Traveling with Spirits (11 page)

  She changes the topic. “Your students are very fluent in English.”

  “Unfortunately, they must know your language to succeed. We have over fifteen major languages in India. Then there are the tribal tongues and so forth. Many consider Hindi the national language; however students opt for English in the larger world.”

  She waits, annoyed at having English dubbed “her” language. She’s tempted to recite Mom’s patriotic rant about the English destruction of Gaeltalk in Ireland.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the teacher gazes at her ironically. “Why do I open my classroom to the larger world? They need to know about it, about you.” She seems genuinely ill at ease for the first time in their acquaintance. “But I wish them to see their home in context, not to leave it.”

  “Yes,” she gropes for the right words. “You left Bombay to come here to teach in a land where few know Marathi.”

  “Ah, you have been conferring with the charming Father Freitas.”

  Monica is glad she finds Father charming. “He mentioned his visit here.”

  “There you have the model Indian. He was raised speaking Konkani. Yet he also knows Hindi, Portuguese, English. He addressed our students in Hindi.”

  “I wish I could have done that.”

  “You could learn.”

  “I have tapes and a book.” She sounds pathetic. “I haven’t touched them for weeks. It’s hard to find discipline and focus after a long day at the hospital.”

  “I could teach you.” Sudha regards her directly.

  “Oh, I couldn’t impose on your schedule.”

  “A very American response. So concerned with time.” She’s smiling faintly. Afternoon sun pours through the windows. “What do you think a single woman does in the evenings here? I can only mark so many essays before my mind begins to atrophy. Besides, I live near your clinic. You’re not the first person from the hospital I’ve taught.”

  Her heart sinks. She’s been hoping this was a hand of friendship. Now she understands it’s a practical campaign to train the staff and hospital to communicate with patients, part of Sudha’s “missionary” work. “Who else?”

  “Brigid Walsh came for several lessons.”

  “Brigid?” And then without thinking, “How did she get away from her husband?”

  Sudha laughs. “Indeed, he was the difficulty. When he discovered, lessons ended.”

  Monica is also laughing now and this feels so good.

  They grow silent. It’s a more comfortable silence than before.

  Recovering formality, the teacher proposes, “Let me walk you to the gate.”

  “Thanks,” she nods, a little deflated by the sudden farewell.

  By the time they reach the road, Monica has summoned enough courage. “I’d like to accept your tutoring offer. But I need to repay you somehow.”

  She grins faintly. “Recompense is not necessary. Besides, I think we’ll find the experience mutually edifying. We might even have another laugh or two.”

  Monica waves, wondering when Sudha Badami will answer the question about why she left Bombay. “Another laugh will be good.” She smiles and continues smiling well past the gate and the long retaining wall.

  Halfway home, she realizes she’s forgotten to be on guard against the monkeys.

NINE

May, 2001, Moorty

  She strolls briskly to keep up with Sudha, who’s especially fleet when wearing a salwar kameez rather than a sari. Shopping trips with her friend always begin far down the mountain, at the
sabzi mandi
, where Monica gets to practice Hindi.
Aloo, gobi, bindi
(okra was inedible until she tasted Sudha’s
bindi
),
lahsan
(lots of garlic, the international secret),
matar, palak
(so many ways to cook spinach),
tamatar
(now that had to be bowdlerized English) and an array of fruits:
Khubani, aam, tarbuz
.

  When shopping on warm spring mornings like today, Monica misses her little kitchen in Uptown. Grateful as she is for Cook’s attention and talents, she sometimes craves a grand salad. Of course that would lead to grand diarrhea. After two years here, Tina still doesn’t eat salads.

  Monica has her favorite stalls in the
sabzi mandi
. The man who sells nonfat
dahi
and
dudh
always greets her with a grin. Milk and yogurt are among the few things she takes back to her flat since Cook prepares the meals. On Saturday nights now, she and Sudha cook together after the Hindi lesson.

  Today her bag is heavy with vegetables, because it’s her turn to be teacher. Imagine, Sudha wanting to learn how to make pasta primavera. Tina and Monica lived on pasta during med school. Such a simple dish, especially with Moorty’s abundance of spring veggies. She’s pleased to repay Sudha’s culinary instruction in kind, if not in gourmet nuance.

