Traveling with Spirits

by Miner, Valerie

  Monica has her favorite stalls in the sabzi mandi. The man who sells nonfat dahi and dudh always greets her with a grin. Milk and yogurt are among the few things she takes back to her flat since Cook prepares the meals. On Saturday nights now, she and Sudha cook together after the Hindi lesson.

  Today her bag is heavy with vegetables, because it’s her turn to be teacher. Imagine, Sudha wanting to learn how to make pasta primavera. Tina and Monica lived on pasta during med school. Such a simple dish, especially with Moorty’s abundance of spring veggies. She’s pleased to repay Sudha’s culinary instruction in kind, if not in gourmet nuance.

  They climb the hill to the next level of shops in the Lower Bazaar. It’s great to have a whole day off each week now that she’s acclimated to Moorty Hospital. Even when she’s doing chores in town, every exchange is a small adventure. At the general store, Sudha buys paper towels, cooking utensils, the odd bit of crockery. Crockery. Comestibles. She loves these Victorian-sounding words. There are fewer shoppers on this level of town. More men.

  Every week, the general store holds new surprises. In mid-April, she was excited to find her favorite American cereal, albeit outrageously priced. Now, it’s a welcome indulgence with her skimmed dudh. Today she buys plum nectar and a bag of cashews. Kaju, she says under her breath.

  The merchant regards her cautiously. His eyes brighten as Sudha addresses him.

  Monica knows enough Hindi to eavesdrop.

  “Of course, Ma’am, we’ll be able to carry your groceries up the mountain with the broom and cereal and such. No, no charge. How long has Ma’am been shopping here? How long educating our children? We are flattered by your custom.”

  “Sri Chawla, you are too kind.”

  The parking lot at Lunds in Uptown was filled with winter filthy cars. Customers trudged warily on the Minnesota ice, leading the way as young men and women in green uniforms pushed shopping carts toward capacious trunks of Subarus and Volvos and Hondas. How much more anonymous that life seems now. How long ago and far away.

  Before striking farther uphill to the Mall, they graze stalls of Lower Bazaar for pens, paper, bars of soap. Not too much because after the Mall, where Monica will buy newspapers and a candy bar in a fancy shop, they’ll have a steep climb to their neighborhood. Once past Mr. Chawla’s store, they’re accountable for haulage.

  She’s happy Sudha lives so near. Her small apartment block, 500 yards away, makes walking back at night easy. Thus she gets minimum flack about this “dubious practice” from Paterfamilias Walsh. She must develop a less confrontational attitude toward him. Has he simply replaced Louise as adversary in her psychological landscape?

  No trip to town is complete without a stop at the Kerala Coffee House. They have a special table in the relatively smoke-free back room with a view of Lower Bazaar.

  “Whew. This town does keep a person fit,” Sudha sighs as she releases her packages. “But then, being American, you’re probably used to attending the gym daily and torturing yourself on those monstrous machines.”

  Monica laughs, thinking about her gawkiness in aerobics class, then feels a pang of homesickness for the low impact course, the locker room chats with Beata. “You’re right, this is a great workout. I’ve lost a couple of pounds since coming to Moorty.”

  “A pound or two, it makes a difference?”

  “A pound or two leads to nine or ten. Then your clothes don’t fit.”

  “Ah, yet further evidence of the superiority of our saris.”

  “Ha! You know full well those dainty sari blouses don’t fit if you gain weight. You’re very careful. I’ve seen you order roti rather than naan at dinner.”

  “I like rotis,” Sudha raises her hand for the waiter.

  Oh, good, Monica thinks, it’s Rabi today. She enjoys the old man’s smile. He always makes sure the coffee is steaming hot.

  “Would you like to split an uthapam—or would that lead to those nine extra pounds?”

  “One uthapam and, as always, one dosa. I’m starving.”

  “Why are you so fond of uthapams?”

