Follow the Elephant

by Beryl Young

Ben said, “When we went to Varanasi trying to find the Vishnu guest house run by your parents we saw how many people go to die by the Ganges River. In Delhi we saw people who looked dead lying in the street.”

  “Oh, yes, it is so. There are many sad cases where the poor are not helped to die with dignity. In India there is a great lack of provision for them. Here we can hope to help only a few, but every soul on this earth matters, does it not?”

  He paused for another breath and said, “I am sorry to hear that you searched for the guest house by that name in Varanasi. After our parents died, Shanti and her fine husband did run the guest house, but not with that name. After many years Shanti’s husband died and now my dear sister lives with her daughter’s family.”

  “How is Shanti now?” Gran asked.

  “I will tell you about Shanti in good time. Let us enjoy this garden and the bright blossoms.”

  “It’s a perfect place for a hospice, Dr. Vivek,” Gran said, “but I think now I’d like to go back to our hotel to rest.”

  “I do understand, my dear. And you will come to my simple home for dinner with us tonight?”

  “We’d be honoured. Do you promise to talk to me about Shanti?”

  “Of course, I will. At great length. Thank you for your interest in my clinic. And now will you kindly allow me to drive you in my humble but safe little car to your hotel?”

  The last thing Ben remembered before he fell asleep was lying on his bed in the hotel room and looking at a hand-printed sign on the wall. The sign said:

  THE SIZE OF PERSON’S WORLD IS

  THE SIZE OF HIS HEART

  He’d have to think about that.

  Two hours later, he and Gran had rested, showered and changed their clothes and were waiting at the hotel door for Dr. Vivek, who arrived promptly at eight to drive them to his home.

  Dr. Vivek’s wife asked that they call her Partha. She was round-faced and as plump as a tomato in her red sari, and she proved to be considerably less talkative than her husband but every bit as excited to meet them.

  “Come,” she said. “Make yourselves comfortable while I finish the last preparations for the meal we will share.”

  Dr. Vivek offered them a fruit drink, and Gran started to talk about Shanti. “I fear I was unkind to your sister. I hurt Shanti’s feelings when I criticized her for allowing her parents to choose a husband. I have regretted my stupidity all these years.”

  “Come, eat now. We will talk later,” Partha said, leading them to a table laden with delicious-smelling curries. “We are vegetarians, but I very much hope you will enjoy what I have cooked for you in the south Indian style.”

  Partha served kurma, a curry with coconut, tomatoes and vegetables; a delicious dish with roasted eggplant called baigan achari; and another with cauliflower, potatoes and onions called aloo gobi. Dr. Vivek hurried around the table making sure they had helpings of everything, then sat back down and leaned toward Gran. “I am distressed that you blame yourself, dear Norah. It seems to me the misunderstanding was a clash of two very different cultures.”

  “Now I’m in India, I’m beginning to understand that,” Gran said.

  Dr. Vivek, who it seemed would rather talk than eat, went on, “I knew about Shanti’s Canadian pen pal, but only vaguely. You see I am five years older than my sister, and I was away at school. I do not remember hearing anything about letters stopping.”

  Ben let Dr. Vivek serve him second helpings. After the shock of finding himself in a hospice this afternoon, he didn’t think he’d ever be hungry again, but this was a feast for a rajah. In Vancouver he’d be able to tell Mum and Lauren all the best vegetarian dishes to order in restaurants. They’d be impressed when he talked about masala dosas, biriyani, kurma curry and aloo gobi.

  Dr. Vivek resumed. “I feel most certain, I want to assure you, that there is some other reason for the letters stopping. But I do not know what it is, and I am not certain that Shanti will be able to tell you herself.”

  Ben wondered what Dr. Vivek meant, but Partha interrupted to offer sweet cakes for dessert.

  “My favourites,” Gran said.

  “I am pleased,” Partha said, “and I want to assure you that Shanti is not the kind of person to be angry and stop writing. Our Shanti would never do that.”

  “Like you, Mrs. Norah, Shanti is a gentle woman.” Dr. Vivek turned to Gran. “Now that you have finished your meal, I think it is time I told you about her.”

