“I did not.”
“I heard you return to the residence at 4:30 a.m.”
Monica rubs her hands. “I sat with her a while, then fell asleep in the chair. Sister Catherine shooed me to bed. So you, my friend, are the night sentry?”
“No, I had a troubled sleep. The avalanche victim. Hopeless, given his state on arrival. I can still see his terrified eyes. His brother’s anguished face.”
“Very strange,” Brigid whispers. “Rock slides in this season. So much more likely in late May, after the melting. But you did all you could. I noticed the night before you didn’t come home yourself, until early morning.”
“What’s this?” Monica asks. “Doesn’t anybody sleep around here?”
“Usually I sleep like a log. Perhaps I awoke when Raul crunched on the snow outside. Winter nights are so quiet. I love the snow reflecting the brilliant moonlight.”
“Minneapolis is like this. Not mountainous, of course. But the snow illuminated by sun and moon. I love it too.” How odd that Beata is coming in the cold season. Maybe she reasons she’s just trading one winter for another.
They slip into separate reveries until Cook presents the tray of chai. Monica watches Raul add extra sugar.
“Looks like an overflow clinic this afternoon,” she frets.
“Yes,” Brigid says with satisfaction. “When we opened, we sometimes waited days for a patient to walk in.”
“I hope we see them all. I hate asking them to walk all the way back tomorrow.”
“We could use a few more docs,” Raul murmurs.
She adds, “And a new surgical lamp, a stronger generator…”
“Dr. Walsh expects some large donations. He was very effective in Chicago.”
Raul and Monica rise in unison.
“Thank you very much, Cook,” Monica calls into the kitchen.
“Muchas gracias, chef!”
*****
Gita rallies a bit after dinner. Sitting with the child, Monica thinks about Father Daniel’s quick response to that anxious email. Her loyal mentor and friend said she was pursuing the right tests and urged her to pray. Watching Gita’s breathing, she wonders why she ever thought she had special gifts as a doctor. Because she cares? They all care. Raul also prescribes prayer for Gita. Still, isn’t there some test they haven’t tried?
“Pani,” a little voice.
“Right here, Gita dear,” Monica answers in Hindi and holds a straw to the girl’s pale lips.
Such a pretty child, darker than many local people, with high cheekbones and a nose that will one day be long and noble. There’s already something valiant about her. She sees the pain in Gita’s eyes and the loneliness. Also a kind of acceptance.
Her poor mother has five other children. Eyes filled with fear, she comes at least once a day to sit with Gita.
Gita manages, “Thank you.”
The first English she’s heard from the child. Who knows? “Thank you” is as much an Indian phrase as an English one.
“Koi bat nahi,” she concentrates on Sudha’s pronunciation of “You’re welcome.” She tries to remember the first verse of that simple Hindi lullaby she and Sudha practiced last week, “Omana Thankal Kidavo.” Very softly, almost in a whisper, she sings:
“Is this sweet babe the bright crescent moon,
or the charming flower of the lotus?
The honey in a flower
or the luster of the full moon?
A pure coral gem
or the pleasant chatter of parrots?
A dancing peacock, or a sweet singing bird…”
Gita extends her tiny lips to a half smile and closes her eyes.
Monica sings the verse again and again until Gita’s breath evens out in sleep.
Sitting back, she surveys their clinic in the dim evening light. Here at the end of the ward, among the sleeping patients, she settles into a new contentment. Yes, she’s worried about Gita. But the day has gone well. It was helpful to talk to Father Freitas about Kevin. As Father noted, the man works hard for his patients.
Monica breathes in the almost comforting scents of disinfectant and pesticide. Despite night-muted lights, she can see Sister’s orderly desk. The sparkling instrument cart next to the door. The crucifix over the entry. Moonlight pours in the window, past the curtain, down by Mr. Singh’s bed. He’ll be recovered this week. She plans to take him up on the promise of a small bag of the sweetest winter apples from his stand.
Gita stirs. Steady breathing returns. A dream? A nightmare? How terrifying for a child to be in hospital. Especially a hospital with white doctors.
Gita mustn’t feel abandoned. She’ll sit up with her each night. It’s unthinkable that this child might “leave us for Heaven,” as Brigid would say. Unthinkable.
*****
“First you boil water,” she says again. “Then you slip in the pasta.”
“I never cook rice this way,” objects Sudha.
“Rice is a different food.” She laughs.
“Why should I trust you?” Sudha bends over the water, hands on her hips. “Murphy’s not an Italian name.”
“Someone who’s lived in Britain should know an Irish name when she hears one.”
“ ‘Britain’ is an English word. Scotland is a country to itself. So is Ireland. The English claim everyone by using ‘British” for Welsh, Scots and Northern Irish people.”
“I see. You’re not a Hindu nationalist. You’re a Celtic nationalist.”
“Less thuggish company.”
“Depends on which Celts.”
Monica tries not to worry about the R.S.S. They haven’t come back for months, not since a long argument with Raul at the gate.
“Let’s return to culinary issues. How are those diced onions?”
