Traveling with Spirits

by Miner, Valerie

  Parrots sail back and forth. Ashok can keep his laconic indifferences: these radiant birds flickering through Delhi smog inspire her to believe she, too, can flourish in this dense atmosphere.

  Now she has the answers for Ashok. She’s been obsessing for days. About how Catholic hospitals treat people of all faiths. She longs for people who share common beliefs. How much richer her life has been since returning to the Church. She wants to say spirituality might be a dimension missing from his rational philosophy. She wakes up each morning thinking of retorts.

  He’s right about one thing: the bureaucratic hurdles persist.

  The Americans want her to get more shots. (Well, this will give her an excuse to see Tina at the Embassy Clinic sooner.) The Indians require more forms. A clerk at the American Express Bank holds her hostage for two hours while she ensures each signature on each page matches precisely.

  *****

  Arriving at the U.S. Embassy in a yellow and black auto rickshaw, she feels her heart sinking at the endless queue of people snaking around the block. Men leaning on canes. Women hoisting toddlers on their hips. Older boys in t-shirts and jeans joking with each other. She heads to the back of a long, long line.

  Someone calls to her. “Ma’am?”

  An American voice.

  She turns to a tall, erect African American soldier, marine, some military person.

  “Ma’am, what are you looking for?”

  The pickles. Kosher dills. No, he won’t appreciate her humor.

  “The infirmary,” she summons a professional tone. “I need an inoculation.”

  “Follow me, please, Ma’am.”

  Is she being arrested. Because she helped block the Federal Building in Minneapolis during Desert Storm? Her penchant for paranoia swells in this land of perpetual surprises.

  Again, her cool, doctor’s voice: “May I ask why?”

  “Because this is the line for visas to the U.S., Ma’am and, from the sound of your Minnesota accent, I’d guess you’re not fishing for a visa.”

  She laughs. “How can you tell I’m from Minnesota?”

  “I’m from Duluth, myself.”

  Duluth, she blocks memories of Mom’s last months with Jeanne. “Minneapolis here. Do you really think we have a regional accent?”

  “You betcha!”

  She can’t wait to tell Beata about this guy. A witty Minnesotan in Delhi.

  As she follows the young man into the imposing modern embassy-fortress, no one looks up to protest her jumping the queue. She imagines Ashok deconstructing her privileges here. She’s conscious of entitlement. This is her embassy. She pays taxes for it. Even if she often protests U.S. policies, she is an American. “America”: a label. In India a particular brand of foreigner.

  Rows and rows of hard chairs are filled with people who have finally made it to the front of the queue. One reward at a time from the land of gilded thoroughfares.

  Because of her citizenship, she doesn’t have to stand for hours, then sit for more hours. She can walk straight into the clinic. Inalienable rights. Not a comfortable thought. Still, more comfortable than the queue.

  She registers, fastens her ID badge, and takes an elevator down to a brightly lit clinic used by the Embassy staff and their families. Waiting on an over-stuffed couch, she flips through the latest copy of Time, distracted by thoughts about her perforated arm: hepatitis A, hepatitis B. cholera, flu, Japanese encephalitis, polio, tetanus, and now rabies shots because of the wild dogs and mountain monkeys. Monkeys?

  “Monica!”

  She swivels to the familiar voice, beams at her tall, blond friend, elegant as ever even in baggy white doctor’s jacket and pants. “Tina!”

  Embracing her old friend, Tina whispers, “You don’t look a day older than you did in med school.”

  Monica grins. “It’s only been eight years. You look great too. More worldly, somehow.”

  They both notice the turned heads.

  Tina fingers a blond curl behind her ear. “Come, come back to the exam room. I have the serum ready.” Then in a softer voice, “We can talk there.”

  She feels her body relax as it hasn’t in two weeks. Ashok would assign this ease to being with “her people” now. No, she’d argue, everyone unwinds with old friends.

  “Business first, OK? Then you can chill out and chat a bit. These preventive rabies shots don’t hurt like the others. Simple jab. Maybe some swelling this week.”

  Monica rolls up her sleeve. She hates the sensation of needle piercing flesh, any flesh. She was happy the Lake Clinic lab techs handled the blood tests and shots. She knows she’ll get used to giving shots and drawing blood in Moorty. Of course she will.

  Her tall, fit roommate looks all grown up now. Friend of her youth. Monica always wondered if they’d make it through med school. Yet here they are: practicing physicians living in India. Eight years along.

  “I was flabbergasted when Edward told me you were in Delhi.” Her face is all delight at seeing Tina. “Thanks, again, for getting me the appointment here.”

  “Pretty neat that we wound up in the same town again.”

  Tina always had flair. She knew how to dress, where to eat. She discovered the best jazz places. Monica never imagined jazz in Minneapolis until Tina. But India?

  “I did write a couple of letters, to your parents’ address in New York. Maybe you never got them?”

  “Done!” Tina discards the needle. “Hey, sorry, I’m a terrible correspondent.”

  “So why India? Why Delhi?”

  Ashok’s inquisition.

