Traveling with Spirits (34 page)

  Within ten minutes of climbing, goats and sheep stream toward them. Hundreds of animals.

  Shepherds look astonished at the two travelers—one in a sweatshirt and black pants; the other wearing a purple salwar kameez.

  Finally, a young man shouts, “Where is your home?”

  “Moorty,” Sudha calls back.

  Monica’s impulse is to say “Moorty” as well. But it doesn’t feel earned. They probably couldn’t place “Minnesota.” “The U.S.A.” sounds alien to her. Finally, she responds, “North America.”

  He grins, “Welcome to our India!”

  They linger a while in the model village, admiring mountain peaks to which they’re getting closer every day. On the way back down to the camp, they watch a herd of cows headed to Basteri, apparently without the prodding of dog or human.

  “The cows are coming home!” Monica laughs. “If I were a cow, I’d come home to this lovely village.”

  A downpour commences about 4:30 and rain continues into evening. They arrive in the dinner tent as soggy as the other campers. Good cheer prevails. Many guests simply relish the novelty of camping in the wilderness. Monica notices that she and a Dutch couple are the only “Euros” here. Other guests come from Calcutta, Jaipur, Chennai. Sudha gets into an animated conversation with Saroj and Ashwin from Bombay. An hour after dinner, Monica is exhausted, as if she’s walked up the mountain rather than being chauffeured by First Class Shankar.

  The bedding is plentiful and cozy.

  Darkness. Camp noises. Voices. Rain. Monica feels full with so many extraordinary moments from the day.

  “Are you asleep?” whispers Sudha.

  “Not yet,” she answers reluctantly.

  “When do you think Ashok will hear from his American university?”

  “Who knows?”

  “That’s hard.”

  “Yes,” she answers with a finality she hopes will end the conversation.

  “And?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You’ve taught me persistence. What is happening between you two?”

  Monica feels a huge breath escape her chest.

  “I’ve answered all your questions about Raul. Turnabout is fair play.”

  “Love your Anglicisms!” She rolls over and faces the tent wall. Really, she doesn’t want to discuss this. The mountains are meant to be a retreat—from work, family ghosts, decisions.

  “Don’t disgress.”

  She moans. “He’s hinted…”

  Sudha sits up.

  Monica turns to the dim outline of her friend’s face.

  “How could you keep such a thing from me?” she shrieks hoarsely.

  “I don’t know how I feel.” She sits up. “I haven’t responded. You could say I’m keeping something from him, too.”

  “What’s the problem? You’re clearly in love.”

  She sighs. “Really?”

  “Go on! Think about how you talk about him. Your eagerness for his emails and calls. The look on your face during his last visit.”

  “Yes, I’m drawn to Ashok. He’s a fine man, but…”

  “But what?”

  “His work is in Delhi. If he stays in India, he wants me to move to Delhi.”

  “Delhi isn’t Bombay, still, it’s not the end of the earth.”

  Monica laughs, “I love Delhi. But my work is in Moorty.”

  “There must be other doctors who could come to Moorty.”

  “I’ve been trained. Developed programs. There are patients who rely on me.”

  “Surely that would all happen in Delhi. They need more doctors there, too.”

  “So what about this?” Monica can almost see Sudha’s eyes in the darkness now. “I would miss you. What would I do without you?”

  Sudha sniffs. “You’d be fine. I’d miss you, too, of course, but we would visit.”

  “Listen, Sudha, I don’t want to visit. I want to be in Moorty, at the Mission with my patients, with Raul, Father Freitas, Sister Catherine, Sister Eleanor. And you.”

  “Let’s talk about this another time. You’re tired.”

  “Do you truly believe I need to move to Delhi and get married to be happy?”

  “I believe we each flourish near someone who loves us the way Ashok clearly loves you. I think you’ve needed to be loved for a very long time.”

  “What I need now is rest. Good-night, my persistent friend.” She’s too stirred up for sleep. But quiet will be good. Monica doesn’t tell her Ashok also wants her to move back to the States if the Madison job is funded. She tries not to think about it. Yes, quiet. For a few hours.

  “Good night Monica.”

  “Sleep well, Sudha.”

