Traveling with Spirits (3 page)

  She wanted to tell him she was already dying in Minneapolis, from grief over Mom’s death, anguish at the way Jeanne handled it, rage at her clinic colleagues. But he’d patiently listened to her troubles for months. He was waiting for a recovery, unaware she was being eaten alive. Soon there would be no Monica Murphy.

  She returns to Ashok. “You look refreshed, yourself.”

  The prematurely graying hair is an intriguing touch of vulnerability. His assured voice conveys dignity. And those brown eyes reflect fierce, determined intelligence.

  After they are seated at his favorite table, he gestures to the garden.

  “It’s a lovely place.” She feels suddenly girlish.

  “Hmm, I suspect if you stayed in Delhi, you would come here often.” He waves to the waiter.

  “That depends on whether the food is as tasty as Nathu’s.”

  Not a crease of a smile.

  The waiter brings two English menus.

  Ashok holds up his right hand. “I noticed you forwent meat on the plane. May I recommend their vegetarian
thali
? It’s one of the best in Delhi.”

  Ignoring her craving for another savory
uthapam
, she says, “How can I resist?”

  “Fine,” Ashok orders the
thali
, then instructs the waiter. “A bottle of mineral water.” He turns to her, “And what? Scotch? Wine?”

  “A Kingfisher?”

  “Two Kingfishers, please.” 

  The waiter nods to Ashok, smiles politely at the lady.

  Her companion stares out the window.

  She babbles, shy and unnerved by the silence. “Delhi is such a fascinating city. A cultural amalgamation. It’s so Indian, yet so much more Western than I anticipated.”

  “Yes,” he sighs in amusement, annoyance. “Once you recover from gawking at tree trimmers on swaying elephants, once you get used to cows delaying traffic on Kasturba Gandhi Marg, you start noticing the Reebok and Nike logos, the mock fast food outlets.”

  “Mock?”

  “
Fast
is not an Indian mode. Do you know that in Bombay, it is required to have 47 certificates before one can complete a building?”

  “I’ve had a few encounters, myself, with your civil service.”

  “Somehow neither ‘civil’ nor ‘service’ seems an appropriate word for red tape dispensers in any country. You should try being an alien in your land.”

  She nods.

  “On a serious note, I’m glad your entry was scrutinized. You cannot expect us to leave doors open to any wandering foreigner.”

  He’s aiming for irony, not rancor, surely. Monica knows she’s feeling too sensitive today, from physical and cultural jet lag.

  Beer and water appear. She sips each gratefully. In some ways, Ashok reminds her of Eric. Maybe academics break into lecture the way tenors break into song.

  Ashok gazes out the window once again, looking pensive, or perhaps worried.

  Why did he invite her if he’s so averse to foreigners? And why did she accept during her first chaotic week in this daunting country? Do the mission staff consider her absence rude? Indeed Father Koreth expressed surprise at her “appointment.”

  “Cheers,” he raises his glass.

  “Cheers.”

  “Apologies for the lecture,” he shrugs. “Once you’ve lived abroad for an extended period, it’s hard to accept all the ‘contradictions’ of contemporary India. Do you know we have a middle class of over 200 million people?

  She recalls yesterday—the Mercedes Benzes and cell phones. She glances at the bejeweled, elegantly attired women at two adjacent tables.

  “Yet a tiny minority pays income tax.”

  She waits.

  “Fifty percent of our kids under five are malnourished. Forty percent of Delhi is illiterate.”

  “You’re helping to change that,” she insists.

  “How?” He studies her face. “By educating children of the elite who will go to graduate school or jobs in England, Canada and America?” His jaw stiffens.

  “Well, you went to the U.S. for grad school and you returned.” She fiddles with the jade. Bad habit. Once during a tense phone call with Jeanne, she broke the strand. Hours later, she was still searching for pale green balls under the couch and chairs.

  “More fool me.” Again, he browses the garden.

  Maybe his distraction is solace in the garden rather than boredom with her. He’s clearly shy, too.

  “I’m just perpetuating divisions here, suffering an anemic wage as a result.”

  “No.” She’s slipping into deep water. “You’re smart. Committed. That counts for a lot.”

  “So are you, no?”

