Traveling with Spirits

by Miner, Valerie

  “Time we started up the hill. They’ve forecast a storm. The porter will already have delivered your bags.”

  She slows to maintain pace with Ashok, aware that she’s developed what Sudha calls “mountain legs.”

  “Wow.” He stops by a bench at the ridge. “The peaks are high over there.”

  She grins, proudly, as if the Himalayas were hers to share.

  “I see your backwater does have its compensations.”

  They resume the journey at a slower pace. She points out the stationers, the internet shop, the fancy comestible store. Imagining Moorty through his eyes, she sees again how picturesque it is, under snowy roofs in this November light. They stop at the newsstand. The vendor grins, handing her The Herald Tribune and The Hindu.

  Ashok observes, “Rather decent range of media.”

  She rolls her eyes. In some ways he and condescending Kevin might hit it off.

  “That’s Moorty Playhouse, built in the 1890s. We have tickets to a performance there tomorrow night.”

  “Impressive building,” Ashok notes, “even if the façade is a little rococo. Hope it holds up for another twenty-four hours.”

  “You’ll have to lose that Delhi snobbery before we reach the hospital.”

  “You’re not fun. Oh, I’m staying with a priest, right?”

  “No. For an academic,” she teases, “you’re a little foggy with facts.”

  “Philosophers are more partial to ideas than facts.” He laughs.

  “Father Freitas is on holiday in Goa and has offered his room in the downstairs flat he shares with Raul Sanchez, my medical colleague.”

  “Very kind,” Ashok says. “I promise to be a good guest.” He’s winded. So she pauses, pointing to langurs huddling high in a tree.

  *****

  They trek down to the ridge wielding walking sticks on the icy road. An overnight storm has left a snowy blanket over the hillsides. She’s grateful for Beata’s boots and relieved Raul loaned Ashok some winter shoes. The man lives in his head. Doesn’t he remember winter from New York? Well, his amazement at all things natural is as entertaining as it is trying.

  “Too bad we don’t have a sleigh.”

  “Next time, I’ll order one,” she says. Next time—she’s making assumptions.

  “Next time,” he smiles, “I’ll surprise you with my fancy polar anorak.”

  She slips.

  He catches her arm for balance. “Are you OK?”

  “That’s what I get for my winterly superiority. I’m fine, thanks.”

  He continues to support her arm lightly.

  She likes the steadiness and warmth of his hand.

  They fall silent until they reach St. Michael’s Church which the Anglicans are beginning to decorate for Christmas.

  “Festive,” he observes.

  “Yes. Their choir sings lovely Bach Masses.”

  “Perhaps we can go hear them on Sunday?”

  She’s dumbstruck.

  “Don’t be like that. You know I like music. All good music.”

  “Sure. On the way to the train.” Such a short visit. She takes a step, and breaking contact with his hand, notices a patch of cold above her elbow.

  “It will be great fun to travel together to Delhi. A shame you and Beata can’t stay longer in the city. I’d be happy to play tour guide next weekend.”

  “The hospital is already being generous with leave. Next time.”

  “Tell me about these people we’re meeting at the Playhouse.”

  “Raul, of course, you know. And our friend Sudha.”

  “Are they partners or companions or…”

  “Ordinary friends.” She pictures Sudha’s expression. “Ordinary friends, like us.”

  “Like us.” He’s suddenly tired from the walk. “Oh, right, precisely.”

  Women in glittering kameezes and luscious heavy silk saris swish around the ornate lobby. The gentlemen wear suits, fancy kortas and fine Kashmiri shawls.

  “The State Governor is attending,” Ashok whispers conspiratorially. “I heard two excited men chatting in the loo. You’ve brought me to the season’s cultural event.”

  “We’ll see.” She peers around for Raul and Sudha.

  “Why don’t I find us seats? You wait for Raul and Sudha here.”

