Traveling with Spirits

by Miner, Valerie

  “Really, that’s uncalled for,” Monica proclaims. Everyone knows Raul lost his family among “the disappeared.”

  Raul flings down his napkin. “Let’s leave it there. I’m a peaceful man. But I have my limits.”

  Walsh watches in astonishment as the younger doctor stalks out.

  Silence hangs heavily over the table.

  TEN

  June, 2001, Moorty

  While the tea steeps, Monica begins her morning study. She likes this private ritual an hour before Mass each day. This week, she’s re-reading her worn copy of The Seven Storey Mountain. How important Thomas Merton was during the first months after Father Daniel’s retreat. Perhaps Merton is vital to her because he’s also a returnee to Christianity and was about her age when he wrote the memoir confessing his doubts, exploring his renewed faith.

  Sipping the Darjeeling blend Sudha gave her, she re-enters Merton’s fascinating consciousness. “Aseitas—the English equivalent is a transliteration: aseity—simply means the power of a being to exist absolutely in virtue of itself, not as caused by itself, but as requiring no cause, no other justification for its existence except that its very nature is to exist. There can be only be one such Being: that is God. And to say that God exists a se, of and by reason of Himself, is merely to say that God is Being Itself. Ego sum qui sum. And this means that God must enjoy complete independence not only as regards everything outside, but also as regards everything within Himself.”

  Light begins to lift through the wings of the deodars. She finds herself weeping, longing for the community of spirit Merton discovered at his Trappist Monastery. Of course working at Moorty Hospital is not the same as participating in a contemplative order. Still, she’d hoped for kindred colleagues. She hadn’t anticipated Raul’s disaffection or Walsh’s harshness or Brigid’s wifeliness.

  Pouring more tea, she savors the cup’s heat on her cold hands. Enjoy the small, unexpected comforts. Turn over the troubles. Remember that God exists in virtue itself.

  *****

  Tina’s email is breezy as usual:

  Glad you’re used to the altitude. You must come to Delhi before it gets too hot. Work is OK. We had two windbag senators last week. Diarrhea. From their moans, you’d have thought it was cholera. Otherwise, same old, same old. Miss you. xo, Tina.

  As Monica stretches for her water bottle, she marvels once more at reconnecting with Tina.

  Monica prefers this internet shop to the coffee houses at home where people plug their laptops into ubiquitous wall sockets. The Coffee Shack was becoming a site of virtual socializing. Sometimes she and Beata couldn’t snag a table. Here in Moorty, you queue to book a computer. Everyone is engaged in his or her own project. Students surfing the net for universities in Europe, North America and Australia. People catching up with personal correspondence. A widow and her son, befuddled by immigration forms. Backpackers from France and Germany checking on their next flights or trains.

  One of these blonde Rasta-haired travelers calls loudly over to Monica. “How do you best say to the travel agent, ‘We desire to have the next most possible flight?’ ”

  She shrugs, concentrates on her screen. These kids bug her. Maybe it’s the privilege of their sloppiness exposed before neatly kempt Indians. Maybe she’s jealous of their freedom. When she was nineteen, she was selling hosiery 40 hours a week at Dayton’s and attending university full-time. Maybe it’s the cozy way they appropriate Rastafarian coiffures, which look ridiculous on fair-skinned people.

  “Come, Madame, help us out.” The French accent is stronger now.

  “Why ask me?” She’s still pissed off at Kevin Walsh. Great, Monica, imitate the blustering fool. What was she reading about virtue yesterday?

  “Because English is your language.”

  By this time, everyone has turned to observe the exchange. Of course at least half the Indians here speak perfect English, but that’s not the point. English is her native tongue. She can help the young travelers. After all, they are trying to leave Moorty.

  “You’re close. Just say, ‘We need the next flight to X.’ Shorter is better, I think.”

  “Merci, Madame.”

  “Pas de quoi,” she grins.

  Monica catches the fleeting smiles from other customers as they return to their email.

  Tina’s probably right. She needs a break.

  Monica presses “Check Mail” again. And there—a reward for her grudging charity?—is a message from Ashok.

  Dear Esteemed Dr. Murphy,

  Oh, he’s in one of those moods.

  It is with profound humility that I report my paper was accepted in Madison.

  “Wonderful,” she says aloud.

  Several heads turn.

  Thus, with great regret, I must postpone the visit to idyllic Moorty, capital of pleasure and beauty in the handsome foothills of our country.

  Our country? What happened to her threat as a cultural imperialist?

  Seriously, Monica, I’m thrilled at this opportunity. But also dashed at the thought of missing you. Fancy a short journey to your beloved Midwest? Madison, they say, is close to Minneapolis. Maybe it’s a long shot, but could the Mission send you on a fundraising trip? I’m not being sarcastic, well, not completely. No harm in asking.

  But what was he asking? How well do they know each other? Of course she can’t go. Unnerved by the invitation, she’s also pleased.

  How’s work? That boy, Vikram, did he recover? And your Hindi lessons? How are you doing?

  She gulps from her water bottle and checks the time. Running late, she fashions a quick, light-hearted reply, filling him in on her news, reluctantly declining the opportunity of a Wisconsin spring, wishing him luck on the paper.

