“You were right,” Ashok breaks through her reverie. “They had the ideal paper. In the Bengali Market, who would have thought?”
“Snob. You’re like New Yorkers who never leave the Upper East Side.”
“You can hardly compare my shoddy campus in North Delhi to the Upper East Side.” He puts an arm firmly around her shoulders.
She inches closer. This feels right.
Last year, when they lunched at the IIC, she never would have imagined them as a couple. A couple of what? For how long? For now.
She pecks his cheek. “The Bengali Market is a cornucopia: stationers, green grocers, post office, Krishna convenience store.”
“A regular Walmart, I bet.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, she peers at an ornately garbed elephant lumbering up a residential side street. “Don’t Hindu weddings happen in January and February?”
“Most. But April is the season for hotel workers.”
“Pardon?”
“Weddings are big business. Lakhs of rupees. Lakhs. Waiters and bellmen and clerks work double time in the winter. So they marry now that the larger nuptial extravaganzas over over.”
Nuptial extravaganzas. She reminds herself that love is different from commitment. Besides, how could she possibly marry this peevish character?
“Down there,” she points past the elephant, “and around the corner, is where I bought my skim yogurt from the Mother Milk stand.”
“You bought Mother Milk? Foreigners don’t have the enzymes to drink that stuff. Indians shouldn’t drink it either. Remember that scandal about selling correction fluid as milk? Scores of babies died.”
“That wasn’t Mother Milk.” Then to distract him from further disquisition, “Look at the magnolias and dahlias. India grows the most beautiful flowers.”
“Yes, yes. That gives me an idea.”
As Ashok picks through the floral display, the one-eyed vendor smiles at Monica. She’d like to think he recalls their encounters from last year.
“For the lady,” Ashok hands her a bouquet of red roses.
“Stunning,” she says. “Thank you.”
At Nathu’s, she can’t help but pause and stare at the array of buttery, nutty, creamy sweets in the window. Ashok shifts from foot to foot. His face, reflected in the glass, grows long. “Just why can’t you stay at my flat? We’re adults, after all?”
This grouch, who rails against anything that defies his own logic and values, is used to getting what he wants. Turning from the window to face him directly, she takes his hand. The roses are so fragrant, she’s momentarily speechless.
He gazes at her.
“It’s a question of propriety,” she explains again. “For the first night, I’ll stay with Tina—in case the hospital calls. Kevin was reluctant to let me come to Delhi and I don’t want him to think I’m here on a tryst.”
He takes her hand. “A two day trip to renew your visa? That’s hospital business. Besides, I thought Father Freitas was the Director.”
“Kevin is the senior doc. It’s hard to explain where he gets his authority.”
“Maybe you just give it to him.”
“Come on, now—”
“Monica, you’re on a bureaucratic errand,” he raises his voice.
“If he found me staying with you, he’d think I had ulterior motives.”
He pulls a face, “I should hope you do.”
“Let’s just say my primary motive is that visa. For lots of reasons.”
Ashok takes her hand; the hairs on her arm lift and she flushes.
“My cousin’s working hard on your case. Janardhanan has all the papers.”
“Let’s hope we can celebrate tomorrow night,” she tries.
“I’m counting on it,” he squeezes her hand. “Just the two of us.”
“That will be perfect,” she tries to convince herself of this, to ignore tides of fear.
The driver cautiously navigates the roundabouts on the way to Tina’s. She marvels at the greening city: blossoms everywhere. Soon they are on the Ring Road, driving past Haus Khas, Greater Kailash, toward Tina’s flat in Vasant Vihar, too far from the action, as she complains, but convenient to work.
They pass through three check points before they pull up to the Embassy compound. A guard orders the driver to open his trunk. Two men inspect the underside of the cab with mirrors attached to long poles.
Finally, the guard approaches her window.
“I’m Doctor Murphy,” she speaks slowly and clearly. “Here to visit Dr. Nelson.”
He lights up. “Dr. Nelson is a very nice lady.”
Tina’s always charmed the men. “Yes,” she agrees. “An old friend of mine.”
“Welcome. Please proceeed. Dr. ji’s house is fourth one on the left.”
“Good to see you,” Tina rocks her in an embrace.
“Perfect timing.” Monica is winded from the bear hug. “Your door opens as we arrive.”
She’s laughing. “No secrets in the fortress. Amit rang as you passed through.”
Slipping off her shoes, Monica is astonished by the spacious, light-filled house. “Gorgeous,” she declares. “But the entry is like a citadel.”
“Since 9/11, embassy security has been a bear. In Calcutta, the American Center is protected by sand bags and rifle-bearing guards.”
“Remind me not to lose my passport in Calcutta.”
“Let me give you a tour.”
Tina’s lavish living room is furnished with a white sofa and matching chairs. Potted palms flourish against one wall. A stunning painting of an Indian mandir hangs over the fireplace. Monica is disoriented, a little jealous, in the five star flat.
“This mahogany table,” Tina says, “you’re wondering how I meet expenses.”
“No, I wasn’t actually.” Of course she was.
