The Enlightenment of Bees

by Rachel Linden

“Absolutely.” I love being on the water and am eager to cruise the Mumbai harbor. We pay our fee and board one of a fleet of small ferry boats. Our ferry is an awkward vessel, rolling and ponderous, wearing a necklace of black rubber car tires to protect it from bumping against the dock. We clamber up a set of steep steps to the top observation level and sit in plastic chairs under a tattered green-striped canopy. The ride is approximately thirty minutes according to the man who sold us our tickets, a short pleasure cruise around the harbor.

  “I could live on a boat,” I sigh happily. “When I was a kid I loved going to Seattle because it meant we’d take the ferry over from the peninsula. And usually we’d see Nana Alice and visit her bakery. A ferry ride, my grandmother, and a homemade cookie equaled the perfect day.”

  Kai smiles. “I love the water. My mom used to say when I was little that I’d live in water if I could.”

  I can see that, a little Kai like a sleek seal in the warm Hawaiian waters.

  Our boat pulls away from the dock and starts chugging into the harbor, which is clogged with boats of every size and description, from sleek expensive yachts to tiny open motorboats barely big enough for a few people. The Arabian Sea below us is grayish brown and the breeze smells a little like rotten eggs, but I am so delighted to be on a boat that the murky water doesn’t matter. Then I think about our last disastrous boat ride together and cross my fingers, fervently hoping this lubberly vessel is seaworthy. I have a feeling you really don’t want to swim in this harbor.

  Our vessel is crowded, but most of the Indian passengers remain on the lower deck, flocking to the railings below us to take photos and videos on their phones. Only a few venture up to the top deck where we are, perhaps because of the glaring sun. We stay in our chairs under the awning, enjoying the small measure of privacy. It seems that wherever you go in Mumbai there are a thousand people there with you.

  “Are you hungry?” Kai pulls out a Ziploc bag of trail mix from his small daypack and offers some to me, pouring the peanuts and raisins and M&Ms into my hand.

  “Thanks.” I fish out a yellow M&M and pop it into my mouth. Peanut butter. After a solid week of Indian food morning, noon, and night, the taste is gloriously familiar.

  “Oh golly, that’s good,” I moan, devouring the whole handful with a speed that borders on gluttony. Even so, the M&M’s melt in my palm, leaving dots of primary colors. Kai proffers the bag, a tacit invitation to eat more, and I shamelessly accept.

  We sit munching companionably for a few minutes, staring out at the view. The smog is terrible today. Even in the harbor the air is thick and yellow. The distant boats are obscured by it, the black outlines of their masts just visible through the haze.

  “How did you know you wanted to be an urban farmer?” I ask when I’ve eaten the last of the snack. The engine is loud below us, and we have to lean close together to be heard.

  Kai stashes the empty bag in his pack, then stretches out in the plastic chair, long and lean, lacing his hands behind his head. He considers the question for a moment.

  “At first I didn’t have a choice,” he says finally. “My dad abandoned us when I was six. He was . . . not a nice guy.” A shadow flickers across his face. “After he left, my mom and my little brother, Sam, and I moved to Honolulu. Those were tough years. Mom worked as a waitress, but she made almost nothing. We were just scraping by. I remember more than once eating just saltines and ketchup packets she’d snuck from the restaurant for our dinner. But our next-door neighbor, Hiroto, knew a lot about foraging. He was Japanese Hawaiian, same as my mom, and about eighty years old. He started taking me foraging outside the city, showing me edible fruits and plants.”

  Kai takes a water bottle from his pack and offers it to me. I unscrew the top and take a few quick sips.

  “The day I picked my first strawberry guava, it was like a lightbulb went off in my head. I realized I could help feed my family. After that we always had something besides saltines to eat, even on the days when Mom’s paycheck didn’t stretch quite far enough.”

  “Wow, that must have been such a relief, to be able to provide for yourself and your family like that.” I hand him the water bottle, and he takes a swallow, then screws the cap back on.

  “It was a powerful feeling for a boy with not a lot of resources,” he agrees. “That’s why I want to give other kids that same power. I want to teach them what Hiroto taught me, self-sufficiency and reverence for the land.”

