Traveling with Spirits (20 page)

  “Gita doesn’t want to go,” Sister Catherine impatiently rubs her small hands together. “I told Mrs. Roy you would refuse to release her.”

  She blanches. “We can’t refuse anything to a parent, Sister, as you know.”

  The usually sensitive nun turns on her heel.

  “Sister is worried about Gita,” Monica apologizes. “We all are. We are still doing tests. She does need to rest here a while longer.”

  Gita nods.

  Still crying, Mrs. Roy kisses her child and whispers something.

  “A few more days, then,” she struggles. “We love our daughter.”

  Monica wants to say,
We love her too
. Instead, she replies, “We know that. More importantly, Gita knows.” She guesses the girl will need to be here quite a while.

  Gita smiles weakly.

  Abruptly, Mrs. Roy turns to the door and departs.

  Monica stands to go after the distraught woman, then turns as Gita reaches for her hand.

  “Yes,” Monica smiles. “I’ll sit with you a bit. That’s a better idea.”

EIGHTEEN

November, 2001, Moorty

  His train is late. Monica paces the windy platform, pulling up the hood of her down coat.

 
“The train is a far more sensible vehicle for reaching Moorty,” Ashok instructed. “Why did you allow Sister Margaret to book the plane and that ridiculous van?”

  A notably charming Indian trait is people’s certitude in one of the most unpredictable places on earth. She worries about how exhausted he must be. They’ll never do half the things she’s planned for the weekend. Whew, this platform is bitter cold.

 
Ordinary friendship
between men and women. Sudha’s phrase is reassuring. Still the relationship between Raul and Sudha has become something more during recent dinners. More than her own connection to Ashok, who’s coming here to relax from hectic Delhi. Despite his early gruffness, he does like Americans. He loves talking about grad school in New York. Clearly he’s eager to discuss the Madison conference. They’re drawn to each other’s cultures. A sound basis for ordinary friendship.

  “So sorry to keep you!” His bright brown eyes brim with distress. “You might have frozen to death. No need to wait hours here. I would have found the clinic.”

  She laughs, shaking her head.

  He smiles cautiously, “What are you laughing at?”

  “You. Your certainty.” Now, to sidestep argument, she extends her hand. “It’s good to see you. You must be very tired.”

  “Indians know how to travel on trains.” He tilts his head from side to side. “I brought lots of work, plenty of food and water. I had my Walkman. I was perfectly…”

  She’s laughing again. Feeling ridiculously giddy.

  “OK. OK, I see what you mean. Yes, maybe I am a little knackered,” he admits. “That tie-up with the rails in…”

  “They announced the obstruction. I was delayed in the same metropolis, myself, as I left in the airport van.”

  “The van, a bad idea. A very bad idea.”

  “Come.” She pays him no notice. “Here’s a porter to carry your bags. It’s a forty-minute walk to the mission.”

  “Walking, yes.” He looks crestfallen. “I had forgotten the environmental regulations against cars.”

  “We could stop at the Kerala Coffee House on the way, for some refreshment.”

  “A capital idea,” he grins at her. “Capital.”

  “
Namaste, Doctor ji
,” The old waiter murmurs while scrutinizing her companion.

  “
Namaste, Rabi.
” Then, in her best Hindi, “Are there seats at the back?”

  “The usual ones, yes,” he tilts his grey head.

  They settle into the window table.

  Ashok widens his eyes for effect. “A regular, I see. The usual seat. Name recognition. Property rights.”

  “Sudha and I have been here a few times.”

  “More than that, I reckon. Old Rabi inspected me as if I were a
dacoit
out to kidnap his only daughter.”

  She flushes, pleased.

  “This isn’t your India International Center window overlooking the gardens,” she demurs. “But I enjoy lurking back here, gazing at Lower Bazaar. You can even see the
sabzi mandi
. That apple stand of Mr. Singh’s has the sweetest fruit.”

  Ashok peers over his rimless glasses. “You sound like a girl in love.”

  “I don’t know about the girl part, but Moorty does have its allure.”

  He watches inquisitively.