  Happy trip. Travel safely. Don’t eat too many cheese curds. Ciao, Monica.

  She hands Radha 600 rupees. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. See you again next week?”

  “Yes, Radha, I’ll be here.”

  Under her breath, the young woman says, “At 2 p.m.? I can reserve for you.”

  “Why thanks, that would be a big help. You can count on me.”

  “Yes, Raj told me so.”

  “Raj?”

  “Raj Agarwal, my little brother. You spoke to his class a while ago. He was impressed.”

  “Raj!” She recalls the boy’s challenge about condoms. You never know who is listening or what they hear. “Thanks again, Radha. See you next week.”

  As she walks along the mall, she is infused with buoyancy. Good to get a rest from the hospital. But it’s more than that. She’s beginning to feel less of a stranger. Not that she belongs in India. She doubts she’ll ever feel like that. Almost every day, she’s reminded of her difference. Today the Rasta fille calls her on her English. Yesterday, a well-meaning patient said, “Yes, Dr. Murphy, you foreign doctors are so precise.” But if she’s a foreigner, she’s no longer a stranger—not to her colleagues or Sudha or the tomato vendor in the sabzi mandi or to Ashok.

  She stops at the All Purpose Stationers to find a card for Jeanne’s birthday. If her sister refuses to communicate, that’s her business. Monica will send a birthday card.

  The shopkeeper bows. “Good afternoon, Doctor.”

  “Namaste, Mr. Patna.”

  Jeanne would loathe these flower cards with Victorian messages. No appreciation for kitsch. She opts for a blank card with a photo of the Himalayas. She can write a personal birthday wish. Monica picks up a card for Dad, too. He hasn’t answered her first letter from India, probably still angry that she ignored his injunction during the last phone call in the States. You could do so much here. It’s crazy to go to that dangerous country. She wanted to say she’d wished he hadn’t lit out for his own “dangerous
country” when she was a kid, but she’d worked hard at reaching their current détente.

  “Excellent choice,” Mr. Patna states. “Discreet, understated. Friends will like.”

  Clearly this isn’t the sort of intimate card one gave to family. But hers is no longer an intimate family.

  The news vendor has sold out of Herald Tribunes.

  “So sorry, Ma’am. Would Ma’am like me to reserve one for next week?”

  Has she met this small, bald man in the spotless lunghi and purple korta? Clearly he’s noticed her.

  “Thank you sir; that would be very kind.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Further along, she stops at a bench for a long view of the mountains. Not just any mountains. The Himalayas. The world’s highest mountains, she learned during her K2 project in high school. In today’s relatively clean air, she can make out the tallest peak. Back in Minnesota, she rarely thought about mountains. She loved the flat plains, the way you could see forever, the big sky. Lately, she’s been yearning to go higher, maybe along the fabled Hindusthan Road, the ancient silk route. You can travel by car at least 15,000 feet. As far as the Kunzum Pass.

  Sighing, she shifts her bags and heads uphill toward “home.” Just past the Anglican church, the route grows narrower, darker, under an arcade of pines. Three small boys are laughing on the road side. She walks toward them.

  A bright orange monkey swings from an electrical wire to the high branch of a stately deodar. Suddenly, she’s pointing and laughing with the boys.

  ELEVEN

  July, 2001, Moorty

  Loud, continuous rain. Not music exactly, or company, but an agreeable presence, insulating the exam cubicle from waiting room conversations. Everyone says the monsoons are almost over. Another few days. End of the week, for sure, according to Sister Eleanor.

  Veena doesn’t seem to notice the incessant dripping outside the windows as she chats happily about the imminent birth of her third child.

  Monica’s mind wanders. The Walshes are due back from their fundraising tour on Sunday as the monsoons end. Dr. Walsh is always in the right place at the right moment.

  “Sita,” Veena suggests. “I like other names, too, of course—Maya and Gita.”

  “Lovely.” Refreshing that Veena wants a girl, feels she’s earned her daughter after bearing two healthy sons.

  “Rajul is pretty. And Richa.”

  “All fine names.”

  Monica knows she’s being mean-spirited about the Walshes. Summer is a good time to fundraise in the U.S. The fact that sunny June in New York coincides with soggy June here is incidental. They’re ambitious for the Mission.

  Banging. Loud banging. Wind blowing the door again.

  She hands Veena a sheet with nutritional tips and they begin to review them.

  Raised voices.

  Unfamiliar men.

  Veena twitches in the chair, her pretty face drawn.

  “Not to worry,” Monica smiles reassuringly. “The front door hinge is broken. I’m sure things will quiet down by Friday when the monsoon has passed.”

  Veena bites her lip, mischievous, smiling eyes on Monica.

  “What’s up?”

  “So you know the monsoon will end on Friday? Do you have a time in mind? Morning or afternoon? It would be convenient to plan ahead.” She breaks into a wide grin. “Doctor, who told you a tale about knowing when the monsoon ends?”

  “One of the nurses.” She’s embarrassed by her eager credulity. She hasn’t credited Sister Eleanor with such a sense of humor.

