Traveling with Spirits (21 page)

  The first set is harmonium, sitar and tabla.

  Ashok listens intently and she’s pleased by his avid enjoyment.

  Monica returns to the music, but her eyes glide up the rich brown, gold and white edging of the Governor’s box. The ceiling is bordered with the same colors. The showy late Victorian skylight is cut in ornate stencil-like openings.

  Sometimes she feels she hasn’t just traveled to India, but to a different century.

  Radha’s sister is next, part of the
Bharatha Natyam
dance troupe. Such grace and discipline. She thinks about Raj. About how discipline runs in the family.

  The audience loves this performance, interrupting frequently with applause.

  During the next group, people walk in and out, handing cranky babies down rows to nearby relatives.

  Sudha nods to Raul and whispers to Ashok. Her three friends stand to leave although the performance will continue for hours. Monica doesn’t want to go. She wants to stay wrapped in the ornate décor, beautiful music and pleasant buzz of sociability. She’s not ready for the next step, for Sudha’s innuendo over dinner. Still, she is hungry. And Monica knows she can’t stop the world from spinning on Sudha Badami’s axis.

*****

  Ashok falls into a deep, if not sound, sleep as their train rattles toward Delhi. Of course he was wrong about the train’s superior comfort. The hot, noisy car clings precariously to the rails as they descend the mountains. No smoother than the van and a lot more chaotic.

  They’ve found two seats next to a filthy, but translucent window. The atmosphere is earsplitting: ebullient men’s voices, cawing children, mobile phones, rustling newspapers. Overhead racks are crammed with antique brown valises, purple backpacks and a few American-style roll-ons. The thick blue—grey—and formally white curtains bear an unfamiliar flower as the railway monogram. At each stop, the heating system shuts down.

  Hours pass. Months, perhaps. Volume increases—phone chats; male camaraderie; babies crying; snoring.

  How can Ashok nap trough this? The mountain weekend must have exhausted him.

  She buys several curious-looking samosas. And one cup of tea. One suffices. One visit to the stand-up toilet on this ricocheting train.

  Half-an-hour before Delhi, Ashok opens his eyes and stretches expansively.

  He smells riper now and she likes this taste of intimacy. Wishes there had been more intimacy in Moorty. But how? At Mission Hospital?

  “I must have dozed a few minutes,” he mumbles.

  “Try hours.”

  “We’re almost home.” He recovers his authoritative vigor. “You and Beata truly should spend more time in Delhi. The next two days are packed, but after that I’d love to—”

  “Thanks, but as I said, I have to get back to the hospital. Gita—”

  “Surely others are looking after her in your absence.”

  “Sister Catherine says the girl waits for me. Besides, I promised Beata the hill country. Mountain views. If she wanted a city, she could have stayed in the States.”

  “No cities like Delhi in the States.”

  “Indeed. Perhaps on her next visit.”

  Next time. Next visit.

  “Then you are planning to stay in India a while.”

  Although he’s trying to be ironic, she’s touched by the intensity in his voice.

  Reddening, she answers. “Who knows with the dicey visa situation.”

  He falls silent.

  “Thanks for coming up this weekend and for escorting me down on the train.”

  “A sleeping escort. Very gallant.” He shakes his head. “I slept an hour?”

  “Perhaps three.”

  He looks incredulous. “Thank you for the hospitality. For showing me Moorty. For introducing me to your colleagues.”

  “
Koi bat nahi.
”

  “For raising the concept of
ordinary friendship
,” he adds archly.

  Befuddled, Monica hopes he’s trying to tell her something. The repartee is maddening. Still, he probably considers her an excessively literal American.

  “Seriously, though.”

  He’s clearly returned full force to advice mode.

  “Yes, Professor?” She looks bright and attentive.

  “At the station, I will escort you to a taxi and arrange the fare to the airport.”

  He’s forgotten she lived in Delhi almost a month.

  “Don’t protest. And once you collect Beata take a pre-paid taxi to town.”

  “Thanks. I believe I’ve heard that advice before.”

  He continues earnestly, “Then ring me, please, on my mobile, once you’re safely at the IIC.”

  How can she be irritated with someone whose face is so creased in apprehension?

