Traveling with Spirits (5 page)

  “Moorty isn’t, well, the most cosmopolitan hill station, sweetie. It’s picturesque, but nowhere. Which, indeed, is why they need you. We’ll plan reunions in Delhi. My spare bed is always available. Come down whenever you like.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tina folds her rich cloth napkin. “Are you ready for adventure?”

  “Oh, right, the market.” She really should return to Mission House and pull together all those bloody papers. Still, this will be her last sight of Tina for a while.

  A wide street, busy with all manner of vehicles zipping past tall, colonial storefronts. Sidewalks crowded with tables of face cloths, men’s underwear, Wellington boots, double boilers, girls’ frocks in pastel colors. Tina’s right again. She’s never seen anything like Chandni Chowk.

  Her old friend is on a serious jewelry quest. She’s saved a sapphire from Sri Lanka to be set by the superior craftsmen in India.

  Sapphire. Monica loves the way Indians pronounce the word—
sa-fire
—emphasizing the stone’s blaze. She’s been dazzled by these multi-colored gems since her fifth grade project on the British Royal Jewels. The blue sapphire, she knows, is quite rare. Proletarian, artless little Monica writing about the Kings of England found herself seduced by gleaming stones and the distant lands where they were mined.

  “First let’s cruise the silk stalls.” Tina yanks her hand.

  Heat. Crowds. Monica feels faint. Perhaps she ate too fast.

  Shoppers swarm the small stalls of the indoor market. Loquacious men sit, chatting to each other, their backs to yardages of vividly colored and subtly patterned silk. Women lean forward, fingering the fabrics knowledgeably, then consult each other in whispers, their bracelets jangling.

  “One day we’ll buy you a sari,” promises Tina. “Green. I think you’ll look super in lime green.”

  “Where did you say your jeweler is?”

  “I’m serious, Monica. Indian women love saris. They know their attire is more elegant. They will expect you to dress appropriately.”

  “You wear a perfectly average doc’s coat and slacks.” She shakes her head, smiling.

  Someone pushes from behind.

  Monica turns to face a frazzled mother, three children in tow. Stepping aside, she lets them pass. The beguiling boy turns and grins widely.

  “I work at the U.S. Embassy with Americans mostly, not at a hill station treating local people.” Tina directs her back to the street.

  Monica’s head throbs from the racket of clattering carts and incomprehensible voices. The still Delhi air—which everyone says will lift any day now—presses against her eyelids. “Where did you say the jeweler is?”

  “Over here, see the sign, ‘Capital Jewellers.’ ”

  “Do they mean ‘capitol’ as in Delhi? Or ‘capital’ as in ‘foremost?’”

  “Hon,” Tina sniffs, “there are lots of things worth puzzling about in India. Spelling isn’t one. Just be happy when you see English signs. Until you learn Hindi.”

  She’s made minimal progress with Hindi despite her resolutions. Maybe Moorty will accelerate the pace.

  Tina stops at a darkened shop and presses the buzzer.

  That picture book on Raj jewels aroused a lifelong curiosity about Indian history. Monica recalls her eighth grade teacher being surprised that she wanted to do a geography report on Bombay. Amazing how those school projects provoked an abiding affection for India. Maybe that’s why she and Ritu became fast friends in med school.

  Finally, someone comes to the glass door of Capital Jewelers: a bald man peers drowsily as he parts purple velvet drapes.

  “Hi Ayan, it’s me,” Tina laughs. “Wake up from your mid-day snooze.”

  “Oh, many apologies, Dr. Nelson.” He opens the door. “I was forgetting your appointment.”

  “Good to see you! Ayan Dutta, please meet Monica Murphy, another doctor from America.”

  “
Namaste
,” they say in unison.

  He calls to the back of the shop, “Tea for the ladies, please, Sukemar.”

  Monica watches artisan and customer dicker heatedly and cheerfully about the design, the thickness of gold around the
sa-fire
, the appropriate chain.

