In one of our photo albums at home we have a picture of us taken years ago, by a nun. As photographs go, it's not a great shot. It’s taken from too far away. The subjects are not in the true centre of the frame. But it's one I'll always treasure.
On the tenth anniversary of Mother Teresa's death this week, I thought, a trifle wistfully, that it would be fitting homage to post a personal reflection of her - except that I thought I had nothing to share. And then, the more I thought about it, I suddenly realised that I did indeed have a story to share.
Not one story, but two. Well, three really, but I'll keep one for later.
Back in December 1989, we were on holiday in India with our Australian-born daughter, the first of our three precious children. One evening, my late father-in-law took us to visit the Missionaries of Charity, the order of nuns in simple white saris with blue borders.
There was a hush in the compound, with the myriad sounds of the city suddenly muted. Several minutes after being greeted by a soft-spoken nun who showed us around the austere premises, we were told ``Mother'' would be joining us.
She was shorter than I could ever have imagined. She welcomed us warmly, spoke to us for a few minutes and agreed to pose with us for some photographs. What did we speak about? Honestly, I can't remember. All my finely-honed powers of perception as a career journalist deserted me. But I do remember it being a moment of intense pride, in the presence of a power that I could never hope to define.
And there is another memory. It concerns the newspaper editor Desmond Doig, who presided over so much creativity in the golden years of The Statesman and The Junior Statesman, which later became the JS and the hallmark of a generation.
He was more than just an editor. He was mentor and guide to many young men; he was a gifted, sensitive writer; and he was an artist whose books captured the subtleties of Calcutta in a warm, engaging way.
Doig told the tale of how he sat at his typewriter on the balcony of his spacious Minto Park flat, writing a chapter of the manuscript. He went indoors just before an evening storm hit the city. When he returned, the table was bare. Every sheet of paper had gone, whipped away by fury of the nor’wester.
Hours later, as he despaired, there was a knock on his door. It was the night watchman. In his hand he held every piece of paper, soggy but intact. They had been retrieved at several points around the rambling Minto Park property.
Doig summed it up simply and beautifully. ``Just one of Mother's little miracles,'' he said.