  Another bang.

  A table crashes to the floor.

  Veena blinks rapidly. “I thought this might happen.” She scans the exam room. Clearly the window is too small for escape.

  “Wha…what might happen?” Monica’s voice is actually quavering.

  “R.S.S. They just attacked a private school forty kilometers north of here.”

  She recalls Mr. Alexander booting thugs from the Delhi chapel. Thinks back to Kevin Walsh reciting his first encounter with the right wing Hindu Nationalists. Moorty Mission’s David facing the xenophobic Goliath. He said they might return. Stupid to assume they’d come when he was here. Is she starting to rely on the Patriarch?

  She’s scared, but her first concern is Veena. “Come this way. Take the side door and you won’t be noticed.”

  Veena holds her belly tenderly. “You are sure?”

  She hears Raul arguing now, at the far end of the waiting room. She wants to follow Veena home.

  “Go,” Monica whispers urgently, grabs her hand, “that way, quickly.”

  She watches Veena make her way down the hill. Summoning courage, she opens the door and finds an almost vacant waiting room. The other patients have fled, too.

  Three young men, arms akimbo, shout at Raul and Sister Eleanor.

  Monica breathes a prayer for guidance. “God give me strength.” She’s startled by a longing for Ashok.

  Sister looks younger than usual as she concentrates on translating Doctor Sanchez’ accented English into Hindi for the visitors.

  “We treat anyone who comes to the clinic,” barks Raul.

  “Then why display a vast cross from your roof?” asks the youngest man, with curly hair and rimless glasses.

  “India is a democracy,” Raul lowers his voice, “with many religions.”

  “This is a Hindu nation.”

  “Gandhiji and Nehruji insured that India protected rights of all citizens—Buddhist, Zoroastrian, Muslim, Christian and others—to follow their creeds.”

  “It’s one thing to practice quietly. And quite another to sell religion with food or education or medical care,” grumbles the oldest of the young men.

  Once again, she hears Ashok’s comments on the plane and the censure of the airport cabbie. Surely Raul has heard all this before. Surely he will maintain his cool.

  Sister Eleanor’s eyes fill with tears.

  Raul’s calm voice and agility impress Monica. “Oh, that’s the problem,” he says, “a misunderstanding. Please sit down.”

  They stand their ground.

  “We ask no questions about faith and do not proselytize. We sell nothing. Services are free. A few patients make donations. ”

  “Rupees from poor Indians go straight into your gilded Vatican,” the quietest man finally speaks. In fluent English.

  Gilded Vatican. Either he’s had foreign university training or he is mimicking the embellished prose of The Hindustan Times.

  “All patient funds supplement medical expenses or food for the wards.”

  Suddenly Raul notices Monica. He makes the slightest gesture of his eyes leftward, cueing her to return to the exam cubicle.

  He could be right. The sight of a woman doctor might provoke these young zealots. Admittedly, she’d be safer in the cubicle. No, she will stand by, will witness.

  The intense men take no notice of her.

  “We object to you preaching strange dogma to our people.”

  Sister has trouble translating this and says something sotto voce to Doctor Sanchez.

  “Quite right.” He rolls his broad shoulders. “Sister Eleanor asked me to remind you that she is an Indian, who comes from many generations of Christians in Kerala.”

  “A Communist State in the deep south,” sneers the curly-haired fellow.

  “Besides,” Raul strains for dispassion, “we don’t preach to our patients, except to insist that they take their medicine as directed and return for check-ups.”

  The quiet man sways from one foot to the other. He whispers to his friends.

  They nod soberly.

  Finally, he speaks. “Consider this as a reconnai
ssance trip. A first contact. We will keep you under close watch. We will return with reports from your ‘patients.’ ”

  They file out quietly, the decorous departure a contrast to their clattering arrival. If Raul has his way, they will return one day for check-ups.

  She peers out the window to the white Ambassador sedan splashing through large puddles and down the hill.

  Turning, she catches Sister Eleanor crossing herself.

  Raul murmurs, “Jesus!” under his breath, righting the overturned table.

  “Thank God!” Monica squeezes sister’s cold hand. “Well done.”

  Monica pats Raul’s shoulder. “You, my friend, were magnificent.”

  He shakes his head. “Brutes,” he spits. “I’ve seen it all before.”

  As Sister sits, a healthy color returns to her face.

  “I thought I’d get some reprieve from Argentina here,” he growls. “These people are the same the world over. Different bodies, different language, same bullies.”

  Monica studies a tremor in his left cheek.

  Raul continues. “Still, it’s about domination. An international virus.”

  Making a show of inspecting the empty waiting room, she cajoles, “Since we have no patients and are likely to be overloaded this afternoon, let’s break for lunch.”

  “Either a flood of patients or a drought,” Raul rolls his eyes, “once the word gets out.”

  *****

  Sister Catherine greets them anxiously. “I knew, after last month’s firebombing of the church in Chennai. I knew we’d be targeted.”

  Raul shakes his head. “Chennai is a long way from here,” he says irritably. “These men are from the north. I can tell by their accents.”

  “Locals?” Sister Catherine declares and inquires simultaneously.