Guesthouse for Ganesha

by Judith Teitelman

  How to put into words the visceral consequences of a veiled identity and invisibility, when you do not understand them yourself?

  How to give voice and substance to nightmares of the waking hours—to provide the details of rape and degradation in the Alps?

  Fundamental to all else—how to convey the inexpressible—the agony of spurned love—and the mandate it birthed within her to persevere? To move forward and ultimately—survive at all costs?

  Survival to what end? she still queried.

  Throughout the cascading of stories and words and heartache, he, Marco—for somewhere between the descriptions of her realities in Leiden and then Paris, these two shared their most basic information—listened with a depth of compassion and a consciousness that transcended her words. When Esther faltered, Marco offered support and encouragement to continue on, always with gentleness and mindfulness.

  Occasionally, he caressed her hand or nodded and held her gaze. Compassion enveloped her. After a while he encouraged Esther to walk with him around the deck, the movement helping to secure her calm in the drama’s unfolding. Marco knew that this story, the full extent of her chronicle, must be verbalized, and the time was now.

  Esther understood this. While bedridden, it had become clear to her that someday, the details of her past and her journey—every detail of those experiences endured—must be revealed and extricated. A thorough examination of conscience was essential. She had begun to feel sorrow—grief—about so much that had taken place. Esther knew that reviewing in depth all that had transpired, everything inflicted upon her would need to be disclosed. Not least of which was an admission of her treatment of others, most especially Abraham, but not leaving out Tova, Miriam, and Zami. Absolution might not be possible, but the weight of this history must be released.

  Only now, Esther began to understand there were actions—her actions and her choices—that many would consider sins—perhaps venial, but transgressions nonetheless. These must be unbound in order to advance to this most important part of the passage with clarity of consciousness.

  Still, while candid in all aspects of her narration, the fixation that had propelled her life’s direction for these past two decades was omitted. For this was the one pivotal element of the story Esther could not rationalize, the facts she could not provide—the one question she, herself, could not answer:

  Why India?

  What necessity propelled the venture to this country, and why now? What was the motivation for traveling to India? The requisite that overpowered her?

  The fundament was not conveyed, because no answer or reason or justification existed. As Esther herself did not comprehend the why, how could she possibly explain it to another? All that was known with certainty was the truth this place existed and that it had remained the central motivating factor continually supporting her. It likely accounted for her very survival.

  Better to leave this part unsaid, Esther thought.

  So she did not disclose her curious encounter with the Indian food stand four months after moving to Köln. So many, many years ago. Nor her inexplicable reaction.

  Separate from this one part of her story, no matter how crucial, Esther asked herself: why now, why here, and most especially—why this man? She had never conceived the recipient of her telling would be a stranger during this ship’s passage. Nevertheless, when the words and images and experiences had tumbled forth, an all-embracing relief suffused her.

  Esther could not deny there was something oddly familiar about this man—primarily his eyes and those aristocratic features predominated by his striking nose. Inexplicably, she never gave thought to the language in which she spoke nor the language this man conversed in. Only acknowledging that by some means, improbable or otherwise, it was one and the same.

  For an instant, Esther’s thoughts flashed back to her fever-induced encounter at the trip’s onset but shook the image away as purely one of fantasy at play. No matter what had taken place, this man was here. The experience was real, and he was paying close attention to her every word.

  This feeling was followed by a peculiar, surprising thought. Perhaps borne of those many years in hiding. Thus compelled, Esther asked, “Excuse me. I’m not sure why I’m asking this. And I’m definitely not sure why I’m even thinking this, but—are you a priest?”

  The sides of Marco’s mouth turned up, just a little on each corner, his eyes widened and grew round, and his face became covered by a crimson blush. He replied, “Why … yes … yes … I am.”

  Expressing apology, he smiled sheepishly and said, “Ah… mea maxima culpa. I hope you understand … I am not hiding my identity … this is not something to hide. It is only easier … much … much easier … to travel like this … to cover a great distance without separating myself out … without distinguishing myself from others. I hope you are not offended?”

  Esther shook her head. Now she was the amused one.

  Marco continued, “Please know … please do understand … I have been listening as a friend and only as a friend … a confidant if you will. I do not believe it is an accident I am here with you … a mere coincidence. I do not believe in such things. But also … you must know I am not here to grant you absolution or penance for any of your past decisions or actions. I appreciate you are not Catholic.

  “However … I do realize … derived from what you have shared, that you are well schooled in the ways and the rites of the Catholic religion … and the Catholic Church … perhaps more than of the Jewish faith. I also recognize … and respect … this has been a survival technique … a genius one, in fact … rather than an acceptance or an embracing of a faith or way of life.

  “I am sure you are familiar with the concept that sin can be considered a tie … a bondage of the spirit. And confession … or more simply … the telling of one’s tale as you have done. Sharing with me … your story … experiences … of what took place … is … has been an untying of those bonds that held you for so very long.

