The Enlightenment of Bees

by Rachel Linden

  “Really, like what?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know. I guess I thought we’d be doing something that felt more . . . impacting.”

  “You think what we did today doesn’t matter?” After Shreya’s words about being part of a community, I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. But it feels so good to bring a smile to the children’s faces, even if it’s just with a pancake.

  “Seriously, Pollyanna?” Winnie pipes up incredulously, sitting upright in the chair and pulling the washcloth from her eyes. Apparently she wasn’t sleeping. “You think teaching kids to play “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” on a plastic recorder and giving them a pancake is really going to change their lives?” She shoots me a caustic look. “Those kids have to deal with things we can’t even comprehend. Nothing we did today is going to make any difference.” She tosses the washcloth onto the chair and leaves the room without another word.

  I sit motionless holding my lassi, stung by her tone, by how easily she dismisses our efforts. I glance up and find Abel watching me.

  “She has a good point, but a harsh way of saying it,” he says, his eyes kind. “Do not take it personally.”

  “I seem to rub her the wrong way.” I frown, feeling embarrassed.

  Abel tips his head, a brief gesture of absolution. “It is not you. That woman is an egg. Hard on the outside, but inside she is a soft, scrambled mess.”

  It’s an unexpected analogy. “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I have known others like her,” he says. “She tries to cover up her wounded places with a tough armor, but don’t be fooled. Those tender places are still there.”

  I shake my head, still stinging from her rebuke. If there is anything tender in Winnie, I have yet to see it.

  “Y’all!” Rosie shrieks, interrupting our conversation. She’s staring at something on her phone. “A photo of our team is trending on Instagram. It’s featured as a top post! Look!” She holds the phone out breathlessly, and we pass it around.

  The trending photo is a shot of Rosie and me in the auto rickshaw from the night before. The lights behind us are just a blur, and in the foreground we are almost running over the family on the motorcycle. The woman’s orange sari is illuminated in the single headlight, as are Rosie’s and my faces, caught in identical looks of sheer terror. It is a captivating image, but I’m surprised at how many comments it’s garnered. Two thousand in just a couple of hours.

  I stare at the photo, amazed that so many strangers are interested in our team. I really thought no one would even know or care about us. Studying my horrified and slightly shiny face, I make a pact with myself to be camera ready anytime Jake is around. If my face is going to be plastered on Instagram for the world to see, I need to pay a little more attention to my appearance. Mascara and frizz control hair balm at a bare minimum.

  I quickly scroll through the top dozen or so comments, curious to see what people are saying. A few offer humorous caption suggestions for the photo while several ridicule us for coming on this trip. But ten comments down, my heart stutters to a halt in my chest.

  Careful, ladies! Stay safe. From Instagram user ethanwhite. Ethan is following our team on Instagram. I stare at his name for a long moment, stunned. What does this mean?

  “Hey, Mia.” I glance up to find Kai watching me, brow furrowed with concern. “You okay?”

  I quickly pass the phone back to Rosie. She looks at me questioningly, but I shake my head. “Just reliving the terror of my first auto rickshaw ride,” I say, making light of the moment. I paste on a smile, although my mind is racing.

  Setting my glass of lassi on the table, I excuse myself after a moment. “Jet lag and the heat,” I claim. “I’m going to take a little nap. See you all at dinner.”

  In the quiet of our room, I look up the photo and his comment again on my phone, staring at those four words until they blur. Careful, ladies! Stay safe.

  Why is Ethan following our team? Why did he leave that comment? Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. But then again—what if it does?

  Chapter 22

  Early the next morning I climb the narrow stairs of the guesthouse to the deserted rooftop terrace and call my mother. It’s evening in Seattle, the best time to try to reach her.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” Her head bobs into view on the phone’s screen as she picks up the video call. “How are you? How’s India?”

  She’s in our farm shop. I can see sachets of dried lavender and beeswax candles hanging on strings behind her. I imagine the smell of the shop—beeswax and lavender and the salt tinge of the Sound. Suddenly I feel homesick, a sensation that surprises me. Funny, now that I’ve finally managed to leave home, I miss it.

