Traveling with Spirits (37 page)

  “Flat tire.” He draws a sharp breath. “Can’t you hear it?”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Bad roads,” Shankar explains needlessly. “Frequent problem. I will fix it.”

  They step out and wait on the side of the rugged highway, clutching their shawls close to their bodies, against the wind.

  Sudha suddenly flies to a high rock. “Come here. Might as well enjoy the scenery. This is as close as I, at least, will get to Heaven.”

  “Sudha, be careful. That’s not safe.”

  “Each day here is a wager,” she laughs. “Thank about last night. We got to sleep till dawn with that stinky yak.”

  Cautiously, Monica picks her way toward Sudha. “Thanks to you.”

  Shankar examines the tire. He studies it from another angle. Then another before slipping his jack beneath the car.

  Minutes pass. Half-an-hour.

  He fiddles with a bolt, which is locked in ice.

  A tractor driver pulls over and Monica sees he’s hauling an open cart crowded with six dusty women road workers wearing protective scarves over their heads, noses and mouths. She is suddenly nostalgic for Lalung’s dirt roads and neat dwellings. Were they deeper in the Himalayas in that village or here on this isolated rocky road?

  The tractor driver stands with hands on his hips giving Shankar advice.

  Shankar ignores him, his face a study of staunch determination.

  A woman calls to Sudha and Monica.

  The tourists from Moorty pick their way down the hill, approaching the cart tentatively.

  Mixing Hindi, English and sign language, they all manage to communicate, amusing themselves. The giggling women belong to Chatru.

  Behind them, Shankar and the tractor driver lift and bang and grunt.

  The sound of clapping turns the women’s attention. The tractor driver is grinning jubilantly. Shankar stands, wiping his hands, looking annoyed.

  “Ready, Ladies?” Shankar is edgy.

  Monica looks at the bald tire and their exhausted tense driver, then at Sudha. She says, “As ready as we’ll ever be.”

  When the jeep pulls away, the road workers are waving and whooping. For one dislocated moment, Monica sees klieg lights on an eerie green football field, maroon-and-gold clad cheerleaders waving pompons toward Kunzum Pass. Whoop. Whoop.

  Sudha and Monica grin at the women, waving back.

  Silence descends. Clearly all of them are lost in thought or relief or foreboding.

  For an hour, they ride in silence.

  Monica peers out anxiously for a roadside shrine. Something to cheer Shankar. To buoy all of them.

  Sun cuts through the cold. She breathes in the welcome warmth.

  At the same moment, Shankar points to a dhaba, making a swift left turn. The sign reads, “Omlettes, Lemmon Tea, Beans and
Chapattis
.”

  “Perfect!” Sudha pronounces. “Sun. Air. Food. A chance to stretch.”

  The café owner, a slim man in jeans, parka and green woolen cap, nods to them, then continues retouching his shingle, Vijay’s
Dhaba
. “Fresh, new paint,” he explains to the hungry visitors, “to draw people in.”

  Vijay’s other customer camps at the end of the long outside table, nursing a Coke and listening intently to a short wave radio.

  Monica has noticed dozens of people listening to short wave here in the Himalayas. Of course. How else would they get the news?

  The three pilgrims sit, waiting silently for Vijay to reassure them with warm food.

  Quickly, Vijay serves generous plates of rice, beans and chapattis. Vijay tells them he lives farther south in Manali with his wife and children seven months of the year. “I come up here May to October—to escape the mosquitoes and tourists in Manali.”

  “Doesn’t it get a little lonely?” Monica asks. 

  He stretches his arms wide and studies the mountains. “Not with such company.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Where do you ladies travel now?”

  “The Kunzum Pass. Then down to Rohtang Pass,” mutters Shankar, probably still stewing about the dead battery and the flat tire.

  Vijay draws a sharp breath. “Bad weather this afternoon. Snow and rain. Rock slides. Safe drive.”

  “Certainly,” Shankar answers curtly. “Safety is our motto.”

  They continue traveling toward the summit. Soon they will be at Kunzum. Now all the surrounding mountains glisten in brilliant whiteness.

  It’s sunny enough, Monica notices, relieved Vijay was wrong about the weather.

  Every ten miles or so, they pass a “Free Tibet” sign on the roadside.

  Or another car.

  Most of the day, it’s just the little jeep limping along the jagged mountain edge.

  Then, finally, suddenly, too soon they arrive.

  Kunzum Pass is packed with snow. 15,085 feet.

  “Yay!” shouts Sudha, then grabs the hands of her fellow travelers. “We did it! We made it.”

  Shankar nods, nervously, perhaps unused to ebullient reactions from his businessmen passengers.