  At his words I can feel my heart melting like butter, sliding into a sunny puddle right there on the deck. I sense the hardship that lies at the foundation of his story, the abandonment by his dad, the poverty and bare kitchen cupboards. He could so easily carry it like a wound, a liability, a limitation, but instead, he’s taken those hardships and turned them for good.

  I blink, realize I’m staring at him moonily, and glance away, trying to break the awkwardly long pause.

  “That’s so cool.” I stare out at the bay for a moment, steeling myself. I could so easily fall head over heels for this man. But if I did, what then? Would I just glom on to his vision for his life because I still haven’t developed one of my own? Become Mia the urban farmer? I can’t make that mistake again. I have to find my own way first.

  Chapter 24

  “So what’s your family like now?” I ask Kai as our ferry continues its slow, lolling circuit of the harbor.

  “They’re great.” He chuckles wryly. “They drive me crazy sometimes, but I love them.” He describes his mother and stepfather, Gordon, the law professor his mom met when he wandered into the diner where she was waitressing—a sunburnt, introverted tourist who ordered cup after cup of coffee until he summoned the courage to ask her on a date. Sam is now a junior at the University of Virginia, majoring in economics. And he has a younger half sister who is thirteen, Ruthie, named for Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. They live in Virginia, just a few miles from Charlottesville, on a farm with horses and a black Lab named Thurgood.

  “They’re pressuring me hard to go back to law school. If I don’t win the funding for my idea, they’ll get their wish.” He frowns.

  “Why go back to law school if you aren’t passionate about it?” I ask. “If you know what you want to do, why don’t you just do that instead?”

  “I have to fund the project somehow. Being a lawyer would allow me to do that. It’s not what I want to do, but I could practice law if it let me do what I’m really passionate about.”

  “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I tell him. “Maybe Lars Lindquist shares your love of lettuce and will choose to fund your project.”

  Kai laughs. “Yeah, I hope so.”

  The boat takes a lazy turn back toward the dock, and Kai points out the iconic Taj Mahal Palace Hotel standing imposingly near shore. “What about you?” he asks. “Were you always interested in medicine along with baking? Did you give your stuffed animals cupcakes and then operate on them?”

  I chuckle. “Growing up I wasn’t interested in medicine specifically,” I skirt my fabricated passion and opt for the truth. “But I always admired my aunt Frannie, who’s a dentist in Africa. I was raised on a lavender farm on the Olympic Peninsula, the most tranquil place you can imagine.” I describe my family and Sequim and West Wind.

  Kai looks impressed. “That sounds idyllic.”

  “It is,” I agree. “But even as a kid I had this thirst for adventure. I dreamed of a life of selfless service to the poor somewhere foreign and exotic.” I clear my throat. “Mother Teresa was my childhood hero. Aunt Frannie gave me this Life of Mother Teresa coloring book. It was my favorite thing in the world, my inspiration.”

  “Impressive.” Kai whistles. “When I was a kid I just wanted to be a fireman or Superman. You know, the normal stuff.”

  I smile, leaning back in my chair as the boat trundles steadily through the brown water. “Yeah, I never wanted a normal life. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Growing up on the farm was great. My parents are hardworking, hon
est people, and they raised my brother, Henry, and me to be socially conscious and industrious citizens. But life on the farm never felt exciting enough. I wanted to be Saint Mia and follow in the footsteps of Aunt Frannie and Mother Teresa. I always dreamed of better things.”

  I dart a glance at Kai, feeling a little vulnerable sharing my most deeply held dreams, but there is no skepticism or judgment in his expression, just a steady, attentive openness. “Better things,” he repeats.

  “Better things,” I affirm, thinking suddenly of my parents, of their impending trip. They leave in just a few days. Apparently they are thirsting for adventure, for better things too.

  We are heading back toward the dock now, though the shore is almost obscured in the smog.

  “So how has the trip been for you so far?” Kai asks. “Is it what you were hoping for?”