  Two young women appear in slacks and sports coats. Are they lesbians or trying to look cool or both? She doesn’t think she’s met any queer Indians. She’s read Indian novels with gay characters. And she saw Fire before leaving Minneapolis.

  “Hi Doctor.”

  “Hello, Radha, how are you?”

  “Quite keyed up! My sister is dancing tonight.”

  “How lovely.”

  “Hello Doctor!”

  “Namaste, Doctor Murphy.”

  Several other people nod or tent their hands in greeting. She wishes Ashok were here, to witness how she’s become a small part of the community.

  Rumor spreads about the Governor being delayed in traffic on the Cart Road. People secure their shawls and wander outside to the starlit mall.

  Finally. Sudha and Raul. She wears a stunning rose sari; Raul looks spiffy in his golden kurta.

  Ordinary friends. Monica recalls Ashok’s reaction to the term.

  “I hear we’re waiting for the el gobernador,” Raul snickers.

  “Yes,” she beams at the two of them. “Ashok is holding seats for us.”

  “Ah, the elusive Ashok.” Sudha winks. “What are we doing out here? Who cares about the Governor? Professor Mystery awaits within.”

  “He seems a rather average bloke,” Raul balks.

  “Yes,” Monica says meaningfully. Average. Ordinary. “Raul, I love it when you use British words like ‘bloke.’ ”

  “It means ‘man,’ yes? What would you say?”

  “ ‘Guy,’ I guess.”

  “Oh, I think you’d be more descriptive,” kids Sudha.

  Monica recalls the warmth of his hand above her elbow.

  “Yes?” Raul encourages.

  “No, it’s Sudha who would be more descriptive, who specializes in embroidery. Come on; let’s not keep our bloke-guy-man waiting.”

  Ashok has expertly nabbed seats by the aisle near an exit.

  Monica recalls their discreet escape at the India Habitat Center. She hopes they’ll see Radha’s sister. Raj’s sister.

  Sudha sits beside Ashok and launches into spirited questions. Ashok seems to be answering with amusement and elaboration.

  Raul, on the aisle, regards the tête-à-tête, then shrugs.

  Monica, surrounded by friends, realizes she hasn’t felt this light-hearted since she came to India.

  Patrons in vivid saris and fancy kurtas and natty sports coats drift into the theatre.

  Suddenly he’s here, the Governor, standing on stage.

  Polite clapping.

  He lights candles before a small bronze statue.

  “That’s Saraswati, Goddess of Arts,” Ashok leans over.

  The first set is harmonium, sitar and tabla.

  Ashok listens intently and she’s pleased by his avid enjoyment.

  Monica returns to the music, but her eyes glide up the rich brown, gold and white edging of the Governor’s box. The ceiling is bordered with the same colors. The showy late Victorian skylight is cut in ornate stencil-like openings.

  Sometimes she feels she hasn’t just traveled to India, but to a different century.

  Radha’s sister is next, part of the Bharatha Natyam dance troupe. Such grace and discipline. She thinks about Raj. About how discipline runs in the family.

  The audience
loves this performance, interrupting frequently with applause.

  During the next group, people walk in and out, handing cranky babies down rows to nearby relatives.

  Sudha nods to Raul and whispers to Ashok. Her three friends stand to leave although the performance will continue for hours. Monica doesn’t want to go. She wants to stay wrapped in the ornate décor, beautiful music and pleasant buzz of sociability. She’s not ready for the next step, for Sudha’s innuendo over dinner. Still, she is hungry. And Monica knows she can’t stop the world from spinning on Sudha Badami’s axis.

  *****

  Ashok falls into a deep, if not sound, sleep as their train rattles toward Delhi. Of course he was wrong about the train’s superior comfort. The hot, noisy car clings precariously to the rails as they descend the mountains. No smoother than the van and a lot more chaotic.

