Traveling with Spirits

by Miner, Valerie

  Two large bull rhesus monkeys sit on a long, white retaining wall. She swings her umbrella vigorously and quickens her pace.

  “Don’t carry sweets or bread or anything they might want to snatch from your bag,” Father advised intently.

  “Say the rosary as you walk,” suggested Sister Melba.

  Belatedly, she’s beginning to see the benefit of Vikram’s company.

  The monkeys don’t seem to notice her military gait and baton. Maybe she’ll be used to them by next year. Next year. She’ll have to struggle with the visa people to last that long. Some missionaries fail. Missionary, she hates the inference of proselytizing, the shadows of Crusades, whiffs of Western imperialism. Surely her work is none of that. She’s simply here to help. An aid worker. With the Lord’s blessing, she’ll be useful to people.

  Finally, yes, after just about an hour, she spots a small brick building down a sharp slope on the right. She slips behind a tree to change shoes and brush her hair. She’s spent more of her walk daydreaming than sharpening her mind. But she does feel rejuvenated, a little excited.

  Approaching the school, her heart sinks at the broken windows. Why did Sudha Badami move from the Bombay bourgeoisie to this dilapidated institution? As Father Freitas asked, is the teacher less of a missionary than the doctor?

  “Namaste, ji,” Vikram calls from the rusting gate. He looks smart in a freshly pressed green and white school uniform.

  “Permit me to show you the way,” he grins.

  She notices his left eye is recovering quickly, but the right still flares a bit.

  “Did you have a pleasant walk?”

  “Yes, thank you, Vikram.” She’ll omit her death-defying sprint past the wicked monkeys. “What beautiful English you speak.”

  He lowers his head and falls silent.

  Perhaps he’s exhausted his vocabulary. Has he been practicing for days? No, he’s shy. She thinks about the cocky, disarming hip-hop kids she tutored at home and wonders what Lavandas and La Rue would make of their polite, modest peers in Moorty.

  He heads down rickety stairs, past a courtyard of sad trees and shrubs, into a windowless corridor. Suddenly, she’s hit by the nauseating lavatory odor. Discreetly, she raises a tissue to her nose, imagining memsahibs with perfumed hankies.

  In a small office, two women busily record in large maroon ledgers. They glance up, smile politely. From the stairwell, three teenage girls peer and titter.

  Vikram shoots them a disapproving glance.

  At last they reach the door at the end of the hallway. Vikram knocks.

  Sudha Badami appears, lustrous in a purple silk sari. “Namaste, Dr. Murphy. Welcome to our school.” Glass bangles jingle as she extends her arm into the room.

  Thirty young people in matching green and white outfits rise to their feet.

  “Dr. Murphy, may I introduce the advanced English language students.”

  “Namaste, students.” Advanced English. Of course. So much for far-reaching preventive education. She needs to work much harder on her Hindi.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Murphy,” they sing. “Moorfy, Muffy, Maffie,” so many musical renditions of her name.

  “Thank you,” she turns to the teacher, then back to them. “It’s an honor to be invited.”

  She begins with questions, although Father Freitas warned that Indian students aren’t used to speaking in class. She asks about their ages, their goals.

  “Fourteen.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Teacher.”

  “Bollywood director.”

  Girls in the back row burst into giggles.

  “Scientist. Epidemiologist.”

  Taking her cue, she voice strains slightly. “Who has heard of HIV? AIDS?”

  Most raise their hands.

  “How is it contracted?”

  Here they clam up.

  Sudha Badami stands, arms across her chest. “Remember now, we discussed this topic at assembly.”

  Vikram bravely raises his hand.

  Monica nods encouragingly.

  “By sexual transgression, Ma’am.”

  His teacher inhales sharply. Girls in the back giggle. Several boys roll their eyes.

  “I think you mean, ‘sexual transmission,’ yes?” Monica asks evenly.

  His face frozen with confused embarrassment, he whispers. “Yes, Doctor.”

  Laughter from much of the room.

  Sudha Badami quashes their amusement with a stern glance.

  For the next ten minutes, students listen courteously to her plain-spoken lecture.

  “Let’s open to questions now,” she prompts. “Don’t be shy. All questions are acceptable.” She sits beside Sudha Badami to lessen the formality.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor.” A young man stands. “I am Raj Agarwal.”

  The erect, thin boy is poised, confident, an expert at projection.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Agarwal.”

  The snickering resumes, briefly.

  “I am wondering what preventive tools you dispense at the hospital.”

  At Lake Clinic she gave condoms to anyone who asked and many who didn’t. She campaigned for free needle exchange. But here at Moorty Hospital, they offer Catholic remedies of prevention and prayer.

  “We advise abstinence before marriage.”

  A pretty girl in the front row fiddles with her embroidered handkerchief.

  Raj places a hand on his slim hip. “Is this responsible practice?”

  Monica sits straighter, impressed by his vocabulary, surprised by the directness. “Abstinence is the most effective deterrent to HIV/AIDS.” Of course they’d ask about her deepest conflict.