  “Please know that it has been my honor … it is my honor … my privilege to be the vessel by which you could release what you have held on to for these far too many years. Again I say … it is not an accident that I am here with you. I believe it has been intended that I would be here … now … for you.

  “And,” Marco continued, eyes twinkling, “it is important to me that you understand … I am one of the truehearted … in no way one of the uncaring … indifferent priests that I know you must have encountered. No … of my kind … I am among the impartial and open-minded … the most benevolent.” Then he laughed and laughed.

  “But I digress …

  “Destiny … if you will. Fate. Providence. Other words that could be used … they all mean the same. This is our destiny. There is destiny in all things … the purpose for which somebody or something is intended … the place to which one is going … or is directed to go. Destiny is the ultimate purpose for which something is created or intended. And … destiny only ensues when one releases the fears of fate … the fears of what might happen.”

  I believe Marco is the one person who can comprehend to the full extent of his being what occurred at that food stand many years before, Esther thought. Perhaps he will be able to explain what has been to me an unexplainable draw to this country—to India.

  She was on the verge of recounting her tale’s one missing piece and responding to everything he had just said when a glimpse of land was caught out of the barest corner of one eye. Abruptly, Esther turned and ran to the bow of the ship.

  The day was heading into twilight, as was her journey.

  Through the dusk, Esther strained her eyes to make out shapes or forms. She had anticipated this moment for so long—envisioned what it would be like, what this place would be like. In a world that had savagely stolen any possibility of dreams and hopes—in a reality where suffering and horrors had become the norm—Esther had clung to this miniscule fantasy of elsewhere and all the prospects it could hold. All the possibilit
ies she was sure it would hold. The draw or motivation for coming here remained elusive, only the necessity had penetrated. The clarity this direction must be taken.

  Marco followed her to the bow, remaining at a respectful distance. He intuited the power of this moment and his role to come.

  As L’Étoile’s engines slowed and the ship glided closer to port, Esther began to discern images. An imposing arched structure came into focus first. It appeared to be the target toward which the ship was aimed. Adjacent, to its left, was a massive multistoried building. Other smaller structures bordered these.

  Motion forward. They drew nearer to the dock, and Esther began taking in details: a fortress-like structure, tall buildings, heavy concrete, carvings, wrought iron, paned glass windows.

  No! Esther thought. There’s something wrong. This is wrong. This is completely wrong! Everything is familiar looking. Too familiar. Almost recognizable.

  The view before her revealed the edge of a city just like those in Europe. Exactly like cities she had left behind. Like the life she desired to leave behind.

  Esther had traveled halfway around the globe—such a long way in distance and turmoil—only to arrive at a place indistinguishable from every location she had ever been.

  She saw none of the vibrancy—the brilliance—the joyous cacophony of texture, shape, and color that had spoken to her senses and lured her to explore the makeshift stand on that long-ago evening in Köln. And there were none of the images of man, woman, or beast that had captured her soul. Not a hint of the magical, mystical draw. None of any of it. Anywhere.

  Her thoughts raced—

  What have I done? What was I thinking? How far did I have to run only to find myself in the very same place?

  Without warning, Esther felt heavy, lost, baffled. The full weight of history bore its anguish and force down upon her. Turning toward Marco, she descended into his eyes full on and crumbled onto the ship’s deck.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The land is vast … and layered.

  Encrusted with history.

  Interwoven with spirit and deities, ritual and language …

  Melded with truth and illusion, desire and despair.

  Incongruent strata of color and texture

  and sound and emotion:

  silk on rag, gossamer on muslin, clear glass on cement,

  fine crystal on jagged rock,

  jewel on cow dung.

  Riches beyond imagination; poverty of extreme proportion.

  Human beings swaddled in luxury without care or want …

  Straddling those with dismembered limbs,

  disfigured bodies, leprosy, polio—

  begging, pleading, imploring, tugging, following …

  Stomachs empty, hands outstretched,

  mouths open, eyes vacant.

  Parts of this terrain are exceptionally raw, rough and exposed …

  Other areas finely formed, molded and highly polished.

  From all facets, it is a mirror from which your soul cannot hide.

  The smelling salts provided by the ship’s doctor revived Esther, although she remained unsteady in equilibrium and thought. The delicate confidence gained over these past few hours, now gone.

  “Do you … feel better?” Marco asked. “I do not understand. What happened?”

  Esther could not respond with words, for the answers were not forthcoming from within. So she simply shrugged off the questions, avoiding his gaze by focusing on a weatherworn floorboard. Yet every so often, glancing toward the rapidly approaching port, her lips quivered and her chest restrained the ache that kept her heart at bay.

  Esther did possess enough presence of mind to hand Marco the white slip of paper protected in her brassiere throughout the journey.

  “Please, can you help get me to this place?” she appealed.

  Marco unfolded the paper and saw written in decisive block letters the name and address of Bombay’s Keneseth Eliyahoo Synagogue. The Zürich travel agent had provided this information. Concerned about Esther’s safety and reasoning, most especially spurred by her inability to explain why travel to this most foreign of lands was of essential importance, the agent had done extensive research on lodging possibilities. He felt fortunate to have located what appeared to be a rational stopping place where perhaps this peculiar woman could get her bearings.

