Traveling with Spirits (36 page)

  She wonders if Girish’s visitors are imaginary. Maybe their own stay was a fantasy.

  Thousand-year-old monasteries.

  Villages pulsing under blankets of dust.

  Rotating Buddhas.

  Mystery, not menace.

  “
Jule
,” Norbu shouts in Bhoti.

  “
Jule
,” Monica and Sudha call back.

  Shankar guns the engine and they set off at a gallop.

THIRTY-TWO

May, 2002,The Himalayan Journey

  Sudha sits in front, absorbed by the mountains.

  Monica adjusts the pillow behind her back and prays. She begins each day asking that their travels go well, that she will know God’s will and have the strength to carry it out. This morning she also prays for guidance about Moorty Mission. Surely Father Freitas will direct them well. Surely she can put the Walshes’ evangelism out of her mind until the end of this trip. Can try to put it out of her mind.

  “Oh, look,” Sudha points.

  Monica takes in a spectacular waterfall streaming from the rock face.

  “Many waterfalls now,” Shankar declares. “Extra beautiful route for you.”

  “Indeed,” Monica nods in gratitude.

  “Did you enjoy Spiti camp?” he asks.

  “Very much, Sudha answers.

  “Only women,” he mutters.

  “Pardon?” Monica finds it hard to hear him from the back seat.

  “You were the only women there.”

  “Yes.” Sudha’s exasperation is returning.

  “Were you not afraid?”

  “No, should we have been?” Sudha regards him curiously.

  Flustered, he concentrates on the road, then speaks up. “My company usually escorts businessmen through the mountains. Sometimes married people. This is the first time to drive two ladies traveling alone.”

  Monica refrains from repeating that they are traveling with each other, not alone.

  “Well, aren’t you lucky then?” declares Sudha. “How interesting for you.”

  His face grows serious. “Interesting. It is interesting.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Sudha says flatly.

  Monica manages a half smile, as reluctant as Sudha to learn more about Shankar’s opinions about women travelers.

  They arrive in Losar just after 4 p.m. Almost 13,500 feet. She’s never climbed this high in the Rockies. Do Dad and his cowgirl do much hiking? He didn’t answer the last letter. She hopes he’s OK.

  The small crossroads town is hectic with people purchasing supplies for even farther flung areas. For millennia traders have visited from Tibet and India. The crowds reflect this history—faces from Central Asia, Lhasa, Delhi. Afternoon streets bustle with lorries and coaches and a few jeeps like theirs. In nearby fields, some still dusted with snow, she sees crops of potatoes and carrots. The junction town is bordered by silvery mountains, some as high as 20,000 feet.

  “Don’t you want to keep going up, up toward those beautiful peaks?”

  Sudha laughs. “Yes, I always like to go farther, to see what’s next.”

  Shankar’s voice darkens. “Kunzum Pass after this. Then we go down. To the Kullu Valley, to Manali, to Rohanda and then we return to Moorty. This is our package. According to the signed contract.”

  “Yes, Shankar,” Monica says impatiently. “Don’t worry. We’re being fanciful.”

  “Fanciful,” he weighs the word. “I think it is a woman’s trait, yes?”

  “Among many assets,” Sudha says.

  Apparently not knowing what to make of this, he says, “I drive now to the Government Guest House. Special place. These other jeep travelers stay in the two town hotels. Not so nice. Not so clean. Yet even they are all booked now.”

  “We appreciate your careful planning.” Monica sighs, dying for a shower.

  On the edge of Losar, they stop at a small, blockish structure. Shankar knocks. He knocks again, more loudly. Then he calls through a crack in the door.

  Finally, a monk in red robes appears.

  “The manager is temporarily absent,” he speaks impeccable English. “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”

  Shankar is opening the trunk, carrying out their bags.

  “We have a booking here for tonight,” Sudha explains.

  The monk tilts his head skeptically. “Perhaps there has been a mistake. This is a government Guest House.”

  “Yes,” Monica concurs. “We have a booking through Moorty Motor Tours.”

  “I see,” he reflects. “Please come in. This is the common room. I am next door. There is one more guest chamber at the end of the house.”

  They enter a murky parlor sparsely furnished with two small tables and six chairs.

  “I’m afraid we’ve had no electricity for days. And the water is limited.”

