“Why don’t you stay a while? You’re so fascinated by the intersections of Buddhism and Catholicism. Moorty would be the perfect place to study, to meditate. And your work would be useful here. People deny the alcoholism, but I see it affect our families every day. Perhaps you could join the hospital in some capacity?”
Sudha’s come a long way, Monica marvels, now enlisting for the Mission.
“How I’d adore your company. To be reunited with my old friend and to get to know my new friend. But I miss James. And I’m more timid than you two. You’re searching, courageous women.”
Monica’s heart sinks. It was ridiculous to hope.
“Oh, come now,” Sudha scolds.
“As much as I’ve fallen in love with Moorty and as much as I complain that the Twin Cities aren’t New Orleans, I’m settled there. You both are strong and brave enough to leave home, to start new lives. No wonder you’ve become fast, close friends.”
“We’re all friends now,” Monica declares. “All of us.”
TWENTY-ONE
December, 2001, Moorty
Suddenly, she’s gone. Monica resists sadness. Beata is not lost to her the way Mom is, in the way Jeanne might be. Beata will always be her friend. She’ll see her in Minnesota. And Beata will return here. Missing is different from grieving; this longing is threaded with a spine of faith.
Days return to normal. Not quite. She, herself, feels more confident of her place here. And the dinner quarrel between Raul and Kevin echoes in her mind. At night, she’s taken to pacing her flat, playing the arguments over and over.
The phone rings tonight during her restless walking.
“Oh, hello, Ashok.” He’s already called this week so she’s surprised. “Is everything OK?”
“I just imagined you could feel, well with your friend leaving, a little lonely.”
“How thoughtful.” Her stomach somersaults at the intimacy. “I’m doing fine, thanks.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
He finds his way to the topic of Kevin and Raul.
“No, I’ve vowed to myself not to talk with outsiders about this.”
“I’m an outsider?”
“Of course not, I just mean…”
“Maybe if you told me what’s bothering you, you could let it go.”
“You’ve morphed into my confessor?”
“Try friend.”
She releases a long sigh, repeating the argument over condoms and contraception.
“This is important. Why didn’t you mention it?” He’s clearly hurt.
“I’ve been praying about my own conflicts.”
“And those are?”
“We could do so much good with condoms and birth control. But a Catholic hospital can’t offer them. Otherwise we do help many people: accident victims; patients suffering from a huge variety of gastro-intestinal diseases,” she goes on hectically.
He listens.
She can almost see his serious eyes when she says, “I thought I knew what I was getting into, but there’s a difference between anticipating contradictions and living with them every day, facing women who don’t want a sixth pregnancy, people of all ages contracting HIV and knowing we could have prevented…”
“Have you talked to your actual confessor about this? The Father you rave about?”
“I don’t know.”
“From what you say, he’s a man of the world. From Goa, for heaven’s sake. He must have experienced the same contradictions as you.”
She shrugs. He’s right of course. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.”
“Enough about me.” She’s calmer just for airing the worries. “How was the rest of the week at school?”
“Fine,” he allows. “Every student passed the quiz.”
“You’re a good teacher, Ashok.”
His voice turns abrupt, almost curt. “Listen, I want to suggest something.”
“Yes?” She’s pacing again, puzzled by her sudden nervousness.
“I was just invited to the Institute next month. I’m speaking on a Thursday.”
“Yes,” she says, reluctant to admit—or betray—enthusiasm.
“Since I’ll be in your neighborhood, I could drop by Moorty for the weekend. That is, if you can cope with visits two months in a row.”
“Yes, of course.” She’s thrilled, but should play it cool. “Everyone will be glad to see you, Sudha and Raul. And you’ll get to meet Father Freitas.”
“Everyone, oh good,” he’s more subdued. “I’ll book the ticket. Perhaps we can attend another edifying cultural event at the Playhouse.”
“Tell me truthfully,” she’s feeling giddy. “Didn’t you find the theatre charming?”
“Charming might be going a bit far. But quaint, yes, quaint.”
*****
“Welcome, to my cave,” Father Freitas ushers her into his sparsely furnished office.
Three chairs and a small wooden desk. A crucifix hangs over the doorway. The concrete floor is warmed by a small Kashmiri rug. His bookcase is the only spot of indulgence, overflowing with novels, poetry, history and books on theology in English, Portuguese, Konkani and Hindi.
She takes a long breath and tries to discharge her anxiety, then relates the conversation with Ashok.
He listens intently, as if she were the only thing in the world that matters.
She longs to develop this kind of deep concentration. Yes, she does focus on her patients, but part of her is always worried about the next injury or illness.
After she finishes unburdening herself, he waits a few beats.
“I could say so many familiar things,” he starts. “I, too, have differences of conscience with Vatican teaching on these issues.”
She sees the pain in his eyes.
He exhales audibly. “You must listen to your heart. Many good Catholics oppose the Church’s ban on condoms.”
“But they don’t work at Mission hospitals.”