  “They were part of my first meal in India. In the Bengali Market.”

  “Don’t tell me—at that dreadful Bengali House of Sweets!”

  “No, not at all, across the street at Nathu’s.”

  “Nathu’s! Worse yet. That’s not real South Indian food.”

  “So Ashok declared, but my first meal was delicious.”

  “Ashok, you haven’t talked about him this week. Is he still planning to visit?”

  Monica shrugs. “I guess so. If he finishes his article on time.”

  “Academics! I wouldn’t have featured you falling in love with an academic.”

  “Who said anything about love? He’s just a friend. An acquaintance.”

  “A friend who emails every few days. A friend who phones once a week.”

  “He’s very brotherly. He looks out for the Minnesota Yankee in his land.”

  “Brotherly!” Sudha flicks her eyebrows theatrically.

  Rabi appears with the scalding coffee and fragrant snacks.

  Grateful for the interruption, Monica tries to sweep her mind of Ashok. He’s an attractive, provocative, attentive man. And she does think about him. Too often. How much of that is simple loneliness in a new country? She’s not interested in romance. She’s here to serve, to grow in spirit. You can’t love someone you’ve only known ninety days. Is she really counting the days?

  “Actually, I’ve told you more than enough about Ashok, my mother, Lake Clinic. We haven’t got past chapter one of Sudha’s dramatic biography. When happened when you turned down that Colaba man? How did you tell him? How did your parents react?”

  With the scrupulosity of a practiced teacher, Sudha divides the uthapam and dosa.

  Monica taps her fingers on the table.

  Sudha’s head drops back dreamily. “Manil understood I wasn’t going to be the docile wife who would raise four children and greet him with a martini when he returned from the office. After two dinners with our families, we knew. All of us did.”

  “How did you get out of it?”

  “My family is middle class. They don’t live in the dark ages.”

  “Of course not,” Monica says quietly. How can she develop a friendship with this complicated, intelligent woman if she doesn’t know more about her life?

  Sudha chews thoughtfully.

  In the far corner, chess players smoke furiously, concentrating on their board. A small audience leans over, rapt. By the front door, an ancient man sips from his cup, nodding intently, as if revisiting his youth on a coffee plantation. Why do so many South Indians migrate to the wintry cold climate of Moorty?

  “Father, who’s always supported my ambitions, was easy. Mama made trouble. She was looking forward to my returning from St. Andrews to settle down as a flourishing Bandra or Colaba housewife.”

  Monica nibbles the delicious dosa. “That must’ve been a hard conversation.”

  Sudha throws up her hands. “It was. It was. But Mama had successfully married off her other daughter and so she was philosophical. Except…” She pauses, laughs softly.

  “What?” Monica studies her friend’s face.

  “She called me a ‘Modern Woman!’ ”

  “There are worse epithets.” Like the names Jeanne called her after Mom’s death.

  “So, eventually, everyone was accepting. Papa urged me to go for a Ph.D. at Bombay University. He said I could live with them and commute to the Bandra campus. Within days, Mama had big plans for her professor daughter. A J.N.U. Professorship.”

  Monica finishes her coffee and wants another, but she’s afraid to interrupt Sudha’s self-disclosure. “What happened?”

  �
�That was never for me. I’m not an intellectual. Don’t have the patience with theory. I wanted to do something with my life. It was hard to leave St. Andrews. I loved Scotland. There was a boy there…well, anyway, I decided if I were going to return to India, I needed to contribute to this country. I always liked kids. I know what a difference one teacher made in my life. The choice was easy in some ways.”

  “In some ways?”

  Rabi offers fresh black coffee.

  “Obviously I couldn’t stay in Bombay. Not only was I rejecting marriage, I was rebuffing their career dreams. And for what? To become a maiden school marm. Forever an auntie, they thought. So I imagined places where I might live. Our family traveled to Moorty once. And during my first year at St. Andrews, I often thought of Moorty: the hills, the trees. Somehow Moorty reminds me of Scotland. It’s not rational, but I came here because I wanted to be in India and I wanted to be in Scotland and I wanted to be near my parents but not too near.”