“All complete, see—onions, peppers, courgettes, everything sliced as per your rather peculiar instructions. Shouldn’t we start them now?”
“Maybe the onions over a low fire. We want the vegetables al dente.”
Sudha looks dubious.
“Now didn’t I follow obediently when you taught me to prepare porotta?”
“No need to be from Kerala, porotta is an Indian food.”
“At this point, pasta is an American food.”
Sudha smirks, attentively browning the onions.
Monica concentrates on chopping tomatoes. Something about Sudha compels her toward perfection. It’s not at all the kind of judgment she feels from Jeanne. Rather, it’s a positive expectation. She often thinks that Sudha is rather perfect, herself: fiercely intelligent, funny, dedicated, beautiful, modest, generous.
They sit across the candlelit table. She runs her hand over Sudha’s Ikat cloth from the mela, closing her eyes, savoring the almost Italian aromas. She’ll ask Beata to bring proper spices. She says a silent prayer of gratitude for Sudha’s friendship.
Is she in awe of Sudha the way she used to idealize Beata? No, she simply admires her. Each friend is so different from her beloved mother and troubled sister. Class: they both carry the poised self-assurance of people born into the upper-middle class. And she’s enough of her own person that clear-sighted fondness for Beata has replaced idealization.
She opens her eyes to find Sudha studying her warily.
“Parmesan!” she declares to forestall her friend’s mind-reading. “I’ll ask Beata to bring a good chunk of Parmesan, too.”
“This tastes good to me. You were right about the crunchy vegetables.”
“So it’s international cuisine week. Italian tonight. Tibetan last Sunday.”
“Yes,” she tries to sound off-hand. “Raul’s proposal for tutoring in the remote areas is quite interesting.”
Sudha stammers, “W-we talked a little about our families.” She pauses apprehensively. “Don’t go presuming things, Dr. Busybody. As a feminist, I’d reckon you’re used to ordinary friendships between women and men.”
“Of course.” Sudha can be very private. She’ll learn the details in time. In time.
“And he started to tell me about St. Thomas. Fascinating. When the Walshes walked in, he got edgy. We left shortly afterward.”
“Too bad.”
“Still, I was curious, from a historical point of view. He said that Thomas came in the first century to Parthia, Kerala and then traveled to Tamil Nadu.”
“So we’re taught.”
“I always wondered about those Syrian churches. Not only in Kochi, but dotted all through the back waters of Kerala.”
“They say Christians have traveled here for centuries. Alfred the Great sent Anglo Saxon envoys to the Thomas shrine at Madras in the 9th century. St. Francis Xavier visited Goa in the 1500s. Robert di Nobili preached in Madurai in the early 17th century.”
Sudha looks a little abashed by her suddenly instructive friend.
Monica explains. “I studied for months before I came.”
“No wonder, then, there are so many of you people in my country.”
“India had Christians centuries before Ireland, over a millennium before the Americas.”
She mutters, “Just as well Dr. Sanchez didn’t get into this. With you, I can argue. But I’m not so familiar with him.”
“Sounds as if you’re getting better acquainted.”
“Speaking of growing acquaintances, isn’t your Ashok due next week?”
“He’s not my Ashok,” Monica says, while noting the pleasure of hearing his name. “Yes, he’s coming up. Then we’ll take the train down together and I’ll meet Beata at the airport.”
“Ah, that train. You have a treat in store.”
*****
Gita’s mother weeps loudly into clenched hands.
Walking into the busy ward, Monica imagines the worst. This is her first break from the outpatient clinic today. Sister reported at lunch that Gita’s fever was down and she allowed herself to relax. Damn. Didn’t she learn anything from Mom’s abrupt turn?
“Mrs. Roy,” she bows. Immediately she turns to the child.
Gita’s eyes are wide and bright, “Namaste, ji.”
Relieved, Monica smiles. “Namaste, Gita.”
For Mrs. Roy, she summons her budding Hindi. “What is wrong? Gita’s fever is going. That’s a wonderful sign.”
Sister Catherine intercedes. “She wants to take her home. But she’s still short of breath, can hardly sit up.”
Monica holds Mrs. Roy’s hands. Calmer now, the woman weeps more quietly.
“Of course you long to have her home. We can help her more here. She’s still quite sick.”
“Gita doesn’t want to go,” Sister Catherine impatiently rubs her small hands together. “I told Mrs. Roy you would refuse to release her.”
She blanches. “We can’t refuse anything to a parent, Sister, as you know.”
The usually sensitive nun turns on her heel.
“Sister is worried about Gita,” Monica apologizes. “We all are. We are still doing tests. She does need to rest here a while longer.”
Gita nods.
Still crying, Mrs. Roy kisses her child and whispers something.
“A few more days, then,” she struggles. “We love our daughter.”
Monica wants to say, We love her too. Instead, she replies, “We know that. More importantly, Gita knows.” She guesses the girl will need to be here quite a while.
Gita smiles weakly.
Abruptly, Mrs. Roy turns to the door and departs.