  I hesitate. I like giving the children pancakes, seeing their happy grins and sticky fingers. It feels good to help them. Each time we visit a new slum, I think of what Shreya said about true change coming through relationship. I try to engage as much as I can with the children, learning their names, making silly faces with them, laughing together. But given the constraints of the schedule and the language barrier, I have little opportunity beyond these simple things. Sometimes I wonder if we are making any difference at all.

  “I don’t know,” I admit finally. “It’s complicated. What about you? Is the trip still not what you hoped it would be?” I remember him expressing his doubts that first day and wonder if he’s changed his mind.

  Kai shrugs. “To be honest, I’m disappointed. I thought we’d be doing something that had more of a lasting impact. Lars has spent so much on this trip already, just to get us here. It’s got to be tens of thousands.” He pauses, frowning. “That money could have been used to really help these slum communities—funding kids’ educations or building safe homes or giving families medical care. Instead of sending us around the world to hand out pancakes. I kind of think we’re just wasting time and money so a reclusive billionaire can feel like he’s doing something good. This feels like a lost opportunity to me.”

  “I guess you’re right.” I look down at my hands, mulling over his words. I’ve been enjoying the experience, loving the exotic adventure of India, but I haven’t considered the financial cost or what we could do differently and better. Kai is correct. That money could be used in a dozen better ways, contributing to long-lasting change. I’ve just been concentrating on the children’s happy smiles and on how wonderful it feels to give them something I made. Now I see how shortsighted that is. Perhaps I’ve been only playing at being Saint Mia, handing out my stack of pancakes with a halo of golden light around my head. I have been making myself feel good but probably not helping anyone, not really.

  “Shreya said something the first day we were here that I keep coming back to,” I say, brushing back a curl from my face. “She said we can’t just focus on fixing the problems, that real change happens person to person, day by day, when we live life together.”

  “That sounds true,” Kai says.

  I nod. “I think so too.” If I am honest, I know I have not entered in, not really. I have gingerly dipped my toes in life in the slums, posing for photos for Instagram, whipping up a batch of pancakes because it’s easy and it’s what I love to do. Not entirely worthless, surely, but nothing that will stick, nothing that will change things for the better.

  The thought is disappointing.

  Now that I’m here, assessing my experience in the hot gray light of a Mumbai afternoon, I see how self-serving my vision has been. I wanted to go into the world with zeal and compassion. Saint Mia. But now, faced with the complex reality of grinding poverty framed by an exotic culture and locale, I wonder if my zeal was more to have an adventure than to actually help transform lives. I thought I wanted to change the world—but did I actually just want to experience it, consume it?

  “Hey, you okay?” Kai asks, shooting me a concerned look. I smile and nod, although inside I feel hollow with uncertainty and dismay. Have I botched my alternate life already? I genuinely do want to help others. But how?

  “I wonder if there’s a way to change things in the time we have left,” I tell him. “Maybe we can still make a difference, even if it’s a small one.”

  The boat bumps against the dock, and we scramble to our feet, following the other passengers across the gangway.

  “Hey.” Kai turns to me. “I know this trip is disappointing. It’s not what we hoped it would be, but we’re here in Mumbai. It’s our free day. Let’s enjoy today, and tomorrow we can talk with Shreya and the team about changing things, okay?”

  I hesitate, then nod. Tomorrow we will try to make a difference. For now Mumbai and the Colaba Causeway street market await.

  Chapter 25

  “Hey, Mia, are you hungry?” Kai asks. We’ve been browsing the market stalls for several exhilarating hours, and the late afternoon sun is slanting long shadows across the road.

  “Famished,” I confess. We find seats in a crowded local restaurant and stuff ourselves with Hyderibadi biryani, chilli paneer dry, and dahi vada. When the food comes we hardly talk, wholly bent on the delicious flavors. Afterward we order filter coffee and leisurely converse over the bustling noise of the café.

  “When we first met I asked why you came on this trip, and you told me a broken heart and an epiphany.” Kai leans toward me across the small table.

  I nod. “That’s right.” I’m impressed that he remembers. I was too busy trying to pretend that I didn’t find him ridiculously attractive.

  “So who broke your heart?” He looks genuinely interested in my answer.