  He paused for a long time. “I’m not certain how to start …” He looked directly at Gran. “You see, all of us get older. Death reaches her fingers out to us more closely every year.”

  What was this about death reaching out fingers? Ben almost stopped breathing. Shanti was dying. He knew it. He couldn’t look at Gran.

  Dr. Vivek continued. “Yes, it happens to us all. And for our dear Shanti, it has meant that her memory is the first to be taken away.”

  Shanti wasn’t dying then. She just didn’t know who she was.

  Gran was wringing her hands in her lap. “Oh, dear. You mean she might not remember me?”

  “I cannot say, my dear Norah. Her memory comes and goes. I do not use the word dementia, but I worry that one day, I will.”

  “Do you think I should visit her?” Gran asked.

  “Yes, I most certainly do,” Dr. Vivek said. “But you must be prepared that Shanti may remember nothing about you. Could you bear that?”

  Gran paused. “I’ve thought about Shanti for so many years, wondering what was happening in her life and what she looks like. I think if I could just see her, and if she would allow me to hold her hand, it would be worth the trip.” Gran lifted her chin. “I’d like to go.”

  “Well done. You are on the way there now that you are in Bangalore,” Dr. Vivek added. “Now you must travel to Delhi by air, then by train to Rishikesh, at the foot of the Himalayan mountains.”

  “We only have four days left in India,” Gran said.

  Partha moved her chair closer and put her hand on Gran’s shoulder. “You have enough time, my dear. Vivek will reserve tickets and you can leave tomorrow morning. You will be with Shanti by late afternoon.”

  But will Shanti be with us? Ben still couldn’t look at his grandmother. It would be sad for her to discover that Shanti had no idea who she was.

  Dr. Vivek started to talk about the planned expansion at his hospice, when Gran sat forward in her chair and spoke. “You know, all over India I’ve been troubled about beggars. I feel if we give money to them we just encourage them to put their children out to beg. But I want to help the poor in India, and now I can see that your addition would be the perfect way for me to do it. It would be an honour for me to make a donation to your new building.”

  “Oh, my dear friend,” said Dr. Vivek, clearly so overcome he had no more words.

  Ben could see that Gran’s eyes had a look in them he hadn’t seen since his father had died. “I would like to make a donation of three thousand dollars.”

  “Indeed you are most generous,” Partha said.

  Dr. Vivek said, “Perhaps we could name the new addition after your son? After Ben’s father.”

  “You mean the Tom Leeson Building?” Ben asked. He had never imagined a building named after his father.

  “We are agreed?” asked Dr. Vivek, smiling widely.

  “That would be wonderful. Absolutely wonderful,” Gran said, beaming back.

  “Excellent,” Ben said. A place to help other people. It might be a kind of reincarnation for his father. Not the kind of reincarnation Rani talked about where a person came back to live another life, but a way of helping other people after you died. A way you could live on. It made sense. If his father had to die, at least something good would come of it.

  Ben watched as Gran wrote a cheque and handed it to Dr. Vivek. She was donating a lot of money, and when the Bangalore government matched it, there would probably be enough for a start on the new building. The Tom Leeson Building.

  “My mo
st sincere thanks, dear lady,” Dr. Vivek said. He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped them.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Gran said.

  In their hotel room, Ben sat down on the bed across from Gran. “I thought your idea for that donation to Dr. Vivek’s hospice was awesome. Do you have enough money to do that?”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d rather give my money to,” Gran said, as she crawled into her bed. “It feels better than giving bits of money here and there to beggars. When you told me you’d given your pocket knife to that boy, it made me realize that there are other ways to help. The hospice will make a difference to people, and besides it means there will be a memorial to your father in India, in a country I’ve cared about for so long.”

  Ben bent over and gave his grandmother a hug. She hugged him back, and he was reminded how much he used to love her hugs when he was little.

  Lying in the narrow bed across the room from his grandmother, Ben said, “It’s been like a scavenger hunt, Gran, hasn’t it? One thing leads to another and another, and now we’re almost at the end of the search.”

  “It has been like a scavenger hunt, but who knows what kind of a welcome we’ll have in Rishikesh.”

