The Enlightenment of Bees

by Rachel Linden

  To my surprise, he replies a moment later. Go get ’em, tiger.

  I imagine him drowsy and squinting at his phone in their king-sized Pottery Barn bed, trying to type without his glasses, Christine sleeping in an eye mask beside him.

  I place a quick call to my parents, correctly guessing that they are just sitting down to dinner after another long day on the farm. They work sunrise to sundown, especially in the summer lavender season. I video chat with them for a few moments while they eat my mother’s homemade lentil soup, my father regaling me with tidbits of eco-farming news from the latest Acres magazine and my mother filling me in on all the current news in Sequim. I tell them about my teammates and our week of orientation, glossing over anything that might concern them—like the shark incident. Finally, it grows late.

  “Have a wonderful time,” my mother tells me in parting. “We’re so proud of you, sweetheart.” Finished with supper, she is sitting at the dining room table, knitting socks for homeless veterans in Seattle, her cinnamon sugar curls a little wild around her head, her strong, bony hands holding the knitting needles with practiced ease.

  “Don’t drink the water,” my taciturn father interjects from his scruffy plaid recliner by the fireplace. “Be safe and use your head.” I can hear the rustle of his magazine pages. He’s drinking his evening hot toddy, the lemon and whiskey laced with lavender honey from our bees.

  “I will,” I promise, bidding them both good night. “I’ll call you from Mumbai.”

  After I hang up, I sit for another moment in the darkness, breathing in the warm salt air, centering myself. A light breeze rustles the palm fronds above the cottage, and through the trees comes the distant, rhythmic lull of the ocean.

  Tomorrow I embark on a grand adventure, one I’ve longed for since I was young. I’ve never been on an international flight, never been surrounded by a culture and language different from my own. I’ve dreamed of this day for so long, and now that it is almost here, I’m filled with an anticipation, almost a lust, to dive in, swim in the current of the world, drink deeply of the new and exotic and different. I am thirsty for adventure, for experiences, for a wider, wilder life.

  For a moment I picture Ethan, the image of his face accompanied by a pang of sorrow. I wonder what he is doing right now, if he thinks of me, if he misses me. The loss of him still hurts, although the past month has mellowed the intensity from excruciating to the dull ache of a slowly mending broken bone. I shake myself. Enough pining over Ethan. He has made his choice. I have made mine. I can only look forward now. The biggest adventure of my life starts tomorrow.

  * * *

  In the early morning hours I dream again of bees. I am not at West Wind nor on Sunbeam Key. The landscape is strangely familiar, barren and brown, the sun searingly hot on the crown of my head. It is the India of my Mother Teresa coloring book, the same spare scenery, the goldenrod sun. I see myself from afar, a halo of light outlining my frame as I sit on a rock under a spindly thorn tree. I am dressed in a simple white sari with a blue border and ringed by small brown barefoot children. I hold one on my lap and he plays with my curls. My face is suffused with peace and a radiant sense of purpose.

  I hear the bees first, the low buzzing, and then see them, a small swarm on the horizon rapidly coming closer. I set down the little boy and shoo the children off. They scamper away to safety, but instead of running after them, I lift my arms toward the swarm of bees in welcome. A moment later they envelope me in their golden, buzzing energy. Gently they alight on my exposed skin—my clavicle, the bend in my elbow. I close my eyes as a few step gingerly across my cheekbones. I am covered in bees but they do not sting me. I stand still, illuminated and serene.

  And then I understand it all. I am Saint Mia, the beatific version of myself. At that moment all is right in the world. I am benevolent. I am transcendent. I am exactly where I should be.

  Part 3

  Mumbai

  Chapter 18

  “Lord, have mercy, we’re going to die!” Rosie crosses herself with one hand and grips the metal side bar of the auto rickshaw with the other as our driver bends low over the handlebars, guns the engine to a high whine of protest, and catapults us directly into the heavy flow of Mumbai traffic.

  Nothing has prepared me for India. I realize this in an instant, sitting bolt upright beside Rosie in the back, stifling a scream as we race through an intersection and swerve sharply to narrowly avoid rear-ending a large red city bus. It’s ten thirty at night, and this is the third close call we’ve had in the twenty minutes since we left the airport.