  “Oh.” I clear my throat and sit back, toying with my metal tumbler of coffee. So we are going to have this conversation, are we? “My boyfriend of six years, Ethan. We had our life all planned out, and then on our six-year anniversary he broke up with me as he was trying to propose. He had the ring in his hand, but in the end he just couldn’t do it.”

  Kai winces. “Ouch. Sorry.”

  I nod. “I was devastated. All of a sudden the life I thought I wanted was gone, all the plans we’d made together. And I was left with . . . nothing.” I spread my hands, revealing the blank space, the thin air between my palms.

  “When did this happen?” Kai asks, his dark eyes intent on my face.

  “Five weeks ago.” I marvel that I am sitting here, so soon after Ethan broke my heart, discussing it all like it is ancient history. My heart still hurts, but so much has changed in such a short time. In one way it feels as fresh as yesterday, but in another like I am remembering another lifetime, another Mia.

  “I learned a lesson though,” I say. “I almost gave up my dreams once for a man. I can’t do it again.” I meet his eyes firmly, issuing a warning.

  Kai holds my gaze steadily, seemingly unfazed. “Not every man would ask you to give up your dreams,” he says slowly. “In a good relationship there’s room for both people to do what they love. Otherwise it’s not a great fit.” He takes a swallow of coffee, setting the tumbler back in the matching saucer.

  “Maybe not,” I concede, “but I’m loyal to a fault. I loved Ethan so much. I was convinced we could make it work despite our differences, but in the end he wasn’t as convinced as I was. So . . .” I shrug. “Here I am. And I think I’m glad. Still heartbroken but a little bit glad. I would have given up so much to be with him. I just didn’t realize it at the time.”

  I look around the restaurant, taking in the high chatter of dozens of voices, the thick cooking smells, the gleam of light off the laminated red tables.

  “What about you,” I ask. “Any broken hearts littering your past?”

  Kai shrugs. “A few girlfriends in college, nothing serious. I . . . have a hard time trusting people. After my dad left, it was a bad time for my family for a lot of years. It still surprises me that one man could mess up the lives of three other people so thoroughly, but it’s true. He was physically abusive. He d
rank too much, and when he drank, all the anger he had pent up inside him would come out. It was better when he left. It felt safer, but the damage was still done. There were scars.”

  He sighs and tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, looking suddenly vulnerable.

  “Even after my mom met Gordon, it took me a long time to trust him. I couldn’t quite believe that a man could be honorable, could treat her or us right.”

  “That makes sense.” I toy with my coffee. “You don’t want to get hurt again.”

  He smiles, a little sadly. “Yeah, but I also haven’t given up hope. I’m just waiting to meet someone I want to take the risk for, someone I can trust.”

  We lock eyes across the table, our confessions hanging between us, all the fears and insecurities related to love.

  “Well look at us,” I observe wryly. “We make quite a pair. The walking wounded of love.”

  Kai looks at me intently, his eyes dark and inscrutable. “For the right girl, I’d risk it.”

  I smile sadly. “I thought Ethan was the right one. I’ll be more careful next time.”

  Kai lifts his tumbler of coffee. “To the next time,” he says.

  We clink and drink the last of the brew, laced with the faintest hint of bitter chicory beneath the sweeter caramel notes.

  It is growing dark when we finally leave Colaba, taking a rickshaw back to the guesthouse. I grip the metal railing in front of me and lean out slightly, letting the hot breeze rush against my skin. Despite the disappointment of realizing that I am failing in my goal of making a lasting difference in Mumbai, today has been wonderful.

  I glance at Kai beside me. I always pictured myself coming to India someday with Ethan, but the reality is that Ethan would have been a terrible companion today. He doesn’t like spicy food or crowds. It is Kai who belongs in today. Kai with his Ray-Bans and his interest in the world, his willingness to try anything and his amiable shrug if it doesn’t work. Kai who asks incisive questions, who listens carefully as I answer. I know he’s been hurt, that he’s leery of love, but still he offers honesty and authenticity in friendship. When he looks at me, I feel like the only person in the world. His attention is a gift. I’ve never felt like that with anyone before.