  He seems to be looking through the bones in her face.

  “Do you know what you’re doing for, or
to
, India?”

  “What do you mean?” Sweat trickles inside her dress and she hopes he can’t smell the fear, confusion.

  “For Madame.”

  They’re locked in a stare.

  “Your lunch,” her companion cocks his handsome head.

  “Thank you!” She’s dazed by the array of vivid, pungent vegetables.

  “Any questions?” Ashok asks.

  She takes advantage of his new lightness. “What are these white cubes?”

  “Curd cheese. Many Delhi-ites will tell you it’s like cottage cheese. But I’ve met cottage cheese in your country and the resemblance eludes me.”

  She takes a bite, rolls her eyes with pleasure.

  He laughs.

  “What kind of philosophy do you teach, Professor Nair?”

  “ ‘Ashok,’ please. Didn’t we exchange first names when were were packed into that airborne sardine tin for so many hours?”

  “You’ve been addressing me as ‘Doctor Murphy,’ ” she hesitates, “so…”

  “An old habit,” he declares. “Monica it is, then. Monica and Ashok.”

  He peers out the blasted window again. Then answers her question. “Ethics for the first years. When I believed in, or was interested in, moral judgment. Lately I’ve moved to philosophy of science.”

  “You don’t think you’re still a bit of a moralist?” Instantly, she regrets the forwardness.

  “Because of my questions on the plane?”

  She closes her eyes, chary of reviving that stressful exchange.

  “Well, tell me, Monica, aren’t there clinics in poor areas of the States? Why come to India? More interestingly, why not as a Fulbrighter or as a
Médecin Sans Frontières
? Why come with a Catholic Mission?”

  “People are people.” She leans forward, noticing the small scar beneath his lower lip. “Because I was born American does that mean I have no connection to, no responsibility for, people who happen to be Indian?”

  “Don’t be naïve, friend,” he draws his right hand into a fist.

  “Don’t be so cynical.”

  “Even if you’re right about there being some ‘world community,’ as the journalists say, what about the Catholic piece? India is a Hindu country, a Muslim country, a Buddhist country.”

  Monica hears Sister Margaret’s proud declaration and shuts her eyes. “I’m sorry if you are offended by my work.” She’s not going to cry.

  “Offended. Hurt. The American preoccupation with social comfort is truly astonishing. What matter if I’m
offended
? We are two adults having a serious difference. That doesn’t mean I’m devastated by your words. It doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” He blots a bead of sweat from his left temple.

  “Friends,” Monica repeats softly. “I’d like to be friends.” She glances outside as a bright green bird flies into view. “Such a beautiful creature. Look!”

  “That?” He restrains his astonishment. “That bird? It’s a rather ordinary parrot. Oh, my friend, I see this India of ours is going to dazzle you.” He’s laughing.

  It’s a kind laugh, she believes. A friendly laugh.

FOUR

January, 2001, New Delhi

  A warm, late afternoon. Grateful for rising temps, Monica lounges in a vintage rattan chair and footstool, on the tiny bedroom veranda. Buzzards and finches call from above as she reads more documents about “her” hospital.

  This morning’s orientation session, their third, was particularly helpful. She learned much more about the facilities and lack thereof at mission hospitals. Once she arrives in Moorty and confirms the shortage, she’ll write to Alonso for the supplies he’s promised. But she won’t make any presumptions before talking to the staff there. If she’s learned anything from Louise’s hubris at Lake Clinic, it’s how consensus should trump individual ego.

  Parrots sail back and forth. Ashok can keep his laconic indifferences: these radiant birds flickering through Delhi smog inspire her to believe she, too, can flourish in this dense atmosphere.

  Now she has the answers for Ashok. She’s been obsessing for days. About how Catholic hospitals treat people of all faiths. She longs for people who share common beliefs. How much richer her life has been since returning to the Church. She wants to say spirituality might be a dimension missing from his rational philosophy. She wakes up each morning thinking of retorts.

  He’s right about one thing: the bureaucratic hurdles persist.

  The Americans want her to get more shots. (Well, this will give her an excuse to see Tina at the Embassy Clinic sooner.) The Indians require more forms. A clerk at the American Express Bank holds her hostage for two hours while she ensures each signature on each page matches precisely.

