Traveling with Spirits (23 page)

  He’s knocked the wind out of her.

  “You haven’t had a holiday since you arrived.”

  “I just had several days with Beata in Delhi.”

  “Hardly a holiday.”

  Is he suggesting a leave? Is this his way of sending her home?

  “Father Daniel and I spoke recently.”

  “Beata says he seems well,” she stalls. “How did you find him?”

  “Ebullient as ever, despite the heart trouble. He sends warm regards. In fact, he’s planning a seminar on new gastro-intestinal protocols and thinks you’d be a perfect speaker.”

  “You’re sending me to Pondicherry?”

  “I’m not sending you anywhere. I believe it would be a blessing to Father Daniel and his colleagues if you traveled down there for ten days or so.”

  “Ten days.” She’s nonplussed and enticed.

  “In March, before the heavy heat. Have you seen the Indian Ocean yet?”

  “The ocean!” She’s grinning. “Father, would you allow me to go?”

  “How can we resist Father Daniel? Never underestimate the power of Catholics from Tamil Nadu.”

  She recalls Father Daniel racing after her in Minnesota with his email address. “He’s a force, all right, this man who drew me back to the Church.”

  He smiles. “Your heart brought you back. Father Daniel would be the perfect person to discuss what’s troubling your heart now. Frankly, I, like you, feel such conflict over these questions. He is a far better sounding board.”

  “I see.” She’s both reassured and shaken by this particular confidence.

  “Shall I suggest he email you an invitation? That would be the next step.”

  “Yes, Father, the next step.” She stands. “Let’s take the next step.”

TWENTY-TWO

Late January, 2002, Moorty and Rasik

  In the thin morning light, the Pande Bazaar is a commotion of people greeting friends, shoppers dickering with merchants. Ashok shouts at the reckless bicyclists. Is the hubbub caused by unseasonable warmth? Is it always like this on the far side of town? She’s only been here once before, at a dark 6 a.m. on an emergency call, fluttering in and out of the shadows.

  One stall sells a cornucopia of adhesive bindis in many shapes. The next displays shawls. Another glows with a bucket of saffron.

  She glances at the old snake charmer making a high-pitched whistle, summoning his cobra to ripple and swell upward from a round, tattered basket. She wants to watch, but Ashok gets even more cross. “No buses in sight. Not even an auto rickshaw.”

  “Relax,” she says. “Moorty is a small place. It can’t be far.”

  “It can be far enough for us to miss our bus,” he glowers.

  Ashok is a man of order, annoyed when things aren’t clear, she notes once again. A rather non-adaptive trait for an Indian.

  She asks several people before an old woman points to the “station” at the end of the street.

  “Eureka!” The buses come into view. Six or seven. Without destination signs.

  “Bloody bedlam,” he protests.

  Ten minutes to departure.

  Nine minutes later, they’re boarding the bus to Rasik.

  “Whose idea was this?” he asks as they struggle past passengers storing cases, chatting in the aisle, to the only empty places at the back of the ancient vehicle.

  “Ahhh,” he emits a comic sigh and collapses into the seat.

  “Actually, Sudha suggested Rasik. Relax, Mr. Curmudgeon, the worst part is over. We located the bus. We have our seats. Adjacent seats.”

  “Well spotted. I didn’t see them. You’re more nimble on coaches than I.”

  “My father was a bus driver. It’s a perfectly safe, reliable form of transportation.”

  “How long have you been in this country? Nothing in India is a perfectly safe, reliable form of transportation.” He shuts his eyes, rests his curly head on the window. “I should have hired a car. Who knows how many stops this tank makes.”

  A two-year-old in the forward seat has turned around and stares wide-eyed, fascinated by the gloomy Ashok.

  She plays peek-a-boo and the child giggles.

  Ashok opens one eye. Reluctantly charmed, he laughs. “You’re good with children of all ages. Sorry for the petulance. My sister calls me a cantankerous traveler.”

  “Rasik is ninety minutes away. We’ll be there by 11 a.m.”

  “They’ll let us claim our rooms that early?”

  “I checked. They’re used to guests arriving on this notoriously trustworthy bus.”