  Brilliant sunshine fills the morning as they eagerly head out to explore Chitkul. The jeep climbs to 10,000 feet; the sun growing brighter and the wind fiercer.

  Carefully, the friends tread to the edge of newly cultivated fields bordered by a glacier. What rewards: wild strawberries, giant butterflies and scores of dazzlingly colored birds.

  The nearby village, larger than Basteri, is distinguished by delicately carved wooden houses with pagoda slate roofs. Strolling through the streets, they are greeted by women sewing and weaving, children playing and men intent over card games.

  “
Namaste
.”

  “Hello!” An old woman looks up.

  “Good morning,” says a neighbor.

  Monica fantasizes that someone will invite them for tea. Sure. Just how many strangers did she invite for tea in Uptown? They continue meandering around the village and hours slip by.

  Monica stares out the jeep window trying to imprint the image of these mountains on her mind. They remind her of the Rockies, her favorite American range, but the Himalayas are so much larger and even at 10,000 feet, there’s substantial vegetation. She finds herself resisting the Himalayan beauty because she doesn’t want it to be more stunning than the Rockies.

  “It’s extraordinary,” Sudha declares. “How changed the landscape and architecture are from Moorty. Do you see what I mean about different Indias?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “No, Ma’am, I beg to differ.” An assured voice from the front seat. “This is all one India. Very large. This is why our India is great.”

  Sudha winks at her. “You have a point, Shankar.”

  After dinner, in the strong sunlight, they trek the banks of the Baspa River. Discovering a meadow, the women stretch out, savoring the late warmth, the fresh scent of grass and pleasant sensations of well-used muscles.

  Sudha holds her head back, watching the clouds.

  Monica has never seen her friend so relaxed.

  “Today reminded me, in odd way,” Sudha sits up, her blue salwar kameez as unwrinkled as it was this morning, “of Saturday family walks on Malabar Hill.”

  “I’ve heard it’s a lovely spot.”

  “We would always picnic at a special spot overlooking the Arabian Sea, which my Admiral father insisted on calling ‘the Indian Ocean.’ ”

  “Perhaps Shankar is a distant cousin of your father?”

  “No doubt,” Sudha shakes her head. “The Our India Is Great campaign is grating. I fear it’s not far from that sentiment to the ideology of those thugs who made ‘reconnaissance visits’ to your hospital.”

  “Your father is sympathetic to the R.S.S.?”

  “No! He’s very sensible for a military man. My mother has seen to that! Right now, I’d rather think about the color of Malabar Hill and the smell of the sea. Oh, look at the time!” Reluctantly, she rises, brushes off her clothes and offers a hand to Monica.

  As they head back toward camp, Monica asks “Were you close to your brother and sister?”

  “When we were children, especially to my Sister. Meena is a year younger, only.”

  “Odd they both left India. You did, for university, but you came back.”

  “Not odd. They’re part of the Indian Diaspora.”

  “Do you miss them?”

  “Yes and no. I miss some idyllic childhood years before Naren went to boarding school. Then I was sent off. And Meena attended a different school. These children’s prisons are a British hangover. I got a reasonable education in certain subjects. However, you’re taught to see yourselves as individuals rather than in relation to others. The impresario of your future success.”

  “That’s fairly American, too.” She studies the tension along Sudha’s jaw line.

  The descending sun plays pink and red on distant mountains. They stop to watch.

  “You’ve recovered from that, though. You returned from Scotland.”

  “I’m more distant from our parents than Meena and Naren in some ways. They live in cosmopolitan cities. Father doesn’t know what to make of his country recluse.”

  “Recluse!” Monica laughs. “You’re one of the busiest people in Moorty—on this committee and that, doing more projects than I can count.”

  Sudha shrugs, “Tell me more about Jeanne.”

  She gazes at the mountains, continues walking. “We were closer as children before Dad left.”

  “That must have been so hard.”

  She’s lost in the lingering sunset. She wants to be in the Himalayas. With Sudha. Not in Minnesota. Certainly not in her childhood. “Mom and Jeanne were distraught.”

  “I mean,” Sudha takes her hand, “hard on you.”

