“One does what’s next.”
“The hospital will sorely miss Raul.”
“Delhi will send a replacement.”
“That’s not the point.”
“No.”
“And I shall miss you, dear friend. Yes, I know this is right. Hard and daring and right. Be prepared for frequent visits from a certain Moorty doctor.”
“Monica, thank you.” She closes her eyes and takes a long breath. “I knew you’d understand. Nothing will happen for a while. There’s so much planning. He’s just begun fundraising. It could be months. A year.”
Monica fights her feelings of abandonment. People move on. Sudha and Raul love each other and they’ll flourish in Manda. Besides, who knows how long her visa will last. “I hope the visa comes through and I’ll be there to say Hasta luego! And, as threatened, to visit often.”
“The best kind of threat.” Sudha slips beneath the covers. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. You’re exhausted. I just wanted to start the conversation.”
Start the conversation? Monica wonders.
After a hearty breakfast, they climb into Shankar’s chariot.
Norbu is a quiet, polite kid of eighteen or nineteen. Shy with the women; at first he speaks only in answer to questions.
Their route winds past mountain after mountain as they follow the blue grey Spiti River.
“Those giant rock formations,” Sudha points out the right window, “remind me of the Olgas in Australia. Meena took me to visit the Northern Territory.”
“The Red Center,” muses Norbu.
“An educated young man,” says Sudha.
He blushes, falls silent.
Up, up they travel. Monica’s spine twists with the sudden turns. No room for her pillow with two extra passengers.
Road workers cover their heads, mouths and noses with scarves and shawls against the biting dust. Coated in pale dirt, they look like ghosts. Monica imagines a Greek chorus warning them. Of something.
“Oh, look, there,” Sudha declares, “at those weird formations.”
Glad for the distraction, Monica says, “Like the Badlands of South Dakota.”
“The Badlands,” Norbu brightens. “Sitting Bull and General Custer.”
“That’s right!” she waves to him.
“Norbu reads a lot,” Girish says. “We have good conversations.”
Suddenly the jeep skids to a halt. It takes a moment for Monica to leave the Badlands, to notice the huge boulders blocking the highway. Dozens of them.
Girish leaps out. Then Norbu. They haul rocks to the roadside.
Monica and Sudha join in, tossing smaller rocks.
Reluctantly, Shankar emerges from the car. Clearly moving rocks is beyond the call of “First Class” duties.
Monica supposes he’s finally realized the jeep isn’t going anywhere blocked by these boulders. Eventually, they manage to clear a path for the car. Catching her breath, Monica feels refreshed by the exercise. It’s good to do something on a holiday. Looking down, the River seems to take on a new life.
*****
Lalung, like most villages up here, perches on a sheer hillside. All dwellings are the same beige-tan-taupe color. Dust covers the people, too. Girish explains it protects their skin against ravaging winds.
They stride past basic abodes which remind Monica of Pueblos. Otherwise, this looks like an ethereal realm. She notices a satellite dish on a distant roof. So much for unearthly!
“Our monastery is ancient,” murmurs Norbu. “We will meet the monk.”
They climb and climb up steep village roads. Monica and Sudha pause several times to catch their breath.
Norbu halts at an unprepossessing door and rings the bell.
Minutes pass. A quarter hour.
An old monk in a red baseball cap appears, bows at his unexpected guests.
“Our monastery,” Norbu translates the monk’s words from Bhoti, “is exactly the same age as Tabo. In fact it was founded on the same night all those centuries ago.”
Girish, turned away from the group, snaps photos of the austere buildings in the haunting landscape.
The monk escorts them to a room with a prayer wheel. Its old walls are lined with vibrant, almost gaudy images of the Buddha in erotic poses.
What would it be like to live in a village where, for centuries, everyone shared the same faith? Tabo and Lalung in one week. Monica has fantasized about peaks, not monasteries. She’s not prepared for the sacred nature of this mountain journey. She feels a pang of regret about her continuing search for spiritual community.
The next chamber is tiny. Very dark. No electricity in Lalung either. He props the door to admit sunlight on the elaborate rainbow-colored carvings. The centerpiece is a four-bodied Buddha on a wheel.
“The wheel hasn’t turned in five hundred years,” Norbu translates.
“Well, let’s not try it today,” Sudha whispers.
Norbu concurs solemnly.
Now they enter a library where each sacred text is bound in an ancient saffron cloth.
“It’s all too extraordinary to absorb,” she whispers to Sudha.
Norbu waits outside in the sunny, windy morning.
Girish waves from a high rock, hundreds of yards away, then points and clicks his Nikon.
*****
Tonight Norbu joins them in the tent for dinner.
Monica watches the two young men filling their plates and wonders: mentor and student? Friends? Lovers? She still has trouble reading body language between men here. The tent is cozy with battery-powered lanterns and a kerosene heater. Their adventure has given her a large appetite for the delicious curry.
“Did you enjoy your visit?” Norbu asks bashfully.