  “Yes,” says Tina pensively. “The right width, but can you make it
flatter
?”

  Feeling voyeuristic at the unexpectedly intense exchange, Monica glances into the dusty showcase containing glittering earrings and bracelets and necklaces. She wanders over to study the rubies, diamonds and emeralds. Suddenly, she’s completely dislocated. It’s one thing to read pretty books, but to confront so many real gems is, well, unnerving. Take me back to the costume jewelry counter at Target, she thinks.

  Tina is standing now, smiling happily with Ayan Dutta.

  “Come,” Tina says playfully. “We’ll take a small excursion.”

  Before Monica can protest, she’s atop a bicycle rickshaw, her driver speeding ahead of Tina’s.

  Giggling, Tina manages to instruct, “Hold on to the sides. Keep your feet on the floor board. Don’t lean forward too much.”

  “Right, thanks.” She’s laughing too, despite her terror.

  “The Red Fort,” Tina directs her driver.

*****

  The Mission House staff practice silence at breakfast. Monica sips tea, recalling Father Koreth’s sermon. Christ’s suffering is a model, a reminder that we serve God on this earth so we may glorify him in heaven.

  She’s distracted by the letter from Beata she noticed in her box after Mass. She’s torn between her appetite for the
idili
and
sambhar
and her longing for home. Discipline: as a child she was never as good at physical restraint as Jeanne. Is that pious restraint what drove her sister to alcohol? Clearly the alcohol intensified her righteous dismissal of Monica’s revived Catholicism.

  She glances at her companions—the nuns and Father Koreth all absorbed in meditative reflection. For a week now, she’s been the only lay person at Mission House. All the other docs and nurses have departed for postings.

  Contemplate the journey ahead, she tells herself. Instead, she wondering about Beata’s new boyfriends, about whether she’s seen Eric and how he is. Discipline, she’s never had enough. Not for the first time, she worries she’s a fraud at this religious community business.

  A big bell rings. The harsh metal sound carrying profound relief. Saying farewell to the others, she leaves the table.

  Monica settles on the veranda wearing her new parrot green shawl. Tina’s Bon Voyage gift. The sari is next, her friend promised.

  Morning is almost warm. Birds call. Across the street two elephants lumber along the pavement, half-adorned in satin and tinsel for a Hindu wedding.

  Wonderful that Beata prefers old-fashioned correspondence to email. You can be so much more reflective on the page than on the internet.

My Dear Monica,

  Great to hear about your arrival. I wish I could join you on those fascinating streets, at those delicious meals. A much more inviting scenario than Minnesota life at the moment: tentatively picking my way over ice to the car, driving through the unplowed streets (seven inches of snow last night!) to work. Your life is adventurous and worthwhile. OK, some days my job is useful, but on others I feel I’m just doing admin work.

  Monica loosens the shawl. Beata always underestimates her own contributions.

  It’s another lavender morning in Minnesota: that brief blush of pastel against the white sky, land, flakes. I headed straight for the Coffee Shack which was heated with laughter and conversations of a dozen people who awoke earlier than I.

  Espresso. Monica still often wakes up yearning for a half-hour chat with Beata at the Coffee Shack before work. They had such good conversations there—about jobs and men and Mom’s illness and Jeanne’s kidnapping Mom to Duluth and Mom’s death and returning to the Church and breaking up with Eric. And preparing for India.

 
Clumsily, I dropped my change on the muddy floor and Alfred, the wiry blond youth who beams friendly greetings each morning, handed me a warm, wet rag for my hands. I felt genuinely happy for the first time today because I remembered the compensations of winter: people taking your coat, asking about your health, telling you to watch the ice. Damn, I’m getting carried away with Mundane Minnesota. By the time this is forwarded from Mission House, you’ll be settling into your clinic. What are the patients like? And your colleagues?

  Monica laughs at the questions, which she’s still asking herself. Beata will be surprised that she’s still in Delhi, not contributing anything except shit to an already stressed sewage system.

