft. (Talasari is very close to sea level.)  The village we were going to is one of the poorest in all of Maharashtra, so leprosy is extremely rampant.  The village was so poor that they had no facility for us to use while examining the patients, so we used deck chairs and a collapsible table under a tree (since it was also raining) to be the examination table.  Sr. Rosa got mad at herself for not bringing her own camera to take pictures, which she needs to send back to their benefactor in Italy. Luckily, I brought mine so I offered to take pictures for her, which she was most pleased with, and it gave me a task to do.  Rosa had me sit with her again as she examined patients.  The examination system was so primitive, with Rosa holding a clipboard in her lap and writing prescriptions on paper that was nothing more than recycled cardboard from a goods packaging box.

A few patients of note from this trip:

The first was a little baby who had scabies and eczema at the same time, which made his face look like it was full of puss-filled boils.  Sr. Rosa said it was very painful, which explained the baby’s constant ill temperament.

The second patient of note was an older man who used to have a severe case of leprosy. Rosa told me that he spent a year in their infirmary (located at their convent) in order to be completely cleared of the disease.  However severe damage had been done, as part of his face was sunken in, his hands were without all ten fingers, and I assume he’d lost most (if not all) of his toes as well since he was wearing a closed-toe boot rather than a thong sandal.  He had come for his regular treatment as well as for treatment on a new wound.  

The man rolled up his pant leg (with some assistance, obviously) and revealed a severe burn he had received just below the knee that ran to the middle of his shin. The burn was very deep (probably an inch) and it still looked extremely raw although it was more than a week old.  With the wound exposed, flies (which were particularly bad in this village) swarmed into the depths of the wound.  Apparently this man had fallen asleep next to a fire and during the night he turned his leg into the fire which caused the wound.  Since his leg had been affected by the leprosy, he was left without the sense of touch/feel, which is the one remnant of leprosy even after one has been cured. This meant he went the entire night with his leg suffering the equivalent of 3rd degree burns and he did not feel a thing. 



I got down on my knees to lower his pant leg when Rosa had finished examining the wound.  As I neared, the swarm of the flies was now inside the wound itself.  I tried to brush them away but they didn’t want to move, so I had to come very close to the wound in order to make them fly away.  I accidentally touched the side of the wound and cringed for a second thinking I had caused him much pain, but then realized he didn’t even know I was touching him.  I also had to reach behind his calf to pull the pant leg down the rest of the way and as I did so I gripped his calf, which felt like it was made of rock since all that was left after the leprosy was the bone and the extremely atrophied muscles.

The third patient was a 12-year-old girl with a case of leprosy that had turned severe.  Her arms looked the skin you should find on a 65-year-old, not a 12-year-old, and her face was beginning to contort as well.  Sr. Rosa told the older woman the girl had come with that the only way a case this severe could be healed was if the girl came with her back to the infirmary for constant care and supervision (which is free of any charge).  The woman flat-out refused, saying that the girl is needed to tend to the cattle, making it impossible for her to go.  Sr. Rosa kept on insisting more fervently and assured her that the cost was nothing, if that was a concern.   However, the woman refused to change her mind.

Rosa became stern and told her that the girl would die slowly and painfully, but the women replied that it doesn’t matter if she dies, but as long as she is alive she will work on the farm.  I watched the girl during this as Rosa became furious.  The girl stood away from this woman, with another patient in between them, thus blocking any sight of one another.  Her eyes began to tear up and trickle down her face as this woman said these horrible (and, I would say, unforgivable) things.  

I felt completely hopeless and helpless.  I tried to make eye contact with her to lend a compassionate and caring look, for what that was worth, but her eyes remained lifeless, black holes, as she continued to stare out into the distance.  After scolding the woman, Rosa looked at the girl and told her very kindly to go get her dad to make the decision, as this woman was only her stepmother and couldn’t legally give the official say.  As she left to head home, I contemplated getting up to reassure her, but decided against it as I thought too much.  I now regret that decision as I knew what would happen if I just sat there but didn’t act. I prayed with all my heart that she would come back with her father; she never did.

As the nurses finished distributing prescriptions, I helped in distributing the four bags of grain (weighing 110lbs apiece) that we had brought along in the back of the ambulance.  The grain was provided from U.S aid that I later found out was given through U.S. Catholic Charities.  At the end of the distribution, my back ached so bad from the constant bending and scooping of the grain, plus the fact I cannot stand up completely in the ambulance like everyone else due to my height.  I did go with Sr. Rosa this past Saturday for another medical clinic, but I will wait to talk about that day as it is extremely late here and I have to get up in two hours in order to hitch a ride back to Talasari and be back for classes.

~Greg
“Go and Set the World on Fire” (St. Francis Xavier – Patron Saint of the Missions)




MISSION REPORT #4 FROM TALASARI, INDIA

JUNE 29, 2008

Greetings from Talasari, India!

So much for sending out an email during the week!  Power has been spotty all week long, making it very difficult to find a time to use a computer, let alone the Internet. Anyway, I would like to finish my Mumbai story from last week.

In last week’s email, I left off describing how I got into Mumbai and Vinayalaya. Unfortunately, many of the Jesuits, including Fr. Emil, were gone until the late evening as they had traveled to a town 4.5 hours away where some young men were taking their first vows.  I found out afterwards that they traveled by public transportation, so imagine being on a CTA train and a CTA bus for 4.5 hours – without any shocks on the bus!!

After settling in, I went to re-explore the Vinayalaya land, as it’s a decent sized property.  I do not think I talked about it in my first email, so I would like to do so now. Vinayalaya is built upon a hill, just above a corner intersection.  The spot is absolutely wonderful as the noise of the city congestion does not reach the grounds and it maintains a more nature-like setting.  Actually, at night the sounds remind me of the soundtrack that is played at the Rainforest Café.  On the southwest side of the property, the Jesuits operate a boarding school, which takes in either abandoned children or children who ran away from their homes and are now living on the streets (more on that soon).  The southeast side contains a technical institute and a multi-high rise convent.  On the south side of the property is a cemetery with a path that runs through it that leads to the Holy Family Church, which is on the street.  The actual Jesuit residence does not take up much of the land as it is also linked with a retreat center and an infirmary.

They have a road that leads down to a football (soccer) field next to the boarding house, so I walked down as there was a friendly match being played.  There were 7 or so kids playing cricket on the adjacent road next to the football field.  After a while, they came and sat next to me and started to introduce themselves and ask where I was from, where I am staying, what am I doing in India, etc.  Most of the kids were between the ages of 7-10 and the eldest was 15 and all of them were extremely cheerful and smiley, just like the kids from Talasari.  One of the football players came up and asked if I’d like to join, but since it was getting dark quickly I decided not to and continued talking about American sports with the younger kids. As night approached, we went our separate ways but the kids asked me to come back in the morning to hang out with them, which I promised to do.