  He releases a long sigh. “How do you know it’s trustworthy? Did Sudha say?”

  “No,” she smirks. “I just wanted you to relax.”

  He laughs. Briefly.

  She tries again. “Sudha says a maharajah from Rajasthan built Rasik Palace. He wanted a respite from the desert summer. Her friend Lakshmi says the palace is a huge yellow building set among manicured grounds with gorgeous views.”

  “Who’s Lakshmi? Wait a minute, you mean Sudha hasn’t even been to this place?”

  She ignores the anxious question. “A hundred years ago they had fancy dress balls there. He was a Westernized maharajah even then. He hosted fabulous dinners, with wine from France. Quite a scene: the British vied with each other for invitations. He modeled his golden palace on a country estate he visited in Suffolk. Complete with a large stable for horses.”

  “Where are the maharajahs now?”

  “After he died, his adult children used it less and less. His great grandson sold it to the Oberoi Hotel Chain.”

  “I can’t wait.” He closes his eyes. End of conversation.

*****

  Two hours later the bus deposits them at an ornate wrought iron gate. They’re the only ones alighting. She wonders if the skeptical professor might be right.

  Ashok holds the heavy gate for her. They wheel suitcases up the cobbled path.

  Here it is. The pale yellow 19th century dream haloed by shining, snowy mountains. She is twelve years old again and happier than if she’d gone to Disneyland.

  “Interesting,” he allows.

  “Splendid!” she declares.

  The huge front doors are weathered oak. Through their beveled glass centers: a blurry scene of green uniformed bellmen, stylish women and well-appointed men. She imagines them dining at candlelit table, soft music played by young Rajasthanis.

  “Shall we?” Ashok opens the door and regards her curiously.

  “I was daydreaming.”

  “Daydreams, not nightmares. Already, the curative powers of Rasik.”

  The young desk clerk hands brass keys for room 25 and 26 to the bellman, who whisks their bags up the opulently carpeted staircase.

  Her room is the “Blue Boudoir.” She walks over a threadbare teal and grey Persian rug to the Victorian vanity table, complete with oval mirror and azure flounced skirt. She lies on the robin’s egg blue chenille bedspread, surprised by the firm mattress.

  Clack. Clack. Horses? No: knock, knock.

  Startled, she looks up, disoriented in the cerulean world.

  “Monica?” His voice is concerned.

  Oh, lord, it’s one o’clock. She rushes to the door.

  “Are you OK? Weren’t we planning to walk before lunch?”

  “Sorry, I tried out the bed and you woke me. I shouldn’t have fallen…”

  “Don’t worry. You needed the rest.”

  Her breath catches at Mom’s words. “
You must have needed the rest.
”

  “We can walk after lunch. It’s quite warm. Thirteen or fourteen degrees.”

  “January thaw, like Minneapolis,” she sounds like an idiot. “I’ll brush my hair and meet you downstairs, OK?”

  “Take your time, Monica. This is a holiday.”

  What happened to the crank on the bus? The palace is working transformative powers on each of them.

  She sits before the spotted oval mirror, inspecting the tangle of scarlet yarn on her head. How many lovely
maharanis
combed their rich black locks here? How many dithered between white and yellow sapphires? How many secret trysts occurred in that seductive bed? Her brush catches most tangles. She regards the green sweater: blah. Digging through the suitcase, she finds the purple turtleneck Beata brought from Minnesota. And the earrings Sudha bought in Moorty to match. Much more vivid. She feels a dreamy excitement. She’s not used to dressing for a date.

  Sun warms her face as they hike along the quiet road to the crest of the hill. Ashok wants to see the legendary cricket pitch. She’s heard there’s a
gurdvara
at the top. Monica inhales the benign, almost spring-like air.

  “Heaven,” she whispers.

  “Delightful. They’re serving tea in the garden later. Imagine. In January.”

  “Oh, fun.”

  “Still, we don’t want to get fooled,” he warns. “Winter will return.”

  “OK, Dr. Nair, I won’t put away woolies.” Shedding her parka, she feels a slight breeze prickling through her sweater: delicious.

  “That purple is very becoming on you.”

  “Beata’s doing. She has great taste.”