  “Sounds like the perfect decision.”

  “Hardly perfect. I guess I’m useful, but…”

  Monica glances down at Lower Bazaar, more crowded now during lunch hour. This sight feels happily familiar. Whole hours pass these days without a thought of “being in India.” Sometimes she has to remind herself that she is 8,000 miles from Minneapolis and 6,000 feet closer to the stars. She waits for Sudha. “But what?”

  “Sometimes people are suspicious of a single woman. Especially a single woman from Sin City, Bombay.”

  “I see.”

  Sudha chuckles. “Outsiders—Maharashtra and Minneapolis. No wonder we are such good friends.”

  Such good friends. Monica blushes. A significant statement from the reticent Sudha. Embarrassed and touched, she suggests, “Shall we good friends finish our errands before the day evaporates?”

  Sudha’s voice is quizzical, amused. “Andiamo, Cara Sudha?” My Italian friend would say when she wanted to leave the St. Andrews library. “Andiamo, Cara Monica.”

  *****

  Vikram’s visit is brief. He’s progressing well—both his eyes and his English. She suspects this last appointment had more to do with language practice. A sweet kid.

  From the waiting room, she hears an Irish voice. An echo of home. But not.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Rao. It will be a day or two before Dr. Walsh is free. He has an early surgery this morning. Quite busy, you know. Quite busy.”

  “Not to worry, Mrs. Walsh,” says Sudha’s colleague from the mathematics department. “I am consulting with Dr. Murphy now. Very fine doctor. Excellent care.”

  Although Monica’s assignments are eye diseases and intestinal curses, a number of pregnant women have begun to request her. And one or two younger men. This has happened gradually, almost imperceptibly.

  “Is that so?”

  Monica concentrates on Vikram. Brigid’s response isn’t her business. It makes sense that some women are more comfortable with her.

  Then, without warning, the outside door crashes open.

  Monica looks out: an explosion of noise as moaning patients are rushed in on stretchers.

  “Jeep toppled over the mountain,” Sister Catherine announces, calling everyone into service.

  Vikram bows good-bye, looking terrified.

  Facial wounds on three men. Four broken legs.

  Shivering and shock.

  Who knows how much internal bleeding?

  They work efficiently together, doctors and nurses. Eventually the injured patients are shifted to beds. Good prognoses all around.

  The examination rooms are suddenly empty.

  The clinic is eerily quiet.

  Monica wonders if she said good-bye to Vikram.

  Her two pneumonia patients in the ward need attention. She considers skipping lunch. But yesterday she did that and regretted it all afternoon.

  She forces herself to walk to the refectory.

  The midday sun arches over the noble deodar cedars. Trees of the gods. Monica thinks of Eric taking her to the stunning Redwood forests in Mendocino. She inhales the clean, crisp scent. Sister Melba’s flower garden is so vibrant; it’s hard to believe these are the same frozen hospital grounds as four months ago. Two orange monkeys chase each other around a well. Monica walks faster.

  As she climbs the refectory steps, she hears Sanchez laughing with Walsh. Odd, but good sign. The two men rarely greet each other, despite Father’s attempts to mediate.

  “Dr. Murphy?” Brigid calls from the veranda.

  “Good afternoon. How are you?”

  “Just fine. Fine, indeed.”

  Monica clasps the door knob.

  Brigid places a freckled hand over Monica’s.

  “May we have a word before lunch?”

  She doesn’t want to be tardy. If Kevin Walsh faults her again, that’s his problem.

  “Sure, is everything OK?”

  “With me, yes, thanks.” Brigid twists her neck as if to unknot a muscle.

  “But?”

  “You’re still new here, so let me offer a little advice.” Her cheeks are flushed.

