They stare at this broken world. “Ma’am and the car are gone. Swept away.”
“No, no, no!” she pleads. “Sudha, where are you, Sudha?”
Shankar hangs on to her with one hand and dials his satellite phone with the other. He’s saying something in a calm, clear voice. Speaking in English. But Monica cannot hear anything except the growling earth.
Monica watches the landslide go on and on. It is probably over within minutes. But Monica is frozen, caught in the eternal flow of rock and dirt and trees and—
When she stops shaking, Shankar releases his grip.
Numbly she walks across the road.
“No, Ma’am,” he calls.
She’s moving too fast for him. If she doesn’t look down, if she doesn’t say good-bye, she’ll never forgive herself. Still, she can’t believe this is all happening.
Oh, what a horrendous sight: the wash of broken boulders and splintered trees and no, it’s too deep, she can’t see the car. She imagines Sudha’s terror, oh, God, why did this happen? Why Sudha, who was, is, treasured by Raul, her family, her students, all of them. Why beloved Sudha?
Monica feels Shankar’s firm hand.
“Ma’am,” he speaks softly, firmly. “We must wait over there. I have contacted headquarters. Help will come in a few hours. Do not worry.”
“An ambulance!” she shouts frantically. “Call an ambulance for Sudha. A helicopter would get here faster. She’s alive down there, just trapped, trapped—”
“Come,” he says kindly. “We’ll wait on the other side, out of the wind. We must try to keep warm.”
“But the medical helicopter,” she demands loudly. “They’ve sent some kind of ambulance?”
He looks away sorrowfully.
She rocks back and forth between searing pain and numbness. “Sudha. Sudha,” she prays. She can’t go on without her. They all need her. “Sudha!” she shouts at the top of her lungs.
Another rumble from the earth. A loud, deeply vibrating hum exploding into a groan.
The globe, itself, is shifting.
THIRTY-FOUR
June, 2002, Moorty
They stand at attention in the damp auditorium of Walkerton School as a monsoon rages against the high windows. The students all look crisp in their green and white uniforms.
“Please be seated,” announces Sri Dal, the headmaster.
Monica sits awkwardly on a wooden folding chair between Ashok and Sudha’s mother. When she tried to sit at the back of the auditorium, Sri Dal ushered her to the front row.
Ashok has been so kind and attentive.
“Of course I came,” he whispered. “I was terribly worried for you.”
Mrs. Badami’s green silk sari rustles as she shifts in her chair.
On the train platform, she said to them, “Call me Rajul.”
Indeed the handsome, sturdy woman with the jet black hair and ageless skin seems a contemporary, but something in Monica maintains a distance.
“Dear esteemed guests and students,” Sri Dal speaks with gentle authority, “We gather today to honor a devoted teacher and admired colleague, Sudha Badami, who served Walkerton School for five memorable years. As you know, today we are privileged by the presence of her beloved parents, Sri and Srimati Badami. Doctors Murphy and Sanchez and Professor Niar, who were friends of our cosmopolitan teacher, also privilege us with their attendance.”
At the station, Rajul tried to put them at ease. “Sudha spoke so often about both of you doctors. I know how much she admired your work and how greatly she cherished your friendship.”
Santosh Badami was more formal. The tall, trim man seemed to wish he could evaporate in this thin, hill station air. He was cordial, unsurprising for a well-traveled naval officer, but remote.
“Our first speaker today is Vikram. Vikram has worked with Sudha Badami for two years now and has grown proficient in English.”
Soberly, Vikram climbs to the stage.
He surveys the audience. Catching Monica’s eye, he offers a half-smile.
No trace of the gawky boy who came with his prickly teacher to the clinic. Her breath catches at the memory of Sudha in her sari with the blue trim. She sees her as clearly as if she’s standing next to Vikram now.
“I think you are the perfect person to present a lecture on hygiene for our students. Do you ever get away from the hospital?”
How intimidated she felt by the refined, confident teacher.
Sudha persisted, “So when you come, you will not speak about religion?”
“She taught us all the literatures. She explained that only when we know about the world can we understand our own country.” Vikram speaks confidently. “I shall miss Madam Badami.” He chokes, then regains composure, as his teacher would have expected. “And I will never forget her.”
Ashok squeezes Monica’s elbow.
Murmurs of agreement and approval echo in the room. Vikram gives a slight bow and exits.
Rajul’s eyes are full. Small hands—so like Sudha’s—are folded in her lap. Next to his wife, Santosh sits erect and attentive. Yes, these are the people who gave Sudha her grace and certainty.
She watched the landslide go on and on.
She couldn’t hear the car. She imagined, felt, Sudha’s terror. Oh, God.
“Ma’am,” his voice trembled as he tried for an authoritative tone.
“An ambulance!” she demanded. “A medical helicopter!”
Raj climbs the steps solemnly. He’s grown taller and more handsome in the last sixteen months. His voice is deeper than Vikram’s, but no less mournful.
“Madam Badami helped us develop pride in our country and tolerance of others. And appreciation of others. She instilled in us the belief that we could make great contributions. It is because of her provocative, patient, authoritative instruction that whatever gifts I have will be better used.”
