Newcomers side-shuffle in, claiming the still warm seats.
The saxophonist is superb. Astonishing to hear him riffing with three tabla players. Half-an-hour of spirited improvisation. The drummers are so deft, yet she wonders about the stress on their thumb joints.
Waves and waves of applause.
A tall man presents the saxophonist with a white shawl.
“Now?” Ashok inquires. “May we leave now? Or shall we forgo dinner?”
“Thanks, I’m happy to eat. As long as leaving in the middle is customary.”
“Customary.” He grins. “So many customs in India: almost everything is customary.”
They walk through the dark, warm evening, past several attractive restaurants.
Hungrily, she asks, “Where are we going?”
He leads her over uneven pavement down a small side street, humming parts of the saxophonist’s last piece. “A surprise.”
She hadn’t pictured Ashok as a music lover. What a curious man. Acerbic. Considerate. Gentle. Irascible. Sometimes he acts annoyed by her presence. Sometimes suspicious. During the past week, he’s been quite welcoming.
The brightly lit, small café is called The Malabar Coast. A thin, elderly man greets Ashok warmly and escorts them to a corner booth.
Already part of her dream is realized: a quiet refuge from Delhi’s crazy pulse. She imagines Moorty’s mountain tranquility.
The owner serves two Kingfishers, compliments of the house.
“The father of a student?”
“Brother-in-law of my cousin in Cochin.”
Remembering Tina’s jeweler, she considers how many people in this huge country seem capriciously linked to so many others.
He regards her expectantly. Something new in his eyes tonight: a kind of fond, teasing familiarity.
“I thought you grew up in Delhi.” Her stomach rumbles at the aromas of garlic and butter and heady spices.
“I did. But I belong to Kerala. My father moved to Delhi for a government post.”
“Your family is from Cochin?”
“Nearby,” he allows, returning to the peacock-shaped menu.
Then he must know about the large Catholic and Jewish communities there. All this time he’s been baiting her about Indian history. OK, maybe she’s enjoyed the sparring. Dad used to say lively opponents sharpened your wits. Mom shook her head, despairing over a quarrelling world.
“Well, what would you like?” He pushes his glasses higher on his nose.
Quickly, she peruses the menu. “Uthapams!”
He smiles indulgently. “Since you enjoyed the rubbish at Nathu’s, I thought you should taste some authentic South Indian cuisine.”
Clearly he belongs to Kerala.
Before the first bite, from the delicious smell and vivid presentation, she knows he’s right about the food. He specializes in being right. This cooking is far more subtle.
“Mmmm,” is all she manages.
Still, she’ll always love Nathu’s for the atmosphere, for Sister Margaret’s hospitality. Because she ate her first dinner in India there.
“You leave on Tuesday.” He clenches his jaw, readjusts his glasses.
“Yes, the flight is about an hour.” She concentrates on facts, rather than on emotions. “Then I take a car to Moorty.” She sounds excited, doesn’t she?
“That road is labyrinthine. A three hour ride at least.” A dour voice.
“You’ve been to Moorty?”
“On a family holiday. I don’t recall much. Moorty was much cooler than Delhi. One of the minor Raj hill stations, you know.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You have a postal address?”
“Somewhere in my purse.” She digs around the black Sportsac anxiously.
He hands her a business card. “You must have cards made. Indians love to exchange cards. Of course one throws half of them away.”
She scribbles the address, surprised by the trembling of her hand.
“I have a conference in Calcutta on Monday,” he takes a long breath. “Otherwise I would escort you to the airport.”
Airport. The chaos of that first crowded, smoky night engulfs her. Maybe the domestic terminal is easier. Ridiculous to worry. How sweet of him to think about it.
“You’ll be fine,” he reassures both of them.
“Thanks.”
“Email me once you get settled. Or drop a note.”
She nods. Is he speaking out of friendship or something else? Does she want to know? Her life seems too full right now for…for what?
“But not a post card. They don’t often survive in the mail. Use an envelope.”
“Yes, Professor,” she smiles.
Ashok frowns.
“Stay in touch.” He squeezes her hand.
As his fingers reluctantly release hers, she imagines herself in a hot air balloon ascending daringly, fretfully, expectantly.
SIX
February, 2001, New Delhi and Moorty
Mr. Asnani carries her luggage out to the white blockish taxi.
Gripping her briefcase and a small bag, she surveys the cool blue vestibule one last time, already nostalgic for her home of three weeks.
Mr. Alexander was probably enjoying a well-deserved sleep after his encounter last night with three young thugs in the chapel.
“R.S.S.,” Mr. Asnani explained, cryptically. “Right wing Hindus. Much anti-Christian violence.”
Father Koreth admonished him not to jump to conclusions.
Regardless, she’ll worry about her friends here.
Last year she read so many articles about the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh. About how they had collaborated with the British against Gandhi because of the Mahatma’s ecumenism. How they assassinated Gandhi one ordinary winter day. Somehow the R.S.S. seemed like history then, nothing she’d encounter herself.
Silently Sister Margaret and Monica follow the concierge to the curb.
Mr. Asnani steeples his palms. “Namascar, Dr. Murphy. God bless you.”