  “It’s good, a little crazy. Not quite what I expected. Our team is really diverse, but it’s working pretty well.” I glance out over the terrace wall. The sun is just starting to peek weakly through the smog. From somewhere below me the smell of frying onions and spices wafts up through the muggy air.

  “Oh, I envy you,” my mother sighs. “I always wanted to go to India.”

  This surprises me. I wasn’t aware that my mother had ever yearned to travel somewhere as exotic as India.

  “How are you and Dad? Everything okay on the farm?” I want to hear that all is well, that everything is familiar and predictable and normal back home while I am embarking on this exhilarating but unnerving new adventure.

  “Oh yes, everything’s humming along as usual. Your father’s out in the fields right now. Tourist season’s in full swing.” My mother pauses from her organizing. The light from the wall lamps illuminates her face, highlighting the laugh lines radiating from the corners of her eyes and her wild red-gold curls. She wears no makeup, and her skin is pale with just a smattering of freckles across her nose, like mine. I ache to hug her, just for a minute, to be enveloped in the scent of lavender that clings to the creases in her skin. The scent of home.

  She briefly disappears from the camera view, and I hear rustling. “Just a minute, I’m restocking the jams. I made some strawberry lavender this week. It’s your dad’s new favorite.”

  Tears spring to my eyes, and I laugh a little. It feels so good to connect with her.

  “We do have some news, though.” My mother’s head pops back into view. “Your father and I are taking a trip.”

  “Really, where?” Usually my parents take two weeks off in the slow late fall or winter season. One week they spend with Henry and Christine and the kids and the other visiting historic towns in New England or a national park somewhere around the country.

  “We’re going to volunteer for six weeks with an organization that helps exploited women and their families start fair trade lavender farms in Moldova.” My mother beams into the camera, looking a little fish-eyed as she comes close to the screen. “Isn’t that exciting? We were so inspired by what you’re doing that we wanted to do something similar. Mary Ellen and her husband over at Purple Hill Lavender Farm volunteered with this organization last summer and said it was a life-changing experience. She signed up to go back this year but just had emergency gallbladder surgery, so she asked us to consider taking their place. At first we said no because of your Nana Alice’s health issues right now. It didn’t seem right to leave after we heard about her cancer, but when your father mentioned the opportunity to Alice, she absolutely insisted we go. We thought about it and decided, given the type of cancer it is and her good prognosis, that the opportunity was too good to pass up.”

  “Wow.” I’m astonished by this unexpected news. My parents, my predictable, steady parents, are going to leave the farm for six weeks and jet off to a country I’ve barely heard of? Where in the world is Moldova exactly?

  “Who’s going to look after the farm while you’re gone?”

  My mother wrinkles her nose. “We haven’t figured that out yet, but we’ll come up with something. Your father and I think it’s high time we had an adventure. We leave in two weeks,” she adds.

  Two weeks? My jaw dro
ps. That’s the start of the farm’s high season. They’re leaving the farm at the busiest time of the year? They’ll miss the Sequim Lavender Festival. They never miss the Festival.

  Seeing my expression, my mother laughs. “I know, so soon. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind, but it just feels right. It’s high time we did something a little crazy.”

  I don’t know what to say. Apparently I’m not the only one thinking about an alternate life. It makes me feel strangely discombobulated. Instantly I feel selfish for even minding about the trip. I’m an adult. They’re free to do what they want with their lives, but still . . . there is so much change in my life right now. I always think of my parents and the farm as steady and predictable, unchanging. To hear about these unexpected plans is a seismic shift, the ground suddenly unsteady under my feet.

  “How’s Nana Alice?” I ask, changing the subject. I figure my mother will have more specifics about the actual situation. So far Nana Alice has simply been doling out vague and optimistic-sounding assurances via text.