Their journey to Manali in the rescue van was a blur in the lashing rain. The driver told Monica and Shankar about other deaths. A whole family from Patna. A school group from Jaipur. She couldn’t absorb the details. She didn’t care about the others. She ached for Sudha.
The hotel had electricity and excellent phone service. Hysterically, Monica kept thinking how happy Sudha would have been here, showering and washing her hair after all those grungy days on the road. Monica didn’t care if she ever showered again. She didn’t want to eat. She didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to die.
Instead she phoned Raul.
With him, she wept as she could not do before.
Raul was the first to compose himself. “I will ring her family, the headmaster at Walkerton,” he said shakily.
“You have enough strength for this?”
“I will find it. But how about you? I’ll come and drive you back to Moorty.”
There was nothing more in the world she wanted. Another three days with Shankar seemed unimaginable.
“No, please. You have so much to do there. No, I’ll be fine. I’m not hurt, just wet and dirty.”
“You are also in shock, Monica. I’ll ring you in an hour to check.”
The third time the phone rang, she watched the black instrument from her bed, willing it to be silent. He was trying to draw her from the hole of despair, where among the splintered trees, the sundered boulders, somewhere, she knew she would find Sudha.
The ringing subsided. She closed her eyes.
Ten minutes later: bloody phone again. She started to throw it against the wall.
Ashok’s voice, full of concern. “Raul rang. I’m so very sorry. How are you? Why didn’t you phone me?”
Before she had a chance to answer, he interrupted. “I’ve booked a coach for Manali. I arrive to
morrow about 10 o’clock.”
The teachers are speaking now. About Sudha’s diligence. Her loyalty. Her creativity. Her bright spirit.
Former students climb the steps to add words of appreciation and grief.
Monica listens gratefully. She hopes Raul will speak, but he’s already told her he has no words yet. Nor does she, of course, because she can’t get beyond, “Helicopter! Ambulance!”
Sri Dal ends the memorial by asking everyone to observe a moment of silence.
*****
Lunch at the Mayfair Arms is painfully stilted for the first half-hour. Monica wishes Ashok hadn’t left for Delhi. He was so adept in social situations. Still he’d already spent more than a week away from the university.
“Please tell us about your hospital here,” Rajul asks. “Sudha said you were doing good work, each of you.”
Santosh is gradually disappearing into the William Morris wall paper.
Monica fixates on the ornate silver butter dish. The background music, a Handel sonata, is counterpointed by the occasional chime and clink of crystal and silverware.
A stocky waiter in a white suit too tight across his belly serves her filet of sole and Dover potatoes. Where has he come from? Is he wearing slippers?
“And Monica,” she hears Raul talking, “has done wonders with preventive health care.”
Santosh tucks into his roast lamb and mint sauce.
Sudha would laugh about her memorial lunch being held at this classic colonial dining room. At first, Monica assumed the Badamis chose a posh Western restaurant to make their guests comfortable. Then she recalls Sudha’s long ago comment about how her father would love this place. She sees that urbane Santosh feels at home here and that Rajul is striving for an atmosphere of composure.
“Yes, tell us more about the program, won’t you, Dr. Murphy?”
“Please call me Monica.”
“To be sure,” Rajul dips her head, “And you do a lot of prenatal care as well?”
Monica is touched that Sudha reported so much to her parents.
“You do what is asked.” It does seem as simple as that.
Rajul nods.
“Sudha made real contributions,” Monica feels blood rush to her face at the palpable memory of Sudha’s endless vitality. “You heard about her teaching today. She also worked in the Manda project with Raul, encouraging her students to learn by teaching others.”
Santosh speaks for the first time. “That’s our Sudha. Always busy, always taking one step beyond. She was that way, even as a child.”
“Tell us what she was like as a girl?” Raul asks.
Plates of ham and chicken salad. The Altar Society women brought a full bakery of cookies, cakes and pies. Mom would have loved the food, would have fluttered around checking that everyone had enough to eat.
The cat-footed waiter pads up behind her. “May I show you our pastry tray?”
She wants to say, you can show me a stiff glass of single malt. But Sudha’s parents don’t drink. And, as always, she’s aware she could turn into Jeanne.
“By all means,” answers Santosh, who has relaxed. Eyes bruised with grief, he is nevertheless becoming the classic, generous Indian host.
Each of the others orders a pastry; Monica isn’t hungry.
Bracelets chiming, Rajul points to the tray. “Come dear. How about the berries? Healthy, beautiful berries? They’re so tasty this time of year. Sudha told me you had ‘an appetite for life.’ She talked about those cooking classes. You know she was very proud to make us pasta primavera on her last visit to Bandra.”
“The vegetables were perfectly al dente,” Santosh smiles for the first time. “Delicious, indeed. Pasta primavera from our little mountain eccentric. A wonder.”