  Monica’s heart sinks. So much for a shower.

  A small, round man bursts in. “Hello. Hello?”

  “Ah, this is Mr. Sharma, the manager. And these are your guests from the Jeep Company.”

  Mr. Sharma looks puzzled.

  “These ladies have a booking for tonight.”

  “Impossible. Impossible,” he grumbles. “No booking.”

  Monica feels the weight of the day, of the whole week, on her tired, dirty body.

  “Is the room reserved for someone else then?” Sudha steps forward.

  Monica thinks of her authoritative friend on that first visit to the clinic.

  “We must hold for possible arrival of a government official.”

  “We have nowhere to go,” Monica says plaintively. Where is Shankar? Why isn’t he straightening this out?

  “I have an empty storeroom,” Mr. Sharma hesitates. “No bed, but I can give you a comforter,” he says kindly, doubtfully.

  Shankar overhears this as he appears with the rest of the bags. His voice is uncharacteristically belligerent. “Our guests always stay here. Moorty Motor Tours. My manager rang you three days ago to confirm.”

  “No phone service,” Mr. Sharma shakes his unhappy head. “No electricity. No booking!”

  The monk steps in. “Certainly a local family would put you up.”

  Sudha shakes her head. “So clearly there’s been a double booking here.”

  “No booking.” Mr. Sharma displays the reservation log which lists only the monk. “Maybe government official will not come. They have a right to arrive until 4 a.m.”

  “How about this?” Sudha tries carefully. “We sleep in the room. If your official arrives—which looks doubtful given the hour and the difficulty of traversing these mountains in the dark—we will surrender the bed. You keep your rules. If the official doesn’t appear, you’ll receive a night’s payment you would otherwise not have had.”

  Monica is astonished at her friend’s quick, agile wit. After all, it will either be this wager or a night on the concrete floor.

  Mr. Sharma frowns.

  “A resourceful solution,” the monk says gently.

  Mr. Sharma wraps his arms around a barrel chest. “As long as you agree to surrender the bed. I don’t see why not. If you have eighty rupees.”

  Monica notices a flicker in the monk’s eyes.

  Sudha maintains, “We have sixty rupees. More than the room is worth.”

  Mr. Sharma wags his head from side to side.

  The monk smiles.

  They have a deal of sorts.

  “You understand,” Mr. Sharma continues. “No electricity. No coal for heating.”

  Sudha shrugs.

  He turns to Monica and lowers his voice. “Indian-style toilet.”

  She keeps a straight face. “This will be most adequate, Sir. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” A relieved smile. “Both ladies are welcome. Welcome.”

  They set out for a stroll in the darkening afternoon, taking a long, empty road toward the highest mountains. Here at the edge of town, Losar is quiet. The last light is thin, tranquil. They’re near the summit of their trip. Only Kunzum Pass will be higher. Then they begin the descent. Moorty will appear before them. How much longer will she have the company of Raul and Sudha? She wants the trip to end here, wants it never to end, wants to rewind and set a different course. Hubris. Selfishness. They all have their own paths. She should be grateful she’s shared Sudha’s for a while.

  Back at the guest house, they wait for supper, huddled in three layers of clothes, reading by flashlight.

  At dinner, Monica is charmed to find the dining room lit with the dim bulb of a flashlight, the top screwed off, providing a candle-like glow. “Where do you think the monk is?” she whispers.

  “Perhaps we imagined him.”

  She feels a chill.

  “He probably eats alone,” Sudha says more seriously.

  The vegetables and rice are simple fare. Miraculously prepared, given the cooks have only flashlights with which to navigate the pitch blackness.

  They eat eagerly, in silence. Again, Monica feels the load of their long day. At another time, with a roaring coal fire and flickering candles, the guest house room might be comfortable, even charming. Tonight, it’s a rough way station and Monica prays that they’ll be sheltered until dawn.

  They fumble around the room, washing their hands with cold water from a plastic pail and crawling beneath the covers fully clothed. The comforters are so redolent with lanolin, it feels they’ve bedded down with a yak.

  Sudha giggles.

  Monica follows suit.

  “It’s so hilarious,” Sudha gulps a breath. “Two sophisticated women bundled in bed, wearing all their clothes in case they need to make a midnight getaway.”