Since it wasn’t quite dinnertime, I headed through the cemetery and went to go walk around to the front of Holy Family Church.  I didn’t realize on my previous stay here that there is quite a bit of nightlife on this section of road with multiple cocktail restaurants and “family restaurants and bars.”  I headed back for dinner and soon after, Caesar (who showed me around my first day here) came up and said hello.  He has been in the infirmary for a little while as he had surgery to repair a hole in his eardrum.  I wanted to say he had an odd resemblance to Frankenstein (he had massive stitches around his ear where the doctors had cut), but decided against it as he had been too kind to me on my arrival.  Fr. Emil arrived after dinner so I had a chance to talk with him about my experience so far and how I was doing, as the previous week he had inquired with the Talasari Jesuits about my well-being. (Some of the Talasari Jesuits had traveled to Mumbai the day of our student-parent meeting for the installation of the new Provincial.)   Afterwards, he set me up on the computer so I could begin working on my next mass email...and thankfully I decided against finishing and sending it last night (Saturday) because Sunday was quite an experience.

On Sunday, Fr. Emil was going to see if someone was available to take me around to see more of the “touristy” places on my weekend vacation (although I don’t know if I can call it a vacation given I had to do some grading).  First, we went to have Mass with the infirmary patients, but the room was too full so Fr. Emil decided that he’d celebrate the Mass with just me in the chapel.  It was a rather enjoyable experience, although you don’t quite realize how community-dependent you are on the assembly when reciting parts of the Mass.  If you’re Catholic, try to say the “Gloria” by yourself and see how you do.   It served as a reality check as to how much the Mass is meant to be celebrated in the communion of God’s people.

Afterwards, he checked to see if anyone could take me Down Central Mumbai (downtown, if you will), but no one was available as most were tired after yesterday’s 9-hour journey for the vows and others were not coming back until later on today.  It was discouraging that my reason for coming into Mumbai hadn’t gone to plan, but I went to make the best of it.  I headed down the road to where the kids were playing cricket again, so I talked with them for a little while before they had to go.  Again, they asked me to come back around 5, which I promised to do.

Afterwards, I headed down through the cemetery and through the Holy Family Plaza to go out onto the city street, but I was stopped before I got to the entrance. A funeral procession was coming through and there had to be at least 150 people processing on foot towards the church entrance.  I stopped to watch since these people were just processing through the six-lane, busy street with the hearse following behind.  The women entered the plaza chanting something I could not make out and a 5-piece band (a bass drummer, a snare drummer, an alto saxophonist, and two trumpeters) came and stood next to me as they waited for the rest of the marchers to pass.



The hearse pulled up near the church and the pallbearers began to remove the casket.  The casket itself was not very deep and the body was protruding above.  It wasn’t extravagant in a copper or silver color like American ones; it was also carried without a lid (for lack of a better word).  The casket was an awful bright purple color, however.  As the pallbearers processed into the church, the band began to play a slow ballad and it reminded me very much of a New Orleans-style funeral. I decided to continue on my way once the procession had moved into the church.

I then left and headed onto the city street.  I decided it was time to cut the umbilical cord and walk around unaided.  I wanted to test my sense of direction and see if I could remember how to get to the train station Caesar and I used to get to Bandra (which is about 2 km. away).  Walking the city streets, I got many looks as I walked, but I’ve grown so used to it that I don’t think twice about it anymore.  I also had to cross a few streets and it is very much like you are playing a highway-sized game of “Frogger” as cars, buses, and rickshaws are constantly moving with little space in between them.

I got to the train station, turned around and stopped in a few shops on the way back to see what they’re selling. One store had a going out of business sale and it was selling toddler outfits for Rs. 60 (about $1.50).  After returning to Vinayalaya, I came upon the funeral again, which had now moved to the graveyard.  I’d say there were probably about 200 people that had gathered around the gravesite for the last funeral rites.  I stood at a distance observing their customs regarding death, and the band stood to one side waiting as well.  Once the priest finished the prayer, the family and friends threw various colored flower petals onto the casket and it cued the band as well.  They began to play another ballad, but it turned into a more festive jazz sound, reminding me even more so of a New Orleans-style funeral.  The band continued to play as people stood around either talking, weeping or heading onto the paved graveyard path.  No one left, however, as they all waited around and watched as the casket was lowered into the ground and the workers began to cover it with dirt.

Afterwards, I went back to the Vinayalaya house to have a late afternoon tea and biscuits (they’re really just Ritz crackers) break with some of the other Jesuits. Since it was nearing 5pm, I headed down to the soccer pitch where a game was going on and the boys were playing cricket on the adjacent road.  The one boy who had originally asked me to come back started talking to me as they played cricket. Any time the ball would jump over their heads, I’d try and stop it so they wouldn’t have to chase onto the soccer pitch.  Eventually the boy (Allen) went up to bat, so they had me pitch to him.  The throwing movement is much like softball, only with a smaller ball that is made out of a hard rubber.  

I did this for a while and then an older boy from the soccer game asked if I wanted to join in.  Since I had to reject their offer the previous day, I decided to accept as Allan beckoned me to go.  One team was made up of teenagers and the team I played for was made up of mostly teenagers, expect for myself and an older Jesuit priest who had a beard Grizzly Adams would be impressed by.  I didn’t get a chance to learn any names (not that it would matter since I would forget them…), but it didn’t matter.  The boys could all speak English, but for the game they spoke mostly Marathi.  One boy tried convincing me that he was on my team when I had the ball, but I didn’t believe him, so as he came at me I put my foot on the ball and he tripped and fell, which gave a great passing lane.  He got up and was laughing, so no harm done thankfully.



Out of all the games of soccer I’ve watched many people play here, I have yet to see anyone wear shoes and these guys were no different.  Just like everyone else I’ve seen play soccer, they were incredibly nimble for not having any shoes.  I decided that if playing without shoes was the secret to their agility, I would pass since the ground was filled with stones and my feet would look like Bruce Willis’ in “Die Hard” – yippy-ki-yay!  Overall, they absolutely took me to school.  I haven’t played competitively in six years and it showed as I also felt out of shape.  It didn’t matter, though, as it was just a friendly and the teams played, well, as teams.

After the game ended, the boys went to sit in a circle and they asked me to come over, which I did.  They asked were I was from, what I was doing, etc., etc. – just the basic questions I get from everyone.  They kept on addressing me as “Uncle,” which is a term adolescents will use if they respect a person who is older to them; that in itself was rather humbling.  They eventually asked how old I was and could not believe that I was only 20, as most of them thought I was over 30.  (I’m sure my game of soccer didn’t help that image!)  The oldest boy there was 18 and he told me he works part-time in a technical institute, which isn’t located far away. He still attends school, as do the other teenagers. There was a deep sense of camaraderie between these guys as they would poke fun of one another in a light-hearted manner.