  My mother sighs. “She says her oncologist has mapped out a good treatment plan and her prognosis is excellent. She says she feels better already.” She pauses for a moment, then clears her throat, a quick look of unease flashing across her face.

  “What?” I ask. “Don’t you believe her?”

  My mother brushes off my concern. “I’m sure it’s nothing. She just seems so tired, that’s all. A little . . . fragile. But she says everything is fine and that she’s responding well to the treatments.”

  I slump back against the concrete railing, feeling conflicted. What if Nana Alice isn’t okay? Should I go home?

  “Don’t be alarmed,” my mother assures me. “She’s getting excellent care. And your trip as well as ours is giving her something to look forward to. Apparently she’s been tracking your travels on Instagram—is that what they call it?”

  My parents are not particularly tech savvy. They have a website for the farm but otherwise spend very little time online, preferring to read or listen to NPR.

  “She says she feels almost like she’s there on the trip with you.” My mother chuckles. She starts hanging bunches of dried lavender on hooks near the cash register, her arms filled with the powdery purple blooms. “I think your trip is giving her a new zest for life.”

  I’m surprised and pleased to hear that Nana Alice has figured out how to follow our adventures online. I texted her the pertinent information before I left Florida but didn’t realize she’d managed to make it work.

  Of course I also thought no one else was following our trip, but that was before I saw the photo of Rosie and me trending on Instagram last night. Apparently more people than I ever imagined are interested in our trip, including Ethan. I wonder again what his comment means. Why is he tracking my travels?

  I turn my attention back to my mother. “Should I be worried about Nana Alice? Do you think I should come home?”

  She pauses for a moment, considering. “No, I don’t think so.” She waves away the idea. “Alice is a resilient soul, Mia. She’s stable, she’s in good hands. She says she is getting well. Don’t worry. Enjoy India.”

  “Okay.” I take a deep breath. “But if anything changes . . .”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” my mother assures me. “We can all be back at her side in short order if the need arises, but I think she’s going to be just fine.”

  Chapter 23

  “At last, a free Saturday,” Rosie says happily as we walk to the restaurant for a late breakfast after sleeping in blissfully late. “Milo and I are going shopping at Palladium. It’s supposed to be the most high-end mall in Mumbai. They have Jimmy Choos.” Rosie beams. “Want to come with us?”

  “I want to explore the city, find an outdoor market, see some historic sights.” I give a wide berth to a mangy dog sniffing a soiled diaper in the gutter in front of the restaurant. “I’ll ask at breakfast and see if anyone wants to come with me.”

  The café is fairly crowded this morning, and I scan our regular two tables, noting that the entire team except for Winnie is already there. Even Jake is present, sans camera, eating with the rest of the team. Winnie was gone from the room when we awoke, and I wonder where she went. She’s generally not a morning person, a fact she attributes to her years as a rock star playing shows until late.

  “Morning, ladies,” Milo greets us. “Ready to see a new side of Mumbai?”

  “Absolutely. I can’t wait.” Rosie sits down across from him.

  I slide into an available seat across from Kai. “Good morning.”

  He nods to me, his mouth full of breakfast roll. A moment later the restaurant owner, Sunil, unsmilingly delivers chai to Rosie and me, and I take a grateful sip.

  Even though we’ve been here ten days, this will be our first time venturing out into the city without Shreya or our handlers. We’ve been kept busy doing two enrichment programs a day in various slums around Mumbai. We return to the guesthouse at dinnertime each day, sweaty, exhausted, and wrung out by the heat and the working conditions. No one has felt like wandering back out into the city with the extreme heat and noise and traffic. Instead, we’ve spent the evenings on the rooftop terrace watching the sun set over the city, eating fruit from the neighborhood vendor, the sweet juices of ripe mangoes and melons running down our elbows, attracting ants and other insects to the sticky puddles.

  “Ooh, what’s this?” Rosie asks as Sunil sets a plate down in front of each of us.

  “Bun maska,” Kai says with a grin. “It will change your life.”

  “A truly delightful dish,” Abel affirms. “This is my third plate.”

