For Love of Audrey Rose (21 page)

A steel-framed door led to a narrow corridor. File cabinets made the corridor even more narrow. Janice walked down through the dusty channel and emerged at a second door that opened onto a large typing pool. The typists were all women, with brightly colored saris, and they typed with manic efficiency.

Janice leaned against a marble-topped counter and looked around. The women clattered away, some at electric machines, others at older, upright models. Finally, a young girl with jet black eyes and hair, and a subtle mustache over her full red lips, sauntered to the counter. She said nothing.

“I’m looking for Sesh Mehrotra,” Janice said. “Here. Let me write it down.” She spelled out the name. The girl stared blankly at it.

“He is a student here?” the girl asked.

“I don’t know. He might be an instructor.”

The girl walked to a horizontal steel bin. Her bracelets jangled as her dark arms riffled quickly among the entries there. From time to time, she pulled out a file, checked it against the name, and slid the file back into its holder. At last she copied something down on the slip of paper, and came to the counter. On the paper she had written:
Department of Philosophy.

It was a small office, dominated by a single desk with a middle-aged woman, her floral print sari and brass bangles glimmering like a fallen chandelier. Behind was the landscape of Benares, leading down to the warm brown Ganges. The receptionist had white hair twined into the black, and under her dense black eyebrows her eyes were soft and brown. She waited for Janice to speak.

“I’m looking for Mr. Sesh Mehrotra,” Janice said softly.

With a subtle nod, the woman disappeared toward the office in the rear. Janice waited. The receptionist returned brandishing a piece of paper. She handed it to Janice.

“This street is in Benares?” Janice asked.

“Why don’t you just telephone?” she offered, indicating the desk phone.

Trembling, Janice’s fingers traced out the number inscribed on the paper. There was a muted storm of static, a buzz and three clicks, and then a voice answered. It sounded old, neither male nor female, and it was asking a question.

“I’m sorry,” Janice said, trying to control her voice, “do you speak English?”

Quizzically, the voice responded by repeating its question.

“English,” Janice repeated, louder. “Do you speak English?”

Now the voice became irritated, in the manner of nearly deaf persons, and for the third time it shouted back its question. Janice looked around helplessly. The receptionist took the receiver from her hand. A few quick words were exchanged, and the receptionist hung up.

“Mr. Mehrotra has several jobs,” the receptionist explained, pulling out a small map from a drawer. “Most likely he is at his position
here.
”

“Thank you—thank you.”

Elated, Janice carefully folded the map and put it into her handbag. She was so happy, she almost did not know where she was going. At a small shop—more a three-sided booth than a shop—she bought a more durable blouse and a pair of the cheap wicker sandals that all the women of Benares wore. She hailed a taxi and showed the map to the driver, who nodded and sped off.

At last the taxi found the street. It was slimy with cow dung, wet, squashed, and mingled with dropped fruit, long mashed into a single green slime on the stones. The street was ancient, the walls leaned over it, and shadows of buyers and sellers mingled into a single ever-changing black shape against the ground. Janice paid the fare, and walked slowly, as though feeling her way. The street intersection circled on the map turned out to be the junction of two alleys, dense with brassware, portraits of religious gurus, and men who stared out at her with vacant black eyes.

Janice approached a shop. A clerk labored over a huge ledger at one side of his shelves of brass. He looked angry, as though he would rather be almost anywhere else. He looked too educated, out of place. With a burst of energy, he began computing the long columns of entries.

“Mr. Mehrotra,” Janice said gently.

He looked up. His face was round, and he wore black-rimmed glasses. He needed a shave. His black hair was curly, and his eyes small and nearsighted. He wore a white shirt and white pantaloons, sandals, and three gold rings. He seemed glad to be interrupted.

“Mr. Mehrotra,” Janice said. “My name is Janice Templeton.”

Uncomprehending, Mehrotra shook her extended hand. Then his face paled. His eyes widened until he stared at her.

“Yes,” she said simply. “It’s really me.”

Mehrotra leaned across the shelf, staring unashamed into her face. He swallowed nervously and tried to smile.

“I gave your letter to Elliot Hoover,” he said.

“Thank you. I’ve come to meet Mr. Hoover.”

Mehrotra smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. It was nervous, and he backed away, casting quick glances at the neighboring shops.

“Why?” he asked. “
Why
is it you have to meet him?”

“Because my husband is ill.”

“What? I do not understand, Mrs. Templeton.”

Janice paused. She sensed that Mehrotra was guarding Hoover, that he would have to be won over or she would never get past the clerk. At least it meant that Mehrotra and Hoover were still in close contact.

“Will you have some time free this morning?” she asked softly, “so that I can explain?”

“Time?” Mehrotra laughed. “I have nothing but time.”

He threw his columned book back onto his canvas chair. Then he violently closed the shop, shoving revolving shelves of brass trays and pots inside the booth, rolling down a quick iron gate, and locking it. He tucked the key into his pocket and took Janice by the elbow.

“Please, do not slip on the blood.”

Janice gasped. In the fetid quarters of the back alleys, a heap of diseased chickens had been thrown, and the dogs had charged into them, sending flickers of blood against the walls.

“Be careful of the ox cart.”

A dark brown bullock rumbled by, pulling a creaking wagon in which a man appeared to be fast asleep, holding a short black whip.

They left the system of alleys, emerged into the sunlight, and the air smelled of the turbulent Ganges not far away. Mehrotra suddenly turned on Janice.

“Why have you come for Mr. Hoover?” he demanded.

Tongue-tied, Janice did not know how to begin.