Eventually, a motorbike came down the adjacent road and headed for a nearby garage. One of the older guys told me to follow him, so I could meet Fr. Noel, who had just arrived on the bike.  The boy introduced me to Fr. Noel and he started asking me many of the same questions the boys had just asked me.  As it was getting dark, I could sense Noel had to head into the nearby apartment-like complex, so I asked if he just wanted to carry on our conversation inside.  The boy who had introduced me then said goodbye and asked me to come back and play another game with them next time I’m in town.

I had a feeling when I started playing with these boys that they were part of Snehasadan (roughly translates to “House of Love”), the boarding school which takes in either abandoned children or children who ran away from their homes and are now living on the streets.  We headed up to Fr. Noel’s office and we began talking about Snehasadan, as he was a Jesuit connected with its operations.  He explained how many of the homeless children run away from their homes in rural India because their families are so poor and live on the train platforms.  Most of them make enough of a living to pay for food by collecting plastic or glass bottles which they then sell to various vendors around the city.

Fr. Noel said that most of these children love living on the train platform, which seemed utterly absurd to me.  I lived above the Loyola Red Line station last year and there was plenty of noise.  I got used to most of it, but there were nights I would still wake up and hear the train’s electronic voice say “Doors Closing. The next stop is Granville. Doors open on the left at Granville.”  (It’s so sad I have that memorized!)  So living not just next to the noise but right on it just did not make any sense to me whatsoever.  



Fr. Noel explained that Snehasadan has numerous office locations around the city that will send social workers out to these stations to at least engage these children in conversations.  They invite the children to come over to the office at some point for a free meal and continue their conversation.  Many are reluctant to do so at first since they do not trust these social workers, but many will go at some point since it’s free food.  At this point the social workers will try to engage them in a deeper conversation and tell them about Snehasadan, its purpose, what it has to offer them, etc.  But, again, most are reluctant to do so since they prefer living on the train platforms because they are in control of their own freedom here and no one can tell them what to do.  Those that do come are eased into the boarding house with little restrictions placed on them, so it won’t scare them off.

The Jesuits or social workers maintain close contact with the children at this stage as well. For those children who do not come, the social workers try to stay in contact with them on the platforms in the hope that they’ll change their mind. Fr. Noel explained that for those runaway children who come to the boarding school, they’ll try and get information on where they came from or where their parents are.  Most will give them false information since they distrust the Jesuits because they fear they’ll send them back to the homes they ran away from.  Some do give correct information and the Jesuits will verify that it is correct, although they do not make contact with the parents.  Instead, they try to convince the children to make contact with their families and let them know they’re alive and doing well.

Just because these few children do make contact with their families does not mean they are sent back to their homes.  Some parents do not want their children to come back due to what they have done.  Some children do not want to return to their houses because their parents are abusive or their family is dirt poor.  And some parents want to have their children come back, but cannot financially afford to keep them, in which case the Jesuits agree to raise and educate the child.  And there are a few that will return home, but Fr. Noel said this hardly ever happens. Since many children enjoy the amenities their new home has to offer (as well as friendship with other children who come from a similar background), they want to stay.

The Jesuits slowly tighten the leash on the children who stay as a way of bestowing responsibility on them, which they did not need to have living on the train platforms. These children are then educated just like any child. The children attend the surrounding Jesuit schools, which are composed of the children from Snehasadan and the children of Mumbai families.  There are about six boarding houses that are run through Snehasadan. Behind Fr. Noel’s desk was a chart for each boarding house and pictures of all the kids residing in that specific boarding house; overall there had to be at around 300 pictures of all the children, ranging in age from toddlers to 18 year olds.

As the children grow older and get into their high school years (which they refer to as “9 standard,” “10 standard,” and so on), the Jesuits help the child get a job so they can start earning a pay check.  The Jesuits do not let these children cash their checks and do with the money as they please since they are well aware that the children were never taught how to manage money responsibly, especially given where they came from.  A joint checking account is opened for deposits, to which the child and a Jesuit are linked.  The only way for a withdrawal to be made is if the Snehasadan superior (who is the same man who opened this boarding house 46 years ago and who met with John Paul about his work) signs off on the transaction.



After completion of the 12th standard, the Jesuits will help the young people get into an affiliated Jesuit college or aid in getting them a job.  When the time comes for the child (now an adult) to buy a house in Mumbai, the Jesuits will assist in the matter as a way to offer financial support for them to get on their own feet for the first time.  If the child still needs help in finding a spouse (which the family is normally involved in one way or another in India, regardless of the religion one practices), Snehasadan will help with this as well.  Who needs Match.com or Yahoo Personals when you can go to your local Jesuits!

Fr. Noel said that they do not recommend dating or marriage with another member of Snehasadan.  This surprised me a little bit since I’ve seen much solidarity between all members here, so it seemed like it would be a good fit as the children all share a similar background.  Noel explained the importance of family in India’s culture and if a child from Snehasadan could form a bond through their spouse’s family, then the in-law family would become like the family the child never had. The problem with intra-Snehasadan marriages is that the couple would be left without an extended family and their only “family” becomes their shared past at Snehasadan, thus hindering them in the process of becoming responsible adults who can stand on their own feet.

I asked Fr. Noel how they kept running Snehasadan, as it isn’t a boarding school people pay to get into.  He explained that they’ve been blessed by a local Mumbai food processor that has provided them enough food to feed every child at least once a day, seven days a week, for decades.  Other companies have given support by offering or paying for food, but none has lasted as long as this one company. Especially with rising gas prices, Snehasadan management has been forced to find very local vendors willing to donate since the cost would otherwise outweigh the benefits.  They also get plenty of financial support from various Mumbaities and their (tax-deductible) donations.  Fr. Noel also said there is an organization in France which has helped raise international support and funds for Snehasadan’s operations.  (Ah, yes – the old Billy Packer “insert-foot-in-mouth” moment after my comment about the French two emails ago!)

I spent nearly 2 hours talking with Fr. Noel and sadly had to go as someone was supposed to wait for me to arrive at Vinayalaya for dinner. As I made my way down the stairs, one of the kids I had played soccer with earlier, who was now working on his homework, popped out and asked me to come back again to play.  I made my way back up the road towards Vinayalaya.  Allan was still outside his home and he asked me to come back and play with him as well.

I’ve spent a grand total of 3 days in Mumbai and it’s absolutely humbling and wonderful that “Uncle” is being asked to visit again when I get the chance.  What I thought was going to be a lost weekend turned out to be one of the best and most insightful and inspirational days I’ve spent in India.  Truly, the work of Christ’s mission is being done is so many countless ways.

Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam.
- Greg




MISSION REPORT #3 FROM MUMBAI, INDIA

JUNE 23, 2008

Greetings this time from Mumbai!

