Our pastor, Richard Littledale, made a teaching visit to India in October 2001.
There follows an account of his travels.

map of North East India

Friday October 5th – Heathrow, Terminal 3

As we drive out from the terminal the bus wends its way under the bellies of the jumbo jets - standing in the sun like sleeping dinosaurs. For the first time ever I notice that each plane has a name. I board "wings" for a journey which the captain says will last 5673 miles. Part way through the flight we fly over Iran - a wild moonscape of grey mountains. Wedged into a crack in the rock I spot the bright turquoise roof of a tiny mosque.

The heat of Calcutta hits like a wall - as does the clamour of India, even at 3 am! A bent and wizened old lady follows us all the way to the battered Morris Oxford taxi, leaning into the window as we drive off and asking for money. In this city of 20 million people the streets are quite quiet - a few dogs sleeping, heads on paws, in the road; goats wandering to and fro, and some haughty cows gazing at us as we drive by.

Saturday October 6th

I wake to the sounds of Calcutta outside the window. Already the constant symphony of car hooters is under way. A jackdaw hops from branch to branch and pigeons with peacock- coloured chests land on the roof opposite. After a curious breakfast of cornflakes with hot milk and sweet tea I meet the rest of the team and we go off together to explore this great city.

First stop is Mother Teresa's convent, a tranquil oasis down a tiny alleyway. Smiling, peaceful nuns greet us as we walk barefoot into the chapel where Mother Teresa lies buried. The sight of a man bent double praying at her tomb is moving and disturbing all at once. Next we move onto the orphanage itself. We pick our way past two babies lying naked on the pavement and into the relative cool of the compound. We edge past an enormous truck bearing the message "God is love" on the front, and into the nursery. Inside are row after row of cots with sad-eyed children in every one. The nuns pass between the rows - feeding some and soothing others. Somehow the artificial jollity of "Old Macdonald" on a tape in the background makes it all surreal. Back outside, the young mother has returned to her naked children, and understandably does not want them photographed. She wants milk for them to drink.

After this we drive past the Victoria Memorial and St Paul’s Cathedral, pausing on a road of four traffic lanes to allow a goatherd to cross with his goats. As we walk alongside the river Hooghly we are surprised to spot a striped chipmunk rummaging in the rubbish. He looks equally surprised to see us, and scurries off. Lunch is in a classy Chinese restaurant with liveried doorman, where we dine surrounded by high-powered business-women in bright sarees.

Next stop is the metro – which the driver is keen to show off to us on account of its remarkable property of travelling both under and over ground. A group of schoolgirls, immaculate in their starched white uniforms, giggle with embarrassment as they wave to us from a passing train. Les, the dairy farmer from New Zealand, and I both choose to assume that they were waving at the other one! On reaching the far end of the line, we return by luxury first class tram. The first class ticket enables us to have a huge fan with lethal-looking wiring spinning over our heads. Much amusement is caused by the fact that the two tall western men in the party are sitting in the seats designated “ladies only”.

On our return to the car we cross the river into the different world of the city’s industrial area. Here the road is deeply rutted and on either side mud-coloured pigs snuffle through the rubbish beneath high factory walls. We stop to pick our way down to the river bank, passing a wall plastered with neat circles of cow dung left to dry in the sun. At the water’s edge, a group of boys stop their swimming in the filthy water to smile and greet us. They usher us inside the blue walls of their tiny house to admire their view of the river as if we were visiting royalty. They accompany us all the way to the jeep, and wave as we leave.

Back at the hotel, the market outside my window is coming alive, with lamps lit in every stall. I rush out to a call office for a phone-call home just as a storm begins to break. The phone performs its usual trick – the joy of hearing Fiona’s voice and the reminder that it is so far away.

On our way to dinner in the evening small children scamper along to try and hold our hands as their older sisters shake their tins and ask for money. Walking home on unlit streets, I almost step on an old man who is curled up and sleeping in the middle of the pavement.

Sunday October 7th

On our way out to the airport, Calcutta continues to amaze. The taxi swerves to avoid a man leading two mangy monkeys on a lead, and heads into the outlying villages. Between the trees I glimpse a gathering of tiny wooden houses propped up round a pool of stagnant water. A woman carries a water jar balanced effortlessly on her head as she walks off to further villages in the distance.