  Rabi brings mineral water for her, plain water for him and coffee-spotted menus.

  She introduces them, “Ashok is a professor from Delhi University.”

  “Delhi,” Rabi repeats noncommittally.

  “His family belongs to Kerala.”

  “Welcome,” he says finally.

  Ashok studies the menu. “Monica?”

  He’s caught her glancing down at the winter vegetables in the snowy market. “Monica, where have you gone?”

  Surfacing, she realizes he’s been musing about Mrs. Mitra’s courage, Gita’s longing, Brigid’s curiosity about Sudha and Raul. Her own curiosity. She’s entered an entirely new world since leaving Ashok in Delhi.

  “Aren’t you ordering anything?” he asks in that recognizable, clipped voice.

  He’ll have to slow down to adapt to Moorty. “Perhaps
idli sambar
and
uthapam
for lunch.”

  He regards her querulously.

  “I’d rate the food a cross between Nathu’s and The Malabar Coast Café.”

  “That’s a long chasm to traverse,” he raises his eyebrows.

  “Well, you could ask Rabi for recommendations.”

  “I’ll stick with a more affable advisor, thanks.”

  Ashok happily munches his
idli sambar
. Between bites, he chats about Madison, says how much he likes the department there. He moves on to Delhi University politics.

  She flashes back to that night at Lucia’s Café. How different Ashok is from Eric, although they’re both professors, both in their early forties and filled with intensities. Ashok has more fire, she thinks.

  “Have I put you to sleep entirely?”

  “On the contrary.”

  “I haven’t asked about your patients. Your colleagues. What’s the boss’s name, Dr. Blowhead?” He studies her mischievously.

  She slaps a hand over her mouth. “Did I put that in an email?”

  He raises dark, thick eyebrows. “Your occasional irreverence is quite agreeable.”

  “Please call him Dr. Walsh.”

  “Blowhard. Blowhead. The name trips off a person’s tongue.”

  “Time we started up the hill. They’ve forecast a storm. The porter will already have delivered your bags.”

  She slows to maintain pace with Ashok, aware that she’s developed what Sudha calls “mountain legs.”

  “Wow.” He stops by a bench at the ridge. “The peaks are high over there.”

  She grins, proudly, as if the Himalayas were hers to share.

  “I see your backwater does have its compensations.”

  They resume the journey at a slower pace. She points out the stationers, the internet shop, the fancy comestible store. Imagining Moorty through his eyes, she sees again how picturesque it is, under snowy roofs in this November light. They stop at the newsstand. The vendor grins, handing her
The Herald Tribune
and
The Hindu
.

  Ashok observes, “Rather decent range of media.”

  She rolls her eyes. In some ways he and condescending Kevin might hit it off.

  “That’s Moorty Playhouse, built in the 1890s. We have tickets to a performance there tomorrow night.”

  “Impressive building,” Ashok notes, “even if the façade is a little rococo. Hope it holds up for another twenty-four hours.”

  “You’ll have to lose that Delhi snobbery before we reach the hospital.”

  “You’re not fun. Oh, I’m staying with a priest, right?”

  “No. For an academic,” she teases, “you’re a little foggy with facts.”

  “Philosophers are more partial to ideas than facts.” He laughs.

  “Father Freitas is on holiday in Goa and has offered his room in the downstairs flat he shares with Raul Sanchez, my medical colleague.”

  “Very kind,” Ashok says. “I promise to be a good guest.”       He’s winded. So she pauses, pointing to langurs huddling high in a tree.

*****

  They trek down to the ridge wielding walking sticks on the icy road. An overnight storm has left a snowy blanket over the hillsides. She’s grateful for Beata’s boots and relieved Raul loaned Ashok some winter shoes. The man lives in his head. Doesn’t he remember winter from New York? Well, his amazement at all things natural is as entertaining as it is trying.

  “Too bad we don’t have a sleigh.”

  “Next time, I’ll order one,” she says.
Next time
—she’s making assumptions.

  “Next time,” he smiles, “I’ll surprise you with my fancy polar anorak.”

  She slips.

  He catches her arm for balance. “Are you OK?”

