A small crowd of blonde female volunteers wearing muted western clothing loiter near the doorway.

"Are you volunteers?" asks the slightly overweight Bible clutching post-pubescent woman from Northern California.

She looks like a Beth or a Betsy.

"No, " I say, "I was raised Catholic and this is sort of a pilgrimage for me."

All the museums were closed. We hadn't actually planned on coming here.

"All you have to do is ring the bell," Bethtsy informs.

Krista wearing her newly purchased, and recently manure soiled, beige salwar steps past the church camp looking counselors and rings the bell. It opens slowly and young woman greets us. She is meek looking and quiet. I can't really tell if she says anything. I'm twice as tall as her. I barely squeeze out a "hello" by the time she leads us into a small courtyard and then to the foot of a statue laden with blossoms.

I look up and it's a statue of an old woman with her arms outstretched. We take off our shoes.

Sandal, sandal, withering Adidas, sandal, sock, sock, clog, clog.

I step into the room. It could be any private Catholic school classroom minus the desks and construction paper art depicting various scenes of the apostles and Jesus.

The only artwork in the room lies on a rectangular bed of raised white stone. It's a giant map of India made entirely of flower petals.

I step around the raised white stone admiring the flower petal map. I look towards the entrance. A marker:

Mother Theresa, September 5th, 1997.

I had no idea I was at her grave.