As our plane speeds us towards Guwahati and the first workshop, Bangladesh is hidden beneath the clouds below, which is a shame. Descending into the airport we see flooding all around. Huge hills peek out of the mist like mountains on a Japanese print. Our taxi weaves its way through jungle-like villages and many army checkpoints as we head out towards Guwahati itself on the banks of the river. The strange towers on either side of the road are not temples, as I had assumed, but brick kilns! At last the taxi deposits us in the faded grandeur of the Belle Vue Hotel – “Paradise for the privileged few” according to its brochure. Outside my window huge hawks gather on the tree, like starlings on a phone wire at home. A walk in the jungle behind the hotel reveals lush foliage, with bananas and coconuts growing.

Later an abortive trip to the cyber-café introduces us to Guwahati. The pavements are cracked and broken, with sewage flowing in the gaps. In the sticky air the smell of this and the piles of rubbish rotting at street corners is overwhelming. At the roadside barbers ply their trade and a crowd of 20 or more men gather for the distribution of the evening papers so that they can sell them on the street. A local political rally is in progress, the angry voices drowned out by the auto rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws and cars as they weave in and out of people, dogs, cows and goats. It seems that the Indian symphony has picked up where Calcutta left off! On the way back to the Hotel we discover that the open drain beneath it is the local washhouse. Young men soap themselves vigorously, wash and clean their teeth in the second-hand water.

In the evening we meet our local hosts and the organisers for the Guwahati workshop. The sense of anticipation about tomorrow’s workshop heightens as we are told that some will travel all night on the bus in order to attend. Long before we wake and registration begins at 10am, they will step out onto Guwahati’s manic streets at 5am. Our prayers for them are heartfelt, as they are for the books – which have crossed the border into Assam but are nowhere to be seen!

Monday October 8th

The great day dawns, and we drive into the town along the hectic roads. We swerve to avoid an old man, all naked skin and bone, crawling on all fours across the road between cars, buses and animals. He looks ready to die, and probably will before the day is out. Further in, a lame horse with absurdly misshapen hooves regards us from the middle of the road. Already the rubbish pickers are out – little boys and of 5 or 6 years old picking through the rubbish and salvaging what they can.

When we arrive at the CBNEI compound, it is a beautiful oasis in the midst of Guwahati’s ugliness. American missionaries passed it on when they left, on two conditions – that the trees should remain and the birds that inhabit them should not be shot! The result is a lush and beautiful jungle garden, stretching down towards the Brahmaputra.

The first sessions are encouraging, and introduce us to some of those with whom we shall spend the week. There are keen medical students – note pads on knees, anxious to take the books and teaching back to their Christian Fellowships. There are visitors from, Tripura, Arunuchal Pradesh, Bengal and Manipur as well as further afield. A young doctor who trained at Ludhiana Hospital introduces herself, and hopes that any abdominal operations will be rescheduled so that she can come again tomorrow. At tea break the Boro and Mizo tribeswomen stand out in their brilliantly coloured traditional dress.

After the delegates have left, book work starts in earnest. With the electricity gone we labour on in the fan-less gloom to pack 130 pre-sets of books. Tomorrow they will be received with open arms. We decide to pile into just one taxi, which leaves me in the back with all the bags and tomorrow’s case of mineral water for the bumpy ride home. On the way back through the town we pass a small but angry mob that is burning an effigy of someone. It is a relief to climb up the hill and into the tranquil oasis of the Belle Vue.

Tuesday October 9th

Today the teaching “settles down” a lot more, with enthusiastic notes taken by all. I venture off into Pan Bazaar in search of some blissfully thin trousers in the sweltering heat. Though it is a decision which I shall live to regret, I am very proud of my two pairs for 375 rupees. Perhaps I should have accepted the third pair in canary yellow after all! Back at the compound I chat to young Boro men over sweet tea and curried rolls. Each of them speaks at least three languages.

Tonight at the hotel news filters through about the strike on Afghanistan. Its feels distant but threatening nonetheless, and the presence of armed soldiers in the hotel puts an edge on the atmosphere. Feeling uneasy, I try to distract myself with the Hindi version of “Who wants to be a millionaire”. It is an exact copy of the UK version, except that Chris Tarrant’s replacement sports a three piece suit and a grey beard.

Sleep won’t come – perhaps a sense of unease about tomorrow’s teaching on satanic opposition. It turns out that others were disturbed too. Jordana, our Naga Indian team member, dreams of pigs being slaughtered – a traditional Naga motif for impending death in the family. Later an almighty storm rages over the Brahmaputra, knocking out the electricity with one huge clap and drumming on the roof.