  They’ve found two seats next to a filthy, but translucent window. The atmosphere is earsplitting: ebullient men’s voices, cawing children, mobile phones, rustling newspapers. Overhead racks are crammed with antique brown valises, purple backpacks and a few American-style roll-ons. The thick blue—grey—and formally white curtains bear an unfamiliar flower as the railway monogram. At each stop, the heating system shuts down.

  Hours pass. Months, perhaps. Volume increases—phone chats; male camaraderie; babies crying; snoring.

  How can Ashok nap trough this? The mountain weekend must have exhausted him.

  She buys several curious-looking samosas. And one cup of tea. One suffices. One visit to the stand-up toilet on this ricocheting train.

  Half-an-hour before Delhi, Ashok opens his eyes and stretches expansively.

  He smells riper now and she likes this taste of intimacy. Wishes there had been more intimacy in Moorty. But how? At Mission Hospital?

  “I must have dozed a few minutes,” he mumbles.

  “Try hours.”

  “We’re almost home.” He recovers his authoritative vigor. “You and Beata truly should spend more time in Delhi. The next two days are packed, but after that I’d love to—”

  “Thanks, but as I said, I have to get back to the hospital. Gita—”

  “Surely others are looking after her in your absence.”

  “Sister Catherine says the girl waits for me. Besides, I promised Beata the hill country. Mountain views. If she wanted a city, she could have stayed in the States.”

  “No cities like Delhi in the States.”

  “Indeed. Perhaps on her next visit.”

  Next time. Next visit.

  “Then you are planning to stay in India a while.”

  Although he’s trying to be ironic, she’s touched by the intensity in his voice.

  Reddening, she answers. “Who knows with the dicey visa situation.”

  He falls silent.

  “Thanks for coming up this weekend and for escorting me down on the train.”

  “A sleeping escort. Very gallant.” He shakes his head. “I slept an hour?”

  “Perhaps three.”

  He looks incredulous. “Thank you for the hospitality. For showing me Moorty. For introducing me to your colleagues.”

  “Koi bat nahi.”

  “For raising the concept of ordinary friendship,” he adds archly.

  Befuddled, Monica hopes he’s trying to tell her something. The repartee is maddening. Still, he probably considers her an excessively literal American.

  “Seriously, though.”

  He’s clearly returned full force to advice mode.

  “Yes, Professor?” She looks bright and attentive.

  “At the station, I will escort you to a taxi and arrange the fare to the airport.”

  He’s forgotten she lived in Delhi almost a month.

  “Don’t protest. And once you collect Beata take a pre-paid taxi to town.”

  “Thanks. I believe I’ve heard that advice before.”

  He continues earnestly, “Then ring me, please, on my mobile, once you’re safely at the IIC.”

  How can she be irritated with someone whose face is so creased in apprehension?

  “Will do, sir!” She grins, touched by his concern. She’s elated at the prospect of seeing Beata, imagines the two of them gliding through New Delhi in a pre-paid taxi.

  NINETEEN

  November, 2001, Delhi and Moorty

  Monica peers over the shoulders of huge welcome parties. She didn’t expect to find six family members awaiting each passenger. The excited crowds transform the cold airport into a festival. So many people. What if she misses Beata?

  A chauffeur waves his sign in front of her face: “Patel’s Incredible India Tours.” She inches to the left, clutching a receipt for the pre-paid taxi. Tonight is chillier than usual. She hopes Beata is warmly dressed.

  There she is! Dearest Beata looking tidy and fresh in her cobalt blue dress, a black coat over her shoulders. Yes, the ubiquitous knock-off Coach handbag and sensible black roller-luggage. Clearly she knows how to fly. She’s nothing like the bedraggled Monica of eleven months ago. Well, it does help that James bumped her up to business class with miles. Incredible that Beata is here and…

  “Beata!” she calls. “Beata, over here!”

  Her friend swivels. Their eyes lock. They each burst out laughing.

  The Incredible India chauffeur glances at her, then at Beata and approves. “Friends. Very nice.”

