Palak paneer aloo muttar naan mango kulfi

Today was my last day at Prem Dan. Tomorrow I'm off to London and my vacation before I head back to work.

It was difficult. The women all wanted to say goodbye to me and wish me well and tell me complex, intricate stories in a language I cannot understand. Sonda, the woman I've spent most of my time with, was very emotional.

Earlier in the week she swiped an extra mango from the breakfast tray and gave it to me. I thanked her and then waited until she wasn't paying attention before I put it back on the tray. A few minutes later she patted my apron pocket and discovered what I'd done. She yelled at me before stealing two more and putting them in my pockets. Every 5 minutes or so she checked to make sure they were still there. I put them back in the kitchen once we'd left for the day.

Many of the patients have little packets of personal belongings, which they guard like the Stinkey Monkey with a used tissue. Sonda keeps hers in a plastic bag tucked under her dress in her armpit. Most patients have a few photos, newspaper clippings, letters... Sonda has food. Whenever she can, she nicks a bit extra and stashes it away for safe keeping. It's like an armpit compost.

Today she pulled out her packet, opened it and removed what was once a boiled potato. It was slightly orange. I think it may have been halfway to vodka. It was by far the ooziest, slimiest, reakingest thing I have seen in Calcutta. She looked at it. Looked at me. Looked back at it. I ducked out of the way and grabbed the closest Sister.

I explained that I thought she might be preparing to give it to me. She smiled sympathetically and said I should just thank her and accept it and then toss it in one of the bins in the next building. First off, I don't think she understood just how rotten this thing was. Secondly, the mango... I was not, no way, no how, about to carry that thing around with me for the next four hours.

The Sister took the potato from her and gawked at it for a bit. She showed all the other Sisters. The head Sister came and took the plastic bag away from Sonda. She threw a fit, but when the Sister assured her that they just wanted to rinse it out, she relented. The bag contained bits of partially composted food and a sealed, plastic package of biscuits.

Before I left Sonda tearfully and clumsily tore open the package of biscuits (all her worldly possessions) and gave me one. I thanked her and accepted. She got out of bed and followed me down the stairs and out through the building, not an easy task given her motor skills.

I gave the biscuit to a street child on the way back to the hotel.

There is also a Chinese woman in the home who speaks no Bengali, Hindi or English. She can't really speak much at all, but seems to understand Mandarin. She probably has the mental capacity of a 5-year-old. She looks confused and frightened all the time. Nobody seems to know anything about her history or how she came to be there. We only know that she understands Mandarin because one of our girls tried talking to her. She nods, shakes her head or whispers single syllables in response.

I've spent some time each day sitting with her. She looks at me when I do, but neither smiles nor shows any other sign that she cares whether I sit beside her or not. As I left to day she began to cry.

Two women told me this afternoon for about an hour. Their tale was elaborate and involved and I understood none of it except for the odd word. As with most languages I've come across, my vocabulary is limited to yes, no, you, me and the wide range of food words. Periodically throughout the story, I caught the words 'Bengali' and 'English'. I think the gist of it was you'd better learn Bengali because we can't speak English.

I need to get back to the hotel and pack up my stuff. I have to arrange for a cab to take me to the airport tomorrow morning at twenty past four.