She can barely hear him over the horns and sirens and shifting lorry gears. The unseasonable heat wave makes everyone anxious and louder.
“Thank you for all your kindnesses, Mr. Asnani,” she speaks at the top of her voice. “God bless you.”
Sister Margaret is tearing up. “Dr. Murphy, I wish you the best. I will pray for you.”
“Thank you, Sister. Thank you for everything.”
She bursts into loud sobs and tugs a white handkerchief from her pocket.
“Sister, don’t cry. We’ll see one another again.” How can she bear that heavy black habit in this heat? She probably roasts all spring and summer.
“Yes,” Sister sniffs into her plain cotton square. “It is wrong to get attached. You see we don’t normally have extended visits at Mission House from our foreign friends.”
She touches Sister’s thin shoulder. All too aware how long she’s stayed, Monica is startled by the nun’s attachment and by her own tender regard for these people, especially Sister Margaret.
The nun is weeping inconsolably now.
The taxi driver finishes loading bags. He stands within earshot, hands on his hips.
Monica has a thought. “Do you ever get a furlough?”
“Yes, we do.” A ragged, almost inaudible voice.
“Perhaps you could come to Moorty for a few days of your leave. You’d be doing Mission House a service by getting more acquainted with the posting. Then we can continue our games of Scrabble and our sampling of Indian teas.”
Clearly pleased, yet embarrassed to dwell on the invitation, she tells Monica for the twelfth time, “Remember Mr.
Menon, a good Catholic, will be waiting at the airport with his limousine to drive you to Moorty. Don’t go with anyone else. Taxi drivers can be persuasive. Mr. Menon will stand with a sign bearing your name. He speaks English fluently and has worked with the Mission for many years.”
“A pre-paid taxi?”
“Pardon, Doctor?”
“Silly joke, Sister. Thank you for arranging the transportation. I’m confident everything will proceed smoothly.”
“Yes,” she says shakily.
Hesitantly, Monica draws Sister into a hug.
Mr. Asnani looks away.
Sister embraces Monica tightly.
The driver guns his engine.
Monica steps into the car and is suddenly jolted into traffic. She waves.
Mr. Asnani raises a hand in salute.
Sister Margaret flutters her hankie, smiling through the tears.
Ignoring the cabbie’s daredevil driving, Monica considers yesterday’s rush: saying good-bye to Ashok and Tina, having a farewell interview with Father Koreth, a parting tea with Sister Margaret. She was taken aback by their touching gifts. Ashok presented a small enamel Ganesh on a silver chain. Tina bought her favorite chocolate from the Embassy commissary. Sister Margaret gave her a medal depicting Sister Alphonsa, a beatified Kerala nun. Even Father Koreth offered a sandalwood rosary. She had no time to reciprocate, but resolved that on her first trip back to Delhi she’d bring everyone mementoes.
What a morning! The farewell mass was mercifully brief. She was moved by the crusty priest’s ardent prayers for her safety and success and happiness. At communion, he bestowed a traveler’s blessing. Perhaps she overstated Koreth’s severity in her letters to Beata. Still, she looks forward to meeting Father Freitas, Director and Chaplain at Moorty. People say he’s youngish, pliable and energetic. Sister Margaret explained that most mission stations have fewer non-Indian doctors, but Moorty has faced unprecedented shortages. At any rate, Father Freitas is a skillful administrator, powerful spiritual director and an abiding presence.
****
The small airport is more crowded than she expected.
“Dr. Murray,” a tall, wiry man in a dun-colored suit clutches the sign.
She looks around to confirm that she’s the most likely suspect, then walks forward. “Mr. Menon?”
“Ah, Doctor Murray, welcome.” He smiles broadly and bows.
“Murphy,” she says pleasantly.
“Quite so. Welcome. We shall collect your luggage, then transport the bags to my cousin’s car.”
Fast talker. New accent. His cousin’s car?
An hour later, they pull into a tiny auto repair shop on the city outskirts.
“One moment, Doctor, one moment,” Mr. Menon implores, slipping out before she can reply.
Monica recalls Sister telling her the trip was in God’s hands. She summons Beata’s last letter. She hopes her friend gives James more time.
A firm rap on the passenger window.
“He is ready for you, Doctor.” Mr. Menon opens the door with a flourish. “Who? Ready for what?”
“My cousin is a first-rate driver. Poor English, but a first-rate driver, never an accident on these devious hills, you know, my cousin Emmanuel will take you to Moorty in one fine piece!”
OK, time for a little American assertiveness. “Sister Margaret informed me that you were the driver, Mr. Menon. She has a special confidence in you.”
“Other tasks, Doctor, other tasks. You will be most satisfied with my honorable cousin.”
She takes a deep breath. “Where is your cousin?”
Mr. Menon points to a beige van with a cockeyed bumper. “Waiting, Doctor. This very minute waiting to escort you safely to your new home.”
She wished he’d stop repeating the word ‘safely.’
Forestalling further protest, Mr. Menon briskly launches her bags into the back of the dilapidated vehicle. He secures the rear door with a rope.