  Monica laughs, then kisses Sudha on both cheeks. “Yes, yes. We’re here at last.”

  Sudha leaps from the car, tugging her shawl after her.

  “Here, at last,” Monica muses. Pensively, slowly, she puts on her wool hat and gloves. Outside in the crisp air, she says a prayer of thanks, realizing she’s reassured as well as sad that they’ve reached the goal. It’s down, down from here.

  They stop at the Kunzum Buddhist Temple. Monica photographs a radiant flank of Tibetan Liberation posters. She wants to concentrate on this place, the pinnacle of their trip, but her mind drifts backward to the Raj trappings of Shimla, the sunny morning tea at Narkanda, the temple at Sarahan, the lovely village near Sangla, the astonishing dust of Lalung.

  “Do we have to go down?” Sudha asks, shifting from one foot to the other to keep warm.

  “It is heavenly,” Monica laughs, “but just a little chilly to be heaven itself, I think.”

  “Yes, we must continue to Rohtang Pass,” Shankar says, “as we agreed in the—”

  “In the contract,” Monica and Sudha finish his sentence.

  Relieved, Shankar consents to have his picture taken with each of them. Monica sees his impatience, perhaps nervousness, about reaching tonight’s hotel before dark.

  As they leave, he drives clockwise around the temple for an auspicious journey.

*****

  Light is fading fast. Grey clouds sail swiftly across the filmy sky. They’re riding into shadow land.

  A fine mist has coated their windshield.

  Shankar switches on the noisy wipers.

  “In Ireland,” Monica hears her own inanely cheery voice, “They call this ‘soft weather.’ ”

  “Hard to drive,” Shankar stretches his neck. “Hard to see.”

  Silence again. Monica broods over Sudha’s startling invitation to work in Manda. She’s touched that they want her. Flattered. Yet how can she possibly leave Moorty Hospital? A long sigh runs through her tired body (she didn’t sleep so well with that yak and the imminence of mid-night eviction). Equally, how long can she survive the reign of Kevin Walsh?

  Sudha reaches along the back seat for her friend’s hand.

  Monica looks up, questioning.

  “We’re going back down now. Back to earth. You know Rohtang Pass is ‘only’ about 13,000 feet. Very terrestrial.”

  Monica shuts her eyes, ready for a shower and electricity, regretful their trip is ending.

  “I want to thank you. For the adventure. The beauty. For your friendship.”

  Monica squeezes Sudha’s hand. She’ll miss her when she leaves for Manda. It will be hard to phone. Even hard to get mail in and out. She’s certain, however, that her own work is in Moorty, that she must keep her commitment to the Mission. Of course, that’s the right decision.

  The rain increases. The windshield is a blur. Afternoon dims. Darkens.

  Suddenly a deluge. Torrential water courses heavier and heavier. Sheets of it. A river. They are surrounded by wetness and noise.

  How did Noah steer the ark? Monica wonders. Can you survive a barrel ride over Niagara Falls?

  Shankar accelerates. Then slows down. Clearly he doesn’t know what to do.

  The jeep jerks sharply to the right and rests on a narrow shoulder, huddled against the silver-white mountain.

  Monica looks over Shankar’s shoulder at the steep highway ahead.

  Sudha stares out her window at rain coursing down the road. “It’s like a river.”

  “Not good to drive in this,” he declares.

  “Of course,” Monica agrees. “Best to wait. We have these downpours in Minnesota during thunderstorm season. I always pull over to the side of the highway.” The side of a well-paved, graded freeway, with broad safety shoulders. Near an emergency call box.

  Sudha sighs, wraps her shawl close and closes her eyes.

  The rain slows. Just as the storm abates and Shankar puts the car in gear, they hear the noise.

  A deep rumble.

  A roar.

  “What the—” Monica begins.

  “Rockslide!” Shankar shouts. “Out. Out! Against the mountainside. Now!”

  Monica opens the door, reaches back for her suitcase.

  “No, no time. No time!” he screams. “Out!”

  “Slide toward me,” Monica calls to Sudha. “Safer over here.”

  “Faster this way,” Sudha says, opening the door on the far side.

  Another earsplitting crack.

  Shankar carefully edges out, flattens himself against the wet mountain.

  Monica follows, all the while, keeping an eye on Sudha.

  Giant rocks and sheets of dirt pummel the jeep as the ground shakes fiercely.

  “Sudha? Where are you? Sudha?” Monica screams.

  Immense boulders and oh, no, a wall of rocks and snow and earth itself.

  Monica bolts toward the car, shrieking, “Sudha! Where are you, Sudha?!”

  Shankar yanks her arm. He’s too strong.

  “Nothing,” he says breathlessly. “Nothing you can do—force of the landslide.”