 
I saw Eric at the Coop. In the herbal remedy section. Apparently he’s had bronchitis for weeks. More like a broken heart. He asked after you, of course.

  Her throat catches. No, both she and Eric agreed it was over months ago. What she misses is ephemeral: a sense of belonging with someone: holding hands at the movies. Really! She surveys her library of Indian history and literature. She glances out the window at another pair of elephants swaying down the street. And the parakeets!

  You must be wondering about James, the new guy I met at the Y. I’ve seen him twice. He’s smart and funny. I just don’t know if I want to date a banker. Yes, I do use a bank. And James is politically savvy, campaigning against redlining. He tutors prisoners. You know all too well it’s hard for a black woman to find a black man in the Cities. He’s a decent guy, but will I fit into his scene? Of course, I can hear you saying, “How do you know until you’ve tried?” Your voice comes in loud and clear.

  I miss you. I wish we weren’t so many time zones apart. Do you have a cell phone yet? Can you do email there? Write again soon about your health and spirits.

  God’s blessings.

  Much love,

  Beata

  She blinks back tears. Natural to miss a best friend. She also misses the bitter beauty of Minnesota winter. She misses the optimism and excitement she brought on this journey weeks ago. Monica simply never imagined the difficulty of getting settled. Where did she find the hubris for this trip? Where will she find the grace to survive it?

****

  She waits for Ashok on a paisley padded bench in the spare, cold lobby, admiring the clean blue of these walls, the simple crucifix, the small statue of Our Lady. She’s never been a rococo Catholic.

  Mr. Asnani connects a caller to Father Koreth and looks up from the reception desk. “Good evening, Doctor. You are going out?”

  “Yes, Mr. Asnani. I am meeting a friend.”

  He returns to his newspaper.

  She admires the sari-like length of her long dress, pleased with her choice.

  “And you are going to the Catholic jamboree?”

  “No, I’m attending a concert at the India Habitat Centre.”

  He scrutinizes her. Those tiny oval glasses and the grey hair make him look like a skeptical scientist searching for empirical evidence.

  “The India Habitat Centre?”

  “Yes, have you been there?” 

  “You are meeting the Professor again?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Asnani.” Does he disapprove? Does he think she’s a nun? “Professor Nair,” she says evenly.

  A buzzer rasps and Mr. Asnani slowly rises to open the large door for Ashok.

  He looks particularly natty tonight in his brown Nehru jacket and black shawl.

  Mr. Asnani clears his throat. “Enjoy the concert, Dr. Murphy. You will remember that we lock the doors at 10 p.m. After that, you shall have to summon the night concierge.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Asnani. And good evening.”

  Descending the broad stone steps together into the boisterous Delhi evening, she grins and notices that Ashok has barely contained his laughter.

  “What’s with that fellow? Is he your long-lost father?”

  She shrugs. Catching her breath, she wonders if in her jet lag she’s told Ashok about Dad skipping out to Wyoming. Of course not. Just an uncanny joke.

  “Does he think I’m abducting you to a rave?” 

  She hoots. “The man likes everything in place,” she explains. “Apparently my place tonight is The Catholic Jamboree.”

  “I trust I’m not keeping you from it?” Ashok takes her arm as they cross the wide street.

  She likes the light feel of his hand, blushes, quickly concealing her embarrassment with chatter. “I have a feeling there will always be Catholic Jamborees in my life. Not sure how often I’ll get invited to the India Habitat Centre.” 

  Ashok’s face softens. “Depends how well you behave.”

  Blaring horns. Men in brilliantly colored and sequined outfits play instruments loudly as they prance down the street, followed by two festooned pachyderms and a handsome man on a white horse.

  “You have attended a Hindu wedding?”

  “Oh yes. I mean no. This must be the groom, arriving for the rituals?”

  “Yes, the Bengali Market is a prime location for this nuptial season.”

  She’s suspected this from the booming music that beats long into the early morning. Are these elegantly garbed giants the plebian elephants she watched clearing the branches yesterday?