  Tina blinks her pale blue eyes. “I had to pay off those mega med school loans. And foreign service seemed like an adventure. It is. The country is fascinating. I’ve made close Indian friends, so I’ll stay a while. What’s more interesting is you being here, Ms. Big Time Fellowship. You didn’t rack up student debts. What’s the scoop?”

  “Maybe it’s about a different kind of debt.”

  “Yeah,” Tina pauses, probably summoning tact. “Edward said something about an evangelical mission?”

  Monica covers her eyes, shakes her head wearily. “No, absolutely not. Just a basic Catholic hospital in Moorty. Nothing evangelical.”

  “I couldn’t really feature you with Holy Rollers. Remember those parties in school?”

  A knock on the door. “Your next patient, Dr. Nelson.”

  Monica stands.

  Tina leans on the examining table. “So listen, how long are you in Delhi?”

  “Another week, at least,” she sighs. “Until I scale the mountain of rules and regulations.”

  “Hey, no one ever reaches that summit. But I know you’ll excel at running through the paces,” she laughs.

  Again Monica is filled with nostalgia for their youthful days and nights, mostly nights, when everything seemed possible.

  “Come to dinner, Monica. Maybe we can have an expedition. Have you seen the Jama Masjid? The Red Fort? Fab India?”

  “Fab India?”

  “Oh, girl, you’ve been spending too much time around the nuns and priests. I see I need to take sober Monica in hand.”

  *****

  Tina waves as Monica descends to the lobby of Mission House.

  “Well, this pad is très convenient,” she says. “Close to Connaught Circle, the Janpath, Kasturba Gandhi Marg.”

  “And the Bengali Market.”

  Tina is mildly surprised. “With such local savvy, you’ll become a Delhi Wallah in no time. Why not stay here? They’re looking for a replacement at the clinic.”

  The head concierge, Mr. Asnani, tries to look invisible as he eavesdrops. Monica understands his curiosity. Tina is a stunning woman.

  “I
told you,” she whispers, “I need a break from American medicos.” She takes a breath. Yet another friend worried she’s gone over the brink. “From blitzkrieg appointments, impossible triage options…”

  “You’re looking for a serene pace in this rural Indian clinic?”

  “My colleagues will be different. I won’t be battling American insurance companies.”

  “But…”

  “Listen. I’ve made the commitment for six months. I hope to stay longer, if I’m useful. Besides, I’ve invited you to Moorty.”

  “Right,” Tina swallows. “My bucolic weekend in the hill country.”

  Monica nods, firmly closing the argument.

  Tina brightens. “Let’s hit the road or we’ll be late to ‘Beating the Retreat.’ ”

  As their wobbly auto rickshaw threads through frantic traffic, Monica raises her voice over the street noise. “Now, explain this again? We’re celebrating what?”

  “The British military withdrawal. A yearly commemoration.” She’s shouting above the blaring horns and screeching tires. Two bicyclists almost collide and curse a truck driver. “Fabulous pageantry. You’ll adore it. Bands from all the services.”

  Monica suspends disbelief. She and Tina used to march in protest rallies together—“U.S. Out of Panama…Americans Divesting from Apartheid…” Now they’re off to listen to military bands? Perhaps Embassy life has changed her.

  “Sir,” Tina calls to the turbaned driver, “to the left; to the left.”

  “Achah,” he says, then, without looking over his shoulder, slips two lanes to the left.

  Use horn, Monica thinks. Use horn. Even though St. Christopher was de-sainted years ago, she carries the medal Beata gave her at the airport.

  “Glad you remembered not to bring a purse. They’re sticky about high security. No water bottles, binoculars, cameras. Just money and keys in your pocket and your ID.”

  The driver pulls over to ask a soldier for directions.

  The whole area is swarming with uniforms.

  He drives until they’re stopped by a policeman.

  “This makes no sense,” Tina argues with the officer, half in English, half in Hindi. “See all those cars ahead of us?”

  The officer shrugs incomprehension.

  “OK. OK,” grumbles Tina. “We’ll hoof it from here.” She hands the relieved driver twenty rupees.

  *****

  Enveloped in a crowd of rich Indians, poor Indians, scattered foreigners, Monica savors her anonymity in this huge city. She feels even freer here than in New York. Certainly Moorty is a small place and she’ll be visible as a clinic doctor. But, she won’t be known, not in the same way she was in Minnesota. Will she still feel like the same person: sister of angry Jeanne; daughter of Saint Marie and vagabond Tim: erstwhile girlfriend of Eric, whom she misses although she’s glad they broke up. If she hasn’t left it all behind, at least it’s in the background. She has yet to discover who she will be in Moorty.

  As Monica and Tina approach the staging area on the Rajpath, she notices a line of five or six mounted camels standing at attention on a rise to the west in the muggy winter light.

  “They’ll hold that posture for an hour,” notes Tina.

  VIP cars deliver government officials to their central seats.

  Mounted soldiers escort the very VIPs arriving in better cars.

  Once the big guys are settled, music commences.

  Marching bands.

  “Aren’t those English tunes?”

  Tina laughs. “For some, Britain remains the Apex of Western Civilization.”

