by Janet Sola
Neela smiles but shakes her head as if embarrassed at this acknowledgement. “Sahil is very kind. Of course there are many good nurses. But yes, I am very fortunate to have work that allows me to help people.”
“And Amar,” Sahil continues in his master of ceremonies voice, “is the finest guide in Rajasthan. And also a professor.” I’m surprised. I wonder why Sahil had not mentioned it earlier. A taxi driver and a professor.
“A professor who no longer teaches, unfortunately,” Amar says. He looks embarrassed.
“What a pity,” says Yvette. “But what was your specialty?”
“The history of science,” he says, his face lighting up. “The history of science in India. Especially the science of the heavens.” He gestures to the strip of sky and stars visible from where we are sitting. “From the time I was a child, I looked at the stars and wondered. I think I come from a long line of those in India who did so. It’s in my DNA, as the saying goes.” He has our attention now, and continues. “If you watch the sky all night, you will see that the stars move west. But a great Indian astronomer proposed that it only appears that way because the earth rotates about its axis. Of course, we all know that now. The interesting thing is that this was about the time, you see, that the Greeks believed the heavens were constructed of crystal spheres.” He shakes his head and chuckles. For a moment the sad look in this eyes disappears. “And some of the most astounding celestial observatories were constructed near here by one of the old maharajas. One of them is extant in Jaipur. Beautiful instruments.”
“He can take you there,” Sahil says. “As I say, he is the finest guide in all of Rajasthan.”
“We would love that,” Robert says. And Yvette agrees. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes, it will be my pleasure,” says Amar in his perfect English and I know he is happy for the business. Everything is turning out perfectly.
I light candles and put them on the table, creating a little island of light. The conversation flows. Robert has brought up the films of Ray again.
“Yes, yes,” says Amar, a frown of concentration appearing above his eyes. He turns to Neela. “Remember that film we saw, about the maharajah who spends all his money for one beautiful party.”
“Yes, The Music Room it was called,” Neela says. “We saw it together, remember, you and Sahil and me. We saw the video at my house.” Sahil appears, carrying a huge platter he puts on the table. The fish is crusty and brown from tail to gills and gives off aromas of curry and lemon. A ridge of saffroned rice surrounds it and in one corner, a cup of yoghurt and cucumbers. We dig in. It’s delicious. We ooh and aah in appreciation. Sahil seems pleased with our pleasure.
“I remember this film,” he says. “This maharajah wants to create something fine in his hard life.”
“To create something fine in the midst of the hardship of life,” I repeat. “That is a wonderful thought. The mission of the artist.”
“Or the mission of the chef, no?” says Robert.
“To the chef and the artist,” I say, raising my glass. We all toast Sahil.
“You must enjoy,” he says, sitting next to me.
Neela says, “This film you speak of, do you not remember, it is sad too, because he lost his son and only has memories in his life. Nothing else.”
“Then we change to talk of happy things,” says Sahil. “Just for tonight.”
“Just for tonight,” we echo. And so we eat Sahil’s fish and rice and drink wine far into the night, talking of our favorite places we have visited. “You must go to Pushkar,” says Robert. “It is a sacred town. A medieval town surrounded by the desert. And if you go, you must look up Baba. He lives in the hills in a house that looks as if it were built by Gaudi. You can visit him by camel.”
“Yes, we go,” says Sahil to me. “We can go to Pushkar if you like.”
“I would like that.” He has brought so much to my life, I think, so much laughter and joy and freedom. I am falling in love with him, and I have no idea what to do about it.
Suddenly, Amar and Neela get up to leave. “Thank you very much,” she says to Sahil. “I am glad your foot is well. I must be at the hospital early tomorrow morning.” She nods formally and shyly to each of us as Amar escorts her from the room.
