Traveling with Spirits (35 page)

  “He would have been eight years old when discovered,” Girish explains. “People during this period are reputed to have grown into giants.”

  Girish shows them the elaborate library. Sudha leafs through a book. After a while, Monica shuts her eyes, trying to absorb the fact that she’s really here at this remote and venerable monastery. She imagines centuries of prayer and meditation. Who would have imagined her long, long, journey from Father Daniel’s retreat to Tabo?

  Dinner is served in a tent like the one at Sangla. Girish joins them at a small, candlelit table. Electricity, he’s explained, went down last week.

  “You’re both from Moorty?”

  “More or less,” Sudha says. “We live there now, but I belong to Bombay.”

  He turns to Monica who is savoring the
sag paneer
.

  Odd he hasn’t asked before, she thinks. “I’m from Minneapolis.”

  “The University of Minnesota. It has a famous South Asian library.”

  “The U, yes,” she’s pleased. “You’ve heard of the Ames Library?

  “I almost went there for a Ph.D.” Girish shrugs.

  The guy is full of surprises. “But you decided against it?”

  “Why travel to Minnesota when you can come to Tabo? Why study when you can absorb and practice spiritual discipline in this venerable place?”

  Absorb and practice spiritual discipline, she muses, how close has she come to that? “Will you become a monk?”

  He laughs, then stares at the shadows playing on the tent ceiling. “Once I thought that was my path, but,” he pats the Nikon, safely placed on a side table. “I’m too curious about connections between spirit and earth. Perhaps one day I’ll write a book with photographs. When I have enough pictures. When I’m wise enough.”

  “How will you gauge that?” Sudha asks in a teacherly voice.

  He opens his palms. “What do you do in Moorty?”

  “I teach secondary school. And Monica is a doctor at a local hospital.”

  Not Mission hospital, Monica notices. Not Catholic hospital. Not subversive neo-colonial institution.

  “You know,” he says with practiced casualness. “I had an idea about tomorrow.”

  “I’m not surprised.” There’s an edge to Sudha’s voice.

  Monica wonders if her friend is also a little fearful. Because they’re surrounded by men? Because Spiti feels too perfect?

  “How would you like to see Lalung?”

  “Lalung!” Sudha exclaims. “It’s so isolated. Really quite Tibetan.”

  “Ya.” Girish’s tongue dislodges a kernel of rice from between two front teeth. “Tibetan, but officially Indian as these things go. The people speak Bhoti. It’s about an hour away. Depending on the rock slides, et cetera. If your driver has the petrol, we can go.”

  They look at each other, flabbergasted.

  “My young friend, Norbu, hasn’t seen his grandmother for months. I don’t suppose you’d mind giving him a lift? He could translate for us.”

  “The jeep has room,” Monica rushes on. “Four passenger seats.”

  “We will ask Shankar,” Sudha hesitates.

  “I asked this afternoon. ‘First Class Service,’ he said. ‘Whatever the ladies request.’”

  “That was foresightful,” Sudha says coolly, “to inquire about logistics.”

  “I trust that you don’t find it impertinent—”

  Monica follows their volley warily.

  “Let’s stick with foresightful,” Sudha frowns. “The trip sounds like an adventure. I vote yes.”

  It takes a beat before Monica sees they’re waiting for her. “The vote is unanimous.”

  Two lanterns cast a yellow glow inside their little tent. Comforted by the mellow light, Monica is glad the electricity is down. Sliding under heavy covers, she’s eager for sleep after a startling day.

  “Monica, I’ve been wanting to ask you something.”

  Her shoulders tighten. Is Sudha suspicious of Girish?

  “Yes,” she answers reluctantly. Bedtime is not her favorite hour to chat.

  “Raul and I have been making plans.”

  She waits.

  “Tentative plans.”

  “About?”

  “Manda.”

  The word strikes like a rock. She expected “wedding” or “children.” Plans for Manda means she’ll be losing Raul and Sudha. “He’s going to open a clinic there? A full-time clinic?”

  “Yes,” Sudha declares. “Monica, do sit up a moment. I need to talk with you.”

  Sleepily, she rests a pillow under her elbow and faces her friend.

  “The tutoring project has gone magnificently. And there’s a huge medical need. We both feel we’ve done what we can in Moorty.”

  She sighs, shrugs away her selfishness. “That would be brave of both of you.”