Emmanuel stands by the driver’s door. Eighteen at most: a tall, handsome man with a repaired cleft palate. “Namaste, ji.”
“Namaste,” she tries for a kindly voice for her kidnapper.
“Emmanuel was cured at Moorty Hospital,” Mr. Menon speaks rapidly. “Our family is eternally grateful for this sterling care.”
She nods, overpowered by tension from the flight, the hectic race through town and the confusion.
“Actually, he does know a few English phrases,” Mr. Menon’s words zip past. “But you won’t be chatting much. Such a beautiful ride. Be assured Emmanuel has made this trip many, many times. He knows the way with perfection.”
She steps into the van, discouraged by the hard seat, wishing she’d brought a pillow for her spine now that she’s been turfed out of Mr. Menon’s limousine. Monica knows how spoiled she is. During the last month, she’s seen vans crammed with dozens of people. She and Emmanuel have the whole vehicle to themselves.
She pivots, waving good-bye, but Mr. Menon is already speeding his comfortable car in the direction of the airport. She fumbles in her pocket for Ashok’s Ganesh and Sister’s medal, rubbing each of them for luck and blessing and simple comfort. She reaches into her other pocket for Beata’s St. Christopher.
Slowly the van rattles to a start. Coughs. Then enters the road. She closes her eyes and sighs. Already they’ll be two hours late. She sees from the map that Emmanuel must drive way back to the airport to catch the road to Moorty.
Flexibility. Patience. Acceptance: all virtues she needs to develop. India will offer boundless practice.
Emmanuel inserts a cassette of Bollywood music as they reach a narrow highway which snakes up the mountainside.
The thoroughfare barely permits two lanes of traffic. It’s congested with coaches and elephants and cars and auto rickshaws and clattering vans the same vintage as Emmanuel’s. She folds her map, watches the road ahead.
Up, up.
Up, up, up they travel. Around and around the ever greening hills, all the while breathing black exhaust fumes from lorries and buses. Would Emmanuel mind closing he window, she wonders, then notices all the other drivers have theirs rolled down.
Trucks are painted with radiantly colored flowers and images—sometimes of Krishna or Ganesh; sometimes Christ; sometimes a scene from a driver’s hometown.
Bumpers and mud flaps are meticulously lettered in English and Hindi: “Happy Journey.” “Have a Good Day,” and the ubiquitous “Use horn.” What a macabre camaraderie among the death-defying travelers. Ashok says almost 2,000 people were killed by cars on Delhi streets last year. How many more perish on these hazardous regional roads? One contribution to preventive medicine would be a set of traffic rules. She hears Ashok’s laughing at her Western rationality.
Her bags rattle and roll in the back. She’s packed the fragile items diligently, so they probably survived Mr. Menon’s energetic tossing. A long crack on the van’s side window has been mended with masking tape. The mustard yellow vinyl bench is wearing away her tail bone. Get a grip. Real pilgrims suffered hardship, not just discomfort.
The scenery is stunning. Small, terraced farms score the hillsides. Occasional peaks of white promise the snow to come. Stately green trees border the road. Occasionally, she glimpses mountains. The mountains. The Himalayas.
Suddenly, Emmanuel wrenches off the thoroughfare.
“Rest. Tea. Toilet.” He grins at her in the rear view mirror.
Someone did an excellent job on the cleft palate. They say Kevin Walsh, Moorty’s senior doctor, is a fine surgeon.
Toilet. That will relieve half her discomfort.
He drives a kilometer down a dirt road to a small cottage.
“Mother,” he explains haltingly.
Standing in the doorway is an ancient woman with brilliant eyes. Warts crowd furrowed cheeks. Over her turquoise sarong is a white sweater secured with a safety pin.
Emmanuel opens the van door.
She steps down as gracefully as she can after that bumper car journey, unsure just how her bones and joints have been rearranged.
Beaming at her son, the woman approaches. “Namaste, ji,” she greets Monica.
“Namaste!” Monica folds her hands.
The small parlor is decorated with magazine advertisements featuring European children. Very prominent are a large refrigerator, a small TV and a VCR. But where’s the bathroom? She digs in her purse for the Hindi phrase book.
The old woman touches her elbow, directing Monica to an outhouse.
She washes her hands at a faucet next to the pristine privy before returning to Emmanuel and his mother.
What trouble they’ve taken. The table is covered with a lilac wool blanket. Set before the cup and plate is a small tray of English digestive cookies.
Emmanuel’s mother appears with a steaming cup of chai.
It dawns on Monica that she’ll be having tea alone. She gestures for Emmanuel and his mother to join her.
Emmanuel nods toward the kitchen.
“Dhanyvad.” They probably have a lot to talk about, she rationalizes.
The chai is syrupy with rich evaporated milk and heaps of sugar. How generous to share these expensive provisions with a stranger. Ugh, the cloying sweetness. She sips a little at a time, gulping the last bit.
Dusk, as they return to the highway. Traffic looks worse. An unfazed Emmanuel inches ahead. Up and around. Higher and higher they climb. When they aren’t idling at a complete standstill. “That road is fairly labyrinthine.” Ashok is right again.
Traveling with Spirits Page 5