Amar returns later, alone. The conversation is still going on. He sits back from the group, near Sahil, sighs, and runs his hand through his thick hair. He says something to Sahil in Hindi, and Sahil shrugs and replies. Later, after everyone has gone home and Sahil and I are drying the dishes, I ask him what Amar said.
“He says to me that he loves Neela, but he is worried about wife number one. He hears an American popular song. The song says many words to mean ‘follow your heart.’ He wants to know if I think that is a good thing to do.”
“And what did you say?”
“I say songs are easy. Life is not so easy.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Hindi Lesson
The sun seems to take aim at this place alone, baking everything in its path. Weather that creatures with shells love. The turtle outside my window basks all day. I have no shell, so I’ve taken to wearing a scarf around my head for protection and carrying a big bottle of water wherever I go.
I’m spending more time with the French couple. We like to take boat rides on the lake in the morning, before it gets too hot. As planned, Amar took them to Jaipur and the celestial observatory, and to several other sights. They thought he was a charming and well-informed guide. This morning, they tell me, they were asked to go down to the police station and questioned about their time with Amar. They’re not sure what it’s about, and the police wouldn’t tell them.
I ask Sahil and he says he hasn’t seen Amar for a couple of days. “Peculiar,” I say, “but then everything here is.”
At the internet café, which is slightly cooler than the streets, I order a chai, buy an hour at one of the computers, and anticipate the threads of words that connect me to the world beyond this city, to Jason, whom I’ve heard nothing from, and to Cathy. When I log on, finally, something from Jason pops up and I click on it.
Dear Elena (aka Saraswati),
I emailed you earlier, but only in my mind. I have been thinking about you though, praying (well, meditating) for you. Remember (I know I sound like a guru, maybe I’m turning into one, scary) that you don’t know who your teachers will be. Maybe an old woman in rags, or a child, or a fat businessman, you never know. In any case, I am finding I’m learning as much from the people that come here as from my teacher.
My lover has gone back to New Zealand. It wasn’t meant to be. That is it was meant to be but not forever and ever. I’ll be leaving here soon. If you still want to try to hook up in Kathmandu, let me know. I’ll be heading that way eventually, as you know I have the same open-dated return ticket as you do.
Namaste,
Jason
I’m not sure how to reply. I tell him about Sahil, and the magic I’m finding in Rajasthan, and that I don’t want it to end even though it felt a bit crazy in the beginning. That I will stay in touch now that I have his email but to go ahead with his plans and not wait for me. I open Cathy‘s email, subject line Closing In.
Yo Elena,
So I’m zeroing in on Grandpa. I found him fast mainly because Aussie boyfriend (he’s trying to push pills from his company to the docs here) is fairly well connected in the medical scene here. Turns out Grandpa retired a while back and lives in a big walled estate, banyan trees in the garden, mansion, the whole nine yards. I send a note, “I’m your granddaughter, don’t you want to meet me?” He doesn’t. No surprise there. But I haven’t given up. Plan B is to hound him. Tough as I am (or pretend to be), that image of Grandma Rose walking into the river because of grief just tears me up. I just want to know exactly what happened.
But how’s life for you? How’s it going with your romantic illusion? Just don’t get too attached to it. You know I actually miss you, So write,
Cathy
I’m impre
ssed. For all her what-the-hell persona, she is intrepid in her mission to get to the bottom of her family tragedy. If anybody can do it, she can. After all, she has a set of fine-tuned investigative and confrontational skills—including garbage sifting.
I hit the reply button, tell her I can’t wait for the next installment, then a little about my life here with Sahil, our recent dinner party. It feels so undramatic in a way, like I’m writing about a life I’ve lived for a long time that I’ve settled into. I don’t bother to tell her I’ve made no progress at all in finding the master painter because that is now a quest that is rapidly fading into the background.
The French couple told me that they are taking Hindi lessons, and that their efforts really added another layer to their experience. Except for occasional words and phrases, I speak mostly English with Sahil. They give me her card. “Learn Hindi Quickly,” it proclaims. And underneath “For the business and pleasure traveler.”
