Next morning the sun is shining and it is hot, effing hot, so we mad English people head out, cos it's not as damp and oppressive as our digs.
As it happens, The Mother House, the eponymous Albanian nun's old gaff, is five minutes away - we're almost neighbours.
In the cafe, we have OJ and coffee served by a very Americanised young Indian man, then exit via the gift shop with a couple of bits and bobs.
The House itself is beautiful. A tranquil courtyard, off which lie the nuns' quarters; Mother's old room (closed Thursdays); a quaint museum, filled with letters, photos, some of which are annotated "This is not Mother Theresa" (beware of false idols?), bric a brac, even mum's heavily-darned cardi, her robes, handbag and Jesus sandals.
The last room, her resting place - shoes off please, quiet, but you can take photos - is cool and serene. It's ironic that inches away outside the front wall is that six-lane main road we experienced yesterday, Mother's old parish. Still lots to be done. The nuns are lovely and smiley. Hope they can keep up the good work.
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| Indira Ghandi has her own monument, outside on the busy central motorway. |
Onward to the Victoria Memorial. Built to honour Old Vic, but not finished until 1921, you can see the size and grandeur of it, set in the peaceful gardens, where Kim spends much of her time being selfied by queues of Indians, while I enjoy the gallery inside, incorporating some fascinating oil paintings, historical trinkets and an excellent visual history of Calcutta/Kolkata.
The Brits get off quite lightly so I'm not sure who wrote the notes. I ask an intelligent young lad what Indian people think of it all. He says they aren't bothered - it's just the past.
It certainly makes a good movie set, judging by the amount of posing being done in the grounds. Victoria would be amused to see how her legacy has turned out.
Finally to St Paul's Cathedral, an intriguing British transplant. One could almost be back at home.
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