  Like Jeanne’s face after several martinis.

  “I always welcome helpful advice.” Keep an upbeat attitude, girl.

  “I spoke with Mrs. Rao this morning,” Brigid lowers her voice. “I’ve noted that she and several of Dr. Walsh’s other patients have begun to consult with you.”

  Monica counts to ten. Listens to birds arguing on a nearby branch. Her tone is polite, formal. “I believe our procedure is to see patients as we are available and to attend to their requests for consultations when we can.”

  “Officially, yes.” Brigid straightens her back.

  “I always try to follow procedures, to avoid personality conflicts.”

  “As a recent arrival, perhaps you’re missing some nuances here, Dr. Murphy.”

  “Oh,” she breathes deeply, trying to summon the pleasure of Brigid’s accent.

  “Kevin, Dr. Walsh, is the senior doctor. With many years of medical background.” She’s gripping the iron railing. “And considerable experience here. If we want what’s best for our patients, we sometimes have to relinquish our egos.”

  “You have a point.” How sad to see her defending her husband’s turf. Monica says a quick prayer for patience and resolves to consult Father Freitas.

  “I knew you would understand. I’ve come to admire your quick intelligence.”

  Monica’s heart sinks. In the last months at Lake Clinic, she became a master of deflection. It’s one thing to avoid argument and another to surrender integrity. She’s certainly not going to turn away patients.

  As Walsh leads them in grace, she realizes once again that if she’s going to have any charitable thoughts about her colleagues, she must get to know them better. Cook serves aromatic chana biryani and everyone digs in.

  “So, Dr. Walsh,” she begins nervously, “you were asking about American Medical schools the other day. Did you train in Ireland or Britain?”

  Brigid’s expression is wary.

  God, there aren’t any safe topics with him?

  “Ireland, of course,” he says, then takes a long sip of purified water.

  “Oh, at Trinity?”

  Brigid shakes her head in dismay.

  “No, Dr. Murphy, as you may have noticed, I am a Roman Catholic.”

  “Sorry, I forgot about the Church’s ban on Catholics attending Trinity.”

  “I studied at University College, Dublin. A fine institution. You’ll be interested to know we admitted more women at the time than Trinity.”

  “Yes, one of my professors went to UCD,” she recovers quickly. Thank God for Dr. Smythe and those Friday n
ights at Stub and Herb’s when he joined the younger docs for a drink and offered an hour of his seamless storytelling. “Did you do your clinical work at St. Vincent’s or at the Martyr?”

  “You do know something about Irish education!”

  “A wee bit,” she aims for her mother’s charm.

  “Right, a Kildare family. I forget. You seem so American.”

  She blinks.

  “Some people mistake Trinity as the better institution, but truth be told, it was more like a privileged boy’s club. I dare say we had broader experience. I have UCD to thank for more than a good education. Brigid and I met there.”

  Brigid nods, lips parted in a diffident smile.

  Praise God for Mom’s social graces (“Just ask them about themselves, dear. Everyone has a story.”) Monica feels a small reprieve from recent tensions.

  Raul clears his throat.

  They turn to him.

  “Before we resume work this afternoon,” he sits forward. “I want to report that I’m returning to Manda for three days.”

  Walsh chews his naan with absorption.

  Raul continues hastily, “I know we have a difference of opinion, but people are suffering there. They have no one. Now with our excellent new colleague, we have three doctors, four nurses… I’ll just be gone a few days, one of which is my day off.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t permit this,” blurts Walsh.

  Cook presents a tray of tea and biscuits. Then, apparently noticing the tension, exits without clearing the lunch plates.

  “I’ve already made promises.” His accent grows stronger at moments of conflict. “I’ve hired the car.”

  “With whose funds?”

  “A patron from home has sent modest support.”

  “One of those Peronist bankers?”

  “Dr. Walsh!” Father Freitas is scandalized.