  Her eyes fill. She’s not going to be one of those Americans who crack up in India. No, she takes a breath. Everything happened so long ago. She studies the soft sunset colors. “Must be the altitude,” Monica forces a laugh.

  Sudha frowns.

  “Come on, comrade,” Monica squeezes her hand, “the sun is going and I’m worried about these flashlight batteries.”

THIRTY-ONE

May, 2002, Himalayan Journey

  She sits outside their tent in the high desert, soaking in the golden mountains. Atop the tallest ones, glaciers shimmer. On this sunny, windy afternoon—too windy for Sudha, who lies in the tent reading—the campground is decked with white and purple irises, pink rock roses and a violet sweet pea ground cover. They’ve landed in Paradise. Birds call from the bushes as the Spiti River surges and spurts into the gorge below. Really, you could step into Heaven from here.

Dear Beata,

  The route from Kalpa got steeper and steeper and yet we remained in the middle of nowhere. We passed dozens of road workers. The men never acknowledged our car. Invariably, women workers stopped and waved. Most drivers and travelers are male, so perhaps the women were happy to see us? What hot, dusty, treacherous work. More admonitory signs up here. “One Blunder and You Go Under.”

  Back to Kalpa. The sunny Kinnauri village is distinguished by sloping slate roofs on beautifully made buildings. We visited a Buddhist temple and several Hindu temples, passed tailors and shoemakers and grocers. At the edge of the village, we took a long road leading to the highway. Evening light was exquisite and we felt so tranquil that we walked over an hour. At one point, we saw a shepherd in a Kinnauri hat herding her small flock of sheep and one yak. On her back, she carried a large load of firewood. Suddenly, she turned and all the sheep as well as the huge yak followed her down a set of steep stone steps.

  Monica tugs on her shawl. Despite the wind, it is splendid out here.

  One groundless fear: they’re the only two guests. Girish, the camp manager, says the tents are usually full. Not to worry they’ll get extra attention from the cook, the housekeeper and himself. All men. Extra attention? Monica remembers Sudha’s early reservation, “But we are two women.” Well, hasn’t God taken them this far?

  “Hey there!” Girish appears with a telephoto Nikon protruding from his chest.

  “Good afternoon.” She stands, anxiety dissolved by his friendly directness. She tries not to think of Beata’s crack about his “phallic neck piece.”

  “I’m going to Tabo Monastery this afternoon and I wondered if you ladies would like to join me. I could show you around.”

  This tall, handsome guy in his late twenties ties his long black hair in a ponytail and wears second-hand R.E.I. pants, a grey sweatshirt and a Tibetan shawl. His shoes are Munros, circa 1970. He looks like someone working at Ragstock on Lake Street. She remembers Girish explained that he gave up his teaching job in Lucknow to meditate here in Spiti. That he spent last winter in an isolated cave and plans to pass next winter in a remote monastery. The camp job covers his yearly costs. He’s a spiritual seeker. What is she worried about?

  “Let me ask Sudha.”

  Sudha pops out of the tent wearing two shawls. “Sudha says yes. We were looking forward to the monastery. What could be better than a personal tour?”

  Several minutes out of camp in Girish’s rickety sedan, they pass a thin man, walking purposefully, red robes fluttering in the wind. He stops and waves.

  Girish pulls over and opens the door. They exchange a few words in Bhoti. Then the monk bows and smiles warmly to Monica and Sudha.

  “Great luck!” Girish turns, as confident as Shankar, driving with one eye on the road. “My friend has keys. He’ll show us the ancient part that most visitors never see.”

  She and Sudha grin at one another.

  Tabo Monstery is a series of one-and-two-storey yellowish buildings. Not the crumbling 10th century edifice she expected. More like a scene from 19th century New Mexico, something out of Death Comes For The Archbishop.

  The oldest section is guarded by statues of gruesome figures who ward off evil interlopers. They pass through a gallery of sculptures—gods and goddesses. Resting on a throne at the center of the room is a color photograph of the Dalai Lama. Behind that revolves a sculpture with heads of four distinct Buddhas.

  Girish and the monk lead them from the altar to view the one-thousand-year-old murals on the walls and ceiling. Finally, they enter a room devoted to a massive sculpture of a new Buddha, a gargantuan child.