Traveling with Spirits

by Miner, Valerie

  Sudha shrugs.

  He turns to Monica and lowers his voice. “Indian-style toilet.”

  She keeps a straight face. “This will be most adequate, Sir. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” A relieved smile. “Both ladies are welcome. Welcome.”

  They set out for a stroll in the darkening afternoon, taking a long, empty road toward the highest mountains. Here at the edge of town, Losar is quiet. The last light is thin, tranquil. They’re near the summit of their trip. Only Kunzum Pass will be higher. Then they begin the descent. Moorty will appear before them. How much longer will she have the company of Raul and Sudha? She wants the trip to end here, wants it never to end, wants to rewind and set a different course. Hubris. Selfishness. They all have their own paths. She should be grateful she’s shared Sudha’s for a while.

  Back at the guest house, they wait for supper, huddled in three layers of clothes, reading by flashlight.

  At dinner, Monica is charmed to find the dining room lit with the dim bulb of a flashlight, the top screwed off, providing a candle-like glow. “Where do you think the monk is?” she whispers.

  “Perhaps we imagined him.”

  She feels a chill.

  “He probably eats alone,” Sudha says more seriously.

  The vegetables and rice are simple fare. Miraculously prepared, given the cooks have only flashlights with which to navigate the pitch blackness.

  They eat eagerly, in silence. Again, Monica feels the load of their long day. At another time, with a roaring coal fire and flickering candles, the guest house room might be comfortable, even charming. Tonight, it’s a rough way station and Monica prays that they’ll be sheltered until dawn.

  They fumble around the room, washing their hands with cold water from a plastic pail and crawling beneath the covers fully clothed. The comforters are so redolent with lanolin, it feels they’ve bedded down with a yak.

  Sudha giggles.

  Monica follows suit.

  “It’s so hilarious,” Sudha gulps a breath. “Two sophisticated women bundled in bed, wearing all their clothes in case they need to make a midnight getaway.”

  “Oh, don’t even think about it.” She falls into a fit of giggles.

  “This reminds me of sleeping with Meena, on that childhood holiday to Moorty.”

  “Yes,” Monica reflects. “Jeanne and I loved Nicko’s attic bedroom overlooking Lake Superior. We’d stay up hours talking and laughing.”

  “So what should we talk about?”

  “Don’t you think we should get some sleep?” she yawns. “In case Mr. School Superintendent or Mrs. Treasury claims our bed?”

  “You’re too practical,” Sudha complains. “Actually, there is something I need to ask you.”

  Exhausted as she is, she can’t say no to Sudha, who clearly savors bedtime chats.

  “What’s that?”

  “Would you consider joining us in the Backcountry Project?”

  “That’s a good name for it,” she stalls.

  “No, really. The three of us would make a superb team.”

  “Two days ago you were sending me to Delhi to marry Ashok.”

  “You said no.”

  “You knew I would.”

  “I want you to be happy. Moorty isn’t the place for that.”

  “I made a commitment to the Mission.” She feels torn.

  “We could enlist Ashok, too. He’s interested in this kind of project.”

  “He’s interested in his academic career.”

  “He’s interested in you. And he has a conscience.”

  “Of course,” she says heatedly. “What use would he be in Manda?”

  “He’s a great supporter of rural autonomy. Philosophers write about everything, no? He could investigate values in indigenous healing arts. Philosophy of medicine. He could teach at Delhi during alternate terms. Or get a job at one of the universities in this state. I bet his articles would be invaluable for fundraising.”

  “Dear friend, you’re getting carried away,” Monica sighs. “My dad calls this blue-skying.” Surely Sudha knows that erudite philosophy articles are more likely to drive donors away.

  “I’m serious,” she whispers. “Raul and I have discussed this for weeks. You could do so much…”

  “Sudha, I’m flattered. Honored…”

  “Stop there.” She puts her index finger over Monica’s lips. “Just say you’ll think about it, that’s all. That you’ll think about it.”