“Most of them, no.”
She sits straighter, realizing Raul is probably dispensing prophylactics in Manda. How has she been so naïve? Ah, she’s not here to talk about Raul.
“Monica, you’ve come with a theological and ethical quandary, yet, well, I wonder if your sleeplessness and distraction might have additional roots?”
“Such as?” She’s taken aback.
“I’ve had the gift of knowing you for almost a year. I’ve come to admire Monica’s ability to place herself where she is ‘not Monica,’ or to reinvent herself to the situation. Admirable. And tiring.”
She’s not sure she wants him to proceed.
“From what I know of your childhood, you leapt across social classes to become a physician and succeeded marvelously at that.”
“To a degree.”
“To a great degree,” he corrects. “You’ve adapted beautifully here, learning Hindi, making Indian friends who trust you and, dare I say, love you.”
This is not what she came to talk about.
“Perhaps you could be more accepting and come to like Monica, yourself.”
He’s knocked the wind out of her.
“You haven’t had a holiday since you arrived.”
“I just had several days with Beata in Delhi.”
“Hardly a holiday.”
Is he suggesting a leave? Is this his way of sending her home?
“Father Daniel and I spoke recently.”
“Beata says he seems well,” she stalls. “How did you find him?”
“Ebullient as ever, despite the heart trouble. He sends warm regards. In fact, he’s planning a seminar on new gastro-intestinal protoc
ols and thinks you’d be a perfect speaker.”
“You’re sending me to Pondicherry?”
“I’m not sending you anywhere. I believe it would be a blessing to Father Daniel and his colleagues if you traveled down there for ten days or so.”
“Ten days.” She’s nonplussed and enticed.
“In March, before the heavy heat. Have you seen the Indian Ocean yet?”
“The ocean!” She’s grinning. “Father, would you allow me to go?”
“How can we resist Father Daniel? Never underestimate the power of Catholics from Tamil Nadu.”
She recalls Father Daniel racing after her in Minnesota with his email address. “He’s a force, all right, this man who drew me back to the Church.”
He smiles. “Your heart brought you back. Father Daniel would be the perfect person to discuss what’s troubling your heart now. Frankly, I, like you, feel such conflict over these questions. He is a far better sounding board.”
“I see.” She’s both reassured and shaken by this particular confidence.
“Shall I suggest he email you an invitation? That would be the next step.”
“Yes, Father, the next step.” She stands. “Let’s take the next step.”
TWENTY-TWO
Late January, 2002, Moorty and Rasik
In the thin morning light, the Pande Bazaar is a commotion of people greeting friends, shoppers dickering with merchants. Ashok shouts at the reckless bicyclists. Is the hubbub caused by unseasonable warmth? Is it always like this on the far side of town? She’s only been here once before, at a dark 6 a.m. on an emergency call, fluttering in and out of the shadows.
One stall sells a cornucopia of adhesive bindis in many shapes. The next displays shawls. Another glows with a bucket of saffron.
She glances at the old snake charmer making a high-pitched whistle, summoning his cobra to ripple and swell upward from a round, tattered basket. She wants to watch, but Ashok gets even more cross. “No buses in sight. Not even an auto rickshaw.”
“Relax,” she says. “Moorty is a small place. It can’t be far.”
“It can be far enough for us to miss our bus,” he glowers.
Ashok is a man of order, annoyed when things aren’t clear, she notes once again. A rather non-adaptive trait for an Indian.
She asks several people before an old woman points to the “station” at the end of the street.
“Eureka!” The buses come into view. Six or seven. Without destination signs.
“Bloody bedlam,” he protests.
Ten minutes to departure.
Nine minutes later, they’re boarding the bus to Rasik.
“Whose idea was this?” he asks as they struggle past passengers storing cases, chatting in the aisle, to the only empty places at the back of the ancient vehicle.
“Ahhh,” he emits a comic sigh and collapses into the seat.
“Actually, Sudha suggested Rasik. Relax, Mr. Curmudgeon, the worst part is over. We located the bus. We have our seats. Adjacent seats.”
“Well spotted. I didn’t see them. You’re more nimble on coaches than I.”
“My father was a bus driver. It’s a perfectly safe, reliable form of transportation.”
“How long have you been in this country? Nothing in India is a perfectly safe, reliable form of transportation.” He shuts his eyes, rests his curly head on the window. “I should have hired a car. Who knows how many stops this tank makes.”
A two-year-old in the forward seat has turned around and stares wide-eyed, fascinated by the gloomy Ashok.
She plays peek-a-boo and the child giggles.
Ashok opens one eye. Reluctantly charmed, he laughs. “You’re good with children of all ages. Sorry for the petulance. My sister calls me a cantankerous traveler.”
“Rasik is ninety minutes away. We’ll be there by 11 a.m.”
“They’ll let us claim our rooms that early?”
“I checked. They’re used to guests arriving on this notoriously trustworthy bus.”