“Your village is stunning,” declares Sudha.
Norbu beams.
Monica thinks of Basteri, Chitkul, Lalung, all places she couldn’t have imagined.
“I’ve been wondering,” Girish pauses from his meal, “what kind of doctoring you do in Moorty. I don’t remember a hospital there.”
“Oh, yes,” Sudha interjects, “it’s been there ten years. Small. Excellent staff.”
Monica studies her friend. Has she changed her mind about the clinic because of Raul? Herself? Or is she forestalling a young man’s rant about Western busybodies?
“Forgive me for being personal,” Girish persists, “but why would an Indian hospital hire an American doctor?”
She draws a long breath. “I work at Moorty Mission Hospital. A Catholic-sponsored facility. Normally, it is staffed by Indians, you are right. This is rather an anomalous moment.”
“Why did you come to India?”
“To contribute what I could.”
“Ah, an evangelist.” He’s clearly teasing.
“No, my goal is to help people get well.”
“Do you tend their bodies or their souls?”
Monica sees genuine curiosity in the eyes of this contemplative photographer.
“Can one separate the two? I focus on the body, of course. I’m a physician.”
Sudha pays close attention.
Norbu’s voice is faint. “I went to a Mission Hospital once. My appendix burst. The care was first-rate.”
Sudha stands and passes the dessert try. “Sweets anyone? A game of Scrabble?”
As they prepare for bed, Monica says, “Interesting intervention.”
Slipping into a flannel nightgown, Sudha asks, “What do you mean?”
“Serving dessert like the camp chatelaine and then changing the topic to Scrabble.”
“OK. OK.” Sudha perches on the bed. “I didn’t think Girish would understand the kind
of work you and Raul do.”
“I see.” She’s annoyed but also touched. “Well—” she shouldn’t continue, “do you?”
“Do I what?”
Monica slides between the cold sheets, then reaches over for her shawl. Why didn’t she bring that silk underwear she uses in the Rockies?
Sudha taps her foot.
“Do you understand our work?” Monica lifts her head from the pillow.
“Some of it.”
Monica closes her eyes, lies back down. She should let this go.
“Do you understand its implications?” Sudha asks a little sharply.
“Some,” she answers honestly. “I’ve given good care. The pre-natal and preventive health programs are useful, but—”
Sudha waits.
“As time passes I feel desperate about the condoms which would do so much good. That question Raj asked a lifetime ago is still fresh in my conscience.”
“Ah, Raj.”
“I don’t convert my patients, but some of my colleagues aren’t so judicious.”
“Brigid,” Sudha sighs. “Raul has told me. About the ‘spiritual check-ups’ she does with patients.”
Monica shakes her head angrily.
“And the baptisms.”
“How often has he seen it?” She should have told Raul about the Habib baby.
“I couldn’t say.”
“Is this one of the reasons he’s so eager to leave for Manda?”
“One of them.”
Monica groans, heavy with shame.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Sudha apologizes. “Not at bedtime. Brigid does provoke me. But we need rest. General Shankar said ‘bright and early’ for our journey to Losar.”
Losar. Monica hopes to dream about this village 13,500 feet high. Imagine. Rest. Sleep. Dream. If only she could.
Girish and Norbu stand outside the breakfast tent, waving farewell.
Sudha calls out the window. “Hope you have more guests this week.”
“Yes, a family from Gujarat is arriving today,” Girish assures her. “And some people from Delhi the next day.”
“Good luck with the electricity,” Monica adds. “Thanks for everything.”
She wonders if Girish’s visitors are imaginary. Maybe their own stay was a fantasy.
Thousand-year-old monasteries.
Villages pulsing under blankets of dust.
Rotating Buddhas.
Mystery, not menace.
“Jule,” Norbu shouts in Bhoti.
“Jule,” Monica and Sudha call back.
Shankar guns the engine and they set off at a gallop.
THIRTY-TWO
May, 2002,The Himalayan Journey
Sudha sits in front, absorbed by the mountains.
Monica adjusts the pillow behind her back and prays. She begins each day asking that their travels go well, that she will know God’s will and have the strength to carry it out. This morning she also prays for guidance about Moorty Mission. Surely Father Freitas will direct them well. Surely she can put the Walshes’ evangelism out of her mind until the end of this trip. Can try to put it out of her mind.
“Oh, look,” Sudha points.
Monica takes in a spectacular waterfall streaming from the rock face.
“Many waterfalls now,” Shankar declares. “Extra beautiful route for you.”
“Indeed,” Monica nods in gratitude.
“Did you enjoy Spiti camp?” he asks.
“Very much, Sudha answers.
“Only women,” he mutters.
“Pardon?” Monica finds it hard to hear him from the back seat.
“You were the only women there.”
“Yes.” Sudha’s exasperation is returning.
“Were you not afraid?”
“No, should we have been?” Sudha regards him curiously.