  They climb the hill to the next level of shops in the Lower Bazaar. It’s great to have a whole day off each week now that she’s acclimated to Moorty Hospital. Even when she’s doing chores in town, every exchange is a small adventure. At the general store, Sudha buys paper towels, cooking utensils, the odd bit of crockery. Crockery. Comestibles. She loves these Victorian-sounding words. There are fewer shoppers on this level of town. More men.

  Every week, the general store holds new surprises. In mid-April, she was excited to find her favorite American cereal, albeit outrageously priced. Now, it’s a welcome indulgence with her skimmed
dudh
. Today she buys plum nectar and a bag of cashews.
Kaju
, she says under her breath.

  The merchant regards her cautiously. His eyes brighten as Sudha addresses him.

  Monica knows enough Hindi to eavesdrop.

  “Of course, Ma’am, we’ll be able to carry your groceries up the mountain with the broom and cereal and such. No, no charge. How long has Ma’am been shopping here? How long educating our children? We are flattered by your custom.”

  “Sri Chawla, you are too kind.”

 
The parking lot at Lunds in Uptown was filled with winter filthy cars. Customers trudged warily on the Minnesota ice, leading the way as young men and women in green uniforms pushed shopping carts toward capacious trunks of Subarus and Volvos and Hondas. How much more anonymous that life seems now. How long ago and far away.

  Before striking farther uphill to the Mall, they graze stalls of Lower Bazaar for pens, paper, bars of soap. Not too much because after the Mall, where Monica will buy newspapers and a candy bar in a fancy shop, they’ll have a steep climb to their neighborhood. Once past Mr. Chawla’s store, they’re accountable for haulage.

  She’s happy Sudha lives so near. Her small apartment block, 500 yards away, makes walking back at night easy. Thus she gets minimum flack about this “dubious practice” from Paterfamilias Walsh. She must develop a less confrontational attitude toward him. Has he simply replaced Louise as adversary in her psychological landscape?

  No trip to town is complete without a stop at the Kerala Coffee House. They have a special table in the relatively smoke-free back room with a view of Lower Bazaar.

  “Whew. This town does keep a person fit,” Sudha sighs as she releases her packages. “But then, being American, you’re probably used to attending the gym daily and torturing yourself on those monstrous machines.”

  Monica laughs, thinking about her gawkiness in aerobics class, then feels a pang of homesickness for the low impact course, the locker room chats with Beata. “You’re right, this is a great workout. I’ve lost a couple of pounds since coming to Moorty.”

  “A pound or two, it makes a difference?”

  “A pound or two leads to nine or ten. Then your clothes don’t fit.”

  “Ah, yet further evidence of the superiority of our saris.”

  “Ha! You know full well those dainty sari blouses don’t fit if you gain weight. You’re very careful. I’ve seen you order
roti
rather than
naan
at dinner.”

  “I like
rotis
,” Sudha raises her hand for the waiter.

  Oh, good, Monica thinks, it’s Rabi today. She enjoys the old man’s smile. He always makes sure the coffee is steaming hot.

  “Would you like to split an
uthapam
—or would that lead to those nine extra pounds?”

  “One
uthapam
and, as always, one
dosa
. I’m starving.”

  “Why are you so fond of
uthapams
?”

  “They were part of my first meal in India. In the Bengali Market.”

  “Don’t tell me—at that dreadful Bengali House of Sweets!”

  “No, not at all, across the street at Nathu’s.”

  “Nathu’s! Worse yet. That’s not real South Indian food.”

  “So Ashok declared, but my first meal was delicious.”

  “Ashok, you haven’t talked about him this week. Is he still planning to visit?”

  Monica shrugs. “I guess so. If he finishes his article on time.”

  “Academics! I wouldn’t have featured you falling in love with an academic.”

  “Who said anything about love? He’s just a friend. An acquaintance.”

  “A friend who emails every few days. A friend who phones once a week.”

  “He’s very brotherly. He looks out for the Minnesota Yankee in his land.”

  “Brotherly!” Sudha flicks her eyebrows theatrically.

  Rabi appears with the scalding coffee and fragrant snacks.