After we completed our half-day of school on Saturday, Fr. Joe (who is also teaching at Talasari) told me he was heading into Mumbai for the weekend to visit some family and friends.  He asked if I’d like to join him and I gladly agreed since I only spent one day in the city upon my arrival (and I slept for 5 hours of that day adjusting to the time difference).  Joe only owns a motorbike and for an 80-mile trip he wasn’t going to take it, which meant we were taking a different form of transportation.  We left the mission to go and stand on the National Highway and hitch a ride from a car/truck passing by.  I’m sure Mom is happy to know that all the teaching about not trusting strangers and “you shouldn’t get in a car owned by somebody you don’t know” is going out the window.  Luckily, a car stopped after no more than 15 minutes of waiting and was heading straight to Mumbai, which was an added plus in addition to not having to ride in the back of a truck!  

No more than 10 kilometers south of Talasari the scenery changed. In my last email I wrote about the conversation Maxim and I had where he talked about the Warlis being forced by the British to cut down the trees.  I saw complete proof of that once we left the area around Talasari, for now the entire road to Mumbai became hillier and the trees were everywhere and not just confined to the hills. The drive was very reminiscent of going through the Appalachian region in the U.S. with a high density of lush green trees. Even entering Mumbai was similar to coming out of the Appalachians and into the Pittsburgh river valley. On the northern border of the city lies a National Park of India, which the highway cuts through.  Fr. Joe told me that even though the area is protected by federal law, tree logging is still common and goes unchecked by police.

Fr. Joe’s stop was 15 minutes before mine, so he paid the car’s owner for my fare, a whopping total of Rs 70 (less than $2) and arranged where to drop me off.  The driver approached my exit but did not go down, as there was no way for him to get back on the highway.  So I just had to walk down the exit ramp.  Since this highway is the equivalent of I-90, I tried imagining just walking on an exit ramp in Chicago and thought it was one of the most absurd ideas I’ve had in a long time, although it’s completely normal behavior here. Within the first 30 seconds of exiting the car, two rickshaws passed me trying to get me to ride with them, which I refused since I had a short, 1 kilometer walk from the overpass bridge.  But for me it was just another time when the color of my skin was no different than wearing a bull’s-eye on my chest.  There was another rickshaw 2 minutes after the first incident that tried the same thing by following alongside me for a minute as I walked the street towards Vinayalaya (which is the Jesuit residence I stayed at upon my plane’s arrival).

However, I must regress and cover this past week since we just completed our first week of school. (Again, organization is not my strong point in these emails as I cannot find a way to form a well-flowing narrative.)  To begin with, on Thursday the 12th, we had a parent, student and teacher meeting to make sure all the commuting arrangements had been worked out properly as well as introduce the staff to the parents. A problem occurred as one of the rickshaw drivers who agreed to pick up the kids decided to back out of the arrangement.  This left 10 students without a way to get to school and left their parents scrambling to work out another arrangement.  I know that a new arrangement has been set but I do not know the details of how the parents managed it with only a few days to go before the first day of school.  Although who’s to say it will last as the driver could pull out of it any given day and leave the children stranded yet again.  Another problem was that many students and parents from one class did not show up for school, so calls and/or visits have to be made.

I do not believe I have talked about the school set-up, which will be very important in the following paragraphs as well as in future emails. The English medium school is divided up into two classes.  “Class A” consists of the students who started at the school the previous year and have a fair to decent grasp of the language; the students are between the ages of 11-13.  “Class B” consists of children completely new to the school and who might not necessarily know any English; these students are between the ages of 10-12. Obviously, there will need to be much attention given to them and how class material is presented and I will be limited in what I can do with them due to the language discrepancy.



The school day starts at 10:30 when they have an assembly, sing the national anthem, and recite the pledge (which I’m very fond of since it speaks mostly to unity and respect of all Indians regardless of creed or religion).  The day is then broken into 8 periods of about 40 minutes in length with two 10-minute breaks and a lunch period dispersed throughout the day.  The last period ends right around 5pm.  In total, the school day is about 6½ hours long. The school runs Monday-Friday as well as Saturday, which is a half-day that begins at 8:30am and ends at 11.

Two periods of English, one period of Science, and one period of Math are always the norm for both classes.  The individual days then vary with whatever subjects are taught in the afternoon. The rest the week consists of 4 periods of Computers (the class is broken into half for this since there are only 6 working computers for 30 students at our disposal), 2 periods of Marathi, 2 periods of Hindi, 3 periods of Geography, and 3 periods of History.

At our first teacher’s meeting, the staff worked out what subjects everyone would be teaching between the two classes. I will be teaching Science, Computers, History, and Math.  Math is by no means my favorite subject, nor am I exceptionally gifted with its concepts as it appears my brother Matt has all the family aptitude for the subject – after all, he is the top accounting student in McHenry County.  Fortunately, Asha (another teacher who is only two or three years older than I and has a teaching degree) will be my co-teacher for Math and Science so that we can work together.  Fr. Joe will be my co-teacher in computers and Sr. Karen is my co-teacher in History. Sadly, Sr. Karen could not be present for the first week of school because she had to travel and be with her family and father (who is ill, most likely with cancer).

The school is rather small and quaint. There are two rooms for the two classes, the girls boarding room (there are about ten girls that reside at the school since traveling home is too far for them), a lavatory, and our teacher’s office.  The teacher’s office holds 5 desks for the four teachers and one for Fr. Adrian, whose role is more of a principal.  We don’t have much space and we have 2 “uninvited” guests in the office as well.  There are two rats (and possibly more) that have made a home in the office and they are extremely obnoxious with their squeaking during the school day.  The other main problem is that they leave their stool in many places in the office.  (I think they may have found a Citrucel tablet on the floor…) If there is any amusing aspect to this, it’s that they leave most of their droppings in Fr. Adrian’s drawer of coloring supplies.  At least it’s not my drawer…

I apologize if the last few paragraphs felt rather dull, but I feel the information is important so you can grasp how the school is organized, set up, and run.  On Sunday, I began to lesson plan for the first classes and put my $20,000 college tuition to use.  On some of the days the lesson plans worked well and on other days it felt as if the lesson was a complete flop. The week very much has felt like I’ve been riding a wave with Monday being down (in terms of teaching), Tuesday was up, Wednesday down, Thursday up, and Friday felt like it finished in the middle.

Monday was meant to be more of a review session for Class A and see what they had learned and remembered from last year.  Since language is a problem (at least for me) with Class B, Asha is the main teacher as they started to work on learning numbers in English.  Learning numbers in English is difficult for them since they’re used to writing in the Sanskrit font and it’s very different from the Latin font we use in English, Spanish, and French.  The mannerism of this class is rather particular as well.  Right now, we only have 21 students (9 are still missing and we don’t know why) with 13 boys and 8 girls. Now both classes use these desks, which fit 2 students for each desk bench. For Class B, we have a total of 4 rows of desks: in the two left rows sit all the boys, then a completely empty row of desks, then all the girls sit in the farthest right row.