Wednesday October 10th

Our day starts with simple worship, and “Lord I come to you” is definitely emerging as the song of the week. We give thanks that Ros, Gwen and Les have survived a collision with a hefty army truck on the wet roads.

At tea-time an old lady from Manipur with a face like polished walnut and a brilliant orange shawl stands in front of me in the queue. She carefully fills a cup with sweet tea and collects 2 biscuits in her wrinkled hands, before handing them to me with a small bow and a huge smile. She talks briefly of her home in the hills and her hand woven garments, and then withdraws shyly.

Driving home we bump along the smelliest road in Guwahati – sewage and rotting rubbish combining in an assault on the senses. The stallholders, however, are undeterred, and their candles throw shadows from the garlands of puja flowers across their faces.

After a quick wash we head off in search of Shangri-la, a Chinese restaurant which has been recommended to us by our host. It turns out to be the wrong night for a drive – as every fume-belching vehicle imaginable seems to be heading for a football match on the edge of town. At last we find the restaurant, which turns out to be “Chung-fa” rather than “Shangri-La”, but the food is worth the wait. On the way back home the traffic has gone but the stalls are still there – some of them no bigger than a packing crate, with a stallholder sat cross-legged inside next to a candle or kerosene lamp.

Thursday October 11th

Up early for breakfast with Lucy in her home. She cries as she tells us how hard it was to give up their beloved student work for this administrative post. With the water boiled, we sit to the table whilst she, her mother-in-law and her cousin scurry round with tea-pots, fresh bread, omelettes and jam. Somehow I am reminded of the visit to Mr and Mrs Beaver’s house in Narnia.

Later on, the teaching sessions go really well, with all listening with rapt attention to a narrative sermon on “the precious pearl”. We close the last session with hands joined and the singing of “he is Lord”. After that, the queue snakes round the compound as book distribution begins in the blazing sun. I have never had my hand shaken by so many or my photo taken with so many groups. The sensation is odd, since they are the real heroes and I would like to take their photos! One man cries, books on shoulder, as he tries to thank me for the books. A Boro lady in jade green and orange traditional dress thanks the Church for letting me come. She says that she would love many in her Lutheran Church to learn about giving like those who have given the books. An IFES worker with a smile from ear to ear says that I should come back to Assam again soon – and bring the family! As the books disappear on heads and bicycles, in trucks and rickshaws, it is like watching God blow on a dandelion head. By tomorrow the seed will be planted in homes and churches across North East India.

Friday October 12th

Today the mighty Brahmaputra beckons and we drive down to the rusting hulk of the “River Queen”. This causes some consternation, until we realise that it is only a landing stage for our much smaller boat. As we perch on the narrow deck we watch it come into view – a simple narrow boat with an open cab at one end and a corrugated iron roof covering some benches in the middle. Its crew of two hold it steady as we clamber on .gingerly. We begin our journey down the river bank past people cooking, washing dishes and cleaning teeth. Their tiny bamboo houses seem to tumble down the bank towards the muddy water. In the middle of the river we cut the engines and drift in the blazing sun as we watch two crews of patient fishermen at work. They sit in the bow and stern of the boat with the edge of the net gripped in their hands. As soon as it twitches they hall it in and pluck out their catch. After one such catch they pull alongside and present their catch of three large silver fish – flipping helplessly on our boat’s hot tin roof. After much haggling our boatman selects the best and pays 30 rupees for it – 50 pence for hours of work.

On now to Peacock Island with its five hundred year old temple to Shiva, the destroyer. There is much amusement from the rest of the team as my cheap trousers rip on climbing from the boat. As we climb up the steps hewn in the rock, there is a very unpleasant atmosphere – from the cracked ivy- covered walls of the temple itself to the tridents planted amongst the trees. Jordy, the Indian Christian on the team, seems to feel it particularly and says that “it is not good to be here”. We are all glad when the beautiful Golden Lemurs who inhabit the island distract us with their antics. Particularly amusing is a tiny baby, who leaves the safety of his mother’s chest in order to practice his climbing. This is only partly successful, and he squeals with displeasure when he must loose his grip on a Frangipani flower to keep his balance.

Back to the boat, and onto the far bank of the river, struggling to find an inlet amongst the tall reeds. At last we find a mud bank beside a tiny village whose name means “King’s Gate”. We are greeted by a group of fascinated children and a gaggle of noisy hopeful ducks. As the boatman heads off into the village, fish gripped in his hand, we wend our way through the children, old men and cows on the village’s one street. Our guide points out the village gossip hall, where people gather to gossip twice a day and we marvel at houses made almost entirely from flattened kerosene tins. When we climb back into the boat we are waved off by all those who stand on the mud beach. On our way back through the town we pass an angry traffic policeman chasing a driver with his stick and an idol-maker sitting on his bamboo gantry to fashion the face on a huge statue.

