A HUNCHED FIGURE weaves his way through Calcutta’s unending gridlock traffic.
Suspended from his neck is a broad tray, brimming with the usual assortment of tempting novelties with which to entice choking motorists. But instead of peddling fluorescent pink toothpicks or bottles of homemade rat-poison, the hawker is offering far more sought-after merchandise.
His tray is teeming with the latest in Mother Teresa kitsch.
Statuettes and baseball caps, ash-trays and candlesticks, calendars, alarm-clocks and cartons of incense: all bear the unmistakable, saintly image of a frail woman in a white sari with a royal blue hem.
Mother Teresa may be dead, but her spirit lives on, and her name is more strongly linked with Calcutta than ever. But, just as Princess Diana’s legacy is awash with souvenir mugs and signed margarine tubs, Mother Teresa’s memory is falling victim to her adoptive city’s notorious blend of ingenuity. Everyone in Calcutta, it seems, from shoeshine boys to politicians, is clambering aboard the Mother Teresa money-making bandwagon.
In a bustling corner of central Calcutta, big plans are afoot.
S. S. Gupta, the city’s former mayor, is busy co-ordinating elaborate schemes – all with a distinct Mother Teresa bent. A bulky, round-headed man, he defines his devotion to the cause in a silky, vote-winning voice:
‘I met Mother Teresa many times when I was mayor – I even had my photograph taken with her,’ he says. ‘Now that she’s dead, I have founded an organization called the Mother Teresa Memorial Committee.’ He pauses to spit a mouthful of paan into a bucket beneath his desk. ‘We want to mark Mother Teresa’s first death anniversary in a special way. When Mother became a Nobel Laureate she became an icon of the world. As such, she belongs to us all!’
Mr. Gupta’s committee is striving towards numerous big-budget goals. It plans to confer an annual honour – the Mother Teresa International Award – on a person who selflessly aids the needy. It is lobbying for Park Street, Calcutta’s central thoroughfare, to be renamed Mother Teresa Sarani. And a Mother Teresa souvenir publication, replete with innumerable deluxe advertisements, is in preparation.
But of all Mr. Gupta’s plans, the last is the most ambitious. A vast bronze statue of Mother Teresa has been commissioned by the committee and is under construction. If Mr. Gupta has his way, the towering effigy to Calcutta’s most famous adopted daughter will be installed on a plinth in the centre of the city.
Across town at Mother House, the headquarters of Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity, there is unease at the committee’s plans. The Missionaries have reason to be anxious. Within hours of Mother Teresa’s death, the Sisters’ planned funeral proceedings were hijacked.
Instead of a dignified burial, attended solely by the Sisters, the event was turned into a media extravaganza staged by Calcutta’s Municipal Corporation. Mother Teresa’s casket, which was carried upon the very gun carriage used in the funeral of Mahatma Gandhi, was borne for eight miles through the streets of Calcutta. Never before had the city seen such a panoply of red-turbaned Rajput soldiers, immaculate Gurkha warriors, celebrities and statesmen.
Sister Nirmala, Mother Teresa’s successor, is too preoccupied with paperwork to pay much attention to Mr. Gupta and his Committee. But forty years of pupilage under the indomitable Teresa have taught her to be resilient and now, for the first time, she has spoken out.
‘I completely disapprove of this committee,’ she says, ‘and of its having an office and a bank account. In her lifetime, Mother depended totally on divine providence and did not allow any fundraising whatsoever to be conducted using her name.’
Quiet and unassuming, Sister Nirmala appears to have all the qualities necessary to carry on Mother Teresa’s work. She was born in Bihar state of Nepali parents, and only converted to Catholicism in her teens after watching the carnage of Partition. An early disciple, she joined Mother Teresa in May 1958 and has worn the uniform white and blue sari with a crucifix pinned to the left shoulder ever since.
She draws on decades of experience in missions deep in the Venezuelan jungle, in New York’s slums, and in Calcutta. When not dealing with the administration of the charity’s five hundred and fifty-nine missions spread among a hundred and twenty countries – Sister Nirmala spends much of her time praying at Mother Teresa’s tomb. It is set at one end of the meeting hall at Mother House.
‘Mother is not far away,’ she says softly. ‘She might have changed her residence from Earth to heaven, but I can feel her presence and guidance all around me.’
A year after her mentor’s death, Sister Nirmala still seems preoccupied by the loss. ‘My feelings for her death are still so fresh,’ she explains. ‘We knew that she could go any day, but when it happened it was a shock. She died at about 9.30 p.m. She had done a full day’s work and had had dinner. We were all around her when she died. A doctor rushed in, but could do nothing to save her. She wanted to die in her house, in her room – in Mother House.’
Nirmala and all the Sisters are praying that Mother Teresa be canonized. ‘I very much expect her to be made a saint,’ she muses. ‘We all pray for that. Mother wanted to become a saint – indeed she challenged us all to become saints, saying that it’s a beautiful thing! For some it is a long process with many years of wait involved, but,’ Sister Nirmala continues with a glint of expectation in her eye, ‘for some, it doesn’t take so long.’
If Mother Teresa is to be canonized, some of her belongings will have to be taken to Rome as holy relics. For now, her few possessions have been left in her bedroom exactly as they were on the night she died.
Not far from Mother House, in a dingy back-street office, sits Dilip Basu, the self-proclaimed king of Mother Teresa kitsch. No one could be more desperate to lay their hands on Mother’s personal chattels than Mr. Basu.
‘It’s impossible to put a market price on these relics,’ he fawns, stroking his scant waxy beard. ‘There are private collectors in Europe and America with crores of rupees to spend on such items. The Sisters could give me a few of Mother Teresa’s possessions and I would auction them to the highest bidder on eBay. The money would go to charity, of course.’
While his optimistic negotiations continue with Mother House, Mr. Basu has much else to attend to. His desk is cluttered with prototype Mother Teresa products and typed orders. ‘Look at these!’ he shouts, waving a fistful of papers, ‘I’m having orders from all over the world… you see, everyone loves Mother Teresa!’
Mr. Basu’s business is booming. Forty extra staff have been taken on at his factory to keep up with demand. A dozen of them are devoted to the most popular line of all – plaster Mother Teresa statuettes with Mona Lisa smiles. The ruthless commercialization of Mother Teresa’s image may be surprising, but, as everyone in the small plaster knickknack business knows, Calcutta is a world centre.
The future for Mother Teresa kitsch is looking rosy.
Dozens of new products are being developed at Mr. Basu’s factory. The international market shows no signs of saturation. A spectacular range of new products for the coming year – including Mother Teresa soap flakes, shampoo, pencil-cases and lampshades. And the pièce de résistance: an embarrassingly low-quality rendition of a Mother Teresa Barbie doll.