  I take a bite, chewing, analyzing. Bun maska, as far as I can tell, consists of a bun liberally spread with butter and fresh cream and sprinkled with sugar. I understand the appeal. The food in Mumbai is amazing, but every dish is an explosion of new flavors, a sensory overload. Sometimes it’s nice just to have a sweet piece of bread smeared with butter and cream. Simple, uncomplicated, delicious.

  It is already hot in the café, the air heavy with the smells of cooking. I wipe a trickle of sweat from the back of my neck and sip my hot chai. It seems counterintuitive to drink hot beverages in this kind of heat, but I can’t seem to stop drinking this chai. It’s addictive.

  “So what’s everyone’s plan?” Milo asks, pushing away his empty plate. “Rosie and I are heading to Palladium if anyone else wants to come.”

  “I’m taking a Bollywood tour this afternoon,” Jake says. It’s weird to see him without a camera in his hand. I almost don’t recognize him.

  Abel polishes off the last of his bun maska and stands. “Sadly, I have research I must do for Amnesty. I will not go out today. Also, I saw Winnie this morning. She said she is meeting someone she knew from her past tour and not to wait for her.”

  So it looks like everyone has plans except Kai and me.

  “Want to explore Mumbai together?” Kai asks, setting down his chai glass. I hesitate for one instant.

  I should say no. Spending all those hours alone with him seems like a bad idea if I am indeed trying to protect my heart. But the thought of a day spent exploring Mumbai with Kai is too good to pass up.

  “Let’s go,” I say, happily caving in to temptation.

  * * *

  “So this is it. The famous Gateway to India,” Kai says an hour later as we stare up at the huge and ornately decorated archway, dubbed the Taj Mahal of Mumbai. We are standing at the Apollo Bunder waterfront in the Colaba neighborhood of Old Mumbai, taking in one of the top tourist attractions of the city.

  “It’s so ornate.” I stare in awe at the imposing golden stone edifice facing out to the Arabian Sea. A tour group is clustered nearby in the shade of the Gateway, listening to a guide explain its historical significance. Kai nudges me, and we edge closer so we can hear the lecture, standing in the shade of the Gateway where it is marginally cooler. In the sweltering midmorning heat, I’m already sweating through my travel dress. May is the
hottest month in Mumbai, Shreya told us, and the heat is oppressive, almost a living thing. Why the Humanitas Foundation chose to send us here in the hottest month of the year is beyond me. It seems like remarkably poor planning.

  “The Gateway was built to commemorate the royal visit of King George the Fifth and stands as a monument to colonial triumph,” the guide intones in crisp British English. The tourists hold aloft iPads and snap photos, squinting in the glare of the sun. “It’s constructed of basalt and is built in the Indo-Saracenic style,” the guide continues.

  “I didn’t understand half of that sentence,” I confess in a whisper, leaning in toward Kai.

  “Really?” He glances at me through his Ray-Bans and smirks. “Which half?”

  “Okay, busted. I understood none of it.” I pull a wry face. “What’s Indo-Saracenic?”

  “Well this, obviously.” He points up to the Gateway with a straight face, then throws me a cheeky grin and explains in a low whisper, “It’s a style of architecture that combines elements of native Indo-Islamic and Indian design with the Gothic revival and neoclassical styles that the British favored in Victorian times.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask, impressed. It sounds like he’s reading straight from a textbook.

  He shrugs. “I like architecture. It’s a durable historical record.”

  I stare at him for a moment and then glance away. I find smart men irresistible. It was one of the first things I loved about Ethan, his sharp intellect. That and the dimple. Unsettled, I gaze around us. The vast square in front of the Gateway is thronged with people, tourists and locals alike. Vendors are selling big colorful balloons and spicy snacks, and a number of photographers are taking photographs of tourists in front of the arch for a fee. The air smells like baking rock and fish and seawater. I am almost giddy with the exotic excitement of it all.

  “Hey, look.” Kai points to a sign advertising ferry rides around the harbor. “Want to take a ride?”