“I wondered if you’d care to take an early evening tea with me at Nathu’s?”
“Nathu’s?” Almost awake now, Moica sees a nun in her late twenties, not much younger than herself, just fresher, familiar with the surroundings.
“A local café.” Sister Margaret studies her guest. “In the Bengali Market.”
Bengali Market. Prepaid taxi. It’s all coming back.
“Yes, thanks. I’d enjoy that.”
Sister Margaret shakes her head from side to side, an Indian gesture for agreement, Monica remembers.
Overcome with remorse, she splutters, “Oh, dear, friends were phoning.”
“Yes, Professor Nair said he will ring again tomorrow. And Dr. Nelson, from your Embassy clinic, has left her mobile number.”
Monica takes a long breath of relief, anticipation. How astonishing that Tina Nelson is working in Delhi. She didn’t think she’d have a friend here until Beata visited. And now she has two, well one-and-a-half, with Ashok Nair.
“Sorry to be a bother.”
“Hardly a bother.” The young nun waves her fine-boned fingers.
Why does she seem young? Innocence? No purity perhaps. Sister Margaret exudes a kind of serenity. Monica understands she, herself is the innocent here.
“Shall we meet in the foyer about 6 p.m.?”
“I look forward to it.”
“A light lunch awaits you in the refectory, whenever you fancy it.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
Craving a latte, Monica pokes around the kitchen for tea bags. While the water boils, she opens her suitcases, digs out woolens.
The first bureau drawer is discouraging. The second even riper in mildew. Maybe she’ll leave the bags packed and withdraw things day by day. She’ll only be at Mission House a week before traveling up to Moorty Hospital.
*****
Walking downstairs to the lobby, Monica notices the windows on each landing have been removed. (Broken? Shot out? Never installed?) No wonder the place is freezing. She shivers in her black wool sweater and skirt, then sees the nun.
Sister Margaret rises from a bench by the chapel, smiling. “The refectory is this way.”
Outside in the early evening dark, crowds rush along the raised sidewalks. The sidewalk is a good nine inches higher than the street, how many sprains, how many broken ankles per week?
Noises begin to penetrate. Honking. Grinding. Whistling. Screeching. The combustive dissonance of buses, scooters, auto rickshaws, trucks, cars.
Drivers weave in and out of lanes. “Use horn!” a popular bumper sticker.
Gently, Sister Margaret takes her elbow. “You must watch yourself on the crumbling pavement.”
Pavement, not sidewalk. Are all the pavements like this? Last night’s dreams return in fragments: cars without headlights; people without heads; the stolen tree.
Wait, she wants to say, India already? I need more transition than a taxi ride and one night’s sleep.
Then turn from the busy main road and walk on several blocks to the Bengali Market where she sees Krishna convenience store, two stationery shops, two green grocers, several flower stands, a bookstore advertizing photocopies.
On one corner is the Bengali House of Sweets. On the other is Nathu’s, which also specializes in cakes and other confections.
“How do you choose between them?”
The nun raises a wry eyebrow. “We visit one this month. The other next month. We don’t eat out very often.”
The meal will be an occasion for each of us in different ways, thinks Monica.
As they enter Nathu’s, a burly man nods. “This way,” he guides them around the tables crowded cacophonous families and whispering young couples, then gestures to a booth at the back.
“English menu?” A waiter barks.
“Kripaya,” Monica nods.
“Please. On your first day. That’s excellent,” beams Sister Margaret.
“A minimal achievement.” Monica cocks her head.
He tosses two menus on the small table.
English, sure, but what are these? Uthapam. Dosa. “I’ve eaten a lot of Indian food at home but never encountered these words.”
“Time to try them, then,” encourages Sister Margaret. “You’ll need to know what to ask Cook to prepare for you at Moorty Hospital.”
Cook. She blanches at the thought of servants.
“Let’s sample a variety.” Sister waves to the waiter. “Biju, please bring us one tomato onion uthapam, one plain dosa, some sambhar and raita.”
He turns.
“Oh, yes, one bottled water and one regular water, please.”
Monica thinks wistfully about the Kingfisher beer she always ordered with Indian meals at home.
Three men arguing. Children crying. Two couples in animated conversation. The place smells of oil and sugar and who knows what all these spices are. Monica is here, finally, after months and months of planning. After years of childhood fantasizing. How can she convey the momentousness of this simple meal?
Sister Margaret is saying something.
Monica tunes out the clatter.
Sister regards her steadily. “Dr. Murphy, we are grateful to have you join our modest mission.”
“Please call me Monica.” She squeezes the nun’s hand, then remembers Indians don’t touch each other as often as Americans do.
Sister shakes her head.
“I am grateful to be here.” Monica draws a breath of satisfaction. It’s been a year of making the decision, backing away from it, then finally embracing this long journey of body and spirit. She didn’t anticipate nine months of forms and inoculations and more forms. She wonders, idly now, where all her documents are stored. Where does a country with a billion citizens put an extra file?