  “Will do, sir!” She grins, touched by his concern. She’s elated at the prospect of seeing Beata, imagines the two of them gliding through New Delhi in a pre-paid taxi.

NINETEEN

November, 2001, Delhi and Moorty

  Monica peers over the shoulders of huge welcome parties. She didn’t expect to find six family members awaiting each passenger. The excited crowds transform the cold airport into a festival. So many people. What if she misses Beata?

  A chauffeur waves his sign in front of her face: “Patel’s Incredible India Tours.” She inches to the left, clutching a receipt for the pre-paid taxi. Tonight is chillier than usual. She hopes Beata is warmly dressed.

  There she is! Dearest Beata looking tidy and fresh in her cobalt blue dress, a black coat over her shoulders. Yes, the ubiquitous knock-off Coach handbag and sensible black roller-luggage. Clearly she knows how to fly. She’s nothing like the bedraggled Monica of eleven months ago. Well, it does help that James bumped her up to business class with miles. Incredible that Beata is here and…

  “Beata!” she calls. “Beata, over here!”

  Her friend swivels. Their eyes lock. They each burst out laughing.

  The Incredible India chauffeur glances at her, then at Beata and approves. “Friends. Very nice.”

  Finally at the end of the barricade, they embrace.

  Her hands gripping Beata’s strong shoulders, she declares, “Welcome to India!”

  “Girl, it’s sooo good to see you. You have no idea.”

  “I think I do.” She’s infused with nostalgia for Minnesota and their friendship deeper than anything she’s allowed herself to feel this year.

  “You look great!” Beata exclaims.

  “You too.” Monica notices a crease of fatigue. “You must be beat. Let’s get a taxi and we’ll be at the India International Center in no time.”

  “I thought we were staying at Mission House.”

  “We were. Then Ashok insisted that I shouldn’t subject you to their damp guest rooms. And at the IIC we’ll have more freedom during our two days in Delhi. Ashok is a member and made the booking.”

  “A man in the know.”

  “Quite,” she says, stepping in to take control of the baggage cart. “You shouldn’t be pushing that.” She studies Beata’s face, searching for changes.

  “Ha, you should see how much I’ve improved at Body Pump since you left.”

  “I don’t want to think about it.”

  The next morning, Monica settles in for breakfast at a window table. No telling when Beata will wake. She’ll never forget her own long slumber the first night. Sister Margaret was far too understanding.

  A small green parrot flies over a tree in the Lodi Gardens. Extraordinary all the things she’s seen since that first parrot during her lunch with Ashok. She finds herself daydreaming about his laughter, even about their arguments. She’s not ready to get involved. It’s too soon after Mom’s death. She still thinks about Eric. Not romantically, no, but she recalls the limitless kindness of the most innately sweet man she’s ever known and feels a certain loyalty. She worries her interest in Ashok is confused with his connection to India, which she wants to embrace.

  The waiter serves her a juicy slice of coral pink papaya, perfectly cooked poached eggs with toast and a spoonful of potatoes. A Western breakfast; she didn’t know she was craving this.

  “Another pot of coffee, please.” Coffee. Real, filtered coffee.

  Dad’s letter is such surprise. She rummages around her Sportsac (far less orderly than Beata’s handbag) and withdraws a white envelope to re-read his letter.

Dear Mickey,

  How are you, way off in India? India! Did you get the traveling bug from your dear old dad?

  She wonders. She likes to think she came to India rather than that she left home. Do people feel abandoned? Yes. Eric for one. Beata. Patients. Even some of her colleagues. Although she didn’t leave a wife and kids, her journey isn’t without cost.

  I’m sorry I haven’t written back since your mother’s death. Are you and Jeannie doing OK? Her death hit me harder than I expected. Made me realize all the things I left unsaid, to Marie. To my girls.

  He hasn’t seen them since they were girls. Would they recognize each other?

  I don’t have a lot to write about our lives out here, but I wanted to touch base with you. Dorothea tells me I shouldn’t lose you again by being lazy even though I’m not much of a letter writer. We are both in pretty good health. Sometimes we talk about selling the ranch and moving to Laramie.