  What better location but a synagogue for a Jewish woman alone in an unwieldy alien city? he had surmised. The rest must be up to her.

  Esther had expressed appreciation for this extra effort, not having considered what would happen upon arrival in Bombay. It was the getting there that had absorbed her attention. Not what would take place from there and onward.

  After the ship docked and bags were retrieved from their respective cabins, Marco gently guided Esther toward and then through the central arch of the stately Gateway of India. Midway, she stopped to gain a sense of its grandeur. The apex, at nearly eighty-five feet, soared above her tiny frame; the yellow Kharodi basalt and reinforced concrete enfolded her. Esther took a full inhale and, for one final time, turned and looked behind her, back at the ship, and the sea, and from whence she had come. In swift motion she relived all that had taken place. Then, with another, more cavernous inhale, she turned toward what was to come and moved through to the arch’s opposite side. There she found throngs of people milling about on the esplanade.

  “This way … this way …” Marco repeated loudly to ensure being heard above the din. Esther walked closely beside him, awed by the sizable crowd gathered all around. A mass of humanity, one indistinguishable from the next, encircled them.

  They crossed the wide boulevard and headed toward an immense building.

  “The famed Taj Mahal Palace Hotel,” Marco announced, as though leading a tour.

  This was the imposing structure Esther had seen from the sea that had sent shockwaves throughout her being. The potency of this place’s European milieu remained disquieting. This area looks so much like many parts of downtown Köln or, even more so, Paris’s business district.

  Is this in actuality another place? Esther wondered. Is this what I have hoped for? Yearned for? How can my desired elsewhere be the same as everywhere? Is there even really an elsewhere—anywhere?

  To her surprise, they did not enter the building. Instead, with Marco’s direction, they turned the first corner. There stood a taxi stand and a block-long reach of compact black-and-yellow cabs in wait for fares, like bees in procession for nectar. For reasons Esther did not understand, Marco knew this city intimately.

  His knowledge and ease made Esther more curious about this man, his history, and the reasons that brought him to this country. What implores him to return again and again? she wondered. Clearly, this is not his first visit.

  But that conversation would have to wait. Little reserve energy remained for anything but sitting and looking and beginning to digest these new but uncomfortably common surroundings.

  Marco slid into the backseat beside her. With the white sheet of paper in hand, he instructed the driver: “Please take us to this address—Kripia humko iss pate pur lay chalaye. Sidhe aur Sambhal kar chalaye! Drive directly. And carefully!”

  This request was relayed in a singsong parlance distinct from any language Esther had heard before. Her interest mounted, but once more, any inquiry had to wait.

  No words passed between the two during the drive. As the taxi drove on, Esther gazed out the window and took in the passing environment much as one would a slow-moving zoetrope. The structure of the buildings was, indeed, familiar. So her eyes strained to locate street signs or landmarks that were also recognizable. The city was dense; building jutted up against building up against building. European-style structures, some staid, others exquisite and regal, filled her view, as did a formal street plan and concrete sidewalks lined with storefronts. The people in view dressed in uninteresting, austerely styled suits and dresses. It was disconcerting—and disheartening.

  “What have
I done?” Esther mumbled under her breath, head shaking. “What have I done?”

  They had barely traversed one full block when—the yearned for component—a subtle richness and vitality of color began to peek out between the far too recognizable buildings and along their edges. It became evident not everything was as first appeared.

  Continuing one more block, the background’s predominance of grays and browns began to unfurl. Like a multilayered quilt, divulging a deep, encrusted history that had been hidden at the port.

  Color—rich, luminous, luscious, and occasionally garish color—became evident everywhere. It flowed out of windows and onto sidewalks. Graceful, raven-haired women—with thin bands of gold and jewels around their necks and through their ear lobes and pierced through one nostril—wore long flowing skirts woven with metallic threads and matching scarves echoing the seven colors in a rainbow and beyond. Vendors lined the streets, selling clothes made of fabrics like the ones seen at her exigent stand in Köln—cloths woven with mirrored glass, with fringe and sequins, beads and ribbons—others selling toys and dolls or books or baskets.

  Large tubs spilling over with spices bordered a few storefronts.

  When the taxi passed by these, a heat mixed with a subtle breeze of turmeric and cardamom wafted over her. In an instant, Esther began to savor, once more, the aroma and consciousness of purpose that had emanated from the rickety stand on that long-ago day, consuming her being.

  Ah, she thought. Then—she beamed.

  She observed the environs more and more closely. She became aware of signs, large and small, over doorways and on buildings and at street corners. Their beauty took her breath away. Esther understood these were written in some type of Indian lettering—she had seen similar things in the library book—although she could not find a relationship to any alphabet seen before. While there was no way to divine the meaning, the script emulated the most elegant, delicate embroidery. The beautiful flowing characters, each a unique symbol, captivated her. She envisioned creating tablecloths, napkins, or pillowcases with such graceful borders.