  Grateful for the interruption, Monica tries to sweep her mind of Ashok. He’s an attractive, provocative, attentive man. And she does think about him. Too often. How much of that is simple loneliness in a new country? She’s not interested in romance. She’s here to serve, to grow in spirit. You can’t love someone you’ve only known ninety days. Is she really counting the days?

  “Actually, I’ve told you more than enough about Ashok, my mother, Lake Clinic. We haven’t got past chapter one of Sudha’s dramatic biography. When happened when you turned down that Colaba man? How did you tell him? How did your parents react?”

  With the scrupulosity of a practiced teacher, Sudha divides the
uthapam
and
dosa
.

  Monica taps her fingers on the table.

  Sudha’s head drops back dreamily. “Manil understood I wasn’t going to be the docile wife who would raise four children and greet him with a martini when he returned from the office. After two dinners with our families, we knew. All of us did.”

  “How did you get out of it?”

  “My family is middle class. They don’t live in the dark ages.”

  “Of course not,” Monica says quietly. How can she develop a friendship with this complicated, intelligent woman if she doesn’t know more about her life?

  Sudha chews thoughtfully.

  In the far corner, chess players smoke furiously, concentrating on their board. A small audience leans over, rapt. By the front door, an ancient man sips from his cup, nodding intently, as if revisiting his youth on a coffee plantation. Why do so many South Indians migrate to the wintry cold climate of Moorty?

  “Father, who’s always supported my ambitions, was easy. Mama made trouble. She was looking forward to my returning from St. Andrews to settle down as a flourishing Bandra or Colaba housewife.”

  Monica nibbles the delicious
dosa
. “That must’ve been a hard conversation.”

  Sudha throws up her hands. “It was. It was. But Mama had successfully married off her other daughter and so she was philosophical. Except…” She pauses, laughs softly.

  “What?” Monica studies her friend’s face.

  “She called me a ‘Modern Woman!’ ”

  “There are worse epithets.” Like the names Jeanne called her after Mom’s death.

  “So, eventually, everyone was accepting. Papa urged me to go for a Ph.D. at Bombay University. He said I could live with them and commute to the Bandra campus. Within days, Mama had big plans for her professor daughter. A J.N.U. Professorship.”

  Monica finishes her coffee and wants another, but she’s afraid to interrupt Sudha’s self-disclosure. “What happened?”

  “That was never for me. I’m not an intellectual. Don’t have the patience with theory. I wanted to do something with my life. It was hard to leave St. Andrews. I loved Scotland. There was a boy there…well, anyway, I decided if I were going to return to India, I needed to contribute to this country. I always liked kids. I know what a difference one teacher made in my life. The choice was easy in some ways.”

  “In some ways?”

  Rabi offers fresh black coffee.

  “Obviously I couldn’t stay in Bombay. Not only was I rejecting marriage, I was rebuffing their career dreams. And for what? To become a maiden school marm. Forever an auntie, they thought. So I imagined places where I might live. Our family traveled to Moorty once. And during my first year at St. Andrews, I often thought of Moorty: the hills, the trees. Somehow Moorty reminds me of Scotland. It’s not rational, but I came here because I wanted to be in India and I wanted to be in Scotland and I wanted to be near my parents but not too near.”

  “Sounds like the perfect decision.”

  “Hardly perfect. I guess I’m useful, but…”

  Monica glances down at Lower Bazaar, more crowded now during lunch hour. This sight feels happily familiar. Whole hours pass these days without a thought of “being in India.” Sometimes she has to remind herself that she is 8,000 miles from Minneapolis and 6,000 feet closer to the stars. She waits for Sudha. “But what?”

  “Sometimes people are suspicious of a single woman. Especially a single woman from Sin City, Bombay.”

  “I see.”

  Sudha chuckles. “Outsiders—Maharashtra and Minneapolis. No wonder we are such good friends.”

  Such good friends. Monica blushes. A significant statement from the reticent Sudha. Embarrassed and touched, she suggests, “Shall we good friends finish our errands before the day evaporates?”

  Sudha’s voice is quizzical, amused. “
Andiamo, Cara
Sudha?” My Italian friend would say when she wanted to leave the St. Andrews library. “
Andiamo, Cara
Monica.”

*****

  Vikram’s visit is brief. He’s progressing well—both his eyes and his English. She suspects this last appointment had more to do with language practice. A sweet kid.