Their meal arrives promptly. The uthapams are large, pungent pastries—a cross between pizza and latke. The dosas resemble crisp pancakes folded burrito style around fragrant, savory mush. How long will she continue to compare each meal to American dishes?
Sister precisely divides the meal, serving half of each to Monica.
“Your family, they are in America a long time?”
“Oh, no,” she exclaims. Simple questions: this is how to get to know people. Monica tells herself to be less self-absorbed, to inquire about Sister Margaret’s life. “My parents came from Kildare, in Ireland.”
“Ireland is a Catholic country,” Sister Margaret observes, then crunches into the dosa.
“Most of it.” She sips mineral water and studies Sister Margaret’s technique of eating with the fingers of one hand.
“You know, we Indians were Catholic before the Irish. Before the Spanish.”
Monica resorts to knife and fork. She’ll have to practice hard to become as dexterous as Sister Margaret. She chews slowly, relishing the subtle spices. Next time, she’ll just order the uthapam.
“Yes, St. Thomas,” she finally answers. “I know the stories about him, converting people on the Malabar Coast, traveling all the way to Madras.”
Sister shakes her head approvingly.
“We Catholics in India are six million. You have come to a very old Catholic country.”
THREE
January, 2001, New Delhi
An entire morning of paperwork. Perhaps bureaucracy is the real religion of India. Monica stretches her jet-lagged shoulders, then dresses to meet Ashok Nair for lunch.
“No, not Nathu’s,” he rebuffed her suggestion, mildly appalled, very professorial. “I’m inviting you for a proper meal. Please be my guest at the India International Center.”
“I’m not sure how to get there.”
“Simply catch an auto rickshaw,” he spoke w
ith more of a lilt than he did on the plane. “Everyone knows the IIC, near the Lodi Gardens.”
“Yes, the great Mughal Park,” Monica noted, eager to show she wasn’t ignorant. She simply had a lot to learn.
“That’s it. Shall we meet in the dining room at 12:30?”
She weighs his brusqueness as she approaches the auto rickshaw. Maybe he feels trapped by an invitation offered after two glasses of airplane wine. His asperity is at such odds with the graciousness of Sister Margaret and Mr. Alexander. Perhaps he learned abruptness in grad school at NYU. He’d fit right in with her Minneapolis colleagues. Thinking about those tensions, now 12,000 miles away, knots her stomach.
*****
Winter sun spills through generous windows of the handsome dining room.
Behind her, a voice.
“Dr. Murphy. How nice to see you looking rested after that beastly journey.”
She turns to a slim, strikingly attractive man in a navy sports coat, white shirt and black slacks. “Likewise,” she smiles.
The waiter directs them to a window table. Outside, people stroll through Lodi Gardens in the thin blue winter light.
Now she’s glad she chose the new green wool dress. These jade beads were Eric’s last Christmas gift.
“India!” Eric burst out. “Who do you think you are? Mother Teresa? You could die in India.”
She wanted to tell him she was already dying in Minneapolis, from grief over Mom’s death, anguish at the way Jeanne handled it, rage at her clinic colleagues. But he’d patiently listened to her troubles for months. He was waiting for a recovery, unaware she was being eaten alive. Soon there would be no Monica Murphy.
She returns to Ashok. “You look refreshed, yourself.”
The prematurely graying hair is an intriguing touch of vulnerability. His assured voice conveys dignity. And those brown eyes reflect fierce, determined intelligence.
After they are seated at his favorite table, he gestures to the garden.
“It’s a lovely place.” She feels suddenly girlish.
“Hmm, I suspect if you stayed in Delhi, you would come here often.” He waves to the waiter.
“That depends on whether the food is as tasty as Nathu’s.”
Not a crease of a smile.
The waiter brings two English menus.
Ashok holds up his right hand. “I noticed you forwent meat on the plane. May I recommend their vegetarian thali? It’s one of the best in Delhi.”
Ignoring her craving for another savory uthapam, she says, “How can I resist?”
“Fine,” Ashok orders the thali, then instructs the waiter. “A bottle of mineral water.” He turns to her, “And what? Scotch? Wine?”
“A Kingfisher?”
“Two Kingfishers, please.”
The waiter nods to Ashok, smiles politely at the lady.
Her companion stares out the window.
She babbles, shy and unnerved by the silence. “Delhi is such a fascinating city. A cultural amalgamation. It’s so Indian, yet so much more Western than I anticipated.”
“Yes,” he sighs in amusement, annoyance. “Once you recover from gawking at tree trimmers on swaying elephants, once you get used to cows delaying traffic on Kasturba Gandhi Marg, you start noticing the Reebok and Nike logos, the mock fast food outlets.”
“Mock?”
“Fast is not an Indian mode. Do you know that in Bombay, it is required to have 47 certificates before one can complete a building?”
“I’ve had a few encounters, myself, with your civil service.”
“Somehow neither ‘civil’ nor ‘service’ seems an appropriate word for red tape dispensers in any country. You should try being an alien in your land.”
She nods.
“On a serious note, I’m glad your entry was scrutinized. You cannot expect us to leave doors open to any wandering foreigner.”