  “OK,” she surprises herself. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.” Sudha sinks beneath the covers.

  “Now you owe me some serenity. Let’s discuss something calming. Tell me more about your childhood trip to Moorty.”

  They are up at 6:30, pacing in the sunny courtyard to keep warm.

  “Oh, delicious!” Sudha exclaims.

  Monica turns to see the cook carrying out a tray of tea and steaming chapattis.

  “Bliss!” Sudha declares. “The mountains. The sun. Fresh, hot chapattis. My dearest friend. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  June, 2002,The Himalayan Journey

  After breakfast, Monica and Sudha pack quickly, eager to go. On this crisp, clear morning, at the edge of the world, Monica imagines they might be able to see into eternity.

  The first class vehicle takes longer to awaken than the passengers.

  Finally, Shankar admits his battery is dead.

  “In Minnesota, we plug cars into electric block heaters each night.”

  “Not very practical in a land without electricity.”

  “Right,” she feels foolish. Her reflexes are still so American, so presumptuous. “Moorty is beginning to feel like the French Riviera.”

  Sudha rolls her eyes. “I’m grateful we had a bed last night. If we’d slept on concrete floor, we’d be in the same condition as Shankar’s chariot.”

  Monica doesn’t want to be stuck here. One night with the yak is enough. She aches to wash her hair, her whole body, in warm water. Where is her patience? That elusive equanimity?

  After an hour of tinkering, Shankar finds someone to push the jeep downhill. To everyone’s relief, it sputters to a start.

  “Onward to Kunzum Pass!” he declares merrily.

  They both sit in the back this morning. Monica takes the place behind Shankar so Sudha has the unobstructed view.

  “Onward,” they say in unison.

  The good humor is short-lived. The steep roads are the most difficult they’ve encountered so far. They’ll have to ascend 1,500 meters on winding, rock-strewn surfaces before Kunzum Pass.

  Monica gazes out the window, praying for safe passage.

  They creep up the sheer grade.

  Do they really need to get this close to the top of the world? Monica begins to sense a grave, if irrational, dread.

  At the next turn, she watches their ascent steepen.

  “Damn!”

  They’ve never heard Shankar swear before.

  “What is it?” Sudha forces calm into her voice.

  “Flat tire.” He draws a sharp breath. “Can’t you hear it?”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Bad roads,” Shankar explains needlessly. “Frequent problem. I will fix it.”

  They step out and wait on the side of the rugged highway, clutching their shawls close to their bodies, against the wind.

  Sudha suddenly flies to a high rock. “Come here. Might as well enjoy the scenery. This is as close as I, at least, will get to Heaven.”

  “Sudha, be careful. That’s not safe.”

  “Each day here is a wager,” sh
e laughs. “Thank about last night. We got to sleep till dawn with that stinky yak.”

  Cautiously, Monica picks her way toward Sudha. “Thanks to you.”

  Shankar examines the tire. He studies it from another angle. Then another before slipping his jack beneath the car.

  Minutes pass. Half-an-hour.

  He fiddles with a bolt, which is locked in ice.

  A tractor driver pulls over and Monica sees he’s hauling an open cart crowded with six dusty women road workers wearing protective scarves over their heads, noses and mouths. She is suddenly nostalgic for Lalung’s dirt roads and neat dwellings. Were they deeper in the Himalayas in that village or here on this isolated rocky road?

  The tractor driver stands with hands on his hips giving Shankar advice.

  Shankar ignores him, his face a study of staunch determination.

  A woman calls to Sudha and Monica.

  The tourists from Moorty pick their way down the hill, approaching the cart tentatively.

  Mixing Hindi, English and sign language, they all manage to communicate, amusing themselves. The giggling women belong to Chatru.

  Behind them, Shankar and the tractor driver lift and bang and grunt.