  “One does what’s next.”

  “The hospital will sorely miss Raul.”

  “Delhi will send a replacement.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “No.”

  “And I shall miss you, dear friend. Yes, I know this is right. Hard and daring and right. Be prepared for frequent visits from a certain Moorty doctor.”

  “Monica, thank you.” She closes her eyes and takes a long breath. “I knew you’d understand. Nothing will happen for a while. There’s so much planning. He’s just begun fundraising. It could be months. A year.”

  Monica fights her feelings of abandonment. People move on. Sudha and Raul love each other and they’ll flourish in Manda. Besides, who knows how long her visa will last. “I hope the visa comes through and I’ll be there to say
Hasta luego
! And, as threatened, to visit often.”

  “The best kind of threat.” Sudha slips beneath the covers. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. You’re exhausted. I just wanted to start the conversation.”

 
Start
the conversation? Monica wonders.

  After a hearty breakfast, they climb into Shankar’s chariot.

  Norbu is a quiet, polite kid of eighteen or nineteen. Shy with the women; at first he speaks only in answer to questions.

  Their route winds past mountain after mountain as they follow the blue grey Spiti River.

  “Those giant rock formations,” Sudha points out the right window, “remind me of the Olgas in Australia. Meena took me to visit the Northern Territory.”

  “The Red Center,” muses Norbu.

  “An educated young man,” says Sudha.

  He blushes, falls silent.

  Up, up they travel. Monica’s spine twists with the sudden turns. No room for her pillow with two extra passengers.

  Road workers cover their heads, mouths and noses with scarves and shawls against the biting dust. Coated in pale dirt, they look like ghosts. Monica imagines a Greek chorus warning them. Of something.

  “Oh, look, there,” Sudha declares, “at those weird formations.” 

  Glad for the distraction, Monica says, “Like the Badlands of South Dakota.”

  “The Badlands,” Norbu brightens. “Sitting Bull and General Custer.”

  “That’s right!” she waves to him.

  “Norbu reads a lot,” Girish says. “We have good conversations.”

  Suddenly the jeep skids to a halt. It takes a moment for Monica to leave the Badlands, to notice the huge boulders blocking the highway. Dozens of them.

  Girish leaps out. Then Norbu. They haul rocks to the roadside.

  Monica and Sudha join in, tossing smaller rocks.

  Reluctantly, Shankar emerges from the car. Clearly moving rocks is beyond the call of “First Class” duties.

  Monica supposes he’s finally realized the jeep isn’t going anywhere blocked by these boulders. Eventually, they manage to clear a path for the car. Catching her breath, Monica feels refreshed by the exercise. It’s good to do something on a holiday. Looking down, the River seems to take on a new life.

*****

  Lalung, like most villages up here, perches on a sheer hillside. All dwellings are the same beige-tan-taupe color. Dust covers the people, too. Girish explains it protects their skin against ravaging winds.

  They stride past basic abodes which remind Monica of Pueblos. Otherwise, this looks like an ethereal realm. She notices a satellite dish on a distant roof. So much for unearthly!

  “Our monastery is ancient,” murmurs Norbu. “We will meet the monk.”

  They climb and climb up steep village roads. Monica and Sudha pause several times to catch their breath.

  Norbu halts at an unprepossessing door and rings the bell.

  Minutes pass. A quarter hour.

  An old monk in a red baseball cap appears, bows at his unexpected guests.

  “Our monastery,” Norbu translates the monk’s words from Bhoti, “is exactly the same age as Tabo. In fact it was founded on the same night all those centuries ago.”

  Girish, turned away from the group, snaps photos of the austere buildings in the haunting landscape.

  The monk escorts them to a room with a prayer wheel. Its old walls are lined with vibrant, almost gaudy images of the Buddha in erotic poses.

  What would it be like to live in a village where, for centuries, everyone shared the same faith? Tabo and Lalung in one week. Monica has fantasized about peaks, not monasteries. She’s not prepared for the sacred nature of this mountain journey. She feels a pang of regret about her continuing search for spiritual community.

  The next chamber is tiny. Very dark. No electricity in Lalung either. He props the door to admit sunlight on the elaborate rainbow-colored carvings. The centerpiece is a four-bodied Buddha on a wheel.

  “The wheel hasn’t turned in five hundred years,” Norbu translates.

