Bhālōbāsi
A very profound experience I had at the House of the Dying was with a patient named Frank, who I got to know fairly well over the course of a couple mornings. He was a 74 year old man without family, without much money, and with a blown-out knee requiring a surgery he could not afford. He was not terminally ill, but he was brought there by the sisters because he still needed a great deal of assistance to live that no one else could provide for him. One of the first things that really struck me to the heart in Kolkata was when I first introduced myself to Frank. After asking him for his name, I received no invitation to share my own. I thought that was a little odd and decided to just tell him my name, but he made no response (most people will repeat it or give some confirmation). I said it a second time in case he had not heard it, but his response to my repetition was to the eff...
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