  The sound of clapping turns the women’s attention. The tractor driver is grinning jubilantly. Shankar stands, wiping his hands, looking annoyed.

  “Ready, Ladies?” Shankar is edgy.

  Monica looks at the bald tire and their exhausted tense driver, then at Sudha. She says, “As ready as we’ll ever be.”

  When the jeep pulls away, the road workers are waving and whooping. For one dislocated moment, Monica sees klieg lights on an eerie green football field, maroon-and-gold clad cheerleaders waving pompons toward Kunzum Pass. Whoop. Whoop.

  Sudha and Monica grin at the women, waving back.

  Silence descends. Clearly all of them are lost in thought or relief or foreboding.

  For an hour, they ride in silence.

  Monica peers out anxiously for a roadside shrine. Something to cheer Shankar. To buoy all of them.

  Sun cuts through the cold. She breathes in the welcome warmth.

  At the same moment, Shankar points to a dhaba, making a swift left turn. The sign reads, “Omlettes, Lemmon Tea, Beans and Chapattis.”

  “Perfect!” Sudha pronounces. “Sun. Air. Food. A chance to stretch.”

  The café owner, a slim man in jeans, parka and green woolen cap, nods to them, then continues retouching his shingle, Vijay’s Dhaba. “Fresh, new paint,” he explains to the hungry visitors, “to draw people in.”

  Vijay’s other customer camps at the end of the long outside table, nursing a Coke and listening intently to a short wave radio.

  Monica has noticed dozens of people listening to short wave here in the Himalayas. Of course. How else would they get the news?

  The three pilgrims sit, waiting silently for Vijay to reassure them with warm food.

  Quickly, Vijay serves generous plates of rice, beans and chapattis. Vijay tells them he lives farther south in Manali with his wife and children seven months of the year. “I come up here May to October—to escape the mosquitoes and tourists in Manali.”

  “Doesn’t it get a little lonely?” Monica asks.

  He stretches his arms wide and studies the mountains. “Not with such company.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Where do you ladies travel now?”

  “The Kunzum Pass. Then down to Rohtang Pass,” mutters Shankar, probably still stewing about the dead battery and the flat tire.

  Vijay draws a sharp breath. “Bad weather this afternoon. Snow and rain. Rock slides. Safe drive.”

  “Certainly,” Shankar answers curtly. “Safety is our motto.”

  They continue traveling toward the summit. Soon they will be at Kunzum. Now all the surrounding mountains glisten in brilliant whiteness.

  It’s sunny enough, Monica notices, relieved Vijay was wrong about the weather.

  Every ten miles or so, they pass a “Free Tibet” sign on the roadside.

  Or another car.

  Most of the day, it’s just the little jeep limping along the jagged mountain edge.

  Then, finally, suddenly, too soon they arrive.

  Kunzum Pass is packed with snow. 15,085 feet.

  “Yay!” shouts Sudha, then grabs the hands of her fellow travelers. “We did it! We made it.”

  Shankar nods, nervously, perhaps unused to ebullient reactions from his businessmen passengers.

  Monica laughs, then kisses Sudha on both cheeks. “Yes, yes. We’re here at last.”

  Sudha leaps from the car, tugging her shawl after her.

  “Here, at last,” Monica muses. Pensively, slowly, she puts on her wool hat and gloves. Outside in the crisp air, she says a prayer of thanks, realizing she’s reassured as well as sad that they’ve reached the goal. It’s down, down from here.

  They stop at the Kunzum Buddhist Temple. Monica photographs a radiant flank of Tibetan Liberation posters. She wants to concentrate on this place, the pinnacle of their trip, but her mind drifts backward to the Raj trappings of Shimla, the sunny morning tea at Narkanda, the temple at Sarahan, the lovely village near Sangla, the astonishing dust of Lalung.

  “Do we have to go down?” Sudha asks, shifting from one foot to the other to keep warm.

