Sister grins, “Someone in the ward will be glad to know you arrived safely.”
“Gita,” she draws a sharp breath. She’s prayed every night for the child.
“She’s stronger by the day. This relapse is her mother’s fault. She pulled her home too early last year.”
“Now, Sister, we all do our best.”
Sister Catherine ignores this. “She’s been cranky in your absence, I’ll say.”
“I’ll finish this lovely chai, have a quick wash and drop in on the miniature curmudgeon. It’s good to be back.” Yes. Savor. Practice.
*****
Holi dawns on a sparkling morning, a day so clear she can touch the mountains.
She and Sudha stroll into town, laughing as children sprinkle each other with pink and purple and green powders.
“If they’re this colorful in the morning,” Monica grimaces, “how do they look at bed time?”
“By then you couldn’t describe the hue. Everyone is a sunset. You really missed the whole thing last year?”
“Emergency. A road accident, I recall.” She’s wearing old clothes as Sudha advised, almost looking forward to being pelted with the vibrant powders.
“Be prepared. Getting pelted is an expression of camaraderie. You have to be in the mood.”
She recalls Mr. Sood’s daffodils. Holi, Spring Festival of Colors.
“And what news of Monsieur Ashok?”
“Oh, we talked several times when I was in the South. He’s doing well.” She’s too shy to go on, shy and little superstitious of revealing her feelings. “Look over there, the snow on the peaks!”
“Come,” Sudha clutches her hand. “Let’s sit here and watch the mountains. This is the clearest time of year. Once when I was on a course in Darjeeling, we all got up and journeyed to Tiger Hill to see the sun throw its colors on Kanchendzongha.”
“How wonderful.” She’s fascinated by recent revelations of Sudha’s romantic nature. How much does this have to do with Dr. Raul?
“And look here,” Sudha continues rapturously. “Oh, they are gorgeous this morning. My heart aches to get closer. I’m not a spiritual sort, as you complain, yet one feels, I don’t know, called to go higher into the mountains when they’re this close.”
“So why don’t we?”
Sudha turns, blinking in hesitant anticipation. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen signs in several shops about jeep trips to the Western Himalayas. We could go to Shimla. It’s only a day from there to Sarahan, I understand.”
Sudha stares, dumbfounded.
“We could stop at Narkanda and Rampur on the way.” She’s warming up.
“The old Hindustan-Tibet Road.”
“They say it follows the Sutlej River most of the way.”
“I had no idea you were interested, well, quite so interested, in the mountains.”
Monica watches Sudha curiously. “How can I live here and not want to climb higher?”
“But we are two women.”
“Is my feminist ally demurring?”
“Still, the expense. A car and driver!”
“I have a holiday coming in May,” she says impulsively. “I have money in my account at home. I’d be happy to pay for both of us.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly.”
“Consider it a token resetting of international economic scales.”
“Don’t be silly.” Sudha stands, stretches, glances once again at the mountains and pivots toward town. “Are you ready for coffee? We haven’t seen Rabi in weeks. He must be wondering what’s happened.”
“I’m completely serious.” Monica’s chest expands in anticipation. “I’ll check with the shops this week and bring itineraries to dinner on Saturday.”
Sudha gasps, “Uh, oh, here we go!”
Monica looks up. Too late to move or duck.
Vivid powders rain down on both of them. They’re caught in a fit of giggles, their laughter louder than the children’s.
“This old dress is much improved,” she laughs. “And your salwar kameez, my dear, is absolutely dazzling.”
Sudha grins. “They should let us into the coffee house now.”
*****
Monica sits in bed, leafing through brochures, trying to determine her favorite routes before presenting them to Sudha. This is a chance to reciprocate for Sudha’s kindness and hospitality. It’s the journey of a lifetime.
Sangla has a campground—a posh site with fancy tents and prepared foods—an adventure. The next stop might be Kalpa, at 10,000 feet, where Shiva went to smoke pot and where marijuana still grows wild.
With each new day in India, Monica is a little more confident. More accepting of unpredictability and fate and faith.
Heavy footsteps. A tired tread tramping downstairs. Raul is always exhausted returning from Manda. While he’s away she worries he’ll run into animals, dacoits, the RSS. Sometimes she thinks he’ll decide not to return. Sudha worries about this, too.
Shutting the light, she imagines Sudha and herself watching the winding Sutlej River as the jeep climbs higher and higher into those inscrutable mountains.
*****
Gita’s mother has brought a new coat for her daughter and small gifts for the staff.
Monica watches wistfully as the little girl stands, nimbly slipping her arms into the coat.
Sister Catherine beams. “Wonderful, isn’t it? God’s miracle. When she arrived the second time, I was sure she’d only last a few days.”
“Yes.” Monica murmurs.
“She’s returning to her family, to school. Oh, Doctor, you must be gratified.”
She steps forward, lowering her voice. “Sister, do you think, rather do you sense, she isn’t quite ready? Does her family have the capacity to care for her?”