  Zooming behind us in matching rickshaws are Abel and Winnie, Kai and Milo, and Jake, the cameraman, with Shreya, our handler for our time in India. A soft-spoken, young Indian woman with a long, dark braid and a hot pink sari embroidered with gold and turquoise flowers, she met us at arrivals after our long series of flights from Miami to Mumbai. She ushered us outside and promptly loaded us into a row of idling yellow-and-black auto rickshaws: tiny, covered three-wheeled vehicles with a seat in front for the driver and a bench for two in the back. They are open at the sides and there are no seat belts. Rosie and I are squeezed into the tight back seat, Rosie’s suitcase and my backpack wedged between our knees, both of us holding on to the metal frame and trying not to panic. I glance at Rosie, who has a terrified grimace plastered on her face. Her knuckles are bone white as she grips the metal side rail.

  As we hurtle through Mumbai, I turn my head this way and that, trying to take everything in. The sheer sensory bombardment is overwhelming, electrifying. Everywhere a cacophony of sound and movement—the streets teeming with vehicles and people even at this late hour. Horns and music blare in a discordant chorus. The air is thick, hot and humid—like breathing bathwater. I draw a deep breath, eager to take India into my lungs, inhaling car exhaust, dust, spices, and sweat. It makes me a little queasy.

  An auto rickshaw passes us on the left, carrying Shreya and Jake. A moment later we almost plow into a family of four, including an infant and a toddler, jammed together on a motorcycle. I cry out in alarm as without warning they turn in front of us and pass within just a few inches of our front wheel. I swear the woman’s orange sari actually brushes our rickshaw’s single front headlight. For a moment she is illuminated, the gold threads on the edge of her sari glinting in the headlight’s beam. When I glance up, Jake is leaning out the side of his auto rickshaw, taking his life into his hands as he photographs our near miss. I squeeze my eyes shut, heart pounding, and simultaneously swear and say a prayer for safety.

  Twenty minutes later we turn into a quieter, more residential area and stop in front of a shabby cement building. A skinny dog barks as we disembark. My hands ache from my death grip on the metal frame, and I fumble with my backpack. Shreya hops out of the first rickshaw.

  “Please come this way,” she says to us in precise, crisply accented English, ushering us through a door and up a set of brightly lit stairs. “You will stay at this guesthouse. Very modest but clean. We hope you will be comfortable.”

  “Is there Wi-Fi?” Milo asks as we climb the stairs. In response Shreya makes a side-to-side tilting motion with her head, a head bobble that looks like a cross between a nod and a shake. I am not sure if it means yes or no. Milo glances back at me in confusion, but I shrug, as mystified as he is. What does a head bobble mean in India?

  Inside, the guesthouse is worn but clean with tile floors and harsh fluorescent lighting overhead. In the reception area a pencil-thin young man with slicked-back hair and a hint of a mustache is sitting behind a laminate counter.

  Shreya speaks to the man in a rapid-fire language that is not English, and he stands. “This is Jayesh,” Shreya tells us. “He is the night manager. If you need anything, just ask him.”

  Jayesh bows slightly to us. “Welcome,” he says carefully in English. “Come. I will show you to your rooms.”

  The narrow hallway smells strongly of spicy cooked food and a chemical cleaner. Kai and Abel are given th
e first room. Milo and cameraman Jake share the second. Rosie and Winnie and I are in a triple room down the hall. Three single beds are sardined into the space under a small window completely covered by an air-conditioning unit. On the other side of the room sits a square laminate table, two plastic lawn chairs, and a white porcelain sink the size of a skillet.

  Winnie tosses her backpack into the corner and flops onto one of the beds with a groan. “I forgot how insane the driving is here,” she says. “Oh India, I missed you.”

  Rosie opens the wardrobe and proceeds to empty the contents of her suitcase into it, taking most of the space and all of the hangers. I stand by the door, unsure what to do. I feel disoriented and overstimulated, as though my soul has not yet caught up with my body. My hands and feet and lungs and eyes are in Mumbai, but my brain seems to be still somewhere in the international air space between Munich and here. And my heart? Where is my heart? Perhaps still in Seattle. I think briefly of Ethan, wondering what he would make of this. Ethan, who likes order and predictability.