Flustered, he concentrates on the road, then speaks up. “My company usually escorts businessmen through the mountains. Sometimes married people. This is the first time to drive two ladies traveling alone.”
Monica refrains from repeating that they are traveling with each other, not alone.
“Well, aren’t you lucky then?” declares Sudha. “How interesting for you.”
His face grows serious. “Interesting. It is interesting.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Sudha says flatly.
Monica manages a half smile, as reluctant as Sudha to learn more about Shankar’s opinions about women travelers.
They arrive in Losar just after 4 p.m. Almost 13,500 feet. She’s never climbed this high in the Rockies. Do Dad and his cowgirl do much hiking? He didn’t answer the last letter. She hopes he’s OK.
The small crossroads town is hectic with people purchasing supplies for even farther flung areas. For millennia traders have visited from Tibet and India. The crowds reflect this history—faces from Central Asia, Lhasa, Delhi. Afternoon streets bustle with lorries and coaches and a few jeeps like theirs. In nearby fields, some still dusted with snow, she sees crops of potatoes and carrots. The junction town is bordered by silvery mountains, some as high as 20,000 feet.
“Don’t you want to keep going up, up toward those beautiful peaks?”
Sudha laughs. “Yes, I always like to go farther, to see what’s next.”
Shankar’s voice darkens. “Kunzum Pass after this. Then we go down. To the Kullu Valley, to Manali, to Rohanda and then we return to Moorty. This is our package. According to the signed contract.”
“Yes, Shankar,” Monica says impatiently. “Don’t worry. We’re being fanciful.”
“Fanciful,” he weighs the word. “I think it is a woman’s trait, yes?”
“Among many assets,” Sudha says.
Apparently not knowing what to make of this, he says, “I drive now to the Government Guest House. Special place. These other jeep travelers stay in the two town hotels. Not so nice. Not so clean. Yet even they are all booked now.”
“We appreciate your careful planning.” Monica sighs, dying for a shower.
On the edge of Losar, they stop at a small, blockish structure. Shankar knocks. He knocks again, more loudly. Then he calls through a crack in the door.
Finally, a monk in red robes appears.
“The manager is temporarily absent,” he speaks impeccable English. “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”
Shankar is opening the trunk, carrying out their bags.
“We have a booking here for tonight,” Sudha explains.
The monk tilts his head skeptically. “Perhaps there has been a mistake. This is a government Guest House.”
“Yes,” Monica concurs. “We have a booking through Moorty Motor Tours.”
“I see,” he reflects. “Please come in. This is the common room. I am next door. There is one more guest chamber at the end of the house.”
They enter a murky parlor sparsely furnished with two small tables and six chairs.
“I’m afraid we’ve had no electricity for days. And the water is limited.”
Monica’s heart sinks. So much for a shower.
A small, round man bursts in. “Hello. Hello?”
“Ah, this is Mr. Sharma, the manager. And these are your guests from the Jeep Company.”
Mr. Sharma looks puzzled.
“These ladies have a booking for tonight.”
“Impossible. Impossible,” he grumbles. “No booking.”
Monica feels the weight of the day, of the whole week, on her tired, dirty body.
“Is the room reserved for someone else then?” Sudha steps forward.
Monica thinks of her au
thoritative friend on that first visit to the clinic.
“We must hold for possible arrival of a government official.”
“We have nowhere to go,” Monica says plaintively. Where is Shankar? Why isn’t he straightening this out?
“I have an empty storeroom,” Mr. Sharma hesitates. “No bed, but I can give you a comforter,” he says kindly, doubtfully.
Shankar overhears this as he appears with the rest of the bags. His voice is uncharacteristically belligerent. “Our guests always stay here. Moorty Motor Tours. My manager rang you three days ago to confirm.”
“No phone service,” Mr. Sharma shakes his unhappy head. “No electricity. No booking!”
The monk steps in. “Certainly a local family would put you up.”
Sudha shakes her head. “So clearly there’s been a double booking here.”
“No booking.” Mr. Sharma displays the reservation log which lists only the monk. “Maybe government official will not come. They have a right to arrive until 4 a.m.”
“How about this?” Sudha tries carefully. “We sleep in the room. If your official arrives—which looks doubtful given the hour and the difficulty of traversing these mountains in the dark—we will surrender the bed. You keep your rules. If the official doesn’t appear, you’ll receive a night’s payment you would otherwise not have had.”
Monica is astonished at her friend’s quick, agile wit. After all, it will either be this wager or a night on the concrete floor.
Mr. Sharma frowns.
“A resourceful solution,” the monk says gently.
Mr. Sharma wraps his arms around a barrel chest. “As long as you agree to surrender the bed. I don’t see why not. If you have eighty rupees.”
Monica notices a flicker in the monk’s eyes.
Sudha maintains, “We have sixty rupees. More than the room is worth.”
Mr. Sharma wags his head from side to side.
The monk smiles.
They have a deal of sorts.
“You understand,” Mr. Sharma continues. “No electricity. No coal for heating.”
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