  Finally at the end of the barricade, they embrace.

  Her hands gripping Beata’s strong shoulders, she declares, “Welcome to India!”

  “Girl, it’s sooo good to see you. You have no idea.”

  “I think I do.” She’s infused with nostalgia for Minnesota and their friendship deeper than anything she’s allowed herself to feel this year.

  “You look great!” Beata exclaims.

  “You too.” Monica notices a crease of fatigue. “You must be beat. Let’s get a taxi and we’ll be at the India International Center in no time.”

  “I thought we were staying at Mission House.”

  “We were. Then Ashok insisted that I shouldn’t subject you to their damp guest rooms. And at the IIC we’ll have more freedom during our two days in Delhi. Ashok is a member and made the booking.”

  “A man in the know.”

  “Quite,” she says, stepping in to take control of the baggage cart. “You shouldn’t be pushing that.” She studies Beata’s face, searching for changes.

  “Ha, you should see how much I’ve improved at Body Pump since you left.”

  “I don’t want to think about it.”

  The next morning, Monica settles in for breakfast at a window table. No telling when Beata will wake. She’ll never forget her own long slumber the first night. Sister Margaret was far too understanding.

  A small green parrot flies over a tree in the Lodi Gardens. Extraordinary all the things she’s seen since that first parrot during her lunch with Ashok. She finds herself daydreaming about his laughter, even about their arguments. She’s not ready to get involved. It’s too soon after Mom’s death. She still thinks about Eric. Not romantically, no, but she recalls the limitless kindness of the most innately sweet man she’s ever known and feels a certain loyalty. She worries her interest in Ashok is confused with his connection to India, which she wants to embrace.

  The waiter serves her a juicy slice of coral pink papaya, perfectly cooked poached eggs with toast and a spoonful of potatoes. A Western breakfast; she didn’t know she was craving this.

  “Another pot of coffee, please.” Coffee. Real, filtered coffee.

  Dad’s letter is such surprise. She rummages around her Sportsac (far less orderly than Beata’s handbag) and withdraws a white envelope to re-read his
letter.

  Dear Mickey,

  How are you, way off in India? India! Did you get the traveling bug from your dear old dad?

  She wonders. She likes to think she came to India rather than that she left home. Do people feel abandoned? Yes. Eric for one. Beata. Patients. Even some of her colleagues. Although she didn’t leave a wife and kids, her journey isn’t without cost.

  I’m sorry I haven’t written back since your mother’s death. Are you and Jeannie doing OK? Her death hit me harder than I expected. Made me realize all the things I left unsaid, to Marie. To my girls.

  He hasn’t seen them since they were girls. Would they recognize each other?

  I don’t have a lot to write about our lives out here, but I wanted to touch base with you. Dorothea tells me I shouldn’t lose you again by being lazy even though I’m not much of a letter writer. We are both in pretty good health. Sometimes we talk about selling the ranch and moving to Laramie.

  Her heart catches. She sometimes fantasizes visiting him there.

  But we’re settled here. We’ll probably die with our boots on. Write again. Don’t give up on your old man. Remember riding together on the Hennepin route?

  Let me know how you’re doing in that far away country. Love, Dad.

  That far away country. Wyoming.

  “Here you are! I woke up and your bed was empty. Then I saw the note.”

  Monica beams at her friend. “Did you sleep enough?”

  “Sleep, I only have ten days in India, do you think I want to sleep through it? Two days to see fabulous Delhi, five days with you in Moorty, three at Father Daniel’s mission. I’m not going to sleep away my visit.”

  “Oh, Beata, I missed you.”

  “Vice versa! Now when do they bring the coffee?”

  Monica signals the waiter.

  “Oh, yes.” Beata says. “An Indian breakfast. Idili and sambhar, please,” she asks the waiter. “My friend has been raving about that musical sounding dish for months.”