  I unpack quickly, stowing my belongings on the only empty shelf in the wardrobe. I need to remember everything about our arrival so I can tell Nana Alice. I wish I could take photos, but Jake will be posting videos and photos on the Humanitas Foundation website and on Instagram. Nana Alice will be able to track our progress from the comfort of her own armchair. I imagine her watching Animal Planet or The Great British Bake Off, then stopping to check Instagram, seeing the photo of Rosie and me in the rickshaw. She’ll enjoy my facial expression, I’m sure.

  A quick knock at the door and Shreya pokes her head into our room. “Are you comfortable?” she asks.

  “Yes, just fine,” Rosie assures her. Although she holds a deep appreciation for the finer things of life, she is remarkably adaptable when she needs to be.

  “Good. I will come for you at nine tomorrow morning,” Shreya says. “If you need anything in the night, Jayesh can assist you. Sleep well.” She closes the door.

  Looking around, I suddenly realize that the only thing I really need is the toilet. I slip out to find it. Inside the women’s bathroom across the hall, I am stymied. There is just a white porcelain oval bowl recessed into the floor with raised ridged foot-shaped areas on either side. A spigot pokes from the wall next to the bowl, and under it sits a bucket of water with a red plastic cup bobbing inside. I glance around in puzzlement, then go for reinforcements.

  “I can’t find the toilet,” I announce to Winnie and Rosie.

  Sprawled on her bed, Winnie glances up from reading a worn paperback. “Great news,” she deadpans. I glance at the title of her book. The Portable Nietzsche. Unexpected. I hadn’t pegged Winnie as a reader, much less a reader of German nihilist philosophy. She’s full of surprises.

  “What do you mean you can’t find the toilet?” Rosie asks. “Isn’t it just across the hall?”

  I motion for them both to follow me. Winnie rolls her eyes but complies, and we cram into the ladies’ room. “See?” I gesture around me.

  Winnie sighs. “You’re looking at it,” she says with a touch of asperity, pointing to the bowl set into the floor. “That’s a squatty potty. You put your feet on the sides like this and go into the bowl. When you’re done, flush it out with water.” She nods to the cup bobbing in the bucket.

  “How do you know that?” I ask, impressed.

  “I did a three-month tour of Asia with Dynamite Kitty in 2010. We had some concerts here.” Winnie shrugs. “A lot of the world uses a squatty potty.” She rolls her eyes and turns to go, tossing over her shoulder at me, “Seriously, Pollyanna, it’s not brain surgery.”

  “Only if you know how it works,” I mutter at her retreating back.

  “All those hours of orientation,” Rosie says thoughtfully. “All the lessons on history, culture, political dynamics, and social structures, and no one thought to tell us how to use the toilet.”

  Together we observe the squatty potty, for a moment awed and a little intimidated by everything we do not know.

  Chapter 19

  Bright and early the next morning, Jayesh ushers us to a small restaurant around the corner from the guesthouse. It is simple—a handful of tables and chairs in a brightly lit, utilitarian space. Only one other table is occupied, two men sitting with round metal trays in front of them filled with unidentifiable dishes, tiny bowls of sauces, and bread rolls. They stare at us wordlessly as we take seats at two tables against the front window. Jake leans against the wall by the front door, wearing a baseball cap and aviators, camera at the ready to film our first Indian breakfast.

  “Shreya will meet you here in thirty minutes,” Jayesh tells us. “Enjoy your meal.” He gives a slight bow and leaves. My stomach rumbles. It’s been many long hours since the airplane food from the night before. Excitedly anticipating a real Indian breakfast, I look around. There is a menu posted on the wall. It is in English, but it might as well be in another language.

  “Idli vada.” I say the words aloud, marveling at their strange shape in my mouth. “Rava Masala Dosa.”

  I love Indian food, but as I scan the menu I realize that nothing looks familiar. The naans and biryahnis and vindaloos of Bombay Kitchen, my favorite Indian restaurant, are nowhere in sight. I have no idea how to feed myself. The thought makes me feel a little lost. I thought I was ready for India, but so far I can’t seem to do the simplest things.