“Love,” Sister Catherine grins. “That’s what she needs now. You’ve done a fine job. Look how well she is.”
Monica stands straighter. “You’ve double-checked the blood tests?”
“Yes, Doctor. You and Our Lord have brought back little Lazurus,” she whispers. “Now it’s time to see her off to the happy family.”
Suddenly the girl turns to her.
“Doctor Murphy, I shall miss you!” She wraps her arms around Monica’s waist while her mother looks on with a mixture of embarrassment, gratitude and surrender.
“We will miss you, too, Gita. But we’ll schedule a follow-up visit next week. To make sure you are keeping well.”
“May I come back? May I?”
How the child’s English has developed. Monica notes Mrs. Roy’s faint smile of pride.
“Your mother can make an appointment. I look forward to seeing you.”
“Thank you, Doctor Murphy! Thank you, Sister Catherine! See you next week.” She waves shyly and accepts her mother’s hand.
Monica excuses herself to the loo. Grateful to be alone, she clicks the cubicle door shut. Tears stream down her face. What’s happening? She’s thrilled to see Gita thriving. This is what doctors do, if they’re lucky, help people recover. She’s witnessed miracles, as Sister Catherine would call them, dozens of times. Each newly healed patient leaves her energized for the next case. What’s wrong with her today?
“Doctor Murphy?” Sister Catherine’s worried voice.
She flushes the unused toilet, hoping her sniffing wasn’t audible. “Yes?”
“There’s well, a rather critical situation in the waiting room.”
Another auto accident? Mrs. Sing’s heart finally giving out?
“I’ll be right there, Sister.”
“I’ll tell them, Doctor.”
She washes her hands, splashes h
er face. Better. Not a complete transformation from the clinging sentimentalist, but the best she can manage.
Sister leads nervous patients out the door.
R.S.S. She says a quick prayer.
“Yes, how can I help you?” she addresses the three men perhaps too abruptly.
“You are English.”
She remembers from the first terrifying visit that this one’s name is Arjun. She tries for Raul’s cool method of response.
“Nahi, meh Minnesota say hoon.”
He brightens, breaking into English. “The Metrodome. Famous Dave’s in Calhoun Square. I did engineering at Iowa State. We went to the Cities on weekends.”
The older man shifts from one sandaled foot to another.
“What branch of engineering?”
“Chemic…” he regards his dour comrade and stutters, “I, we, don’t have time for personal questions.” Resuming in Hindi, “We’ve come on business.”
“So you said.” Inadvertently, she checks to make sure her white lab coat is buttoned professionally over her green blouse.
“What visa do you carry?”
“I don’t have time for personal questions.” She hopes to sound nonchalant.
“This is not a personal question, madame.”
“Sir, you are not a government official.” She’s startled by her self-confidence.
“We have many colleagues in government. My cousin, Ramesh, works in the Delhi visa office. Perhaps he will give us a more courteous, complete answer.”
She ignores the chill around her neck.
They turn to one another, whispering.
Arjun addresses her. “You may tell your colleagues we will return in one month. Before that if Ramesh has interesting news.”
“Our clinic is open to all with health concerns.” She holds the door open.
They file out silently.
She stands stunned, relieved, incredulous.
“Dr. Murphy!” exclaims Sister Eleanor.
“They left faster than when Dr. Sanchez talked to them,” Sister Catherine adds, her face moist with perspiration.
Monica stares blankly into the bright afternoon. “For now they’re gone, Sisters.” She feels the adrenaline coursing through her veins. “Let’s return to work. They want to stop us, but we will carry on.” Does she sound like General MacArthur?
*****
The April morning is brilliant with colorful birds and flowers as Monica strides to chapel. This would have been Mom’s 77th birthday. She always dreamed of a big party for her 80th. And now she’s in the Himalayan foothills walking to a memorial Mass for a life cut short. Still, she replays that weekend in her mind. If only she’d stayed home or called Duluth, herself. Father Freitas’s offer to say a memorial Mass is a surprising balm. How her mother would have liked the genial, generous priest. Mom, who spent years praying to save “pagan babies,” would be astonished that people in India were praying for her.
Most of the staff regularly attend morning Mass. Today Raul is here. And Sudha in a back pew by herself.
She slides in next to her friend.
Sudha registers her surprise. “When Raul told me,” she whispers,” I knew this was important to you. As your friend, I wanted to be here.”
“You are so kind.” She hugs Sudha.
“Hardly.” Sudha puts a finger to Monica’s lips. “Do nudge me along. I don’t know the drill.”
Monica lowers her head in prayer. When she looks up, Father is approaching the altar. Sister Eleanor has gathered a luxuriant bouquet of daffodils.
She’s counting losses: Mom, Dad, Jeanne, Eric. In a world devastated by war and famine, she’s gotten off lightly. She misses Mom the most. At odd times, Jeanne’s disappearance is the most poignant. How did she lose her sister? When and how did Jeanne lose so much of herself?