  Another young man raises his hand. “Ramesh Kumar, Ma’am.”

  “Yes, Mr. Kumar.”

  “Do you advocate abstinence for medical or, uh, moral reasons, Doctor?”

  She represents the hospital. Her personal views are beside the point. “Moorty is a Catholic facility. Thus you might say the injunction is both medical and moral.” Does this sound as spurious to them as it does to her?

  She remembers asking Father Daniel these questions at the first Minnesota retreat. His nuanced replies revealed his own conflict. Yet he confidently described many contributions made by the missions in other spheres. And she was persuaded his project was, on balance, valuable.

  Sudha Badami leans forward, rubbing her hands.

  Monica feels a breeze through the broken window pane. The room, she notices now, is quite cold.

  “Don’t the girls have any questions?” The teacher urges with mock sternness. “Are we going to let Dr. Murphy leave thinking that girls are mute in my classroom?”

  Bodies shift, squirm behind desks that are clearly grades too small.

  A nervous Maya Sen asks about the differences between HIV and AIDS.

  Poised Sita Umrigar asks about antiretroviral medication.

  “A very educated group,” she smiles. “You must attend an excellent school.”

  Raj maintains his scowl, but Ramesh and the others are grinning.

  Vikram raises his hand. “May I ask a non-medical question, Ma’am?”

  “Certainly,” she says with relief.

  “What do you think of our India?”

  She exhales. “You live in a stunning country, particularly here in Moorty. And I am impressed with the rich diversity of your people.”

  “Ma’am,” he can’t contain his pride. “India is the world’s largest democracy.”

  She nods soberly.

  Silence. A small bird glides through the back window, then sails out again.

  “Is there something, per
haps, you want to ask about my own country?”

  Vikram stands, a little apprehensively. “Why are Americans so lacking in spiritual life?”

  Drawing in a quick breath, she says, “Many Americans do lead secular lives. But numerous religions are practiced—including Islam and Buddhism and Hinduism. I believe we have the highest attendance at religious services of any Western country.”

  “But,” he persists earnestly, “Wouldn’t…”

  She knows he really wants to understand.

  “Wouldn’t you say that the general culture is more material than spiritual?”

  “On the whole, yes. Abundance. When you have wealth, you want more.”

  “And lack of family life?” queries the girl who asked about drugs. “Why do people live so far from their parents? Indians live our whole lives within the family.”

  Sudha Badami clears her throat. “What have we discussed about sweeping generalizations?”

  “Most Indians, most Americans, I believe, Ma’am.”

  She shuts out Jeanne and Mom for the moment. And Dad. They’re not asking about her life. “Many Americans have close families. Many others travel widely and this sadly takes them from their homes. I won’t say Americans are anti-family. We just have different ways of maintaining ties. My friend Beata attends a family reunion every year that draws people from ten states.”

  A girl at the back raises a hand.

  Monica strains for patience, energy. Indians are so candid—cabbies, airline seat mates, students—she’s starting to see what people mean about Americans being too polite.

  “Richa Tuwari, Doctor. Would you tell us about Minnesota? About the big lake there? And your snow?”

  She’ll remember Richa in her prayers tonight. “I wish I could take you all to Lake Superior on a shimmering July evening when…”

  The class adjourns with applause and a communal, “Namaste, Doctor.”

  Suddenly she’s surrounded by students with scraps of paper and little books. “Your autograph, Ma’am, if you please.”

  She regards the long line of eager students, who just moments ago were debate opponents. They look like kids again.

  “Really, Dr. Murphy,” the teacher intervenes, “you shouldn’t have to put up with this.”

  Several students moan.

  “I’m delighted. But with such a long line, I’ll need to keep each salutation brief. And in exchange, you must promise not to forget me.”

  Most of them nod solemnly.

  “And promise to use the hospital if you have need.”

  More nods. A couple of bashful smiles.

  Raj stands at the end of the queue, moving from foot to foot, gripping an autograph book with a green cover.

  At his turn, he gives Monica a big grin.

  “Thanks for being so engaged, Raj.”

  He blinks shyly, a teenager again.

  As Monica finishes, the teacher lightly taps her elbow. “May I offer you some tea?”

  “That would be grand.” Monica suddenly feels drained.

  Sudha Badami takes her through a new wing of the school, the floor moldings are still wet with fresh blue paint. The small teachers’ lounge holds a faded burgundy brocade couch and two matching yellow armchairs.

  A grey-haired man stares out the window, twirling a tea bag in his purple mug.

  “Dr. Murphy, may I introduce Sambit Sharma, our esteemed biology teacher.”

  His smile divulges two missing teeth. “Namaste, Doctor. I see my honorable colleague is continuing to pursue multi-cultural outreach.”

  Sudha Badami laughs. “Oh, Sambit likes to tease. He’s traveled widely and received his degrees in Toronto. Everyone at school is excited when a foreigner visits.”

  Foreigner, she’ll get used to the word. She recalls those long forms in the Minneapolis post office for registered aliens. She prefers foreigner to alien.

  “I’d love to stay and chat, Doctor, but I have examinations to mark. Thank you for visiting our humble institution.”