He releases a long sigh. “How do you know it’s trustworthy? Did Sudha say?”
“No,” she smirks. “I just wanted you to relax.”
He laughs. Briefly.
She tries again. “Sudha says a maharajah from Rajasthan built Rasik Palace. He wanted a respite from the desert summer. Her friend Lakshmi says the palace is a huge yellow building set among manicured grounds with gorgeous views.”
“Who’s Lakshmi? Wait a minute, you mean Sudha hasn’t even been to this place?”
She ignores the anxious question. “A hundred years ago they had fancy dress balls there. He was a Westernized maharajah even then. He hosted fabulous dinners, with wine from France. Quite a scene: the British vied with each other for invitations. He modeled his golden palace on a country estate he visited in Suffolk. Complete with a large stable for horses.”
“Where are the maharajahs now?”
“After he died, his adult children used it less and less. His great grandson sold it to the Oberoi Hotel Chain.”
“I can’t wait.” He closes his eyes. End of conversation.
*****
Two hours later the bus deposits them at an ornate wrought iron gate. They’re the only ones alighting. She wonders if the skeptical professor might be right.
Ashok holds the heavy gate for her. They wheel suitcases up the cobbled path.
Here it is. The pale yellow 19th century dream haloed by shining, snowy mountains. She is twelve years old again and happier than if she’d gone to Disneyland.
“Interesting,” he allows.
“Splendid!” she declares.
The huge front doors are weathered oak. Through their beveled glass centers: a blurry scene of green uniformed bellmen, stylish women and well-appointed men. She imagines them dining at candlelit table, soft music played by young Rajasthanis.
“Shall we?” Ashok opens the door and regards her curiously.
“I was daydreaming.”
“Daydreams, not nightmares. Already, the curative powers of Rasik.”
The young desk clerk hands brass keys for room 25 and 26 to the bellman, who whisks their bags up the opulently carpeted staircase.
Her room is the “Blue Boudoir.” She walks over a threadbare teal and grey Persian rug to the Victorian vanity table, complete with oval mirror and azure flounced skirt. She lies on the robin’s egg blue chenille bedspread, surprised by the firm mattress.
Clack. Clack. Horses? No: knock, knock.
Startled, she looks up, disoriented in the cerulean world.
“Monica?” His voice is concerned.
Oh, lord, it’s one o’clock. She rushes to the door.
“Are you OK? Weren’t we planning to walk before lunch?”
“Sorry, I tried out the bed and you woke me. I shouldn’t have fallen…”
“Don’t worry. You needed the rest.”
Her breath catches at Mom’s words. “You must have needed the rest.”
“We can walk after lunch. It’s quite warm. Thirteen or fourteen degrees.”
“January thaw, like Minneapolis,” she sounds like an idiot. “I’ll brush my hair and meet you downstairs, OK?”
“Take your time, Monica. This is a holiday.”
What happened to the crank on the bus? The palace is working transformative powers on each of them.
She sits before the spotted oval mirror, inspecting the tangle of scarlet yarn on her head. How many lovely maharanis combed their rich black locks here? How many dithered between white and yellow sapphires? How many secret trysts occurred in that seductive bed? Her brush catches most tangles. She regards the green sweater: blah. Digging through the suitc
ase, she finds the purple turtleneck Beata brought from Minnesota. And the earrings Sudha bought in Moorty to match. Much more vivid. She feels a dreamy excitement. She’s not used to dressing for a date.
Sun warms her face as they hike along the quiet road to the crest of the hill. Ashok wants to see the legendary cricket pitch. She’s heard there’s a gurdvara at the top. Monica inhales the benign, almost spring-like air.
“Heaven,” she whispers.
“Delightful. They’re serving tea in the garden later. Imagine. In January.”
“Oh, fun.”
“Still, we don’t want to get fooled,” he warns. “Winter will return.”
“OK, Dr. Nair, I won’t put away woolies.” Shedding her parka, she feels a slight breeze prickling through her sweater: delicious.
“That purple is very becoming on you.”
“Beata’s doing. She has great taste.”
“Yes. In clothing. And in friends.”
Two men drive by in a black pickup truck. They wave.
Flustered by Ashok’s compliments, she’s grateful for the distraction.
The cricket pitch is nondescript. Aren’t they all?
Ashok is entranced. They walk the length of the pitch. “What views! Imagine competing here, shouldered by these mountains. In this clean, clean air.”
She doesn’t know anything about cricket except that there’s a wicket involved, so she murmurs, “Stunning.”
“This India of ours, yes, I complain, really though, it’s extraordinary.”
India of ours. “Yes,” she agrees.
They ramble along the road at a comfortable pace. Drivers wave, toot horns.
The gurdvara is a domed building flying a triangular orange flag, with the Sikh symbol.
A greeter welcomes the visitors warmly, advising her to cover her head and remove footwear.
They slip off their shoes at the door. After a year in India, she no longer worries about losing her shoes.
Traveling with Spirits Page 19
