“Calcutta eats missionaries for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” the missionary from Chenai warned us.

Huddled together in the dark basement of a ministry building in San Francisco, our team of 12 women and two men received our Calcutta briefing from a veteran of over 25 years in India.

He told us of Koli, the goddess of death and destruction for which Calcutta is named, and to whom 30 goats are sacrificed daily—100 on Sundays. He told us of a culture built on chaos, of traffic that was a moving organism, of mean streets and a violent way of life. He ended with, “I’m not trying to scare you, but…” I was only more excited to take on this city.

We stayed at a guesthouse owned and operated by a Christian ministry, only a few short blocks from the Mother House where Mother Theresa lies entombed. Sudder Street with many of the other Sisters of Charity ministries lay in the other direction, as well as New Market, a tumbling, bustling, indoor market of meat, clothes and anything else you would like to buy. Just outside our door, to the right, living on the sidewalk was a society of beggars, thieves and children for whom we were not adequately prepared.

“Deception is a game to these people,” another friend had advised us. “It is culturally acceptable. When you are bartering, you must keep this in mind. It is all a game.” We arrived on Holy Thursday and were not able to begin ministry due to the holiday, so we set to bartering, bargaining and clothes shopping at the New Market. We were met by men in long white Punjab who took us to the best deals, and took some of the profits from our purchases. All part of the game.

Women flocked us outside the Blue Sky Café, clinging to pitifully underfed children and uttering the two English words they knew best, “Baby milk.” I bought one woman a dusty canister of dry milk from the shop on the corner, then insisted she open it in front of me. She unscrewed the top, then spun it back on.

“No,” I instructed with a smile, “All the way. Break the seal.” She and the shop keeper exchanged a look as she angrily punctured the foil with her finger. I am told by another local missionary that she will still sell the milk back to the shop, who will in turn attempt to sell it to another Western do-gooder, drawn in by the extreme poverty and the reputation of the Mother Houses. As I returned to my group I was swarmed by women, grabbing and pulling on me. One appeared in front of my eyes, covered from head to toe with scars. I wondered if someone had done this to her on purpose, to make money. Her mutilated state is her only source of income, and a good income it is. Beggars on Sudder Street can make a month’s worth of wages in a day.

A day of this affront to the senses and organ of compassion feels like a month to our group. The guides at New Market know us by name. We came to buy clothes for ministry as our Western jeans and t-shirts are deemed immodest, and we unwittingly spent in one day more than most of these people see in a week. Several of us were targeted by a woman at New Market who, clinging to her starved baby with one arm, grabs people with the free hand and digs in her fingers, walking and begging and pulling for over a block. It is common knowledge to the street-smart that she and all the others starve the children to win your compassion.

There had to be relief somewhere. hen there was a woman on our street who called out a cheerful, “Hello sisters!” every time we passed. She was different, and I began to watch her. She was not always at her post, as the other beggars can be found predictably in the same spot with their hands reaching.

On Saturday evening we decided to eat Chinese takeout. As we round up the half-eaten boxes shared amongst the 13 of us, I remember stories of starving children in India who would like my food if I do not want it. I gathered up the food and delivered it to the cheerful woman on our block. Food that cannot be sold back and a woman who does not beg seem like a safe enough move to my heart, aching with compassion despite being swindled time and again over a period of three days.

Rianne introduces us to her well-fed 4-year-old son and tells us her daughter lives with a local woman to keep her off the street. The woman arrives for a visit, and the two children laugh and play, running up and down the lamp-lit sidewalk and into the street. They chase and tag and giggle as Rianne thanks us for the food and rouses her husband to meet us. We sit down on the blanket where he has been sleeping to hear their story.

They themselves had been deceived. They were Christians living in Bangladesh and had been lured to Calcutta on false pretenses. Once they arrived, their contacts walked around the corner with all of their worldly possessions, including their passports, and never returned. Their daughter was born to the streets and taken in by the woman I had met. She needed money to buy milk for the baby. The part they left out that night was that they had struggled with drug and alcohol addiction, and a retired doctor from America was helping them overcome this addiction. Rianne worked cleaning houses and was hoping for two more clients. Edward had been volunteering with a security company for several months, but could not be paid until he could afford a uniform. If he could find a certain sum by the next morning at 10 a.m., he could keep his job. The sum was less than half of what I spent on my sari the day before.

I wondered if helping him would pay his way into indentured servitude. My heart heavy with questions and hope, I went to my friends to collect an offering. We were able to supply enough for his uniform and milk for the baby and food for the family. We delivered it, and upon our return, Rianne grinned at me from her tent on the sidewalk. The woman she had worked for that day had loaned her the pots and pans. Later that afternoon she wanted to speak to me. It was then that she shared her husband’s weakness with alcohol, and asked us not to give him any more money. Others in our group saw him drinking later that day.

They both dealt deceptively from time to time over the next four weeks. I do not think they meant to, the effects of fear, greed, and trauma are the same in any culture, and they end in more deception and brokenness. Edward continued to ask for money, but Rianne pleaded for friendship, for relationship. I visited with her some, but found myself always wondering if she had ulterior motives.

The Sisters of Charity at the Mother Theresa house warned us that the beggars on Sudder Street and surrounding areas are professional, and that giving to them pays into crime. The people of India, we are told, find the situation embarrassing. The beggars have embraced their position in a culture that only recently recognized their personhood. They have capitalized on their pain. Without means to gain dignity or respect, they abase themselves further to gain money. The question of Sudder Street is this: how do we love these people who do not know how to be loved?

Toward the end of our time in India, two of the women on our team were motivated to reach out to the street people again. We prayed together, then organized into groups. One group went to Sudder Street to wash the beggars’ feet. It was a strange and beautiful statement, and the women on that street greeted my team members with joyful recognition after that. Another group of us went to the children on our street, giving them suckers and simply playing with them. I sat and had tea with Rianne as two of my teammates ran by with a child swinging and jumping between them.

Several days later, Rianne found me at night, distraught. Edward had been taken to jail for using a racial slur. She insisted he was only protecting her. With the national election approaching, emotions were stirring, including violence against women. Now she was alone on the street with her little boy. I held her as she wept. She had posted bail with the help of a friend, but Edward had not been released. Rianne had spent the day in the train tunnel, crying out to God, “I trust you. I trust you. I trust you. I trust you.” I will never forget her tear-stained face as she told me, “And now God has sent me you, sister. I was alone; I had no one to turn to; I have been holding all of this in. I am so sorry. I just needed someone to talk to.”

Edward was returned to his family the next day, our last day in the country. He was able to keep his job, and if he has been able to spend his money wisely, they should be living in a one room home in the neighborhood nearby. I have no way of knowing, unless I return to our guesthouse in Calcutta, turn to the right, and find their tent missing. The memory of Rianne challenges me to this day. She was indeed different from the others we saw on our street. She longed for four walls, her family reunited, and enough food for her children, but she also had the wisdom and self respect to know she needed friendship.

What shred of dignity gave her this wisdom? What act of kindness awakens the longings of a bruised and battered soul? The question of Sudder Street still haunts me: how do we love these people who do not know how to be loved?