  They stare at this broken world. “Ma’am and the car are gone. Swept away.”

  “No, no, no!” she pleads. “Sudha, where are you, Sudha?”

  Shankar hangs on to her with one hand and dials his satellite phone with the other. He’s saying something in a calm, clear voice. Speaking in English. But Monica cannot hear anything except the growling earth.

  Monica watches the landslide go on and on. It is probably over within minutes. But Monica is frozen, caught in the eternal flow of rock and dirt and trees and—

  When she stops shaking, Shankar releases his grip.

  Numbly she walks across the road.

  “No, Ma’am,” he calls.

  She’s moving too fast for him. If she doesn’t look down, if she doesn’t say good-bye, she’ll never forgive herself. Still, she can’t believe this is all happening.

  Oh, what a horrendous sight: the wash of broken boulders and splintered trees and no, it’s too deep, she can’t see the car. She imagines Sudha’s terror, oh, God, why did this happen? Why Sudha, who was, is, treasured by Raul, her family, her students, all of them. Why beloved Sudha?

  Monica feels Shankar’s firm hand.

  “Ma’am,” he speaks softly, firmly. “We must wait over there. I have contacted headquarters. Help will come in a few hours. Do not worry.”

  “An ambulance!” she shouts frantically. “Call an ambulance for Sudha. A helicopter would get here faster. She’s alive down there, just trapped, trapped—”

  “Come,” he says kindly. “We’ll wait on the other side, out of the wind. We must try to keep warm.”

  “But the medical helicopter,” she demands loudly. “They’ve sent some kind of ambulance?”

  He looks away sorrowfully.

  She rocks back and forth between searing pain and numbness. “Sudha. Sudha,” she prays. She can’t go on without her. They all need her. “Sudha!” she shouts at the top of her lungs.

  Another rumble from the earth. A loud, deeply vibrating hum exploding into a groan.

  The globe, itself, is shifting.

THIRTY-FOUR

June, 2002, Moorty

  They stand at attention in the damp auditorium of Walkerton School as a monsoon rages against the high windows. The students all look crisp in their green and white uniforms.

  “Please be seated,” announces Sri Dal, the headmaster.

  Monica sits awkwardly on a wooden folding chair between Ashok and Sudha’s mother. When she tried to sit at the back of the auditorium, Sri Dal ushered her to the front row.

  Ashok has been so kind and attentive.

 
“Of course I came,” he whispered. “I was terribly worried for you.”

  Mrs. Badami’s green silk sari rustles as she shifts in her chair.

 
On the train platform, she said to them, “Call me Rajul.”

  Indeed the handsome, sturdy woman with the jet black hair and ageless skin seems a contemporary, but something in Monica maintains a distance.

  “Dear esteemed guests and students,” Sri Dal speaks with gentle authority, “We gather today to honor a devoted teacher and admired colleague, Sudha Badami, who served Walkerton School for five memorable years. As you know, today we are privileged by the presence of her beloved parents, Sri and Srimati Badami. Doctors Murphy and Sanchez and Professor Niar, who were friends of our cosmopolitan teacher, also privilege us with their attendance.”

  At the station, Rajul tried to put them at ease. “Sudha spoke so often about both of you doctors. I know how much she admired your work and how greatly she cherished your friendship.”

  Santosh Badami was more formal. The tall, trim man seemed to wish he could evaporate in this thin, hill station air. He was cordial, unsurprising for a well-traveled naval officer, but remote.

  “Our first speaker today is Vikram. Vikram has worked with Sudha Badami for two years now and has grown proficient in English.”

  Soberly, Vikram climbs to the stage.

  He surveys the audience. Catching Monica’s eye, he offers a half-smile.

  No trace of the gawky boy who came with his prickly teacher to the clinic. Her breath catches at the memory of Sudha in her sari with the blue trim. She sees her as clearly as if she’s standing next to Vikram now.

  “I think you are the perfect person to present a lecture on hygiene for our students. Do you ever get away from the hospital?”

  How intimidated she felt by the refined, confident teacher.

  Sudha persisted, “So when you come, you will not speak about religion?”

  “She taught us all the literatures. She explained that only when we know about the world can we understand our own country.” Vikram speaks confidently. “I shall miss Madam Badami.” He chokes, then regains composure, as his teacher would have expected. “And I will never forget her.”

  Ashok squeezes Monica’s elbow.

  Murmurs of agreement and approval echo in the room. Vikram gives a slight bow and exits.

  Rajul’s eyes are full. Small hands—so like Sudha’s—are folded in her lap. Next to his wife, Santosh sits erect and attentive. Yes, these are the people who gave Sudha her grace and certainty.