Back at the hotel, we wave goodbye to fellow-speaker Lyle and welcome the new team member, Doug. The afternoon is spent in a successful quest for e-mail contact and an unsuccessful attempt not to spend money!

Saturday October 13th

Today we leave the faded glory of the Belle Vue Hotel and head up and away from the river plain and from Assam itself. As we climb, the scenery changes. It feels more like China than India – with paddy fields, bamboo huts on stilts, and little old ladies bent double under the weight of conical wicker baskets on their backs. We stop at Nang-poh for welcome ice-cold drinks and fresh bananas before continuing the climb. On either side of the road there are bananas and pineapples growing. Further up, with the sun out but the temperature dropping, there are little wayside stalls stacked with pineapples, bananas and paw-paw ready to buy. We cross a huge damn into the outskirts of Shillong. As we do so the heavens open and rain beats down on the sides of the jeep as we sit in heavy traffic. A determined, but ineffectual policeman stands in the middle of the grid-locked traffic, armed only with a whistle and a pink flowery umbrella. Through the rain I notice that all the advertising hoardings are actually hand-painted onto the walls of shops and houses.

Later we are introduced to Atola, an energetic Naga Christian, who is organising the local workshop. She is delighted that 250 people are expected. She shows us the church where the workshop will be held – an old Presbyterian one with white walls, black beams and a bright red corrugated iron roof on the church and the steeple.

After this Doug and I go off in search of e-mail connectivity. We find it in the depths of Glory’s Plaza – a small shopping mall with a spiral staircase which appears to descend into the bowels of the earth. The Aryan.com Cyber Café is a welcome sight – although the Hindu Swastika painted on every computer as in identification mark is something of a shock. After contact with home we re-emerge into the darkness in the bazaar. The lights blaze everywhere, and there are shouts and cries from the stallholders to buy everything from plastic toys to hankies, silk sarees and patent remedies!

Sunday October 14th

At lunchtime we attend the English-speaking service of Shillong Baptist Church, meeting in the Presbyterian Church. The service is extremely formal, in everything from dress to music. The sermon is similarly dry, encompassing the whole of Gideon’s life in mere 45 minutes!

Later I visit a very different church in another part of town. City Church, which meets in a Catholic college, is made up largely of students and pastored by an energetic man whose dress sense makes most Indians look drab. I can’t decide whether the check jacket or the electric blue tie with the design of coffee pots on it is more astounding! It turns out that we may have met before, when he accompanied the Mizoram choir to the Baptist Assembly in 1990. The worship is melodious, energetic and profoundly moving – all of it led by the students. Afterwards I teach on the need for holy ambition in the service of God, and they devour the teaching hungrily.

Following the service we return to the pastor’s house, which is also a hostel for some 36 students! Over sweet tea and what appear to be fried jam sandwiches introductions are made. There is one who speaks nonchalantly of his family’s anger at his Christian faith. . H is a new Christian, and his face glows as he describes his new found faith. “I can’t get through a day without praying” he says. He is a local restaurateur, and invites us to dine at his restaurant on Wednesday.

Monday October 15th

At the venue, a steady stream of delegates arrives all morning. Many have travelled from far away – Manipur, Mizoram, Nagaland, as well as groups from the Garo Hills and the West Khasi Hills. There are even some from Bangladesh, including a man who studied with me in Spurgeon’s. He and his friend will have to leave a day early in order to complete the journey home before the weekend.

During the morning I visit Glory’s Bazaar again. This time it is like a medieval ‘mouth of hell’. With the electricity gone, there is the constant hum of petrol driven generators and many shopkeepers are working by candle-light. Our own generator has taken all morning to start, and the opening session is accompanied by the sputtering of the lights and the sound system as the current comes and goes. Outside a Shamiana, or lean-to shelter is skilfully constructed out of bamboo poles and tarpaulin. This is needed at tea-break time, when the afternoon’s expected rain comes teeming down. The first session seems to go well, with notes being furiously scribbled on “how to preach”.