There is a telephone number, which I have the aunties dial for me. “Come this afternoon,” a woman who introduces herself as Mrs. Singh tells me in a voice with the high tones of educated Indian English, and gives me directions. I find a handsome white house tucked away on a street not far away, with the same business card taped to the door over a knocker in the shape of Ganesh, the elephant god. A tiny woman in her sixties, dressed in an immaculate red sari and gold jewelry, greets me. She escorts me into a daintily furnished parlor, then serves tea in English china cups.
I tell her I want to learn Hindi because I love the way it flows in the mouth, so many syllables, so quickly, as if your mouth was full of bubbles. She laughs at this.
“Of all the languages,” she says to me, “Hindi is one of the oldest and the most appealing.”
After introductions we begin with a few words and phrases. She suggests learning phrases that will be useful in the shops and restaurants. This is very nice, but the price is too high. I would like to know where the lady’s room is. My name is Elena.
I agree. And we practice them, although my tongue has a difficult time. “I’d like to learn some beautiful words too,” I say. “Not just practical ones.”
“Sundara,” she says. “This is the word for ‘beautiful.’” I remember that word from the phrase Sahil taught me. Mera sundara bharata.
“Sundara,” I say.
“Amara prema. Eternal love.”
Suddenly, there is a commotion in the next room, pots and pans clamoring and a loud male voice. “Damn. Where is that bloody servant when we need her?”
Mrs. Singh’s expression changes to a roll of her eyes. “My son Wally,” she whispers. “He is very spoiled. He needs a wife to look after him.”
The rest of lesson is to the accompaniment of the son’s clattering and cursing.
Sahil wants me to see his new shop and new paintings. We decide to walk to it in the cool of the evening. We pass a woman with bobbed hair wearing a punjabi. She reminds me of Neela. “Neela is lovely,” I say. I haven’t seen either her or Amar since our dinner party. I can’t seem to get them out of my mind. “So what about wife number one?” I ask.
“I do not like this woman. She is always angry.”
“But to be fair Sahil, she must be hurt that he has another woman. That would make any woman angry.”
“She is like Kali this wife. Kali is Hindu goddess who bites off the heads of men.”
“OK, I thought she just stomped them to death. And maybe sucked their blood.”
Sahil ignores my attempt at humor. “My friend Amar is a professor, as you know, but does not make so much money. She makes him drive a taxi instead.”
“So taxi drivers make more money than professors?”
“Yes, of course. Because many tourists give very good tips. But this is not work he wants to do. This makes him sad. You see how he always has sad eyes.” We cross the arched stone bridge over the estuary that connects the two lakes. Birds are diving for their last meal of the day.
“Yes, I do see his sad eyes. Does he have children—I mean with wife number one?”
“Yes, some children. But he does not love her.”
“If he really loves Neela, what if he asked wife number one for a divorce?”
“You do not understand India.”
I sigh. We step off the road to make way for a family in a donkey drawn cart overtaking us.
“In America, we like to solve problems. Not just accept the fates.”
“That is good. I am also this way. But sometimes it is too big, this problem.”
We take a turn up a steep street of shops. Half a block up we come to an open door. Over it hangs a hand-painted sign that says in English, French, and Hindi, Art for all Languages.
“Ah, welcome to the studio of Sahil the Artist.” He extends his hand to me in a flourish and we walk into a big room that smells of hand-rolled cigarettes and turpentine. Painting materials fill the shelves and small easels and cloths are set up on the floor. Three of Sahil’s friends, including Vijay, are sitting around on low stools, smoking, flicking their ashes onto the concrete floor. Sahil shakes his head and speaks to them sharply. They respond by getting up and leaving, looking over their shoulders at me as they go out the door.
“They help me in my new business,” Sahil tells me. He explains that they are supposed to keep the shop clean, deliver orders for the paintings to his clients, fix up the shop so he can open it to tourists. But they are lazy.