“Beautiful furniture is so cheap here, if you know where to look. These mission style chairs match perfectly. I couldn’t afford them at home.”
“Home?” She’s startled. “Are you leaving? You never mentioned anything.” She realizes now how comforting it’s been to have Tina in Delhi, a phone call away.
“It’s crossed my mind,” she says dismissively. “More anon, as your sweet mom used to say. Let me show you to the bedrooms.”
They pass a study, bright with bay windows and a skylight. The bedrooms are at the back, overlooking a landscaped garden. Tina’s room is fitted with stripped sheets and a duvet cover she bought from Anokhi when they shopped with Beata last December.
“This is your room, old friend. Any time. The key is yours.”
“Thank you.” She sets her bag next to an elaborately carved teak bureau.
“May I offer you some liquid refreshment on the back veranda?”
Tina makes a strong martini. Monica sips slowly, nibbling on the olive. “Tell me, what’s up? Where would you go if you left the embassy hospital?”
She pours herself a second drink, glances at Monica’s half-glass and shakes her head. “I don’t know. Government medicine is so much paperwork. Rules change monthly: who you can treat, what you can prescribe. I like my Indian colleagues—the office staff are great fun—but some of the American docs are, well American, if you know what I mean. Fans of the administration.”
“Of Bush?”
“Yup.”
She takes another sip. “I guess every job has trials. Lake Clinic had Captain Louise. And you know my reservations about Kevin Walsh.”
“Reservations? More like despair and rage, I’d say.”
Monica shrugs.
“At least you’re doing something, Monica. You’re helping people who have no resources, who would die without your hosp
ital. And here, well, I don’t know. I’m treating visiting senators with diarrhea and obese children of embassy hot shots.”
“You’re attached to India, to your Delhi friends. How could you leave?”
She half smiles, clinks Monica’s glass. “We all have to return, hon, eventually.”
*****
Tina’s driver makes sure they’re both belted up before heading to the visa office.
Monica closes her eyes and prays silently. If it is Thy will. Help me carry out Thy will. She tries to mean this. She wants the visa, isn’t ready to leave. Thy will. It’s hard to concentrate after a restless night thinking about Arjun’s cousin. Yes, the R.S.S. are known for their empty threats as much as their terror tactics. She woke at 3 a.m. in Tina’s lush bed hearing, “We all have to return eventually.” Yes. One day. She’s not ready yet. Not my will, she prays, but thy will.
Tina pats her knee. “I’ll play it low key,” she says brightly. “I’m just your friend. I won’t mention the embassy unless they get nasty.”
She’s not prepared for nasty. Then again, she hasn’t been prepared for much of what she’s experienced since arriving in this country.
Monica spots Janardhanan immediately: a younger, plumper version of Ashok.
“Yes, welcome, Dr. Murphy and Dr. Nelson. Ashok has spoken about each of you.” He studies Monica carefully, with no pretense of discretion.
At his invitation, they sit on plastic folding chairs.
“I believe I’ve located all your papers.” He taps two large files.
She asks, as casually as she can, “Do you have a colleague named Ramesh?”
“Ramesh, no. This is a large office, but I’ve been here a while, why do you ask?” Suddenly he looks ten years older, seated behind folders holding her past and future in India.
She explains about the last visit from the R.S.S., about Arjiun’s warning.
He whistles through his teeth. “Truthfully, I mean no offense, I don’t know which is more detrimental to your status, Dr. Murphy, your Church affiliation or your government’s behavior.”
“Hey, no offense taken,” rejoins Tina. “We didn’t vote for Bush.”
Janardhanan looks curious.
So much for low key. Monica can’t tell if Tina’s comment is helping, but she doesn’t want to leave him in doubt. “Like many Americans, I actively oppose U.S. aggression in the Middle East.”
Jananardhanan tilts his head. Impassively, he runs down a list of questions.
An hour later, he says, “I think I see some windows here.”
“Oh, thank you.” Monica sits back, rubbing the knots in her neck.
“I can’t guarantee anything. But we can build a case to extend the visa. After all, this is a special situation.”
“Special?” she asks nervously.
“Of course I have to be discreet. But my elder cousin Ashok has never before asked a favor. He raised me when my parents took ill. Indeed, I owe him a life of favors, but I am surprised at this one.”
“What’s so surprising?” Tina demands.
“I’ve known Ashok since we were lads and he’s never held truck with any religion. He’s no Marxist, but he does agree with that ‘opiate of the people’ line.”
“I know.” Monica smiles diffidently.
He rises. “Now that I’ve had the pleasure of making your personal acquaintance, Dr. Murphy, I think I’m beginning to understand.”
As she gets up, her legs creak to life.
“How long?” Tina asks. “Until we hear?”
*****
Ashok sets the dish on his prettily laid table.
The room is fragrant with coriander, hot peppers, mint and a dozen aromas she can’t place. His table is draped with an embroidered white cloth and matching napkins.
“Please be seated, Madame, and welcome to the Café Nair.” He suppresses a smile, lights two beeswax candles. The rich scent of honey mingles with the other fragrances.
