Photo:
The nuns of Poor Clares of Perpetual Adoration
By
Shevlin Sebastian
When
my mother sees Sr. Mary Gertrude she could not help but widen her
eyes in shock. The 85-year-old nun is lying immobile, on a bed, in a
room at the Poor Clares of Perpetual Adoration monastry in Chelcombu,
Kerala.
It
is a serene setting: rubber trees and plants growing all around. The
only sounds are the rustle of the leaves and the cawing of crows.
“Gertrude
has been suffering from Parkinson’s disease and spondylitis for the
past few years,” says Sr. Mary Tancy. “She is being fed by a
tube. She is not able to speak. But she can hear very well and
understand everything that we say.”
My
mother leans forward and kisses Sr. Gertrude's face. There is a trace
of recognition in the nun's eyes. “Do you remember how much fun we
used to have during the summer vacations?” my mother says.
One
of the fondest memories of my mother was the fun-filled times she had
with her cousins at their grandmother's home in Varapuzha. Sr.
Gertrude, my mother's cousin, was a few years older. “Gertrude had
a lot of energy,” my mother later said. “She was always running
about.”
In
the ancestral home, there were a couple of ponds. The children would
catch fish or go for a swim. Sometimes, the girls played hop-scotch,
or chased each other. There were many guava, coconut and mango trees.
But Sr. Gertrude's father had explicitly warned that no mango could
be plucked before it was ripe.
One
evening, Sr. Gertrude dared her cousins that she would pluck an
unripe mango, and disobey her father. The cousins challenged her. A
cool Sr. Gertrude plucked a mango. But it was a clever choice. “It
was a diseased one, so nobody could scold her,” says my mum.
Sr.
Gertrude's mother had died when she was a child. So, she was brought
up by a widowed aunt, as well as her grandmother. When Gertrude
reached school-going age, she was placed in a boarding which was run
by nuns. “Maybe that was why she decided to become a nun,” my
mother said.
But,
unlike others, the nuns of the Poor Clares lead an unusual life. They
have all taken a Vow of Enclosure. This means that a nun will never
leave the convent, except for medical emergencies or for voting. She
can never spend time with her family or visit new places. But they
pray fervently to God throughout the day and the night. “We have
dedicated our lives to God,” says Sr. Tancy. There have been many
instances when, thanks to their prayers, good things have happened.
So,
it is no surprise that the monastery is a magnet for the troubled.
The faithful from all over Kerala come to meet the nuns. “Husbands
and wives who don’t get along, parents and children who have
trouble understanding each other, those with financial and physical
setbacks, and siblings who are involved in property disputes,” says
Sr. Tancy. The nuns also receive letters from the distressed in
Europe and America. Some call up from West Asia and request for
prayers.
But,
for Sr. Gertrude, all these activities have come to an end. Instead,
she lives in a deep silence. Neither my mother nor Sr. Gertrude could
have imagined, when they ran around, having the time of their lives,
during their childhood, that way off, into the future, there would
come a day when Gertrude would become sick, immobile, and silent.
I
stare at Sr. Gertrude. She has soft eyes and an unlined face. This is
surely the last lap for Sr. Gertrude before the finishing tape comes
in sight. For others, in a similar situation, but far less spiritual,
it is a time of suffering, turmoil and unhappiness.
Who
knows how our last stage is going to be like? Once the body breaks
down, you have to depend on others to look after you. But will they
treat you with kindness and sympathy? Or does helplessness provoke
indifference or cruelty in people? Will one's children be around,
offering solace and companionship? Or will we have to face the exit
on our own?
All
these questions filled my mind, as I watched my mother caress her
cousin's face.
(Published
as a middle in The New Indian Express, South India)
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