  A middle-aged man barges through a door at the back of the restaurant. Portly and unsmiling beneath a thick black mustache, he pours tea into glasses and sets one before each of us. “Masala chai,” he says, jabbing his finger at the tea.

  Relieved to recognize something at last, I pick up my glass and inhale the steam—cardamom, cloves, ginger, and black pepper. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jake raise his video camera, and I instantly tense. Then I force myself to relax. So what if Lars Lindquist and the entire watching world see me taking my first sip of authentic Indian chai? Let them experience it with me.

  The first sip is sweet and peppery and scalding hot. It’s the best tea I’ve ever tasted. I inhale again, trying to cement this moment into my brain. I’m here, in India. I’ve done it. Gotten a stamp in my passport, gone on an adventure of my own.

  Milo sets down his chai and makes a face. “Dude, do you think they do nitro cold brew here? I’m not feeling this tea.”

  The proprietor plods from the back, his arms laden with plates. He sets them down in front of us, points, and announces impassively, “Kheema pav,” then disappears back the way he came. We examine the plates in silence. Two normal-looking bread rolls beside a mound of something minced and reddish brown. Meat? Vegetables? I can’t tell.

  Rosie purses her lips and examines her plate. “Y’all have any idea what this is?”

  Kai picks up his fork and tastes the minced brown item cautiously. “It’s meat,” he reports. “Sort of like an Indian take on sloppy joe. It’s good.” He takes another forkful. I watch him for a moment, noting the clean line of his jaw, the casual air of confidence he exudes. I make myself look away.

  Ladling some filling between two halves of a roll, I take a bite. It is spicy and filled with a cacophony of flavors—delicious. I’m so hungry I devour it all and am wiping up a smear of sauce with the last bite of roll when Shreya breezes through the door.

  “Good morning, Team Caritas,” she says. Clad in a sari the color of a tangerine, she looks fresh and cheerful. “Come. Follow me, please. We do not want to be late.”

  Two identical yellow-and-black taxis are waiting outside, their metal roof racks stacked high with wrapped bundles. We gather beside the taxis and wait for Shreya’s instructions. Around us the air is vibrant with the sounds of the city—car horns, a radio blaring Bollywood music from the salon on the corner. A cow wanders down the roadway, nosing a pile of garbage. Already it is growing almost unbearably hot, the sun beating down through a gray haze of smog above the roofs of the buildings. The air quality is notoriously bad in Mumbai, a far cry from the fresh,
chilly salt breeze of Seattle.

  “Hey, Shreya, what exactly are we going to be doing while we’re here?” Milo asks the question I’ve been eagerly wondering since orientation week.

  “You will be assisting in school enrichment programs for poor children in the slums,” Shreya explains. “You will visit a different slum every day and provide a program with entertainment, education, and a special snack.”

  I glance around at the other members of my team, cheered by the description. Helping in enrichment programs for poor children in the slums seems like good, useful work.

  Shreya gives us more details, reading off a list on her phone. “You will be divided into two teams. Team one is Winnie, Milo, and Kai. Team two is Rosie, Mia, and Abel. Jake will alternate between the teams. Today he travels with team one.”

  I’m relieved not to be paired with Winnie. I find her abrasive personality and lack of initiative frustrating, and given that she keeps calling me Pollyanna in a sardonic tone, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like me either. But I’m a little disappointed not to be on the same team with Kai. Probably for the better, though. Less distraction this way.

  “What do we have to do?” Winnie sniffs, wiping her runny nose on the sleeve of a grungy T-shirt that says Dynamite Kitty in hot pink, flaming letters. Even though it’s already sweltering, she doesn’t seem to sweat, wearing the T-shirt paired with skinny black jeans with studs and her ever-present black lace-up combat boots.

  “You and Rosie will provide musical lessons for the children,” Shreya explains. “Kai and Abel will play soccer for physical education.”

  “How about Mia and me?” Milo asks.

  “Ah yes,” Shreya says. “You and Mia will be in charge of . . . pancakes.”

  “Pancakes?” Milo and I ask in unison, shooting each other a surprised look.