The students also worked out what to call me. I’m not sure they realize that I am not a Jesuit priest or brother, but I’ve been called “Father Greg” and “Brother Greg” quite often, although “Brother” is the prevailing one.  Maybe they realize I am not a Jesuit and it’s their term of respect for teachers…or my parents adopted 60 to-be teenagers. (Maybe dealing with three teenagers at once wasn’t enough of a challenge for them.)

Tuesday was the day we started to begin new lessons.  For Class A math, we worked with divisibility and for science we started examining the characteristics of living things.  The rules of divisibility were not new to them, so it turned out to be a review and refresher.  Science, however, was new.  As a class we went over what are the characteristics of living things and then I had them go outside and make a list of living things and non-living things, which we then went over on the blackboard.  Overall, that class felt like it went very well and they were getting into the activity.  Asha again took Class B as they learned the parts of a plant in English.  
Tuesday was also the first day Fr. Joe and I took groups from each class to have their computer lesson.  Few (if any) of the kids had ever used a computer before, so they didn’t even know what or where the power button was. Both classes took time to get acquainted with the mouse and how it works, and then we had them use the “Paint” program to practice moving the mouse and drawing. It took some time to even get into paint since no one had ever navigated their way through the “Start” command and into the “Programs” drop-down menu.

I thoroughly enjoyed watching everyone’s faces light up with extreme enthusiasm using the computer; it reminded me of when you tell your dog you’re going to the park.  The classes also felt so strange since I was teaching 10-13 year olds how to use a computer for the first time when, in comparison, my generation has been using them in school since the early elementary years. Our elementary education was planned to show us how to use a computer and type properly, while in Talasari we’re just trying to get the kids to find the power button and hold the mouse properly.  It just felt like a very surreal experience, to say the least.

On a fun note for Tuesday, we had some visitors come to the school.  As I walked with a bunch of kids to the computer lab, which is located down the mission road connecting the school to the mission house and chapel, there was a group heading towards us that included Fr. Adrian, a nun and three Italians. I first looked at them and then looked back towards the kids when it hit me.  In my head I went, “Oh wow! White people!”  I introduced myself to them as they passed and told them the thought that had just past in my head – to much laughter.  They explained that they were visiting the nuns’ medical clinics in the area as they were medical students from Italy and today they were being given a tour of the mission and school.

After the school day ended, I stepped outside and the girls who are in the boarding were trying to ride a bike.  They asked me to show them how and to ride the bike myself (which was way too small). To amuse them, I agreed and hopped on the bike and rode around in a circle, but it was rather difficult since the handlebars dropped forward as they had not been tightened properly.  Of course, the girls got a giggle out of seeing a 6-foot man ride a bike meant for a girl no taller than 5-feet.  Afterwards, they asked if I could assist them by stabilizing the bike as they rode.  It just felt like another surreal experience that these girls (between ages 10-13) had never been given instruction on how to ride a bike with two wheels.  As a bike mechanic, I’m used to telling parents what’s the best way to teach their toddlers to ride without training wheels.  But now I am playing the role of the parent teaching “my kids” to ride a bike, so that added yet another element of surrealism to the experience.



I’ll be honest and say that Wednesday’s math class was a complete failure.  We started to work on a new concept today, seeing as they knew divisibility well, and it did not work out whatsoever.  Through a combination of poor explanations and poor management using the blackboard, I completely confused the kids.  Sigh.  As the saying goes, “Those who can’t do, teach.”  It rings rather true for me when it comes to Math.  But after today’s class I think I went to the next level of, “Those who can’t teach, teach gym.” (Although, I don’t think I have the build for it.)  

Science wasn’t great either.  They began to work on a worksheet that accompanied learning the characteristics of living things, but they struggled with it.  They wouldn’t tell me, but they told Asha that they didn’t know what the words meant.  While all the kids in Class A can speak English, they are still limited as they do not know larger words, like the ones used in scientific definitions.  Obviously, this means that some terms are going to be hard for them to understand or grasp when it comes to science and we’ll need to take time to review the subject as a class so that everyone can understand the terms.  

The afternoon classes became much more interesting.  I had my first history class with both sections and, since Sr. Karen’s on leave, I was by myself.  When I walked into Class A, I was immediately bombarded by questions, since they finally got a chance to talk to me without Asha being in the classroom.  I’d like to share some of the questions I got:

Where is Chicago?
What fruit do we eat?
How big are strawberries?
Do we eat mangos?
What fruit is grown in the US?
What’s the name of my college?
How many siblings do I have?
What are their names and ages?
What are my parents’ names?
What is my last name?
What do they do for work?
What’s the climate like in Chicago?
 - I had to explain snow to them since most (if any) have never seen snow
What is Chicago famous for?
How tall is the Sears Tower?
Can you draw it?
How did I travel to India?
What’s the name of the American currency?
Could I bring some money in to show them?
How fast do you normally talk?
How fast can other people talk?

And the two questions I personally liked:

Do all people in Chicago “talk” like you?
 - That got into a long speech about accents and regional dialects.

Do you sit inside of a plane?
 - I don’t think I need to explain the last one at all as it speaks for itself.

The students were all very honest and curious with their questions and I appreciated them regardless of how ridiculous they might sound.  Alright, so some sounded very ridiculous given the environment I grew up in, but they aren’t to these kids who have grown up in a completely different setting.  They were also honest that they need me to slow down when I’m speaking since they have trouble understanding my dialect, so that was a useful tip.

With any job, there is a period of growing pain and I hope that the growing pain with teaching in Talasari will dissipate rather quickly.  The students have been very helpful with the adjustment period, both for myself as well as for them, as they are some of the most respectful adolescents I have ever met.  I remember being that age and any time we had a new teacher or a sub, we were a difficult bunch to handle inside the classroom.  Plus, it’s not uncommon to criticize a teacher when they are doing a poor job.  That is not the case for these kids, however, and it’s been an absolute delight to teach them.  Their kind, warm-hearted personalities and their proneness to smiling lifts my spirits and gives me hope every time I step in front of the classroom.

There is still more to tell about school, teaching, and the boarders, but I will address that in another email as this one is already long enough. I do plan to send out another email during the week about my Mumbai visit (since I don’t want the details to go wasted) as it was nothing like I planned it to be, but an absolutely extraordinary experience nonetheless.  Plus, this will keep my “avid” readers waiting for more, just like a certain Dan Brown novel…

God bless,
- Greg





MISSION REPORT #2 FROM TALASARI, INDIA

JUNE 15, 2008

Greetings yet again from Talasari, India!