  “Oh, don’t even think about it.” She falls into a fit of giggles.

  “This reminds me of sleeping with Meena, on that childhood holiday to Moorty.” 

  “Yes,” Monica reflects. “Jeanne and I loved Nicko’s attic bedroom overlooking Lake Superior. We’d stay up hours talking and laughing.”

  “So what should we talk about?”

  “Don’t you think we should get some sleep?” she yawns. “In case Mr. School Superintendent or Mrs. Treasury claims our bed?”

  “You’re too practical,” Sudha complains. “Actually, there is something I need to ask you.”

  Exhausted as she is, she can’t say no to Sudha, who clearly savors bedtime chats.

  “What’s that?”

  “Would you consider joining us in the Backcountry Project?”

  “That’s a good name for it,” she stalls.

  “No, really. The three of us would make a superb team.”

  “Two days ago you were sending me to Delhi to marry Ashok.”

  “You said no.”

  “You knew I would.”

  “I want you to be happy. Moorty isn’t the place for that.”

  “I made a commitment to the Mission.” She feels torn.

  “We could enlist Ashok, too. He’s interested in this kind of project.”

  “He’s interested in his academic career.”

  “He’s interested in you. And he has a conscience.”

  “Of course,” she says heatedly. “What use would he be in Manda?”

  “He’s a great supporter of rural autonomy. Philosophers write about everything, no? He could investigate values in indigenous healing arts. Philosophy of medicine. He could teach at Delhi during alternate terms. Or get a job at one of the universities in this state. I bet his articles would be invaluable for fundraising.”

  “Dear friend, you’re getting carried away,” Monica sighs. “My dad calls this blue-skying.” Surely Sudha knows that erudite philosophy articles are more likely to drive donors away.

  “I’m serious,” she whispers. “Raul and I have discussed this for weeks. You could do so much…”

  “Sudha, I’m flattered. Honored…”

  “Stop there.” She puts her index finger over Monica’s lips. “Just say you’ll think about it, that’s all. That you’ll think about it.”

  “OK,” she surprises herself. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.” Sudha sinks beneath the covers.

  “Now you owe me some serenity. Let’s discuss something calming. Tell me more about your childhood trip to Moorty.”

  They are up at 6:30, pacing in the sunny courtyard to keep warm.

  “Oh, delicious!” Sudha exclaims.

  Monica turns to see the cook carrying out a tray of tea and steaming chapattis.

  “Bliss!” Sudha declares. “The mountains. The sun. Fresh, hot chapattis. My dearest friend. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.”

THIRTY-THREE

June, 2002,The Himalayan Journey

  After breakfast, Monica and Sudha pack quickly, eager to go. On this crisp, clear morning, at the edge of the world, Monica imagines they might be able to see into eternity.

  The first class vehicle takes longer to awaken than the passengers.

  Finally, Shankar admits his battery is dead.

  “In Minnesota, we plug cars into electric block heaters each night.”

  “Not very practical in a land without electricity.”

  “Right,” she feels foolish. Her reflexes are still so American, so presumptuous. “Moorty is beginning to feel like the French Riviera.”

  Sudha rolls her eyes. “I’m grateful we had a bed last night. If we’d slept on concrete floor, we’d be in the same condition as Shankar’s chariot.”

  Monica doesn’t want to be stuck here. One night with the yak is enough. She aches to wash her hair, her whole body, in warm water. Where is her patience? That elusive equanimity?

  After an hour of tinkering, Shankar finds someone to push the jeep downhill. To everyone’s relief, it sputters to a start.

  “Onward to Kunzum Pass!” he declares merrily.

  They both sit in the back this morning. Monica takes the place behind Shankar so Sudha has the unobstructed view.

  “Onward,” they say in unison.

  The good humor is short-lived. The steep roads are the most difficult they’ve encountered so far. They’ll have to ascend 1,500 meters on winding, rock-strewn surfaces before Kunzum Pass.

  Monica gazes out the window, praying for safe passage.

  They creep up the sheer grade.

  Do they really need to get this close to the top of the world? Monica begins to sense a grave, if irrational, dread.

  At the next turn, she watches their ascent steepen.

  “Damn!”

  They’ve never heard Shankar swear before.

  “What is it?” Sudha forces calm into her voice.