Tuesday October 16th

At lunchtime we ride off with Marshall, a local Christian who works for “Every home for Christ”, in search of an Indian model truck for Luke. The shopping is unsuccessful but the trip is fascinating, as he points out the sights of Shillong to us. It is only 160 years since the missionaries arrived here, and the number of Christians in the town is a tribute to them. However, many enjoy the power and status afforded by high-profile roles in the church but lack a disciplined Christian life to go with it. Meanwhile, Hindu fundamentalists are encouraging the revival of Khasi animism under the all embracing banner of Hinduism. They are funding a local school where the Khasi animist rituals are passed on to the next generation. On our way back through the town a saddhu in saffron robes with painted face wanders between the cars, shaking his collecting tin and his staff with plastic roses and bells on it.

Back at the venue, as Doug preaches on the need for Christian lifestyle I bump into a delegate who is missing the session whilst he chews his betel nut and smokes his cigarette! A pastor from Assam asks me at the break whether God will accept his faithful preaching even when there is no visible fruit. He seems reassured that faithfulness, and not fruitfulness is the requirement.

Tonight we have asked Jordy to select a local restaurant for us, since she knows the town. We are very dubious as she leads us down ill lit steps behind the bazaar into the unprepossessing surroundings of the Hong Kong restaurant. The yellowing formica tables and the plywood booths don’t look overly appealing, but the food turns out to be wonderful.

Wednesday October 17th

In the early morning I take a walk around Ward’s Lake – an artificial beauty spot created by the Victorians. Some are walking their dogs, others singing as they stroll round the lake. It is beautiful. On arrival at the venue there are smiles and greetings from the delegates. Many of them are poring over yesterday’s notes or reading their new study bibles. When I speak on the need for couples to pull together and the danger of pastors taking out the frustration of ministry on their spouses the place falls silent. Evidence here and at Guwahati indicates that this is a real problem.

Meanwhile there is more news from home and all seems well, but busy. Doug and I decide to head for home on Saturday rather than waiting until Monday if we can. Nutzenberger, an affable local lawyer who is attending the workshops, offers to help me. Unfortunately his promise of the job “only taking ten minutes” proves to be greatly optimistic. After seeking out the travel agent for over an hour at three different venues where it has already closed down, we try another one instead. As darkness falls and the rain hammers on the windows, the agent describes the overcrowding due to the Puja festival, the difficulty of changing the ticket, and finally the fact that since my ticket was a bought in India I do not count as a foreigner and a place would not be available to me anyway! Perhaps the “jobsworth” mentality is a legacy of the Raj! Three hours later I return empty-handed.

The trip, however, is not without its rewards. On the way we pass some of Shillong’s most elegant houses. These wooden houses with their faded cladding and their painted verandas nestle in amongst the soft mist and trees on the hillsides. In one side street a young girl, immaculately dressed complete with earrings and make up, crouches in the gutter and washes plastic buckets in the jet of water shooting out of a broken water pipe. On the way back to the venue I notice a poster for British band “the Venga Boys”. They are to play a concert in Guwahati’s Lion Field in November. Does this represent the zenith or the Nadir of their career, I wonder?

Tonight we visit H’s restaurant . It is beautifully, if eclectically, decorated. The tropical fish tank on the wall is beautiful, although the Ganesh shrine and the crucifix on the wall behind the bar make an odd combination. Harrish glows with pleasure and pride as his staff serve a sumptuous meal to his new found Christian friends. The meal is delicious, and we are grateful that it only has four courses, since all are enormous.

Thursday October 18th

Good news today, as the tickets have been successfully changed. Good news at the venue too, as the attention and enthusiasm of the delegates lasts to the very end. They are fascinated by the narrative sermon, and ask lots of questions about how they might use this style in their storytelling culture. One pastor tells me straight away that he will go home and try it.

At the last session, Doug stirs our souls with the vision of Jesus in Revelation 1, and the singing of “Blessed assurance” sounds as if it comes from a choir three times its size. After a final rendition of “He is Lord” with hands held, it is time for the books to be distributed. As in Guwahati, dozens come to give thanks for the teaching, shake hands and have their photos taken with Doug and I. We find ourselves posed with groups of students, a group of cheerful young women from the West Khasi Hills and pastors from Manipur and Mizoram. An old lady from Manipur tells how she had all her books burned during tribal conflict in the 1970s. She prayed and cried out to God to replace them, which He has now done. With an elderly servant to help her, she loads them into a bag on her head and carries them home with tears of joy. There is sorrow too – a young man had to leave early when news filtered through about the kidnap and shooting of his brother on the border with Manipur.

As the delegates head for home, Doug and I head into the dusky town for last e-mails and shopping. In the cyber-café, two world clash as a wandering priest comes in to bless the shrine amidst the whirring machinery.