  “Yes. In clothing. And in friends.”

  Two men drive by in a black pickup truck. They wave.

  Flustered by Ashok’s compliments, she’s grateful for the distraction.

  The cricket pitch is nondescript. Aren’t they all?

  Ashok is entranced. They walk the length of the pitch. “What views! Imagine competing here, shouldered by these mountains. In this clean, clean air.”

  She doesn’t know anything about cricket except that there’s a wicket involved, so she murmurs, “Stunning.”

  “This India of
ours
, yes, I complain, really though, it’s extraordinary.”

  India of
ours
. “Yes,” she agrees.

  They ramble along the road at a comfortable pace. Drivers wave, toot horns.

  The
gurdvara
is a domed building flying a triangular orange flag, with the Sikh symbol.

  A greeter welcomes the visitors warmly, advising her to cover her head and remove footwear.

  They slip off their shoes at the door. After a year in India, she no longer worries about losing her shoes.

  As they enter through the arch, she feels a tap on her shoulder.

  The Sikh offers each a slice of coconut to make an offering.

  Two devotees sit cross-legged on the carpeted floor.

  Ashok and Monica tentatively approach the Guru Granth Sahib, eyes closed, before the holy book. They bow their heads. Is Ashok praying? she wonders. As if on cue, each leaves the offering and they exit silently.

  “Lovely,” she tells their host as she pulls on her shoes.

  Ashok drops several coins in a dish and tents his hands. “
Namaste
.”

*****

  Carefully, they pick their way downhill, avoiding patches of last week’s ice storm.

  “My first romance was with a Sikh girl,” he muses.

  “Oh?”

  “Sanjana Singh. I think I fell in love with her name first.”

  “When was this?”

  “I was what, twelve or thirteen,” he pauses. “Romance is an exaggeration. Powerful emotions—or hormones—on my part. We went to one film.”

  “And?”

  “There’s no ‘and.’ Maybe she hated the movie. She avoided me after that.”

  “Sad,” she says, amused as her twinge of jealousy dissipates.

  “And you? Your first love?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Not sure I’d call it love, but it was a deep crush. I asked a boy to the junior prom.”

  “Bold of you.”

  “We were studying feminism in Civics class. Besides, boys were put off by me.”

  “Too smart?”

  “Something like that. So I asked this cute guy and we had a fabulous time.”

  “And?”

  “Turned out he was gay. But it was the beginning of a long friendship.”

  “An ordinary friendship?” he teases.

  She blushes, “We’re still in touch. He’s a neurosurgeon in Detroit.”

*****

  The garden is hardly blooming, but most of the snow has melted and the little tables are covered with white cloths and flowered plates.

  Ashok ushers her to a table in the corner. “Better for watching the parade.”

  A young Tibetan man takes their order. Darjeeling for her. Assam golden tip for Ashok. Both without milk.

  Other tables are filling with families. A pair of old women. Several couples. Monica notices she’s the only non-Indian. She’s glad Sudha suggested a place that wasn’t packed with foreign tourists. What else would she expect from Sudha?

  Inhaling the flowery steam of Darjeeling sweetness, she sighs contentedly.

  “I had an interesting email correspondence last week.”

  The intensity of his voice makes her uneasy. “Yes?” she asks.

  “From the department at Madison.”

  “Really?” she tries to sound neutral.

  “They’re inviting me to apply for a senior position there.” The words spill quickly; his voice is high. “An invitation only. Maybe they’re asking dozens of people.”

  She pushes through the weighty disappointment. “Don’t erase the honor before enjoying it. You’ve talked about taking a break from Delhi.”

  “This would be more than a break,” he says intently.

  The small scar beneath is lower lip is reddening. She wonders if he fell on a bottle as a baby. No, certainly his mother breastfed him.

  “It’s a permanent post. Full professor.”

  “How do you feel about that?” she watches the afternoon’s gaiety fading away.

  “They have a great department. They ‘get’ my work. It’s almost ideal.”

  “Almost?” Her chest tightens.

  “I have, um, certain attachments in India.” His gaze is fixed on his cup.

  She sips tea, waiting, then selects a biscuit, nibbles the edge.