He shows me some of the paraphernalia he has acquired. Shelves of brushes with very fine tips that he tells me are made from the hair of squirrels. Bottles of colors and special jars that contain silver and gold powder for finishing touches. Stacks of eggshell colored parchment paper. “I save for many years to get this shop,” he says.
“Here I want to show you my latest painting.” He pulls it out from a shelf. It’s a miniature of a maharajah on an elephant with a jungle background. I see that it’s a copy of the picture from an open book on the same shelf. “Very nice,” I say. It is well executed, but I’m a little disappointed that he simply copies pictures.
“I am happy you like my painting,” he tells me the next day as we are walking home from an Indian classical concert, the sarod, flute, and tabla still playing hypnotic ragas in my mind. We pass three women on a ladder, painting their house a vivid blue. “Hot,” I say, fanning my face, wishing I knew the Hindi word for hot. They beam smiles at us nevertheless.
“Why don’t you paint the real people of Udaipur?” I ask him. “Like those women on the ladder. They’re beautiful.”
“Tourists only want copies of old pictures. This is what I do.”
“But if we only copy what is from the past, then nothing new would ever be invented.”
He touches his forehead with his fingers as if he is considering this. “It takes a long time to be a good painter. To have your own style. Like the master painter.”
“It takes a long time to be good at anything. But you’re talented. You know you are.”
“I want to be a success. Now I still must make paintings for other shops. But very soon I make paintings only for my shop.” He keeps his head down so I can’t see his expression.
“It’s good you have ambition.” I want to encourage him. “It’s the same in America. If you’re an artist often you must choose between success or money and what we want to express from our souls.” Am I being a schoolteacher again? Yes, I am.
He’s silent until we reach my room. Outside my window, the lake is shimmering in the afternoon heat. The turtle is sunning on the rock. “Do you see?” he says. “The rock is sometimes home to the turtle and sometimes the stork. I do not like to choose one or the other: money or art as you say. I believe I can do many things.”
Now it’s my turn to think about what he is saying. He pulls me to him and kisses me. “You too can do many things. You are Saraswati and now you are Parvati.”
Saraswati is of the air, the realm of ideas and their manifestation. Parvati, I remember, is the love goddess. She i
s the goddess of the body and its sensual expression. I am enjoying getting to know my new goddess. For years, I forgot about my body. It was simply a vehicle to take me from point A to point B. Now, it’s a whole new universe, with planets, stars, and comets.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Visit to Baba
The train station is pulsing with life, and Sahil is the liveliest of all. As always, he seems to know everyone, the old men with their walking sticks, matronly women with their tins of food, even the ever-present beggars. And if he doesn’t know them he still smiles and says a few words.
Enchanted by the French couple’s description, I am looking forward to a four or five day trip to Pushkar. So is Sahil. Perhaps the master painter will be there, according to some information he has. Whenever I think of the painting—the shrouded, peaceful figure by the fire, the lion at its feet—I long for the peace and transcendence I felt when it was so briefly in my possession. Is this master painter truly out there somewhere? I’m not sure, but the chimera is enough to make me keep reaching.
I sit on my suitcase and watch Sahil, feeling a bit self-conscious in my sari of midnight blue silk that one of the aunties lent me for this special outing. Pushkar is a sacred city, and I want to wear this in its honor, in spite of the fact that I’m traveling in sin with my lover. The folds are tucked at my waist, curtain-like. I have to move carefully so it won’t come undone.
“You look very beautiful in this sari,” Sahil tells me as he returns with the tickets.
“Thank you. Somehow I feel only Indian women can wear these and look beautiful.” And yet, every day I feel as if I am a bit more a part of this culture. Something has caught his attention though, and he’s not looking at me anymore but out toward the street where the tuk-tuks and their drivers wait and hope for customers.
“I see my friend Amar,” Sahil says. “Our friend.”