  “Well, let’s not try it today,” Sudha whispers.

  Norbu concurs solemnly.

  Now they enter a library where each sacred text is bound in an ancient saffron cloth.

  “It’s all too extraordinary to absorb,” she whispers to Sudha.

  Norbu waits outside in the sunny, windy morning.

  Girish waves from a high rock, hundreds of yards away, then points and clicks his Nikon.

*****

  Tonight Norbu joins them in the tent for dinner.

  Monica watches the two young men filling their plates and wonders: mentor and student? Friends? Lovers? She still has trouble reading body language between men here. The tent is cozy with battery-powered lanterns and a kerosene heater. Their adventure has given her a large appetite for the delicious curry.

  “Did you enjoy your visit?” Norbu asks bashfully.

  “Your village is stunning,” declares Sudha.

  Norbu beams.

  Monica thinks of Basteri, Chitkul, Lalung, all places she couldn’t have imagined.

  “I’ve been wondering,” Girish pauses from his meal, “what kind of doctoring you do in Moorty. I don’t remember a hospital there.”

  “Oh, yes,” Sudha interjects, “it’s been there ten years. Small. Excellent staff.”

  Monica studies her friend. Has she changed her mind about the clinic because of Raul? Herself? Or is she forestalling a young man’s rant about Western busybodies?

  “Forgive me for being personal,” Girish persists, “but why would an Indian hospital hire an American doctor?”

  She draws a long breath. “I work at Moorty Mission Hospital. A Catholic-sponsored facility. Normally, it is staffed by Indians, you are right. This is rather an anomalous moment.”

  “Why did you come to India?”

  “To contribute what I could.”

  “Ah, an evangelist.” He’s clearly teasing.

  “No, my goal is to help people get well.”

  “Do you tend their bodies or their souls?”

  Monica sees genuine curiosity in the eyes of this contemplative photographer.

  “Can one separate the two? I focus on the body, of course. I’m a physician.”

  Sudha pays close attention.

  Norbu’s voice is faint. “I went to a Mission Hospital once. My appendix burst. The care was first-rate.”

  Sudha stands and passes the dessert try. “Sweets anyone? A game of Scrabble?”

  As they prepare for bed, Monica says, “Interesting intervention.”

  Slipping into a flannel nightgown, Sudha asks, “What do you mean?”

  “Serving dessert like the camp chatelaine and then changing the topic to Scrabble.”

  “OK. OK.” Sudha perches on the bed. “I didn’t think Girish would understand the kind of work you and Raul do.”

  “I see.” She’s annoyed but also touched. “Well—” she shouldn’t continue, “do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  Monica slides between the cold sheets, then reaches over for her shawl. Why didn’t she bring that silk underwear she uses in the Rockies?

  Sudha taps her foot.

  “Do you understand our work?” Monica lifts her head from the pillow.

  “Some of it.”

  Monica closes her eyes, lies back down. She should let this go.

  “Do you understand its implications?” Sudha asks a little sharply.

  “Some,” she answers honestly. “I’ve given good care. The pre-natal and preventive health programs are useful, but—”

  Sudha waits.

  “As time passes I feel desperate about the condoms which would do so much good. That question Raj asked a lifetime ago is still fresh in my conscience.”

  “Ah, Raj.”

  “I don’t convert my patients, but some of my colleagues aren’t so judicious.”

  “Brigid,” Sudha sighs. “Raul has told me. About the ‘spiritual check-ups’ she does with patients.”

  Monica shakes her head angrily.

  “And the baptisms.”

  “How often has he seen it?” She should have told Raul about the Habib baby.

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Is this one of the reasons he’s so eager to leave for Manda?”

  “One of them.”

  Monica groans, heavy with shame.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” Sudha apologizes. “Not at bedtime. Brigid does provoke me. But we need rest. General Shankar said ‘bright and early’ for our journey to Losar.”

  Losar. Monica hopes to dream about this village 13,500 feet high. Imagine. Rest. Sleep. Dream. If only she could.

  Girish and Norbu stand outside the breakfast tent, waving farewell.

  Sudha calls out the window. “Hope you have more guests this week.”

  “Yes, a family from Gujarat is arriving today,” Girish assures her. “And some people from Delhi the next day.”

  “Good luck with the electricity,” Monica adds. “Thanks for everything.”