He’s aiming for irony, not rancor, surely. Monica knows she’s feeling too sensitive today, from physical and cultural jet lag.
Beer and water appear. She sips each gratefully. In some ways, Ashok reminds her of Eric. Maybe academics break into lecture the way tenors break into song.
Ashok gazes out the window once again, looking pensive, or perhaps worried.
Why did he invite her if he’s so averse to foreigners? And why did she accept during her first chaotic week in this daunting country? Do the mission staff consider her absence rude? Indeed Father Koreth expressed surprise at her “appointment.”
“Cheers,” he raises his glass.
“Cheers.”
“Apologies for the lecture,” he shrugs. “Once you’ve lived abroad for an extended period, it’s hard to accept all the ‘contradictions’ of contemporary India. Do you know we have a middle class of over 200 million people?
She recalls yesterday—the Mercedes Benzes and cell phones. She glances at the bejeweled, elegantly attired women at two adjacent tables.
“Yet a tiny minority pays income tax.”
She waits.
“Fifty percent of our kids under five are malnourished. Forty percent of Delhi is illiterate.”
“You’re helping to change that,” she insists.
“How?” He studies her face. “By educating children of the elite who will go to graduate school or jobs in England, Canada and America?” His jaw stiffens.
“Well, you went to the U.S. for grad school and you returned.” She fiddles with the jade. Bad habit. Once during a tense phone call with Jeanne, she broke the strand. Hours later, she was still searching for pale green balls under the couch and chairs.
“More fool me.” Again, he browses the garden.
Maybe his distraction is solace in the garden rather than boredom with her. He’s clearly shy, too.
“I’m just perpetuating divisions here, suffering an anemic wage as a result.”
“No.” She’s slipping into deep water. “You’re smart. Committed. That counts for a lot.”
“So are you, no?”
He seems to be looking through the bones in her face.
“Do you know what you’re doing for, or to, India?”
“What do you mean?” Sweat trickles inside her dress and she hopes he can’t smell the fear, confusion.
“For Madame.”
They’re locked in a stare.
“Your lunch,” her companion cocks his handsome head.
“Thank you!” She’s dazed by the array of vivid, pungent vegetables.
“Any questions?” Ashok asks.
She takes advantage of his new lightness. “What are these white cubes?”
“Curd cheese. Many Delhi-ites will tell you it’s like cottage cheese. But I’ve met cottage cheese in your country and the resemblance eludes me.”
She takes a bite, rolls her eyes with pleasure.
He laughs.
“What kind of philosophy do you teach, Professor Nair?”
“ ‘Ashok,’ please. Didn’t we exchange first names when were were packed into that airborne sardine tin for so many hours?”
“You’ve been addressing me as ‘Doctor Murphy,’ ” she hesitates, “so…”
“An old habit,” he declares. “Monica it is, then. Monica and Ashok.”
He peers out the blasted window again. Then answers her question. “Ethics for the first years. When I believed in, or was interested in, moral judgment. Lately I’ve moved to philosophy of science.”
“You don’t think you’re still a bit of a moralist?” Instantly, she regrets the forwardness.
“Because of my questions on the plane?”
She closes her eyes, chary of reviving that stressful exchange.
“People are people.” She leans forward, noticing the small scar beneath his lower lip. “Because I was born American does that mean I have no connection to, no responsibility for, people who happen to be Indian?”
“Don’t be naïve, friend,” he draws his right hand into a fist.
“Don’t be so cynical.”
“Even if you’re right about there being some ‘world community,’ as the journalists say, what about the Catholic piece? India is a Hindu country, a Muslim country, a Buddhist country.”
Monica hears Sister Margaret’s proud declaration and shuts her eyes. “I’m sorry if you are offended by my work.” She’s not going to cry.
“Offended. Hurt. The American preoccupation with social comfort is truly astonishing. What matter if I’m offended? We are two adults having a serious difference. That doesn’t mean I’m devastated by your words. It doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” He blots a bead of sweat from his left temple.
“Friends,” Monica repeats softly. “I’d like to be friends.” She glances outside as a bright green bird flies into view. “Such a beautiful creature. Look!”
“That?” He restrains his astonishment. “That bird? It’s a rather ordinary parrot. Oh, my friend, I see this India of ours is going to dazzle you.” He’s laughing.
It’s a kind laugh, she believes. A friendly laugh.
FOUR
January, 2001, New Delhi
A warm, late afternoon. Grateful for rising temps, Monica lounges in a vintage rattan chair and footstool, on the tiny bedroom veranda. Buzzards and finches call from above as she reads more documents about “her” hospital.
This morning’s orientation session, their third, was particularly helpful. She learned much more about the facilities and lack thereof at mission hospitals. Once she arrives in Moorty and confirms the shortage, she’ll write to Alonso for the supplies he’s promised. But she won’t make any presumptions before talking to the staff there. If she’s learned anything from Louise’s hubris at Lake Clinic, it’s how consensus should trump individual ego.
Traveling with Spirits Page 2