  Ben reached for the top sheet on his bed. His biggest worry now was that Gran might have her heart broken if Shanti didn’t recognize her. He had to be prepared for that. He could see himself standing on the streets of Rishikesh holding up his weeping grandmother.

  Day Fourteen

  “YOU HAVE ARRIVED, madam, sir,” said their tonga driver.

  Ben read the sign over the Rishikesh hotel: JOURNEY’S END.

  From the veranda of their room on the second floor Ben had his first sight of the snow-tipped peaks of the Himalayas. He took a deep breath of the clear air, then turned to the room and tossed his pack on a bed. “Okay, let’s go!”

  “I’m not ready,” Gran sat on a chair by the window, twisting her hands in her lap. “It’s almost five o’clock. I’m tired, and I think we should find Shanti tomorrow.”

  “Gran!” Ben said, whirling around on her. “We’ve come such a long way already. We’ve crossed India twice. We’ve spent hours in planes, cars, trains and buses. How could you think of quitting when we’re so close?”

  “I’m tired.” She slumped in the chair.

  “You’re stalling. You can’t back down now that we’re practically on Shanti’s doorstep!”

  “Maybe we should have something to eat first, Ben,” Gran said.

  “No. We had lunch on the train. Get with the program.” He grabbed his grandmother’s arm and steered her to the door. The desk clerk said it was a short walk to Shanti’s address on Lapar Road.

  The neighbourhood streets were wide and shady, but Gran was moving slower and slower. Ben kept his arm through hers, feeling as though he was dragging her onto Lapar Road. Half a block along, he found a yellow house with vines growing around the door. Number 62 was plainly visible.

  He led his grandmother through the gate and up the path. Gran stopped. “The curtains are pulled. You see. No one’s home.”

  “Come on, Gran.” Ben tightened his hold on her arm.

  “Now that we’re so close, I’m afraid. I’m afraid she won’t have any idea who I am.”

  “There’s one way to find out. Stand beside me, Gran. Here goes,” said Ben. He stepped up to the door and lifted the knocker.

  “Wait a minute. What should I say?” Gran whispered, running her hand over her hair.

  “I’ll speak for you, Gran,” Ben said. He dropped the knocker.

  The door was opened by a small woman tidily wrapped in a bright blue sari. Her face was lined, and her hair, much greyer than Gran’s, was held in a neat twist at the back of her head. The most startling thing about the woman was her eyes, which were filled with light. She said in English, “May I help you?”

  Ben cleared his throat. “My grandmother and I have come from Canada and we are looking for Shanti Mukherjee. My grandmother …”

  The woman looked at them blankly. Ben’s heart stopped.

  Then the woman’s eyes widened as she stared at Gran. “No! Could it be …? Is it you, Norah?” Shanti raised both hands and pressed them to her cheeks.

  Gran made a small strangling sound and reached out her arms. “Beloved friend, we meet at last.”

  Shanti stepped forward, and for what seemed a long time, the two women held onto each other, not speaking, only pulling back for a moment to look into each other’s faces and then reaching to hug again.

  Ben stood awkwardly on the veranda, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, as his grandmother and Shanti laughed and cried at the same time. He stared at the houses across the street, and when he turned back, Gran was wiping her cheeks. Why did old people cry when they were supposed to be happy?

  “Dear Shanti! I can’t believe you knew it was me!”

  “I know I was a bit slow, dear Norah, but so many years have gone by.”

  “Fifty years! And it’s Ben who found you.” Gran turned to Ben, who was shuffling his feet. “Come and meet my Shanti, Ben.” Gran was talking quickly now. “Shanti, this is Ben, my grandson and travelling companion.”

  The small, dark woman turned to Ben and took his hand in both of hers. “Thank you, Ben, for bringing your grandmother to me.”

  “You’re welcome,” Ben said. “I was just lucky.” He felt kind of choked up himself. It had taken only a minute for Shanti to recognize Gran. Maybe her brother had been wrong.

  “Come in, come in.” Shanti motioned them inside the house, leading them through the hallway into a sitting room.