*****

  Arriving at the U.S. Embassy in a yellow and black auto rickshaw, she feels her heart sinking at the endless queue of people snaking around the block. Men leaning on canes. Women hoisting toddlers on their hips. Older boys in t-shirts and jeans joking with each other. She heads to the back of a long, long line.

  Someone calls to her. “Ma’am?”

  An American voice.

  She turns to a tall, erect African American soldier, marine, some military person.

  “Ma’am, what are you looking for?”

  The pickles. Kosher dills. No, he won’t appreciate her humor.

  “The infirmary,” she summons a professional tone. “I need an inoculation.”

  “Follow me, please, Ma’am.”

  Is she being arrested. Because she helped block the Federal Building in Minneapolis during Desert Storm? Her penchant for paranoia swells in this land of perpetual surprises.

  Again, her cool, doctor’s voice: “May I ask why?”

  “Because this is the line for visas to the U.S., Ma’am and, from the sound of your Minnesota accent, I’d guess you’re not fishing for a visa.”

  She laughs. “How can you tell I’m from Minnesota?”

  “I’m from Duluth, myself.”

  Duluth, she blocks memories of Mom’s last months with Jeanne. “Minneapolis here. Do you really think we have a regional accent?”

  “You betcha!”

  She can’t wait to tell Beata about this guy. A witty Minnesotan in Delhi.

  As she follows the young man into the imposing modern embassy-fortress, no one looks up to protest her jumping the queue. She imagines Ashok deconstructing her privileges here. She’s conscious of entitlement. This is her embassy. She pays taxes for it. Even if she often protests U.S. policies, she is an American. “America”: a label. In India a particular brand of foreigner.

  Rows and rows of hard chairs are filled with people who have finally made it to the front of the queue. One reward at a time from the land of gilded thoroughfares.

  Because of her citizenship, she doesn’t have to stand for hours, then sit for more hours. She can walk straight into the clinic. Inalienable rights. Not a comfortable thought. Still, more comfortable than the queue.

  She registers, fastens her ID badge, and takes an elevator down to a brightly lit clinic used by the Embassy staff and their families. Waiting on an over-stuffed couch, she flips through the latest copy of
Time
, distracted by thoughts about her perforated arm: hepatitis A, hepatitis B. cholera, flu, Japanese encephalitis, polio, tetanus, and now rabies shots because of the wild dogs and mountain monkeys. Monkeys?

  “Monica!”

  She swivels to the familiar voice, beams at her tall, blond friend, elegant as ever even in baggy white doctor’s jacket and pants. “Tina!”

  Embracing her old friend, Tina whispers, “You don’t look a day older than you did in med school.”

  Monica grins. “It’s only been eight years. You look great too. More worldly, somehow.”

  They both notice the turned heads.

  Tina fingers a blond curl behind her ear. “Come, come back to the exam room. I have the serum ready.” Then in a softer voice, “We can talk there.”

  She feels her body relax as it hasn’t in two weeks. Ashok would assign this ease to being with “her people” now. No, she’d argue, everyone unwinds with old friends.

  “Business first, OK? Then you can chill out and chat a bit. These preventive rabies shots don’t hurt like the others. Simple jab. Maybe some swelling this week.”

  Monica rolls up her sleeve. She hates the sensation of needle piercing flesh, any flesh. She was happy the Lake Clinic lab techs handled the blood tests and shots. She knows she’ll get used to giving shots and drawing blood in Moorty. Of course she will.

  Her tall, fit roommate looks all grown up now. Friend of her youth. Monica always wondered if they’d make it through med school. Yet here they are: practicing physicians living in India. Eight years along.

  “I was flabbergasted when Edward told me you were in Delhi.” Her face is all delight at seeing Tina. “Thanks, again, for getting me the appointment here.”

  “Pretty neat that we wound up in the same town again.”

  Tina always had flair. She knew how to dress, where to eat. She discovered the best jazz places. Monica never imagined jazz in Minneapolis until Tina. But India?

  “I did write a couple of letters, to your parents’ address in New York. Maybe you never got them?”

  “Done!” Tina discards the needle. “Hey, sorry, I’m a terrible correspondent.”