  Her heart catches. She sometimes fantasizes visiting him there.

 
But we’re settled here. We’ll probably die with our boots on. Write again. Don’t give up on your old man. Remember riding together on the Hennepin route?

  Let me know how you’re doing in that far away country. Love, Dad.

  That far away country. Wyoming.

  “Here you are! I woke up and your bed was empty. Then I saw the note.”

  Monica beams at her friend. “Did you sleep enough?”

  “Sleep, I only have ten days in India, do you think I want to sleep through it? Two days to see fabulous Delhi, five days with you in Moorty, three at Father Daniel’s mission. I’m not going to sleep away my visit.”

  “Oh, Beata, I missed you.”

  “Vice versa! Now when do they bring the coffee?”

  Monica signals the waiter.

  “Oh, yes.” Beata says. “An Indian breakfast.
Idili
and
sambhar,
please,” she asks the waiter. “My friend has been raving about that musical sounding dish for months.”

  As Beata chats, Monica is suffused with joy. Also with wistfulness about home and the ease of life there. She wouldn’t trade her days of discovery in India. Occasionally she does dream of a day’s rest back in Uptown.

  “So what would you like to do with your first day in New Delhi, Dr. Johnson?”

  “Dr. Murphy will want to start somewhere earnest, the National Museum?”

  Earnest, yup, she was about to make that very suggestion.

  “I hear Delhi has terrific shopping and I was hoping to look for a shawl, cushion covers for the study, a few table cloths.”

  She laughs, remembering old debates about materialism.

  “Oh, I know that look,” Beata laughs. “You think your old friend is acquisitive. I am. It’s a vice. A small one. I enjoy it. Some people don’t enjoy their vices.”

  “I surrender!” She grins. “In fact, I’ve arranged for Tina to take you to Santoushti Village. First, let’s go to the Crafts Museum. Artisans from all over India sell shawls and jewelry and leather work. It’s close, a ten minute ride to Pragati Maiden.”

  “Oh, yes, and can we take one of those auto rickshaws?”

*****

  “Funny we didn’t meet in Minneapolis,” Tina opens her white napkin at Basil and Thyme. “Monica tells me you met her when we were in med school.”

  “Actually, I was doing my residency. You were off to Kansas City by then.”

  “The 90s were a good time in the Cities; they were really coming alive,” Tina says.

  Beata is eating Tandoori Chicken. The others have opted for the “continental” option: fish stew. Monica wonders about this frequent term on Indian menus, “continental,” as opposed to “subcontinental?”

  “Yes, I often cursed my parents’ move from New Orleans. I mean talk about alive! But the Cities have a lot to offer now. Good jazz everywhere.”

  “I wish we were in Delhi long enough to hear Indian jazz. Ashok took me to this fabulous concert.”

  “That’s already on the list. Father Daniel has tickets to a club in Chennai.”

  “Father Daniel?” Tina asks. “In Chennai?”

  “The person responsible for luring Monica to India,” Beata says slyly.

  “Oh, right, the retreat guy?” Tina says.

  Beata takes the last bite. “Delicious. Good fuel for afternoon shopping. You know, I saw a midnight blue silk top—a tunic-like blouse—what are they called?”

  “A short kurta,” Monica explains.

  Tina nods enthusiastically. “I saw that, too. In the second shop, Tulsi, right?”

  “That’s the one. Shall we?”

  “Why don’t you two go ahead? I’m going to indulge in coffee.”

  Collecting her purse, Beata mutters to Tina
sotto voce
, “I do wonder if she’s a natural woman, sometimes. She is missing the shopping gene.”

  Tina smirks. “I bored her stiff one day getting my sapphire set and…”

  “Girl, did you say
sapphire
?”

  “Maybe we can stop at Capitol Jewelers on the way back to the IIC?”

  Monica is content alone with her coffee. She loves her friends, but the shopping zeal is baffling. Sudha has a little of it, too. Monica recalls her booty from the
mela
. She’ll be meeting Beata soon. What if they don’t get along? Will they be jealous of each other? Can you introduce one part of your life to another? Could she bring Ashok to Minneapolis? Unthinkable.
Besides, it’s not going to happen
.