 
She watched the landslide go on and on.

  She couldn’t hear the car. She imagined, felt, Sudha’s terror. Oh, God.

  “Ma’am,” his voice trembled as he tried for an authoritative tone.

  “An ambulance!” she demanded. “A medical helicopter!”

  Raj climbs the steps solemnly. He’s grown taller and more handsome in the last sixteen months. His voice is deeper than Vikram’s, but no less mournful.

  “Madam Badami helped us develop pride in our country and tolerance of others. And appreciation of others. She instilled in us the belief that we could make great contributions. It is because of her provocative, patient, authoritative instruction that whatever gifts I have will be better used.”

 
Their journey to Manali in the rescue van was a blur in the lashing rain. The driver told Monica and Shankar about other deaths. A whole family from Patna. A school group from Jaipur. She couldn’t absorb the details. She didn’t care about the others. She ached for Sudha.

  The hotel had electricity and excellent phone service. Hysterically, Monica kept thinking how happy Sudha would have been here, showering and washing her hair after all those grungy days on the road. Monica didn’t care if she ever showered again. She didn’t want to eat. She didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to die.

  Instead she phoned Raul.

  With him, she wept as she could not do before.

  Raul was the first to compose himself. “I will ring her family, the headmaster at Walkerton,” he said shakily.

  “You have enough strength for this?”

  “I will find it. But how about you? I’ll come and drive you back to Moorty.”

  There was nothing more in the world she wanted. Another three days with Shankar seemed unimaginable.

  “No, please. You have so much to do there. No, I’ll be fine. I’m not hurt, just wet and dirty.”

  “You are also in shock, Monica. I’ll ring you in an hour to check.”

  The third time the phone rang, she watched the black instrument from her bed, willing it to be silent. He was trying to draw her from the hole of despair, where among the splintered trees, the sundered boulders, somewhere, she knew she would find Sudha.

  The ringing subsided. She closed her eyes.

  Ten minutes later: bloody phone again. She started to throw it against the wall.

  Ashok’s voice, full of concern. “Raul rang. I’m so very sorry. How are you? Why didn’t you phone me?”

  Before she had a chance to answer, he interrupted. “I’ve booked a coach for Manali. I arrive tomorrow about 10 o’clock.”

  The teachers are speaking now. About Sudha’s diligence. Her loyalty. Her creativity. Her bright spirit.

  Former students climb the steps to add words of appreciation and grief.

  Monica listens gratefully. She hopes Raul will speak, but he’s already told her he has no words yet. Nor does she, of course, because she can’t get beyond, “Helicopter! Ambulance!”

  Sri Dal ends the memorial by asking everyone to observe a moment of silence.

*****

  Lunch at the Mayfair Arms is painfully stilted for the first half-hour. Monica wishes Ashok hadn’t left for Delhi. He was so adept in social situations. Still he’d already spent more than a week away from the university.

  “Please tell us about your hospital here,” Rajul asks. “Sudha said you were doing good work, each of you.”

  Santosh is gradually disappearing into the William Morris wall paper.

  Monica fixates on the ornate silver butter dish. The background music, a Handel sonata, is counterpointed by the occasional chime and clink of crystal and silverware.

  A stocky waiter in a white suit too tight across his belly serves her filet of sole and Dover potatoes. Where has he come from? Is he wearing slippers?

  “And Monica,” she hears Raul talking, “has done wonders with preventive health care.”

  Santosh tucks into his roast lamb and mint sauce.

  Sudha would laugh about her memorial lunch being held at this classic colonial dining room. At first, Monica assumed the Badamis chose a posh Western restaurant to make their guests comfortable. Then she recalls Sudha’s long ago comment about how her father would love this place. She sees that urbane Santosh feels at home here and that Rajul is striving for an atmosphere of composure.

  “Yes, tell us more about the program, won’t you, Dr. Murphy?”

  “Please call me Monica.”

  “To be sure,” Rajul dips her head, “And you do a lot of prenatal care as well?”

  Monica is touched that Sudha reported so much to her parents.

  “You do what is asked.” It does seem as simple as that.

  Rajul nods.

  “Sudha made real contributions,” Monica feels blood rush to her face at the palpable memory of Sudha’s endless vitality. “You heard about her teaching today. She also worked in the Manda project with Raul, encouraging her students to learn by teaching others.”

  Santosh speaks for the first time. “That’s our Sudha. Always busy, always taking one step beyond. She was that way, even as a child.”

  “Tell us what she was like as a girl?” Raul asks.

 
Plates of ham and chicken salad. The Altar Society women brought a full bakery of cookies, cakes and pies. Mom would have loved the food, would have fluttered around checking that everyone had enough to eat.