“A hidden talent, Ashok. I couldn’t have imagined. This all looks lovely.”
“Ah, one of those sexist women who thinks men can’t cook.”
“Hardly.” She’s not in the mood for his adversarial jousting. She’s faced real opponents lately. “But you never talk about liking to cook.”
“There’s a lot we haven’t talked about.”
“Yes.” Unnerved by the rapid intimacy, she takes a bite. “Delicious.”
“So, Janardhanan called.”
She’s breathless. “Already?”
“Nothing official to report. But he was quite impressed with you. Impressed with me knowing you.”
“Are all the men in your family flirts?”
“Did he flirt with you?” His jaw tightens slightly.
“No, no. He was entirely professional. Cordial. And he has a great regard for his cousin. He told us how you took him in.”
He balks, “Nothing to it. He was a teenager, almost grown. Please,” he says, “please eat before the meal gets cold.”
She does eat, with gusto and to his pleasure, asks for second helpings of each. A splendid meal, a light wine from Nasik, serious talk about jobs and families.
“A petit digestif in the living room?” He gestures to the couch.
“A very petit one.” She’s excited, wary.
His futon couch is smaller than Tina’s with thinner, firmer cushions. She notes details to calm herself, not sure she’s prepared for what follows the brandy. A small television is stored in the corner, covered by a black and white Ikat print. He’s decorated the wall with masks.
Ashok follows her gaze. “This mask is from our home near Kochi. This one comes from Shillong. And that one, that’s an Ojibwa mask from Wisconsin.”
She’s trying to ignore his fondness for Madison. Naturally, if she gets sent back to Minnesota, she’d be delighted to know he was so close. Might be so close. They have no commitments. They are simply savoring moments; they’ve both agreed.
As he pulls out two crystal snifters, she recalls sipping cognac from plastic cups at the Razik Palace. That evening unfolded so easily. Tonight, she feels tongue-tied.
He hands her a generous globe of the aromatic liquid.
“Too much!” she protests.
“Enjoy what you like,” he says, settling in close, resting an arm on her shoulder.
As they sit together sipping the brandy and listening to the cacophony of Delhi horns, sirens and shouts, she knows she’s a world away from Tina’s flat. A universe away from Moorty.
“The clamor, does it bother you? I can close a window, but I’m afraid the air conditioner isn’t working,” he speaks faster. “I could adjust the ceiling fan.” He rises.
She pulls him back down. “This is lovely as it is. Relax.”
He moves closer, brushes her lips with his.
She sets down her brandy snifter. He sets his next to it.
“Monica, Monica,” he whispers, the softness of his breath arousing her.
She draws her face closer.
*****
Mrs. Habib is frightened but brave as she heads into her tenth hour of labor. Monica does what she can, then leaves Brigid in charge.
An hour later, glancing into the birthing room, she watches Brigid take the patient’s hand, wipe her face with a damp cloth. She’s a good person, totally devoted. Monica has been so judgmental.
As she strolls into the darkened ward, she feels grateful for this eventful, if tiring, day. The appendectomy patient from Koti is doing well. The young man with pneumonia is now OK. In midday she enjoyed a chat with Gita who is more vibrant with each visit. Her bouquet graces the ward desk. And the visa—the visa!—arrived. She is safe. Once again. For
now.
Ritu is sleeping soundly. How Monica wishes she had come to the hospital earlier. There’s so much they can do for diabetes. But at this stage? The first job is to save her toes. She stands by the bed, thinking of her friend Ritu in medical school, a world and a life away.
A whisper from the far end of the ward, past the partition, in the men’s section.
She turns, catches Kevin’s eye. He slips something in Mr. Patel’s bedside drawer.
Two hours later, after Aymen Habib arrives in the world, Monica passes the birthing room. They need more than one delivery station. She hears a sound and looks through the glass slit in the window.
Brigid is still there, although she’s had plenty of time to wash the infant and return him to his mother. What is she doing, exactly? Her back is turned and her voice is low. Some kind of prayer? Monica makes out a cruet of water. No, she can’t be baptizing Aymen. Mrs. Habib is a devout Muslim. She must be imagining this. She stands, paralyzed, thinking about Brigid’s lost twins. Please God, let me be imagining this.
Casually, Brigid sets down the cruet and turns, smiling. She’s rocking the baby. Protecting his dark little body with her strong, freckled arms.
Monica turns on her heels, furious. At Brigid, at herself. She wants to wake Father Freitas. Instead she ventures back into the ward and checks on Ritu, who is still sleeping soundly. She walks past the partition into the men’s section.
Mr. Patel’s slumber is also deep. He lies on his side, breath moving like huge waves through his exhausted body.
Quietly, she reaches for the nightstand drawer.
“Oh, Doctor ji,” Mr. Patel looks up, “Good Evening.”
“Checking in on you. Good night for now, Mr. Patel.” She walks quickly to the exit.
*****
She’s halfway out her apartment door, late to meet Sudha for their Saturday shop at the sabzi mandi when the phone rings.
Traveling with Spirits Page 27