I believe in my last email I threw together a paragraph of some random information on the Warlis Tribe, the English Medium School, and the hike in fuel prices. I’d like to retouch a few of those. First, the boarding and tuition cost for the school is Rs (Rupees) 7000 which I said is roughly $200; that number is slightly off as it is closer to $160. Tuition by itself is roughly $105, not $125. The difference in numbers may seem small when converted to American dollars but I believe the difference is essential to understanding the lives of these people. In a recent paper, the government announced the average household per capita income is Rs 32,000 (roughly $750). The government actually was boasting about this as it is the first time ever that the average income is above Rs 30,000.  I also mentioned the extreme strain of the price increase of fuel and said it was about $4.10. I was much farther off in this estimate as gas is above $5 a gallon. Hopefully you can sense how difficult this price has been for the people to deal with given the average income.

Since I’ve had more time to get to know the other Jesuits of this community, they have all given me more information on the Warlis Tribe. Brother Maxim and I spent over an hour talking about various issues, including his work and the difference between a brother and a priest since I didn’t know the difference. A brother takes all the same vows as does a priest (celibacy, obedience, and simplicity).  A brother’s main focus is with the social ministry of the Church while a priest’s focus is on pastoral functions. Therefore, a brother does not celebrate the Mass since that function is the responsibility of the priest.

Maxim has only been at the Talasari Mission for a few years, but he has been stationed around this area working with the Warlis for most of his life. His main mission has been to promote the culture of the Warlis. Their rich cultural traditions are being subjected to external pressures from their history as well as from contemporary society and they’re losing their sense of pride in that tradition. Maxim is working to help the Warlis recognize that their cultural heritage is something to take pride in and preserve in order to maintain their unique identity.

The long conversation I had with Maxim would not have occurred had it not been for the lack of electricity. We experienced a typical rolling blackout this day which started before noon and went into the evening; in all it lasted over 7 hours. Usually the blackouts are bad because the fans are cut off while the lights run on backup converters/batteries (although it is not uncommon for a battery to fail suddenly and then we’re without light too!).  This blackout was particularly annoying since I had a fair amount of school preparation work to do on the computer and I was completely stagnant as the work could not be completed. This prolonged blackout gave me plenty of reflection time on how electrically dependent we are – not just in America, but even in poorer nations. In this case, it completely halted my work. At other times, the lack of electricity leaves me hot without the fans or in the dark without light. Since you are reading this on a computer, (and it obviously depends on electricity), take a moment and thank God that the chance of your screen going blank is basically nothing. Your air conditioning will continue to keep you cool and the food in your refrigerator and freezer will not go bad. Maxim told me that there was a period in early May when they were without power for 4 straight days, so even the working batteries went dead and couldn’t provide any light during the nights. The worst one I’ve experienced so far just occurred this Saturday into Sunday and it “only” lasted 22 hours.

Another subject Maxim and I talked about was the Warlis’ history. Apparently this area used to be all woodlands, but during the time when the British controlled India they forced the Warlis to cut down the trees for lumber. 60 years after the British left, the area still has not recovered, although the Warlis adapted to the environment and used the (now) open land for rice cultivation. Remnants of the forest do remain, as the largely untouched rolling hills produce a high density of trees.



For me, it is hard to imagine this area being a large forest as all of the surrounding land is so dry that the ground is broken with cracks due to the lack of water. This place reminds me more of a desert in Arizona than anything else. However, the monsoon clouds have begun to gather over the past week and there have been a few showers; some hard, some light, but they don’t last long. In one week, the ground which had no vegetation other than some sparse bushes and trees amid plenty of red soil has been transformed with grasses sprouting everywhere; the transformation is very reminiscent of the coming of spring in the U.S. Amazingly, the few showers have triggered the animal migration back to their respective farms. In four days time, many of the bull cows are back at the farms either pushing wooden plows to ready the ground for rice cultivation or towing grain carts down the street. Some of the owners have had to go out and find their cows and once they do, they’ll just tie a rope around its horns and pull it back to the farm. The female cows are not sought out by farmers as they aren’t as effective for plowing, so some of them remain roaming the streets; it’s still not uncommon to see five or six female cows sitting in the middle of a road bridge making it difficult for traffic to pass.

In my last email I believe I mentioned there are few English Medium Schools in the area but that they are the ones that are desired by parents. This subject came up at dinner a few days ago amongst the Jesuits and it turned into a rather heated argument between Fr. Adrian and Fr. Mike (who oversees the dozen Jesuit run schools in the area). Fr. Adrian is very much of the mind that English is the essential tool needed for social mobility and, as a result, he downplays the importance of Marathi.  Fr. Mike has come from a predominately Marathi background and he got rather offended at Adrian’s disregard of Marathi’s significance. By all means, Fr. Mike acknowledges the importance of English as the global language but he also sees much value in the teaching of Marathi as well, which he sees as a crucial element in Indian culture. Honestly, it’s hard to disagree with him.  Sure, English is prevailing as the global language, but European countries are not forfeiting their languages. You can still go to Spain and the Spaniards will speak Spanish first and foremost and English when necessary. You can still go to Germany and the Germans will speak German predominately and English when necessary. You can go to France and... Ok, that last one was a bad example, but you get the point!

For proof, just watch the Euro Cup (a major soccer tournament, which the Jesuits and I have been getting into) and watch the players talk to the referees or players from different countries, not in their native language but in English.  I tried applying what Fr. Mike had said to America. There are not many places you can go without finding signs written in English and another language. There are even sentiments in America that Latin American immigrants should “get with it” and speak English like everyone else.  But isn’t their language a way of holding onto a piece of their culture and background?  When I think of myself, I’ve only grown up speaking English and can speak a little Spanish (and only a little) after 4 years taking the language in high school. I partially felt (and still do) like an ignorant American for not being able to read or write a single word in Marathi, their cultural language.  Maybe some of the stares I get here are warranted as I am unable to relate with people through speech.

This previous weekend, I was invited to join the 10 Mumbai seminarians, who were staying a few nights to expose them to missionary work, to a Bollywood (India’s version of Hollywood) movie. The movie, Sarkra Raj, was entirely in Hindi with no English subtitles, but I decided to accept their gracious invitation for including me as well as for the camaraderie. On a fun note, the movie ticket cost Rs 44, which is $1.03. (Can you even buy butter for your popcorn at that price anymore?)

One seminarian, Nashlie, tried to translate for me to give the context of the film. This movie centered around two political families in Mumbai that were warring with one another. The premise of their feuding was centered on a real issue that is currently affecting the city. Apparently, many rural people are migrating to the city to take residence in search of work since the jobs in Mumbai offer more pay than jobs available in rural India. This has become an obvious concern for the long-time residents of Mumbai as their jobs are being taken by these “outsiders” as the competitiveness of the job market increases.