  “It is heavenly,” Monica laughs, “but just a little chilly to be heaven itself, I think.”

  “Yes, we must continue to Rohtang Pass,” Shankar says, “as we agreed in the—”

  “In the contract,” Monica and Sudha finish his sentence.

  Relieved, Shankar consents to have his picture taken with each of them. Monica sees his impatience, perhaps nervousness, about reaching tonight’s hotel before dark.

  As they leave, he drives clockwise around the temple for an auspicious journey.

  *****

  Light is fading fast. Grey clouds sail swiftly across the filmy sky. They’re riding into shadow land.

  A fine mist has coated their windshield.

  Shankar switches on the noisy wipers.

  “In Ireland,” Monica hears her own inanely cheery voice, “They call this ‘soft weather.’ ”

  “Hard to drive,” Shankar stretches his neck. “Hard to see.”

  Silence again. Monica broods over Sudha’s startling invitation to work in Manda. She’s touched that they want her. Flattered. Yet how can she possibly leave Moorty Hospital? A long sigh runs through her tired body (she didn’t sleep so well with that yak and the imminence of mid-night eviction). Equally, how long can she survive the reign of Kevin Walsh?

  Sudha reaches along the back seat for her friend’s hand.

  Monica looks up, questioning.

  “We’re going back down now. Back to earth. You know Rohtang Pass is ‘only’ about 13,000 feet. Very terrestrial.”

  Monica shuts her eyes, ready for a shower and electricity, regretful their trip is ending.

  “I want to thank you. For the adventure. The beauty. For your friendship.”

  Monica squeezes Sudha’s hand. She’ll miss her when she leaves for Manda. It will be hard to phone. Even hard to get mail in and out. She’s certain, however, that her own work is in Moorty, that she must keep her commitment to the Mission. Of course, that’s the right decision.

  The rain increases. The windshield is a blur. Afternoon dims. Darkens.

  Suddenly a deluge. Torrential water courses heavier and heavier. Sheets of it. A river. They are surrounded by wetness and noise.

  How did Noah steer the ark? Monica wonders. Can you survive a barrel ride over Niagara Falls?

  Shankar accelerates. Then slows down. Clearly he doesn�
��t know what to do.

  The jeep jerks sharply to the right and rests on a narrow shoulder, huddled against the silver-white mountain.

  Monica looks over Shankar’s shoulder at the steep highway ahead.

  Sudha stares out her window at rain coursing down the road. “It’s like a river.”

  “Not good to drive in this,” he declares.

  “Of course,” Monica agrees. “Best to wait. We have these downpours in Minnesota during thunderstorm season. I always pull over to the side of the highway.” The side of a well-paved, graded freeway, with broad safety shoulders. Near an emergency call box.

  Sudha sighs, wraps her shawl close and closes her eyes.

  The rain slows. Just as the storm abates and Shankar puts the car in gear, they hear the noise.

  A deep rumble.

  A roar.

  “What the—” Monica begins.

  “Rockslide!” Shankar shouts. “Out. Out! Against the mountainside. Now!”

  Monica opens the door, reaches back for her suitcase.

  “No, no time. No time!” he screams. “Out!”

  “Slide toward me,” Monica calls to Sudha. “Safer over here.”

  “Faster this way,” Sudha says, opening the door on the far side.

  Another earsplitting crack.

  Shankar carefully edges out, flattens himself against the wet mountain.

  Monica follows, all the while, keeping an eye on Sudha.

  Giant rocks and sheets of dirt pummel the jeep as the ground shakes fiercely.

  “Sudha? Where are you? Sudha?” Monica screams.

  Immense boulders and oh, no, a wall of rocks and snow and earth itself.

  Monica bolts toward the car, shrieking, “Sudha! Where are you, Sudha?!”

  Shankar yanks her arm. He’s too strong.

  “Nothing,” he says breathlessly. “Nothing you can do—force of the landslide.”