  “My daughter and her husband are at work in their sari shop now.” Shanti motioned to the sofa. “You must please sit down.”

  Gran sat on the sofa and Ben took a chair beside the window. Shanti went back and forth between them, patting Ben on the shoulder, then turning to touch Gran, sitting down beside her and getting up again. “I am far too excited to sit. Wait, I have something to show you.” She went to the desk and searched through one drawer after another. “I know it’s here somewhere. I’m not so good at remembering these days.” She pulled out every drawer again and then stood in the middle of the room frowning.

  Ben felt sorry for her. She looked so puzzled that she couldn’t find what she was looking for, and he didn’t know how to help her.

  “Oh, I remember now,” Shanti said, going over to a small framed picture on the mantel. “I always keep the photograph up here.” She smiled, looking so relieved as she handed Gran a black-and-white photograph in a silver frame.

  “You’ve kept it!” Gran said. Ben leaned over and saw his grandmother as a pretty girl, with her same high forehead and wide smile. Then Gran reached into her backpack and brought out the photograph she’d carried from Vancouver. Ben’s eyes went from one to the other. Trying to imagine them as teenagers was as impossible as imagining himself as a sixty-year-old man.

  Gran was talking. “I remember when we exchanged these pictures with our letters. We were thirteen, Ben’s age. Do you remember I wrote and said I’d come to India one day?”

  Shanti put her hand on her heart. “I remember everything you wrote, dearest friend. You see my memory for the past remains strong, but these days I sometimes can’t recall what I did yesterday. My family worries about me, but I’m not unhappy, especially when the memory of our special friendship is so alive in my heart. And now, at last you are here. Oh, I forget my manners.” She jumped up. “Please, I must make you tea.”

  Ben watched the two women standing side by side in the kitchen, their heads bent together beside the stove where the kettle boiled, Shanti so small and neat in her blue sari, Gran in her long brown skirt. They talked, stopping only to shake their heads or laugh softly.

  It felt good to see them together at last. Gran looked so happy and relaxed. And he was proud of himself. Gran was right. He was the one who had found Shanti. With a little help from Dr. Dhaliwal and the internet, Rani and maybe Ganesh, too.
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br />   Shanti brought mango juice for Ben and put a plate of sesame honey cakes down beside him. Ben ate the delicious honey cakes while the two grandmothers carried on talking as though he wasn’t in the room.

  Gran took a deep breath and seemed to have made a decision. “Shanti, I have to talk about something.” She moved closer. “It means the world to me that you remember me. I’ve been afraid you might turn me away. I thought you’d be angry because I questioned your decision to let your parents choose your husband.”

  Shanti’s eyes opened wide. “I was never angry at you, my dear Norah. But I did feel perhaps you might have been angry with me.”

  “Why would I be angry with you?”

  “Because you’d see me as weak for allowing my husband to be chosen for me.”

  “I questioned it, my dear, but I was never angry.”

  “Then why didn’t you write again?” asked Shanti.

  Gran exclaimed, “I did. I did write. But there was no answer from you.”

  “But I answered every letter you wrote.”

  “What happened to them, I wonder?” Gran said.

  Ben wondered why Gran and Shanti hadn’t telephoned each other, but in those days phoning would have been expensive and probably most people in India didn’t even own phones. Ben thought maybe he should try to help them figure it out. “It’s strange,” he said. “Did either of you move?”

  “I did,” Shanti said. “I moved to Delhi when I married. Shortly after that, my parents moved from Agra to manage the hotel in Varanasi so my old address would have changed.”

  “We know about those moves. My grandmother and I have been following that trail, but isn’t there a system for forwarding mail in India?” Ben asked.

  Shanti nodded. “Now, yes, but perhaps not in those days. I’m sure I sent you my new address, Norah. I wonder why my letters didn’t come to you?”

  “Did you move anywhere, Gran?” Ben asked.

  “Actually I did. It was right around that time that I began my travels and went to live in England for eighteen months,” Gran said, “but my parents would have sent on any letters from Shanti.” She thought for a minute. “You know, there was a long postal strike when I first went overseas. I remember I was upset when I didn’t hear from my parents for more than a month.”