Traveling with Spirits (2 page)

  “The cooker—please watch how you start it.”

  Monica blinks. She expected meals with colleagues during orientation week here in Delhi. Is this another American presumption? Do they want her to shop and cook for herself? She knows a few words.
Sabzi mandi,
is “vegetable market.” She can ask for
sag, aloo, gobi
.

  He twists knobs, points to burners. “Cooker is for making toast and tea. Here are the provisions. Meals are served in the refectory.”

  She grins.

  “Ma’am, they wouldn’t bring you all the way to India to cook!”

  Exhausted, she glances at the gloomy bedroom.

  “A long journey. You must be tired,” he says kindly.

  Perhaps everyone at Mission House is suffused with charity. Monica hopes to recover hers by morning. Only one side of Mr. Alexander’s shirt is tucked in his trousers. His left sandal strap is torn.

  “Yes, thank you. We’ll both feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

  “
Namaste, ji,
” he bows over tented palms.

  She dodges a memory of the legless man. “Yes, good night and God bless, Mr. Alexander.”

  The place is damp, so she plugs in a space heater which looks—and smells—as if it predates independence.

  Brushing her teeth with bottled water, Monica sees a strange woman in the mottled mirror: stringy red hair and blotchy freckles. What did Mr. Alexander make of his crumpled, honorable guest?

  Clammy, ugh, the towel is so damp. India is twenty degrees closer to the equator, but she feels colder tonight than in Minnesota, cold in her bones. Sister Margaret did write about the lack of central heating. Who needs heating in the Indian plains, she thought. She hears her mother’s complaints about the deadly dank of Dublin.

  Monica imagines Mom walking with her back to the cavernous bedroom within range of the heater’s small province of comfort. “I would have been with you in the last days, if Jeanne had called,” she wants to say.

  Enough, and off to bed with you, Mom insists.

  She races into a nightgown and crawls beneath the damp sheets. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow. Later today. Who knows what time it is? This is only the beginning of the journey. Let go. Let God.

*****

  The knocking is tentative. Light taps. She could ignore the noise, roll over and return to sleep, to that strange dream about her neighbor stealing the tree. Maybe he’ll return it. She’s always loved the Japanese maple.

  Another light rap on the door.

  Worn out, but pathologically polite, Monica sits up. “Coming.”

  2:30 on her watch. Does this mean 2:30 a.m. here? 2:30 p.m. in Minneapolis? Daylight outside. How long has she slept?

  “Coming,” she calls louder, slipping on a robe. The chill rises from her toes straight up her legs, gripping her stomach with something like panic.

  Outside the door, she finds a small, dark-skinned woman in a crisp black and white habit.

  “Good afternoon,” she extends a delicate hand. “I am Sister Margaret. We’ve been corresponding for so long, I feel as if I know you, Doctor. I’m happy to be among the first to welcome you to Mission House.”

 
Afternoon?
How has she slept so long in this strange, new place? And who is this woman impersonating Sister Margaret, whom she’s always imagined to be the twin of her first grade teacher, with big bosom, ruddy face and ageing blue eyes?

  Sister Margaret laughs. A friendly, pleasing trill.

  Monica joins in.

  “Pardon my attire, Sister. You can see I haven’t caught up with the time.”

  “Indeed,” the young nun grins. “You must acclimate yourself. Do sleep more if you like. But some of our newcomers like to be alerted to the time.”

  It’s 2 p.m., Monica realizes. Delhi is 11 ½ hours ahead of Minneapolis.

  “I wondered if you’d care to take an early evening tea with me at Nathu’s?”

  “Nathu’s?” Almost awake now, Moica sees a nun in her late twenties, not much younger than herself, just fresher, familiar with the surroundings.

  “A local café.” Sister Margaret studies her guest. “In the Bengali Market.”

  Bengali Market. Prepaid taxi. It’s all coming back.

  “Yes, thanks. I’d enjoy that.”

   Sister Margaret shakes her head from side to side, an Indian gesture for agreement, Monica remembers.

  Overcome with remorse, she splutters, “Oh, dear, friends were phoning.”

  “Yes, Professor Nair said he will ring again tomorrow. And Dr. Nelson, from your Embassy clinic, has left her mobile number.”

  Monica takes a long breath of relief, anticipation. How astonishing that Tina Nelson is working in Delhi. She didn’t think she’d have a friend here until Beata visited. And now she has two, well one-and-a-half, with Ashok Nair.

  “Sorry to be a bother.”

  “Hardly a bother.” The young nun waves her fine-boned fingers.

  Why does she seem young? Innocence? No purity perhaps. Sister Margaret exudes a kind of serenity. Monica understands she, herself is the innocent here.

  “Shall we meet in the foyer about 6 p.m.?”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “A light lunch awaits you in the refectory, whenever you fancy it.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  Craving a latte, Monica pokes around the kitchen for tea bags. While the water boils, she opens her suitcases, digs out woolens.

  The first bureau drawer is discouraging. The second even riper in mildew. Maybe she’ll leave the bags packed and withdraw things day by day. She’ll only be at Mission House a week before traveling up to Moorty Hospital.

*****

  Walking downstairs to the lobby, Monica notices the windows on each landing have been removed. (Broken? Shot out? Never installed?) No wonder the place is freezing. She shivers in her black wool sweater and skirt, then sees the nun.

  Sister Margaret rises from a bench by the chapel, smiling. “The refectory is this way.”

  Outside in the early evening dark, crowds rush along the raised sidewalks. The sidewalk is a good nine inches higher than the street, how many sprains, how many broken ankles per week?

  Noises begin to penetrate. Honking. Grinding. Whistling. Screeching. The combustive dissonance of buses, scooters, auto rickshaws, trucks, cars.

  Drivers weave in and out of lanes. “Use horn!” a popular bumper sticker.