Monica stands to go after the distraught woman, then turns as Gita reaches for her hand.
“Yes,” Monica smiles. “I’ll sit with you a bit. That’s a better idea.”
EIGHTEEN
November, 2001, Moorty
His train is late. Monica paces the windy platform, pulling up the hood of her down coat.
“The train is a far more sensible vehicle for reaching Moorty,” Ashok instructed. “Why did you allow Sister Margaret to book the plane and that ridiculous van?”
A notably charming Indian trait is people’s certitude in one of the most unpredictable places on earth. She worries about how exhausted he must be. They’ll never do half the things she’s planned for the weekend. Whew, this platform is bitter cold.
Ordinary friendship between men and women. Sudha’s phrase is reassuring. Still the relationship between Raul and Sudha has become something more during recent dinners. More than her own connection to Ashok, who’s coming here to relax from hectic Delhi. Despite his early gruffness, he does like Americans. He loves talking about grad school in New York. Clearly he’s eager to discuss the Madison conference. They’re drawn to each other’s cultures. A sound basis for ordinary friendship.
“So sorry to keep you!” His bright brown eyes brim with distress. “You might have frozen to death. No need to wait hours here. I would have found the clinic.”
She laughs, shaking her head.
He smiles cautiously, “What are you laughing at?”
“You. Your certainty.” Now, to sidestep argument, she extends her hand. “It’s good to see you. You must be very tired.”
“Indians know how to travel on trains.” He tilts his head from side to side. “I brought lots of work, plenty of food and water. I had my Walkman. I was perfectly…”
She’s laughing again. Feeling ridiculously giddy.
“OK. OK, I see what you mean. Yes, maybe I am a little knackered,” he admits. “That tie-up with the rails in…”
“They announced the obstruction. I was delayed in the same metropolis, myself, as I left in the airport van.”
“The van, a bad idea. A very bad idea.”
“Come.” She pays him no notice. “Here’s a porter to carry your bags. It’s a forty-minute walk to the mission.”
“Walking, yes.” He looks crestfallen. “I had forgotten the environmental regulations against cars.”
“We could stop at the Kerala Coffee House on the way, for some refreshment.”
“A capital idea,” he grins at her. “Capital.”
“Namaste, Doctor ji,” The old waiter murmurs while scrutinizing her companion.
“Namaste, Rabi.” Then, in her best Hindi, “Are there seats at the back?”
“The usual ones, yes,” he tilts his grey head.
They settle into the window table.
Ashok widens his eyes for effect. “A regular, I see. The usual seat. Name recognition. Property rights.”
“Sudha and I have been here a few times.”
“More than that, I reckon. Old Rabi inspected me as if I were a dacoit out to kidnap his only daughter.”
She flushes, pleased.
“This isn’t your India International Center window overlooking the gardens,” she demurs. “But I enjoy lurking back here, gazing at Lower Bazaar. You can even see the sabzi mandi. That apple stand of Mr. Singh’s has the sweetest fruit.”
Ashok peers over his rimless glasses. “You sound like a girl in love.”
“I don’t know about the girl part, but Moorty does have its allure.”
He watches inquisitively.
Rabi brings mineral water for her, plain water for him and coffee-spotted menus.
She introduces them, “Ashok is a professor from Delhi University.”
“Delhi,” Rabi repeats n
oncommittally.
“His family belongs to Kerala.”
“Welcome,” he says finally.
Ashok studies the menu. “Monica?”
He’s caught her glancing down at the winter vegetables in the snowy market. “Monica, where have you gone?”
Surfacing, she realizes he’s been musing about Mrs. Mitra’s courage, Gita’s longing, Brigid’s curiosity about Sudha and Raul. Her own curiosity. She’s entered an entirely new world since leaving Ashok in Delhi.
“Aren’t you ordering anything?” he asks in that recognizable, clipped voice.
He’ll have to slow down to adapt to Moorty. “Perhaps idli sambar and uthapam for lunch.”
He regards her querulously.
“I’d rate the food a cross between Nathu’s and The Malabar Coast Café.”
“That’s a long chasm to traverse,” he raises his eyebrows.
“Well, you could ask Rabi for recommendations.”
“I’ll stick with a more affable advisor, thanks.”
Ashok happily munches his idli sambar. Between bites, he chats about Madison, says how much he likes the department there. He moves on to Delhi University politics.
She flashes back to that night at Lucia’s Café. How different Ashok is from Eric, although they’re both professors, both in their early forties and filled with intensities. Ashok has more fire, she thinks.
“Have I put you to sleep entirely?”
“On the contrary.”
“I haven’t asked about your patients. Your colleagues. What’s the boss’s name, Dr. Blowhead?” He studies her mischievously.
She slaps a hand over her mouth. “Did I put that in an email?”
He raises dark, thick eyebrows. “Your occasional irreverence is quite agreeable.”
“Please call him Dr. Walsh.”
“Blowhard. Blowhead. The name trips off a person’s tongue.”
Traveling with Spirits Page 16