I hope this is ringing a bell on a contemporary problem in America for some of you, as it did for me. This subject made me think about my purpose of teaching in an English school. English is the prevailing language in Mumbai, especially in the business world. English can be found in nearly every place in the city, whether it’s the language people are conversing in or store signs and advertisements. Parents want to send their kids to the English schools so they’ll be able to find a good paying career in Mumbai (or another metropolitan area) that will enable them to move up the social mobility ladder. So this begs the question: Is what I’m doing in Talasari any different than helping Mexicans or other Latin American immigrants cross the border to achieve their dream of finding a better job and (hopefully) better life?  Maybe the answer for you or me or the Warlis is “Yes”.  But to many people in Mumbai the answer would be “No” – it is not any different.  It all just depends on what side of the fence you are looking at the issue from.

On another trip on which I tagged along (this time with Fr. Ainslie, who just got stationed here at the Talasari Mission and arrived one day before I did), we passed an old rundown factory. I asked Ainslie about the building since it stuck out like a sore thumb in the landscape and I couldn’t tell what it was. He explained to me that it was an old factory which has since shut down. This factory used to employ the local Warlis and paid them very low wages in addition to having poor working conditions. (Again, this is an all too familiar, and sad, story in developing countries.) The communist party helped the people organize and led the way in advancing their demands for higher wages and better working conditions. Instead of succumbing to the communist party’s demands, the owners just closed the factory and relocated to another place in India where they wouldn’t be pressured into paying more.

Communism usually gets a bad rap in the US, but in this case the communists were the ones advocating for the rights of the workers.  As an asterisk, I would like to say that I do not agree with the Marxist principles on communism. Some of the principles might be good in theory, but only that. They are impossible to institute in any society and easily abused, making them fit only if the Earth was a utopian world. However, the communist party deserves credit for standing up for the intrinsic rights of the workers being exploited in this area since only they (not freedom-loving, democratic nations) were doing so.

As we prepare for the school year to begin its session this Monday, Fr. Adrian and I made a trip to a town closer to the Arabian Sea called Dahanu where we bought the books and notebooks for the students. As we traveled into the town, I was able to view many of the buildings and multi-high rise structures. Most of them looked as if they were recently exposed to a bombing – chunks of concrete were missing from the structures and they had been discolored as a result. Most of the buildings looked uninhabitable and structurally unsafe, but people were still living in them regardless.  Fr. Adrian told me that over the past 10 years the city population of Dahanu had more than quadrupled and city management has not adapted well to the change.

As we walked up the main street of the marketplace, it was hard to tell if I was in a rural town or the Mumbai metropolitan area since the streets were just as densely crowded as when I traveled to Bandra, Mumbai on the first day I arrived. The only difference between Dahanu’s streets and Mumbai’s streets are the presence of cows, which roam as they please. The lack of city planning was evident as well since there are no sidewalks and people are forced to walk in the street with the traffic, thus intensifying the gridlock.



One thing I definitely do not have on my life’s list of things to do is to drive in India. Any time I’ve gone with Fr. Adrian in the jeep, he likes to hug the middle of the road rather than the left-hand side, although many drivers do this. If there is another car approaching, drivers will veer at very nearly the last second to give the other person just enough room to pass. Adrian’s eyesight is not great so he has trouble identifying how much room he has, especially at night.  This is sometimes worsened as 50% of the other cars do not use their headlights. When people are passing animals in the road, they’ll honk beforehand trying to get them to move out of the way, but they really don’t slow down; most people will veer, just giving them enough room to pass without hitting the animal. Anytime I go in the jeep I have a tendency to white-knuckle whatever I can get my hand around (as if it’ll make any difference if we hit a cow or a truck) since there aren’t any working seatbelts.

I met a few nuns from a convent 2km down the road who run various medical clinics in the area. They asked me to join them this past Saturday, since it’s one of their lighter patient days, to be exposed to their work. They deal with many patients (men, women and children) who are suffering from all types of diseases ranging from eczema to leprosy. I’ve met a few patients and saw their afflictions, but I don’t want to go into detail on that quite yet since I was only there for two and half hours. Plus, this is something I believe that deserves more than a quick blurb at the end of an email as well. I will eventually share my experience in the medical clinic, especially since the sisters have asked me to join them again. In the coming weekends they are expecting to minister to between 100-200 patients a day, so they want me to come and help after I learn how to administer an injection; which is ironic given that I’m poor at receiving them. 

On a lighter note, I saw a vampire bat, which has a wingspan that could rival a bald eagle’s. Seriously, if you have a mosquito problem, get one of these – but just make sure you have enough mosquitoes; otherwise, small children might be in danger!

I’d like to leave you with a thought given to me by another Jesuit priest. I accompanied Fr. Adrian to another Jesuit mission in the area where I met one of their priests, Fr. Augustine. We talked for some time about Western culture/lifestyle. He spoke about how Westerners own so much and make large salaries, but they struggle to find inner peace (if ever), but that is not the case for the Warlis. The Warlis, though much poorer, find inner peace while Westerners become too confused by the materialism of their lifestyle and are unable to do so. So I leave you with Augustine’s question, as it’s the same question I’ve been contemplating:  “Have You Found Inner Peace?”

God Bless!
- Greg





MISSION REPORT #1 FROM TALASARI, INDIA

JUNE 11, 2008

Greetings from Talasari, India!

I have been in India for 6 days now and the experience started in O'Hare. Waiting in line, my family and Kim commented that I was the only white person boarding. That wasn't exactly true, but following the plane's two hour layover in London I was the only white person out of a 200 plus passengers. I was curious to see how I would be greeted looking so different and in the airport I only received one stare from the baggage screener as I assisted an older couple who couldn't unload/load their luggage from the conveyor belt.

Tuesday was slightly different. While Western tourists are not uncommon in Mumbai, it is more uncommon in the area of the city I was in. Caesar, a man in the process of joining the Jesuits, escorted me around Mumbai as he took me to Bandera, which was once a suburb of the city but has since been engulfed by the growth of the city. Being in such a new culture and new place, it felt as if Caesar has been teaching me how to walk again. The closest comparison to the city streets would be walking in downtown Manhattan only with many more people.

To reach Bandera, Caesar and I took the city rail system. If you are the type of person who needs personal space and a “bubble,” then the city streets are not for you and the trains are especially not for you. Caesar and I took a train around rush hour and past 9pm and there was little difference in the number of riders. The train would not come to a complete stop before people began disembarking and entering the rail car. Once the rail car had stopped, people entering the car would literally stampede through the door trying to board. The doors to the train are not automated and do not close so people would be hanging onto the poles or overhead handles while a portion of the body remained out the side of the car. If there wasn't room in the rail car, people would just climb and sit on top of the rail cars as if it were no big deal.

