develop a friendship with this complicated, intelligent woman if she doesn’t know more about her life?
Sudha chews thoughtfully.
In the far corner, chess players smoke furiously, concentrating on their board. A small audience leans over, rapt. By the front door, an ancient man sips from his cup, nodding intently, as if revisiting his youth on a coffee plantation. Why do so many South Indians migrate to the wintry cold climate of Moorty?
“Father, who’s always supported my ambitions, was easy. Mama made trouble. She was looking forward to my returning from St. Andrews to settle down as a flourishing Bandra or Colaba housewife.”
Monica nibbles the delicious dosa . “That must’ve been a hard conversation.”
Sudha throws up her hands. “It was. It was. But Mama had successfully married off her other daughter and so she was philosophical. Except…” She pauses, laughs softly.
“What?” Monica studies her friend’s face.
“She called me a ‘Modern Woman!’ ”
“There are worse epithets.” Like the names Jeanne called her after Mom’s death.
“So, eventually, everyone was accepting. Papa urged me to go for a Ph.D. at Bombay University. He said I could live with them and commute to the Bandra campus. Within days, Mama had big plans for her professor daughter. A J.N.U. Professorship.”
Monica finishes her coffee and wants another, but she’s afraid to interrupt Sudha’s self-disclosure. “What happened?”
“That was never for me. I’m not an intellectual. Don’t have the patience with theory. I wanted to do something with my life. It was hard to leave St. Andrews. I loved Scotland. There was a boy there…well, anyway, I decided if I were going to return to India, I needed to contribute to this country. I always liked kids. I know what a difference one teacher made in my life. The choice was easy in some ways.”
“In some ways?”
Rabi offers fresh black coffee.
“Obviously I couldn’t stay in Bombay. Not only was I rejecting marriage, I was rebuffing their career dreams. And for what? To become a maiden school marm. Forever an auntie, they thought. So I imagined places where I might live. Our family traveled to Moorty once. And during my first year at St. Andrews, I often thought of Moorty: the hills, the trees. Somehow Moorty reminds me of Scotland. It’s not rational, but I came here because I wanted to be in India and I wanted to be in Scotland and I wanted to be near my parents but not too near.”
“Sounds like the perfect decision.”
“Hardly perfect. I guess I’m useful, but…”
Monica glances down at Lower Bazaar, more crowded now during lunch hour. This sight feels happily familiar. Whole hours pass these days without a thought of “being in India.” Sometimes she has to remind herself that she is 8,000 miles from Minneapolis and 6,000 feet closer to the stars. She waits for Sudha. “But what?”
“Sometimes people are suspicious of a single woman. Especially a single woman from Sin City, Bombay.”
“I see.”
Sudha chuckles. “Outsiders—Maharashtra and Minneapolis. No wonder we are such good friends.”
Such good friends. Monica blushes. A significant statement from the reticent Sudha. Embarrassed and touched, she suggests, “Shall we good friends finish our errands before the day evaporates?”
Sudha’s voice is quizzical, amused. “ Andiamo, Cara Sudha?” My Italian friend would say when she wanted to leave the St. Andrews library. “ Andiamo, Cara Monica.”
*****
Vikram’s visit is brief. He’s progressing well—both his eyes and his English. She suspects this last appointment had more to do with language practice. A sweet kid.
From the waiting room, she hears an Irish voice. An echo of home. But not.
“Good morning, Mrs. Rao. It will be a day or two before Dr. Walsh is free. He has an early surgery this morning. Quite busy, you know. Quite busy.”
“Not
Sudha chews thoughtfully.
In the far corner, chess players smoke furiously, concentrating on their board. A small audience leans over, rapt. By the front door, an ancient man sips from his cup, nodding intently, as if revisiting his youth on a coffee plantation. Why do so many South Indians migrate to the wintry cold climate of Moorty?
“Father, who’s always supported my ambitions, was easy. Mama made trouble. She was looking forward to my returning from St. Andrews to settle down as a flourishing Bandra or Colaba housewife.”
Monica nibbles the delicious dosa . “That must’ve been a hard conversation.”
Sudha throws up her hands. “It was. It was. But Mama had successfully married off her other daughter and so she was philosophical. Except…” She pauses, laughs softly.
“What?” Monica studies her friend’s face.
“She called me a ‘Modern Woman!’ ”
“There are worse epithets.” Like the names Jeanne called her after Mom’s death.
“So, eventually, everyone was accepting. Papa urged me to go for a Ph.D. at Bombay University. He said I could live with them and commute to the Bandra campus. Within days, Mama had big plans for her professor daughter. A J.N.U. Professorship.”
Monica finishes her coffee and wants another, but she’s afraid to interrupt Sudha’s self-disclosure. “What happened?”
“That was never for me. I’m not an intellectual. Don’t have the patience with theory. I wanted to do something with my life. It was hard to leave St. Andrews. I loved Scotland. There was a boy there…well, anyway, I decided if I were going to return to India, I needed to contribute to this country. I always liked kids. I know what a difference one teacher made in my life. The choice was easy in some ways.”
“In some ways?”
Rabi offers fresh black coffee.
“Obviously I couldn’t stay in Bombay. Not only was I rejecting marriage, I was rebuffing their career dreams. And for what? To become a maiden school marm. Forever an auntie, they thought. So I imagined places where I might live. Our family traveled to Moorty once. And during my first year at St. Andrews, I often thought of Moorty: the hills, the trees. Somehow Moorty reminds me of Scotland. It’s not rational, but I came here because I wanted to be in India and I wanted to be in Scotland and I wanted to be near my parents but not too near.”
“Sounds like the perfect decision.”
“Hardly perfect. I guess I’m useful, but…”
Monica glances down at Lower Bazaar, more crowded now during lunch hour. This sight feels happily familiar. Whole hours pass these days without a thought of “being in India.” Sometimes she has to remind herself that she is 8,000 miles from Minneapolis and 6,000 feet closer to the stars. She waits for Sudha. “But what?”
“Sometimes people are suspicious of a single woman. Especially a single woman from Sin City, Bombay.”
“I see.”
Sudha chuckles. “Outsiders—Maharashtra and Minneapolis. No wonder we are such good friends.”
Such good friends. Monica blushes. A significant statement from the reticent Sudha. Embarrassed and touched, she suggests, “Shall we good friends finish our errands before the day evaporates?”
Sudha’s voice is quizzical, amused. “ Andiamo, Cara Sudha?” My Italian friend would say when she wanted to leave the St. Andrews library. “ Andiamo, Cara Monica.”
*****
Vikram’s visit is brief. He’s progressing well—both his eyes and his English. She suspects this last appointment had more to do with language practice. A sweet kid.
From the waiting room, she hears an Irish voice. An echo of home. But not.
“Good morning, Mrs. Rao. It will be a day or two before Dr. Walsh is free. He has an early surgery this morning. Quite busy, you know. Quite busy.”
“Not
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