  They sit next to an excited little boy and his watchful father.

  The band uniforms are a marvelous fusion of green, orange, red.

  Bagpipes? Monica wonders. And those must be Indian tartans. Definitely not Scottish.

  An extended family settles in front of them, get up, move to better seats.

  Another family. More shifting. Bobbing up and down.

  Monica and Tina watch, like proper school marms, each clucking under her breath.

  Finally, a Sikh man implores the popping audience members to settle down. Their view is clear for five minutes before the next wave of people arrive, stirring and fussing.

  Then a hush cuts through the chaos.

  The lone trumpet moans. The tune is echoed by the bands. A carillon chimes. Also answered by the bands.

  Call and response. Moving in its familiarity and poignant strangeness.

  The ceremony ends as the camel riders head farther west, into the horizon.

  As the sun sets, electric stars outline the stately buildings.

  They eat at one of the big hotels halfway between their homes, the Hotel Barrington.

  An astonishing buffet offers aloo gobi, sag paneer, uthapams, baked chicken, mashed potatoes, string beans with almonds, nan, parathas, rotis. Their fellow customers are well-dressed Westerners or Indians in fine attire. Monica recalls the family they passed on the street ten minutes before, all of them seated on the sidewalk as the woman stirred a pot heated over a hibachi.

  “This bounteous display; it’s like the opening of the O’Henry story.”

  “You never get used to it,” sighs Tina, “the disparity between rich and poor here. You learn to live with the contradictions.”

  Monica sips her Kingfisher pensively.

  “So what do you think of the ceremony?”

  “Like a history book. Are there other events like that?”

  Tina winks. “Tons. Bureaucracy and ceremony are first cousins.”

  Tina is still her teacher and guide—from Minneapolis jazz to Indian culture. Monica may have found academia easier, but Tina was always better at living life.

  “Haven’t you seen the bumper stickers? ‘Our India is Great.’ They outdo American chauvinism by miles of bunting. And thousands of years.”

  “No.”

  “Wait, old friend, just wait.”

  Waiting has never been her strong suit. It is especially hard now that she has so much to look forward to—a new country, new colleagues and a reunion with this long lost friend.

  She starts to weep.

  “Honey, what’s up?”

  “Everything, Tina.” She sniffs back the tears. “Everything, absolutely everything is up.”

  Tina reaches over and squeezes her friend’s shoulder.

  Excited, grateful, terrified, Monica wishes she would never let go.

  FIVE

  January, 2001, New Delhi

  From her third floor room, she hears drilling from down the street. Riveting on nearby pavement. Horns from two blocks away. Dozens of voices.

  Delhi is exhausting. She’s fit, young, optimistic. Yet it takes such effort to accomplish a few errands, to battle through to evening. She’ll set out after daily mass with a mundane list—posting letters, buying milk, finding Beata a birthday card, photocopying a document, procuring government forms, searching once again for an ATM that will accept her very common bank card. By the murky dark of late afternoon, she’ll only accomplish half the tasks.

  Monica lies down to rest from paperwork, a “wee nap,” as Mom would say.

  Disasters loom. Yesterday the printer blew up because she forgot to use the transformer, and she abandoned the electric kettle to the point of mini-conflagration. She’s learned to say to herself, “I’m having an Indian day.”

  She should open her eyes and get back to the paperwork, but sometimes fatigue overwhelms her straight after lunch.

  Rapping on the door.

  Around the Christmas table: Mom, Jeanne, Ashok and Tina. Everyone is arguing as they eat roast beef and aloo gobi.

  Louder knocking.


  She blinks into the afternoon. Stands up, a little wobbly. “Coming.” After splashing her face with cold water, she repeats, “Coming,” and answers the door.

  Sister Margaret’s face radiates joy.

  She’s been visited by the Holy Spirit? Wake up, Monica. Focus.

  “Please excuse the disturbance.”

  “Not at all, Sister. Will you have a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you very much. I have duties. I couldn’t wait to relay the news.”

  She stares at the serious nun whom she’s come to admire in many ways. She guesses the news and suddenly her body roils with conflicting emotions. “My documents are approved.”

  “Yes, Dr. Murphy. Yes. And we are all so happy you can finally begin your journey after so long in our humble station.”

  “Hardly,” she balks. “Everyone has been so hospitable. I’ve learned so much and I’m profoundly grateful.” She wants to add, Just as I’m beginning to understand Delhi a little, to make friends, to feel semi-comfortable. Maybe Tina is right. Maybe I should stay here. They say the Missions are rarely staffed by Western doctors. Instead, she says, “When do I leave?”

  “Alas, Doctor, there will be one more week’s delay. But the Moorty staff are thrilled about your imminent arrival. They are in grave need of your skills.”

  One week’s reprieve. She can keep the dates with Tina and Ashok. She has time to buy the rest of the books and personal items she now knows she can’t get in Moorty.

  Her mind wanders. Fifteen degrees here this afternoon. And the temperatures in Moorty will be much lower. Thinking in Celsius makes her colder. Of course, she’ll be glad for Moorty’s climate in the summer when Delhi bakes at 40-45 degrees.