In the evening we visit “Auntie” Lin’s house. Auntie Lin is a local Khasi Christian who runs a restaurant, a sweet shop, a catering business and a hostel for waifs and strays from her home. She has been the caterer for the workshop all week, and on hearing that we are coming has produced the fullest spread imaginable. There are different rices, sea food, curries, salads and worst of all – the Khasi delicacies after which we had enquired. Clearly our curiosity has got the better of us as politeness now demands that we should tuck in to the pigs brains! They are a cold rubbery texture, not improved by the cold pork fat and onions with which they are mixed. After very sweet milk puddings for dessert we visit the roof garden. Here we sniff the heady scent of orchids as we look out on the twinkling lights of Shillong against the shadows of the hills.

Friday October 19th

4.30 am and time to get up. The cockerels, dogs and cars are up before me, it would seem. No calls from the temple this morning though – perhaps the priest is having a lie in.

The journey down the hill is beautiful, with the scenery changing from Scottish glen to lush jungle to Chinese village as we go. Along the way, families are out washing clothes and brewing tea in front of their bamboo huts. Schoolchildren, immaculate in their white shirts and blouses, are ushered out of mud bamboo huts onto mud streets. How do they look so clean? The driving is far from clean though – the usual mixture of bravado and aggression. We pass four recently wrecked trucks on the way. They lie on their sides like discarded children’s toys. We pass several work gangs on the road – breaking up stones by hand for a new road surface. An elderly woman is amongst the labourers, squeezing water from a rag onto the road roller as it drives along. Later we fall prey to the road surface, and have to stop for a swift tyre change. As we wait Kuru, the third member of the speaking team, produces sandwiches from the hotel and we puzzle over whether they are cheese, chicken or both!

On the final approach to the airport we have to stop the car because an elephant is in our way. His riders demand 50 rupees for right of passage, but he politely accepts a 10 rupee note in his trunk and ambles off. Kuru tells us that there are plenty of elephants in the jungle to our left.

Inside the airport security is extremely tight, with several close checks on body and luggage. There is a brief moment of alarm when a guard on the x-ray machine decides my hand luggage has a knife in it. Whilst searching it by hand he discovers that I am a Baptist pastor, says he is a Roman Catholic and lets me through. This is not the last hurdle, however. As I exit onto the scorching tarmac for a final check before boarding the bus I am summoned back inside the terminal. As the others drive off laughing I wait to discover what the problem might be. It turns out that my number is wrong on the flight manifest, and there are smiles all round as it is put right.

In Calcutta we wave goodbye to Kuru, and join up with Durong Langalang, our local contact. Calcutta is busier than ever, with preparations in full swing for the forthcoming Durga Puja festival. Makeshift temples and shamianas are being erected in many streets, and there will be a public holiday from now until November 1st. At the British Airways office we receive confirmation of our tickets and a small miracle. It turns out that we should pay £75 for changing them, but the member of staff decides to waive the fee on this occasion.

Tickets in hand, we head for Emmanuel Ministries, a shaded and tree-lined courtyard in the midst of Calcutta’s heat and dust. Vijyan and Premila Pavamani are its founders. They are a dynamic, compassionate couple, who have done much to heal the pain and degradation on Calcutta’s mean streets. Their work, which began from their own home, now includes a “pavement club” for street children, which offers basic education; a Samaritans help centre; a drug rehabilitation programme; and a new work amongst prostitutes. Their faces shine as they describe this expanding work and the effect it is having on the lives of those for whom so much has gone wrong. We pray together and then take our leave with a precious gift in our hands – a tiny candle-holder decorated by the children in the pavement club. It will always be a reminder of God’s healing for man-made wounds.

Calcutta’s streets are hot and sultry as we weave through the cars for phone calls home.

Saturday October 20th

Up at 3.45am for the drive to the airport. I get a shock in the bathroom when a gecko runs across the window when I am shaving. Thankfully it is on the outside, but its distinctive squashed shape on the glass makes for an unusual bath time companion. Even at this time of day the streets are hot, and four eager porters swarm round the taxi when we unload the cases at the airport.

Security is very tight once again, and it seems like a very long time until we are through all the checks and double checks. Pausing at the top of the aircraft stairs I take a last look back at Calcutta, shimmering in the heat even at 7.30 am, and wonder when I will be back. Whenever that might be, its time to head for home. As we climb through the clouds, the prospect of a reunion at home is wonderful, and the thought of the books and skills we have left behind is inspiring.