The Selector of Souls (36 page)

Blood courses through her ears in the silence. She crosses her arms and rubs, becoming aware of cold limbs. Alive, while Bobby and Dadu are not.

All that survives is the love they gave me
.

The cold drives her to her feet, and follows her as she climbs to the Cart Road and the waiting convent jeep. Because of Bobby and Dadu,
she cannot—will not—relinquish faith in reincarnation. No god would be so unkind as to make her wait till Judgement Day to see her brother and father again. Though she might suffer the burning flames of hell, and it may mean that she will encounter Vikas again in another life, she will have faith in reincarnation. No matter what Church doctrine says.

P
EOPLE FROM
J
ALAWAAZ
, G
URKOT AND HAMLETS AROUND
are gathered beneath the red-gold fabric of a shamiana. It’s Inauguration Day for the chapel, St. Anne’s School, and Bread of Healing Clinic. Some sit cross-legged, wrapped in shawls and blankets, on the dhurries Sister Anu and Sister Bethany have spread before a platform. On the platform, a table draped in white stands before five white plastic chairs. A chrome microphone, rented from the electrical shop in Jalawaaz, inclines its oval head beside the table. The snow peaks, blue-white in December splendour, embrace the festivities.

Sister Anu leads the guests of honour, along with Sister Imaculata and Father Pashan, on a tour of the clinic, past the doctor’s office, the nurses’ station, the lab room and tiny dispensary. Mr. Amanjit Singh zips up his North Face ski jacket, warms his hands before the bukhari in the women’s ward and declares, “Women’s health, children’s education—there can be no development without it.” At this, the sub-district magistrate of Jalawaaz, a South Indian brahmin of about thirty-five who is new to the hills but well-equipped by his training in the Indian Administrative Service, smiles a Chiclet smile. “My last posting was Kerala,” he says, “Verrry dev-lupped. Women’s literacy there: almost ninety percent.”

Mrs. Kiran Singh says, “Very nice, Sister,” when they tour the women’s ward. Large sunglasses ride the bridge of her diamond-studded nose and mask her eyes. Sister Anu can’t see much of her face, but hasn’t seen a woman wearing so much makeup or such ornate gold and diamond earrings since she left New Delhi. Kiran-ji seems so supremely confident and detached, or maybe so studiously bored, that to her own ears Sister Anu’s enthusiasm and hope seem positively gushing.

In the men’s ward, the weary-looking superintendent of police looks with longing at the red-blanketed beds. At least Father Pashan and Sister Imaculata seem impressed by Sister Anu’s attention to detail and her explanations.

Sister Anu leads the dignitaries outside, down a path to the chapel. Everyone stops to remove shoes at the door. The superintendent of police takes a scarf from the bin outside to cover his head in respect, and so does the SDM. Kiran draws her dupatta up over her head. Turbaned Amanjit Singh doesn’t need a scarf. Father Pashan points out the marble confessional and introduces Samuel, the loving restorer of its carved surface. Samuel gazes at the ground as Father Pashan complements him for recarving cemetery headstones and clearing the colonial-era graves. The priest offers to show Amanjit Singh Samuel’s handiwork in the graveyard, but Amanjit shudders. “Let’s not spoil such an auspicious day.”

Exiting the chapel, the dignitaries climb the platform, and sit down. The lambardar of the village and the head of the village council come forward to greet the chief guest and benefactor, Mr. Amanjit Singh, then everyone else. Milk from Gurkot cows is served in aluminium tumblers.

Sister Anu helps Sister Bethany sling a long red ribbon between the pillars on the clinic veranda, then takes a chair behind the children’s area, to survey the platform and the now-milling crowd. Glancing over her shoulder, she can see that better dressed men and women have claimed all the seats on benches on the clinic veranda.
A few dalit and tribal men and women squat at Dr. Gupta’s office door. Inside, the doctor is already stalking disease by palpating spleens, bellies, livers and kidneys, and listening to lungs. The new x-ray machine is installed, but no one has yet broken a bone, twisted or sprained an ankle, or dislocated a shoulder. They will—Dr. Gupta says ortho is the most important speciality in a hill practice.