Overwhelmed by longing for Sudha, undone by Rajul’s reference to the “last visit,” she feels tears stinging her eyes. Monica tells herself that crying is self-indulgent in the presence of Sudha’s parents and lover. Their pain is so large and deep. Yet she does carry something they do not bear. She is responsible for her friend’s death. She planned the trip, paid for it secretly without telling Sudha. With privileged American presumptuousness and reckless spontaneity, she risked her dear friend’s life. And lost it.
“I’m so sorry,” she suddenly confesses to Rajul and Santosh. “It’s my fault. The trip was my idea. If only--.” She is sobbing. “I’m sorry. So unutterably sorry.”
Raul bows his head.
Santosh studies his plate.
Rajul gazes at her, then takes her hand. “No, please listen. Sudha was not a follower. She cherished you as a spirited companion. She rang us the night before your journey, of course. She was thrilled beyond excitement.”
Santosh intercedes, a catch in his voice. “I tried to tell her. I know those mountains from my brother who did war duty there. I said, ‘Go later in the season. The rains are treacherous.’ Sudha never listened. My fault. If only I had been a stricter father.”
Monica hardly hears his words.
“No. No. No!” Rajul declares. “No one’s fault. Sudha was Sudha. Our Sudha always traveled the furthest. Yes, Meena is in Australia and Naren flies back and forth from Toronto and Leeds. But our Sudha always had her eyes in the stars. She ventured farthest in her imagination. And now she is at rest in her beloved mountains.”
“But you ‘recovered;’ you came back to India,” Monica said.
“Not to Bombay. In some senses I am as distant from my parents as Meena and Naren. At least they live in large, cosmopolitan cities. My father, especially, doesn’t know what to make of this daughter, the country recluse.”
That night in Sangla, Monica knew their friendship would go on and on.
“Our Sudha treasured you both. Monica and you, Dr. Sanchez…”
“Raul, please.”
“We look forward to welcoming you to Bombay. A beautiful city. Especially in January and February.”
Politely, they nod.
Monica knows her assent is more than courtesy. She is bound to Sudha’s parents, Sudha’s spirit.
THIRTY-FIVE
June, 2002, Moorty
Birds chatter outside the window. It’s safe to open her eyes now. One more sleepless dark has passed. Rising, she finds the room surprisingly chilly for summer.
Another night reliving the accident. Revising it.
Ignoring Shankar.
Reaching into the jeep and yanking Sudha to safety.
Yelling, hurry, hurry, forget your stupid purse, hurry, hurry.
Always the same image. Sudha can’t hear her. Can’t see her. The curtain drops.
Shankar pinning Monica against the mountainside shouting, No you cannot move. The jeep disappeared. The earth shifted.
As she boils water for tea, Monica thinks how she has talked it through time and again with Ashok. Why? She asks him: why couldn’t I help her? And he says it was too late. It happened too fast.
Is Sudha in Heaven? Sister Mary Thomas said only good Christians went to Heaven. Monica remembers coming home from the first grade crying because the Cohen family next door weren’t going to Heaven. “Whatever makes you say that?” Mom consoled. “God has room for every good person.”
It takes all her effort to dress.
“So if you don’t believe in Heaven, do you think you’ll be reincarnated?”
“No, I’ll just vanish,” Sudha smiled. “Disappear into the universe. Recycled.”
Monica stared at her, for this is exactly what she used to believe.
“So will your body. We’ll mingle together for eternity. Your lovely blue eyes are made of the 1080 particles that have been roving the universe for zillions of years. You just return those particles.”
; Monica shrugged.
“I don’t mean to make light,” Sudha softened. “Your religion, I know how much it means to you. Does it bother you that I’m not going to Heaven?”
“Yes,” she rejoined. “It’s your choice. But it will be lonelier without you.”
What made Monica confident she was going to Heaven?
It’s already a lot lonelier here without her. She moans, yearning for Sudha’s radiant smile, her quick repartee.
Combing her knotted hair, she stares at the mirror, “How can God be so unfair?”
“I will pray for you,” Father Freitas said. “And when you find the strength to offer your own prayers, God will hear them. Give yourself time. Give God time.”
He’s a good man, but right now, it’s hard for her to believe in his prayers. Harder still to believe in her own.
Forcing her steps toward the refectory, she knows she has to face them. She has to return to work. Eating is also a good idea. Not eating is more appealing. A quicker route to her dance with the 1080 particles.
Sister Catherine greets her at the door, sniffing into a white handkerchief.
Monica squeezes the nun’s free hand.
“May God rest your friend’s soul.”
Monica nods to console the good woman.
As she enters the dining room, Sister Eleanor reaches forward.
The nun embraces her. She, too, is crying. Restrained Sister Eleanor.
And now frigid Brigid. The spiteful epithet leaps to her mind in the midst of a consoling hug. Monica recoils at the touch, even as she hungers for warmth.
The first day back at work passes in a fog. Grief hits at odd moments. While checking Ritu’s blood work. While walking to dinner. How can she cope with these sad, sympathetic people? How can she face Raul? When it’s her fault. She had boldly divined the trip, persuaded Sudha to come. Yes, her fault. Her most grievous fault. No matter what they say.
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