  “That’s what I get for my winterly superiority. I’m fine, thanks.”

  He continues to support her arm lightly.

  She likes the steadiness and warmth of his hand.

  They fall silent until they reach St. Michael’s Church which the Anglicans are beginning to decorate for Christmas.

  “Festive,” he observes.

  “Yes. Their choir sings lovely Bach Masses.”

  “Perhaps we can go hear them on Sunday?”

  She’s dumbstruck.

  “Don’t be like that. You know I like music. All good music.”

  “Sure. On the way to the train.” Such a short visit. She takes a step, and breaking contact with his hand, notices a patch of cold above her elbow.

  “It will be great fun to travel together to Delhi. A shame you and Beata can’t stay longer in the city. I’d be happy to play tour guide next weekend.”

  “The hospital is already being generous with leave. Next time.”

  “Tell me about these people we’re meeting at the Playhouse.”

  “Raul, of course, you know. And our friend Sudha.”

  “Are they partners or companions or…”

  “Ordinary friends.” She pictures Sudha’s expression. “Ordinary friends, like us.”

  “Like us.” He’s suddenly tired from the walk. “Oh, right, precisely.”

  Women in glittering kameezes and luscious heavy silk saris swish around the ornate lobby. The gentlemen wear suits, fancy kortas and fine Kashmiri shawls.

  “The State Governor is attending,” Ashok whispers conspiratorially. “I heard two excited men chatting in the loo. You’ve brought me to the season’s cultural event.”

  “We’ll see.” She peers around for Raul and Sudha.

  “Why don’t I find us seats? You wait for Raul and Sudha here.”

  Two young women appear in slacks and sports coats. Are they lesbians or trying to look cool or both? She doesn’t think she’s met any queer Indians. She’s read Indian novels with gay characters. And she saw Fire before leaving Minneapolis.

  “Hi Doctor.”

  “Hello, Radha, how are you?”

  “Quite keyed up! My sister is dancing tonight.”

  “How lovely.”

  “Hello Doctor!”

  “
Namaste
, Doctor Murphy.”

  Several other people nod or tent their hands in greeting. She wishes Ashok were here, to witness how she’s become a small part of the community.

  Rumor spreads about the Governor being delayed in traffic on the Cart Road. People secure their shawls and wander outside to the starlit mall.

  Finally. Sudha and Raul. She wears a stunning rose sari; Raul looks spiffy in his golden kurta.

 
Ordinary friends
. Monica recalls Ashok’s reaction to the term.

  “I hear we’re waiting for the el gobernador,” Raul snickers.

  “Yes,” she beams at the two of them. “Ashok is holding seats for us.”

  “Ah, the elusive Ashok.” Sudha winks. “What are we doing out here? Who cares about the Governor? Professor Mystery awaits within.”

  “He seems a rather average bloke,” Raul balks.

  “Yes,” Monica says meaningfully. Average. Ordinary. “Raul, I love it when you use British words like ‘bloke.’ ”

  “It means ‘man,’ yes? What would you say?”

   “ ‘Guy,’ I guess.”

  “Oh, I think you’d be more descriptive,” kids Sudha.

  Monica recalls the warmth of his hand above her elbow.

  “Yes?” Raul encourages.

  “No, it’s Sudha who would be more descriptive, who specializes in embroidery. Come on; let’s not keep our bloke-guy-man waiting.”

  Ashok has expertly nabbed seats by the aisle near an exit.

  Monica recalls their discreet escape at the India Habitat Center. She hopes they’ll see Radha’s sister. Raj’s sister.

  Sudha sits beside Ashok and launches into spirited questions. Ashok seems to be answering with amusement and elaboration.

  Raul, on the aisle, regards the tête-à-tête, then shrugs.

  Monica, surrounded by friends, realizes she hasn’t felt this light-hearted since she came to India.

  Patrons in vivid saris and fancy kurtas and natty sports coats drift into the theatre.

  Suddenly he’s here, the Governor, standing on stage.

  Polite clapping.

  He lights candles before a small bronze statue.

  “That’s Saraswati, Goddess of Arts,” Ashok leans over.