After the SDM and the superintendent of police have made their speeches, Father Pashan comes to the podium. He says in Anglo-accented Hindi, “I see the Holy Spirit shining in your eyes.” His voice booms across the clearing. “You are probably wondering, ‘Why are these city people here, why have we begun this clinic?’ Because we feel the body is god’s way of being in the world. And shareer,” he says of the body, “is how we manifest ourselves in the world, how we express our souls. And just as Christ used his body to bring god’s message to everyone, we too can use our bodies in the same way. Your body is the centre of your choices, decisions, actions. It becomes conscious by the Word, just as Jesus incarnated the Word. So we honour our bodies.”

Sister Anu crosses her ankles and sits with her hands clasped in her lap. People are listening with rapt attention, no one more so than Imaculata. The SDM’s little son has fallen asleep in Bethany’s arms. Surveying the crowd, it strikes her that an old woman with henna-red hair looks familiar. She’s sitting with a striped umbrella resting across her knees, her feet encased in boots beneath her sari—ah, Anu recalls, she met her at the railway station.

“And today as we consecrate this clinic to god, let us ask what is sickness? Is it a shameful thing or a calamity? No. It is a precious experience. Those who are sick have so much to teach those of us who are well.” His blue-black gaze sweeps across his audience. “Illness is a symptom of larger problems, and it may be our one way to ask for help from others.”

Sister Anu had driven to the chai-stall earlier in the day to call her mother. She mentioned her nursing course and the clinic opening, but Mumma did not want to know what Anu is learning about
healing, or the miraculous complexity of muscle, skin, rib and bone. Mumma can only think of her daughter working with filth, fluids and decay. “I could understand your trying to be a doctor,” she said. “I was academically inclined enough, but my father didn’t want me to live unchaperoned at a medical school. Bobby was going to be a doctor. But a nurse? Your father’s blood has eventually shown through. He’s left me a widow and my daughter is choosing to do sweepers’ work. For this we educated you?”

For once, her mother’s reproaches inspired no guilt, because at least here in Gurkot, and in Jalawaaz and Shimla, Sister Anu is no longer invisible. People accord her an almost embarrassing level of respect, attention and solicitude, not only for being a nurse in training, but because she embodies the Church. Most don’t know the difference between a novice and a nun. Sister Bethany says there is none, but Sister Anu still feels an outsider to the Order.

Father Pashan’s voice booms, “Your body expresses you. Do not scorn, hate, reject or renounce your body. Or the bodies of your children and grandchildren. Instead, care for your body with love and hope. And we must care for our children, the sick and disabled with love and hope. Some sicknesses are accidents, some are signs. Sometimes we contribute to the happening of what is happening. Always, how you treat your body, as gift or burden, will be how you experience it.”

A little girl a bit taller than Chetna, dressed in a sunshine-yellow frock has taken a seat beside the woman with the henna-red hair and leans against her as if she has known her for years. At first the old woman sits stiff and straight, but after a few minutes, she puts her arm around the girl and draws her close.

“Your body’s dignity is your dignity,” Father Pashan is saying. “Your body is what makes you unique, what makes you and me different. Your body obliges your soul to reveal itself. It will not allow me to pass for another, even my twin. Your attitude towards your body reflects your attitude toward the bodies of others. Why?
Because through the body, we witness the world, we make our stories.”

After he sits down, Mrs. Kiran Singh speaks on behalf of the patron family, and reads her speech in Hindi, spattered with Punjabi. She says in a monotone, “The clinic and school are the legacy of my beloved and respected mother-in-law, whom everyone knows as Mem-saab. Mem-saab attended one of the first Sikh girls’ schools in Firozepur. And it was at another Sikh girl’s school in Chandigarh, Punjab,” says Mrs. Kiran Singh, “that I learned what the gurus taught about equality—barabari—of girls and boys. Mem-saab would be proud to see this school inaugurated today and know that girls and boys will be taught here. She would be proud to see the gurdwara where people of all castes will eat together, proud to see that people no longer need to travel all the way to Jalawaaz or Shimla to consult a doctor. This school and clinic may be our donation,” says Mrs. Kiran Singh, “but they are Mem-saab and Sardar-saab’s legacy.”