Of course she hasn’t completely lost Dad. She owes him a letter. Odd how they’ve been in somewhat closer contact lately. Maybe the distance makes him feel safer.
Sudha seems fascinated by the prayers and hymns.
Kevin has chosen a passage from the Gospel of Luke.
She receives communion now, as she wishes she could have done at Mom’s funeral mass.
And Eric is quite a presence in her life again. Dear Eric, whom she ignored so long during her shadowy paralysis. Each week he emails news and jokes. Despite her initial jealousy, she’s glad he’s found Loretta. It’s good to be friends. You can count on friends.
Ordinary friends. This month she’s tried not to dwell too much on Ashok. What if he takes the job in Wisconsin? What if she loses her visa here?
During the final prayers, she thinks of Gita. Thank God this beautiful child has been restored. If only she’d been able to tend her own mother…then she begins to take it in—why has this taken so long? Caring for Gita allowed her to make some small amends for that other absence, she thinks sadly.
*****
After Mass, she and Sudha return to her flat for a cup of tea.
“I do love your place.” She surveys the long, tiled living room-dining room-study. “The kitchen is a little pokey. It was probably built for the servants.”
Monica pours steaming water into the pot.
Sudha parts the flowery curtains. “Ah, yes, your view! On clear days like this you can see the temple. Beyond that the peaks. Extraordinary!”
“I wish I had more time to enjoy it,” she calls from the kitchen, “but I don’t get back from work until after dark.”
“You have a full day off now. Don’t you take time for contemplation?”
“You sound like Beata.” She sits on the couch and pours the tea.
“Beata! I enjoyed her. We emailed for a while, but both got distracted. How is she doing?”
“She has news.” Monica hands Sudha a cup. “James has proposed.”
“Didn’t like it that she went traipsing around the world without him, eh? So what did she say?”
“That she’d have to think about it.”
“Savvy woman!”
“Beata enjoys her life. Her stimulating, if sometimes overwhelming job, her cozy condo, her meditation, church, friends, scouting the sales. It’s nice to have a man in her life, but she’s not lonely.”
“Good.” Sudha readjusts the lime green dupattas over her shoulders. “Loneliness is a rotten reason to pick a man.”
Reason and romance: do they have anything to do with one another? Uneasily, she changes the topic, “So Raul says the tutoring project is a success.”
“Yes,” Sudha’s eyes shine. “And an excellent experience for Raj and Vikram.”
“Very different students.” She harbors a certain loyalty to her first eye patient.
“Both idealistic in their own ways. Vikram has the softer nature, but they’re each good-hearted. In fact, they learned from one another as well as from the Manda children. And emerged with such admiration for Raul.”
“The program will continue, then?”
“Absolutely. We have students clamoring to sign up.”
“How about your own program with Raul?”
She frowns incomprehension.
“You’re still going out to supper, I notice.”
“A discerning woman.”
“And you’re a suspenseful one. Do I detect a touch of romance?”
“I suppose.” Sudha paces back to the window. “I’m happy with my days—students, community work, our friendship, good books.” She turns to her friend.
“But?”
“Not but, rather and.”
Monica sips tea, observing.
Sudha stands straighter. “Raul is a smart, kind, cosmopolitan man who does importa
nt work. And,” she pulls an impish face, “for a Christian, he’s rather broad-minded.”
Monica shakes her head. “And?”
“I don’t think I’d ever meet anyone else so compatible, so exciting.”
“Wow! I didn’t expect this much. So you’re talking happily ever after?”
“It’s been broached.” She turns back to the mountain view. “We’ll see what the universe offers.”
“Would your parents accept him? Would you marry in Bombay?”
“Hang on. You’re much further along than we are. As for my parents, they would be disappointed that he’s not a nice Hindu man. They might be relieved I found anyone. A doctor is respectable. I should avoid mentioning the mission at first.”
Monica bites her lip. A few years ago, she, herself, would never have considered marrying a Catholic missionary doctor.
“They would like Raul.” Sudha walks over and takes Monica’s hand. “They would embrace you as their own daughter. Mother would help you select the perfect sari for the wedding since you would be in any ceremony of mine.”
Tears again. What a day. Monica hopes she can stay in India long enough to attend. Her turn to glance out the window. She hopes Arjun’s threat about the visa office was an idle one. She doubts it.
TWENTY-NINE
April, May, 2002, Delhi and Moorty
The Bengali Market buzzes with late afternoon shoppers. Monica feels at home and not—wistful about those first innocent days in Delhi.
When Ashok pops into the stationer’s for paper, she waits outside, enjoying the parade and looking for recognizable faces. This is her Delhi, the chaotic, vivacious neighborhood near Mission House. Each of those first weeks now seems as long as a month in Moorty. She wishes she were as porous as when she first arrived. She’s begun to take her place for granted, foolish given her imminent supplication at the visa office. She’ll be returning to Mission House too soon for an exit visa.
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