  “Thanks for welcoming me.”

  Sudha hands her a mug of steaming tea. “Milk or sugar?”

  “No, thanks, I prefer it plain.”

  “Please, sit.”

  “Thanks, I am a little tired.”

  “Sorry about the ‘grilling’—do you say ‘grilling?’—that they gave you.”

  “That’s one description,” she laughs. “Your students are proud of India!” She sinks back into the old couch. How good to talk with someone outside the hospital. She hasn’t had a “civilian” conversation since Ashok and Tina in Delhi.

  “Indians are proud people.” Sudha regards her visitor directly.

  “I’m beginning to appreciate that.” She luxuriates in the sweet Darjeeling aroma.

  “Still, I apologize for Raj, that he baited you that way. He’s an intense lad.”

  “With reasonable questions. Just ones difficult to answer.”

  “Did I detect some personal conflict?” As she leans forward, her earrings gleam.

  “Catholics have varied views on sexual mores, on contraception.” She sits straighter. “I work at a church-connected hospital.”

  “Yes.” She leaves the tension suspended between them.

  Sipping her tea, Monica reckons she doesn’t know Sudha Badami well enough for this conversation. Sister Margaret warned her to watch for those right wing R.S.S. agents. Clearly this woman isn’t Hindutva. She’d have no truck with Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh activists censoring history texts, erasing the historical presence of Muslims and Buddhists and Christians. The woman is a cosmopolitan. She’ll write to Beata about this class today. And talk with Father Freitas.

  She changes the topic. “Your students are very fluent in English.”

  “Unfortunately, they must know your language to succeed. We have over fifteen major languages in India. Then there are the tribal tongues and so forth. Many consider Hindi the national language; however students opt for English in the larger world.”

  She waits, annoyed at having English dubbed “her” language. She’s tempted to recite Mom’s patriotic rant about the English destruction of Gaeltalk in Ireland.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the teacher gazes at her ironically. “Why do I open my classroom to the larger world? They need to know about it, about you.” She seems genuinely ill at ease for the first time in their acquaintance. “But I wish them to see their home in context, not to leave it.”

  “Yes,” she gropes for the right words. “You left Bombay to come here to teach in a land where few know Marathi.”

  “Ah, you have been conferring with the charming Father Freitas.”

  Monica is glad she finds Father charming. “He mentioned his visit here.”

  “There you have the model Indian. He was raised speaking Konkani. Yet he also knows Hindi, Portuguese, English. He addressed our students in Hindi.”

  “I wish I could have done that.”

  “You could learn.”

  “I have tapes and a book.” She sounds pathetic. “I haven’t touched them for weeks. It’s hard to find discipline and focus after a long day at the hospital.”

  “I could teach you.” Sudha regards her directly.

  “Oh, I couldn’t impose on your schedule.”

  “A very American response. So concerned with time.” She’s smiling faintly. Afternoon sun pours through the windows. “What do you think a single woman does in the evenings here? I can only mark so many essays before my mind begins to atrophy. Besides, I live near your clinic. You’re not the first person from the hospital I’ve taught.”

  Her heart sinks. She’s been hoping this was a hand of friendship. Now she understands it’s a
practical campaign to train the staff and hospital to communicate with patients, part of Sudha’s “missionary” work. “Who else?”

  “Brigid Walsh came for several lessons.”

  “Brigid?” And then without thinking, “How did she get away from her husband?”

  Sudha laughs. “Indeed, he was the difficulty. When he discovered, lessons ended.”

  Monica is also laughing now and this feels so good.

  They grow silent. It’s a more comfortable silence than before.

  Recovering formality, the teacher proposes, “Let me walk you to the gate.”

  “Thanks,” she nods, a little deflated by the sudden farewell.

  By the time they reach the road, Monica has summoned enough courage. “I’d like to accept your tutoring offer. But I need to repay you somehow.”

  She grins faintly. “Recompense is not necessary. Besides, I think we’ll find the experience mutually edifying. We might even have another laugh or two.”

  Monica waves, wondering when Sudha Badami will answer the question about why she left Bombay. “Another laugh will be good.” She smiles and continues smiling well past the gate and the long retaining wall.

  Halfway home, she realizes she’s forgotten to be on guard against the monkeys.

  NINE

  May, 2001, Moorty

  She strolls briskly to keep up with Sudha, who’s especially fleet when wearing a salwar kameez rather than a sari. Shopping trips with her friend always begin far down the mountain, at the sabzi mandi, where Monica gets to practice Hindi. Aloo, gobi, bindi (okra was inedible until she tasted Sudha’s bindi), lahsan (lots of garlic, the international secret), matar, palak (so many ways to cook spinach), tamatar (now that had to be bowdlerized English) and an array of fruits: Khubani, aam, tarbuz.

  When shopping on warm spring mornings like today, Monica misses her little kitchen in Uptown. Grateful as she is for Cook’s attention and talents, she sometimes craves a grand salad. Of course that would lead to grand diarrhea. After two years here, Tina still doesn’t eat salads.