Amanjit Singh starts the clapping and cheering then leads the dignitaries from the tents to the clinic door. The SDM flashes a smile. Mrs. Kiran Singh comes forward and cuts the red ribbon. Then Sister Anu leads them to the red ribbon before the school door. Mrs. Kiran Singh cuts that ribbon and returns to her seat on the platform, looking fatigued.

Musicians take their places with nagara drums, a harmonium and an ektara. Women come forward to dance and sing old Pahari folk songs. Five young men, all dressed like Bollywood’s Govinda, perform a breakdance from the movie
Aankhen
. The red-haired woman sings along or lip-syncs all the songs, with the girl in the yellow frock attached to her arm. An elder with a flowing white beard takes the mike for twenty minutes to notify everyone that Kaliyug, the eon of greed is here.

After the event, Sisters Anu and Bethany escort Imaculata to the convent jeep. “I’ve given Mr. Amanjit Singh’s daughter Loveleen admission to boarding school in Shimla—she’s riding back with me,” Imaculata tells them.

The little girl in the yellow frock is sulking in the back seat. Amanjit Singh supervises Shafiq Sheikh and his own driver as they move a trunk and bedding roll from his car and lash it to the roof of the jeep. Imaculata raises her voice as she speaks to Amanjit and his wife, so their little girl will hear her clearly too. “Loveleen knows how lucky she is to get admission to an English-medium school, doesn’t she? And she’s looking forward to making friends at St. Anne’s.”

But Loveleen glowers and wipes her eyes. Amanjit Singh leans in, chucks her chin, and gives her a peck on her cheek. Kiran pats Loveleen’s shoulder and says, “Be a good girl, Lovey.”

Loveleen begins to wail. Amanjit says, “Kiran—explain to your daughter.”

Kiran looks helpless. The wailing rises to screeching. Sister Imaculata tries to intervene, but no one can hear what she’s saying.

The red-haired woman comes forward to lean in the jeep window. “Loveleen-ji!” The screeching falters, drops to a wail. “Your grandmother isn’t here to tell you why you should go to boarding school, so I will. Don’t go just to please your father or mother. Go so that you can learn more than them. And if you don’t want to learn English and become a saab like them, just come home with me. We’ll speak Hindi together, and you can stay as ignorant as me. You can become Bore every day, all day, because I won’t have enough movies to show you. Say what is your decision?”

Loveleen’s tears stop as if a tap were turned off. She wipes her eyes, rolls up her window and waves everyone goodbye. The red-haired woman melts into the crowd before Sister Anu can ask her name.

Before she climbs into the back seat beside the girl, Imaculata says to Sisters Anu and Bethany, “I won’t see you both together again till Christmas. Be sure to practice my favourite carol—‘Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.’ ”

Sister Anu has no idea what chestnuts might look like or why or how they should be roasted, but smiles and promises to oblige.
Imaculata rolls down the window and adds, “Now mind, Sisters, I’m relying on you to keep this institution Catholic.”

The jeep rolls away across the clearing, then dips downhill to the road.

Anu takes her place for the first time at the nurses’ station, volunteering though she still has months to go before she’s qualified. She begins to triage the haphazard queue, asking each person his or her story. It takes time, because some have never been asked who they are, few have addresses, many cannot read, a few need others to help translate from Pahari to Hindi, and some are here because they felt curious. But she knows this will be the best part of her work, learning about and from the people to whom she will be ministering, offering that generous listening for which doctors no longer have time. She cleans and dresses cuts and wounds on three ragged but sturdy little boys. Two men have symptoms of malaria, one presents with influenza. The only prediction she can make is that each will have a different experience and tell a different story.

At the end of a very long day that includes lab time and taking three x-rays, Sister Anu writes in the registration ledger under
Patient:
Chunilal. She records his age and sex, remembering a gaunt man with bushy black eyebrows and a valiant gap-toothed smile. He leaned on the arm of a willowy hazel-eyed girl with apple-cheeks.
Occupation:
Truck Driver. Usually visits home once a month. Then
Marital Status:
Married.
Address:
Gurkot near storage sheds and minibus stand.