I must say that some of the spectacle of city life I want to capture on camera, but find it incredibly hard to do so. First, I stick out like a sore thumb as it is (I have yet to see one white person and it's hard not to feel like Marcus from “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade”) and almost every passer-by glances at me when walking past and taking pictures wouldn't help my appearance; I might as well wear a fanny pack. Second, these people are living their lives as they are accustomed to and this isn't a zoo filled with animals but rather they are people.  However, I do know that some of you may never see pictures or experience this in person so I try to compromise somewhere in the middle and take pictures when possible without looking obvious.

After visiting the local Jesuit parish in Bandera, Caesar, Brother Edwin (who met us at this parish and is in residence at the same Jesuit house I've been staying at), and myself took a ricochet to the Arabian Sea Coast. This area of the city is very much reminiscent of Chicago's Gold Coast or lake front property where the housing prices are astronomical and big names live. We walked along the sea front path and I noticed the entire coast is completely rocky. Brother Edwin told me that there is no beach in Mumbai since the entire coastline is rocky. He also told me that Mumbai used to be a series of islands, but in the last 100 years has become one landmass since the amount of garbage has filled in the sea and made it one giant landmass. I will talk about the garbage later. The three of us found another ricochet to take back to the train station. The trip (which was around 3 miles) by ricochet cost 19 Rupees.  To grasp the true price of that, it's about $1 US for 45 rupees. Sadly, many ricochet and taxi drivers are unable to sustain a living off of their earnings from their jobs. Going from the airport to Vinayalaya (the Jesuit residence I stayed at upon my arrival to Mumbai), there were many taxi drivers just parked along the side of the road sleeping on the trunks of their cars since it appears they have no place of their own to live. How sad is it that people who actually hold jobs are unable to sustain a living.

Poverty is rampant in Mumbai. Initially I did not feel much about it since I've been flooded by the new culture and place, but that numbness has since worn off and it's difficult not to feel at least somewhat downtrodden. After a while I became rather numb to it - almost as if I become desensitized and I’ve felt less human as a result. After leaving Mumbai after my one full day there, poverty in rural India is no better. Now, instead of poverty being clumped in one area, it is spread out with slum-like dwellings dotting the landscape.

Caesar came with me as we used public transportation to reach Talasari. We used the public metro trains to get out of the city and reach the station where we boarded a Metra-like train which would then go to our desired stop. There was one city that was outside the Mumbai city line and then after this city, civilization fell off as the only thing left were salt fields (saltwater is brought to these fields then drained to produce the sea salt – it was the sea salt that the British began to tax India on which started Gandhi’s peaceful protests) and the slum-like dwellings.

It is nothing like Chicago where there are 40 miles of suburbs stretching in any direction. The farther north from Mumbai I went, the more arid the landscape became.  Also, the farther north I went, the more stares I received from both children and adults alike.  Some of the children would gape at me and I couldn’t resist myself but smile back which caused some of them to look away embarrassed or just continue to gape.  I know that some of these areas I’m going to have probably never been visited by a white person nor would they use this transportation method (trust me that the train accommodations are not something most Westerners would like, let alone ride).  Vendors of food and drinks would walk up and down the train aisle as if they were selling products at a Wrigley Field baseball game.  When people had finished with their food or drinks, they would throw it out the window since there is no garbage sanitation. It was amazing seeing the amount of garbage littering the city streets in Mumbai as well as the RR tracks because there is no garbage collecting or trash cans.



Upon arrival at the Talasari Jesuit mission, I met Fr. Adrian and he showed me to my room, which is no bigger than 12x12, and it’s common to look at the walls and see a lizard running up them.  I then promptly followed him to tend to some business. We promptly jumped on his motorcycle (one of the most common motors used in India), which had to be a sight with a 70-year-old Indian priest and a blonde haired, white skinned, 20-year-old on back (you get the mental picture) and the stares we got back from people were quite amusing as well.

We made our way 10 kilometers (6 miles) up north on the National Highway (the Indian version of our Interstate) to meet with Sr. Karen who will also be teaching in the English medium school.  Sister Agnes was also at our meeting and she and I talked for some time about this area as well as where I had come from.

On our return trip, I was able to take note of a few more “oddities” in rural India. In Mumbai as well as rural areas, stray dogs are not uncommon; in rural India, stray goats and cows are not uncommon. These cows and goats do belong to people, but they are not kept on personal land through the use of barbed wire. During the hot, dry months, these animals are not needed so they are allowed to roam freely.  (You’ll see cows enter the mission’s common area and no one thinks twice or looks twice at them although I do think twice as to where I step!)  After the rains come, these animals know when and where to head back since they are needed in the rice fields; in most cases the owners do not need to go search for them.  Only in the situation when an animal does not return will an owner formally search for it.

So as we were heading back towards Talasari, I would see cows just munching on the bushes which divide the 4-lane highway and the drivers do not care, although they are conscious not to speed, just in case. Drivers only care if the animals are walking the road and blocking both lanes in order to pass them, in which case they honk and the animals move.

The last few days, I’ve had the chance to accompany Fr. Adrian to visit the children and their families that I will be teaching.  Most the children are very quiet, almost shy, but they are all very smiley people.  Anytime we would go to their houses, we would be beckoned in and served.  From what I can tell, they do not do this because of Fr. Adrian’s title, but because they are very warm and welcoming. They would pull out chairs and serve us tea and it didn’t bother them that our shoes were covered in mud (some of the slum-like dwellings had very beautiful tile) and I was always apprehensive about entering their quarters and dirtying it, but they did not care. 

It so different that these people treat their houses not as some sacred quarters where it is a privilege to be invited into, but a place where all are welcomed. It’s rather flooring that these people, who really have nothing, can be so open and generous with their one thing of value – their home. It’s rather humbling to see how welcoming they can be in their situation when, in our culture, we find it a privilege to be invited into one’s dwelling.

As the parents worked out the details as to how to get their children to the school, the children talked to me and asked various questions. Most of them love to play cricket (which is to Indian culture as what football is to Americans).  Adrian had them pull out their Atlas so that I could point to them where I am from and I joked that the shortest way for me to get back was to dig a hole.  I’m unable to listen in on most of their conversations since the parents are only able to speak Marathi, but Fr. Adrian gives me the gist when necessary.  Most of them dealt with bartering for the price of the ricochet driver to drive their children to school. It’s sad they have to argue over the price of transportation to get to school and in the States we have colleges arguing over what their dollar can buy.

Some of the rural roads I’ve traveled with Adrian depict a lifestyle we would associate with the Australian aborigines or the Amazonians. The children are not always clothed, people have to walk to the nearest well and women maximize the numbers of pots they carry by putting them on top of their heads. Toilets are not always available, sometimes not even by the villages or cities. I took a walk one morning around the mission and one side of it borders a creek viaduct that goes underneath the highway and on-ramps. There was a small ledge on the viaduct where I just saw three people just bending over and defecating into the dried-out creek bed. I did expect to see this at some point, but it still nonetheless shows how what we consider to be basic needs are lacking even in the villages and cities of India. Again, be careful where you step…