  Gently, Sister Margaret takes her elbow. “You must watch yourself on the crumbling pavement.”

 
Pavement
, not sidewalk. Are all the pavements like this? Last night’s dreams return in fragments: cars without headlights; people without heads; the stolen tree.

  Wait, she wants to say, India already? I need more transition than a taxi ride and one night’s sleep.

  Then turn from the busy main road and walk on several blocks to the Bengali Market where she sees Krishna convenience store, two stationery shops, two green grocers, several flower stands, a bookstore advertizing photocopies.

  On one corner is the Bengali House of Sweets. On the other is Nathu’s, which also specializes in cakes and other confections.

  “How do you choose between them?”

  The nun raises a wry eyebrow. “We visit one this month. The other next month. We don’t eat out very often.”

  The meal will be an occasion for each of us in different ways, thinks Monica.

  As they enter Nathu’s, a burly man nods. “This way,” he guides them around the tables crowded cacophonous families and whispering young couples, then gestures to a booth at the back.

  “English menu?” A waiter barks.

  “
Kripaya
,” Monica nods.

  “
Please
. On your first day. That’s excellent,” beams Sister Margaret.

  “A minimal achievement.” Monica cocks her head.

  He tosses two menus on the small table.

  English, sure, but what are these?
Uthapam. Dosa
. “I’ve eaten a lot of Indian food at home but never encountered these words.”

  “Time to try them, then,” encourages Sister Margaret. “You’ll need to know what to ask Cook to prepare for you at Moorty Hospital.”

 
Cook
. She blanches at the thought of servants.

  “Let’s sample a variety.” Sister waves to the waiter. “Biju, please bring us one tomato onion
uthapam
, one plain
dosa
, some
sambhar
and
raita
.”

  He turns.

  “Oh, yes, one bottled water and one regular water, please.”

  Monica thinks wistfully about the Kingfisher beer she always ordered with Indian meals at home.

  Three men arguing. Children crying. Two couples in animated conversation. The place smells of oil and sugar and who knows what all these spices are. Monica is here, finally, after months and months of planning. After years of childhood fantasizing. How can she convey the momentousness of this simple meal?

  Sister Margaret is saying something.

  Monica tunes out the clatter.

  Sister regards her steadily. “Dr. Murphy, we are grateful to have you join our modest mission.”

  “Please call me Monica.” She squeezes the nun’s hand, then remembers Indians don’t touch each other as often as Americans do.

  Sister shakes her head.

  “
I
am grateful to be here.” Monica draws a breath of satisfaction. It’s been a year of making the decision, backing away from it, then finally embracing this long journey of body and spirit. She didn’t anticipate nine months of forms and inoculations and more forms. She wonders, idly now, where all her documents are stored. Where does a country with a billion citizens put an extra file?

  Their meal arrives promptly. The
uthapams
are large, pungent pastries—a cross between pizza and latke. The
dosas
resemble crisp pancakes folded burrito style around fragrant, savory mush. How long will she continue to compare each meal to American dishes?

  Sister precisely divides the meal, serving half of each to Monica.

  “Your family, they are in America a long time?”

  “Oh, no,” she exclaims. Simple questions: this is how to get to know people. Monica tells herself to be less self-absorbed, to inquire about Sister Margaret’s life. “My parents came from Kildare, in Ireland.”

  “Ireland is a Catholic country,” Sister Margaret observes, then crunches into the
dosa
.

  “Most of it.” She sips mineral water and studies Sister Margaret’s technique of eating with the fingers of one hand.

  “You know, we Indians were Catholic before the Irish. Before the Spanish.”

  Monica resorts to knife and fork. She’ll have to practice hard to become as dexterous as Sister Margaret. She chews slowly, relishing the subtle spices. Next time, she’ll just order the uthapam.

  “Yes, St. Thomas,” she finally answers. “I know the stories about him, converting people on the Malabar Coast, traveling all the way to Madras.”

  Sister shakes her head approvingly.

  “We Catholics in India are six million. You have come to a very old Catholic country.”

THREE

January, 2001, New Delhi

  An entire morning of paperwork. Perhaps bureaucracy is the real religion of India. Monica stretches her jet-lagged shoulders, then dresses to meet Ashok Nair for lunch.

  “No, not Nathu’s,” he rebuffed her suggestion, mildly appalled, very professorial. “I’m inviting you for a proper meal. Please be my guest at the India International Center.”

  “I’m not sure how to get there.”

  “Simply catch an auto rickshaw,” he spoke with more of a lilt than he did on the plane. “Everyone knows the IIC, near the Lodi Gardens.”

  “Yes, the great Mughal Park,” Monica noted, eager to show she wasn’t ignorant. She simply had a lot to learn.

  “That’s it. Shall we meet in the dining room at 12:30?”

  She weighs his brusqueness as she approaches the auto rickshaw. Maybe he feels trapped by an invitation offered after two glasses of airplane wine. His asperity is at such odds with the graciousness of Sister Margaret and Mr. Alexander. Perhaps he learned abruptness in grad school at NYU. He’d fit right in with her Minneapolis colleagues. Thinking about those tensions, now 12,000 miles away, knots her stomach.

*****

  Winter sun spills through generous windows of the handsome dining room.

  Behind her, a voice.

  “Dr. Murphy. How nice to see you looking rested after that beastly journey.”

  She turns to a slim, strikingly attractive man in a navy sports coat, white shirt and black slacks. “Likewise,” she smiles.

  The waiter directs them to a window table. Outside, people stroll through Lodi Gardens in the thin blue winter light.

  Now she’s glad she chose the new green wool dress. These jade beads were Eric’s last Christmas gift.

  “India!” Eric burst out. “Who do you think you are? Mother Teresa? You could die in India.”