“You know,” she began, “you know—about Ivy?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, after she was cremated, my husband became ill. He began to study, to think that Ivy—that Ivy might come back.”

Mehrotra stamped his foot with impatience.

“Of
course
she will come back! What has that to do with your husband’s illness?”

“I’m— You’re making it so hard to explain.”

“Come! Come with me and tell me.”

They walked out from the last of the cramped buildings, the last of the brilliant wood and stone temples, the last of the ox carts. It was suddenly spacious. Enormous steps led down to the Ganges, and periodically tall sculptured stones, like rounded pyramids, rose to punctuate the miles of riverbank. The activity on the huge steps was incredible, thousands of human beings crowding into the water, some under wicker umbrellas on the steps, and smoke rising from clusters of wood and cloth, trailing high into the implacable blue sky.

“Is this—is this where Ivy’s ashes—” Janice stammered, reeling, holding on to Mehrotra’s arm, which stiffened as it felt her weight.

Mehrotra understood and gently supported her, putting an arm lightly around her shoulder. His voice softened.

“It was not exactly here,” he admitted, “but nearby.”

He pointed to a stretch of the stone steps beyond a cluster of men so old and emaciated they looked as though they had already become corpses. Mehrotra paused, sensitive now, and his voice lowered.

“In the early dawn,” Mehrotra said gently, “we took the canister of ashes and went down to the Ghats—these steps—and spread the ashes slowly into the middle of the Ganges. Elliot Hoover and I. And I watched him pray, and then we came to the shore and the sun dried our clothes.”

“And did he say anything?” Janice asked.

“Only that he hoped Ivy’s soul had found peace.”

Mehrotra took Janice down the Ghats. She was afraid of the dense groups of Hindus, afraid of the smoke, which she now realized came from funeral pyres shamelessly arranged in public. It seemed as though the whole of Benares was dedicated to death, a methodical, sober business, neither morbid nor joyful, but matter-of-fact, like selling vegetables.

“It is nothing,” Mehrotra reassured her. “Death is Benares’s biggest business. All these temples, woodcutters, tourist vendors—this is Lord Shiva’s city, and Lord Shiva, the Dancer, is the god of destruction.”

Pyres were now visible all down the Ghats, on all the levels, almost down to the lapping water itself. Children walked among the fire-tenders, barely cognizant of the consumption of human bodies all around them.

“Was that… was that the last time you saw Mr. Hoover?” Janice asked, trying to keep pace with Mehrotra as they climbed down the riverbank.

“No, I saw him twice more. He came to my brother’s wedding, and then about four months ago…”

Black-skinned men, absolutely naked, faces flattened and aboriginal, came in between them. Janice fought her way to Mehrotra again. Suddenly they were on the lowest step. The Ganges splashed up and soiled her beige slacks.

“Four months ago?” Janice insisted, breathing hard. “Where is he now?”

Mehrotra turned, the sunlight brilliant on his unshaven cheeks. He smiled softly.

“Elliot Hoover has gone on a pilgrimage,” he said quietly.

Janice, startled, found herself unable to say anything.

“To the South,” he continued, smiling at her mysteriously.

“Will he come back?”

Mehrotra shrugged. “Normally one is gone about a year. That would mean eight months from now.”

Janice covered her ears as a white boat, its decks overloaded with passengers, sounded its horn.

“
Eight months?
” she yelled. “That’s impossible!”

Mehrotra took her slowly along the bottom step of the Ghats. He gave a coin to a beggar, but stepped over the others.

“Why is that impossible?” Mehrotra asked placidly.

“I need to see him.”

“Tell me why.”

“My husband thinks that Ivy—feels very sure that Ivy has come back.”

“You already told me that.”

“And we must know for certain.”

Mehrotra looked at her, surprised.

“Why?” he asked blandly.

“Because he has been institutionalized for thinking it!” she said, and then burst out, “Because he believes he’s found her.”

Mehrotra’s eyes fastened upon hers. “And you? What do you believe?”

Janice could only return his piercing gaze as the great and overwhelming question hung between them. She shrugged in helpless dismay.

“You mustn’t have doubts,” he said earnestly. “Reincarnation is a fact of life. With all of us.”

“Yes, here. But in New York…”

“You’re not in New York now. Look, believe your heart. What does your heart tell you?”

“It’s my head,” she laughed ruefully. “It doesn’t quite want to latch onto it.”

“You Westerners,” Mehrotra mocked. “You live in little cages. Would you believe me if I proved it to you?”

She looked at him, surprised at the jocularity in his voice.

“If you had faith,” he said, holding up a finger, “you would not need proof. Nevertheless, I can show you something. Yes? Come with me.”

Janice followed him into a dank, dark alley. It was so moist that a kind of thick, green moss grew at the base of the walls.

Then the alley grew narrow. Finally, it was no more than a passageway between leaning stone walls.

Mehrotra turned at a wooden gate, climbed rickety steps, and stepped onto a wide, surprisingly clean, stone floor. Tall windows poured rectangles of warmth onto the stone. An aged woman, a younger woman, and five black-eyed children stared shyly at Janice.

Mehrotra spoke rapidly, pointing to Janice. She thought she heard Elliot Hoover’s name mentioned. Then he identified the family to her, one by one.

“My sister, Aliya. Her mother-in-law and the children. They’re Aliya’s.”

Aliya smiled pleasantly.

As Mehrotra chatted with his sister, deferring in his speech to the mother-in-law, Janice looked around at the children. They huddled at the door, and when they saw her looking, they ran back into the kitchen. The enormous depths of the black eyes startled her. They were like shaded pools, naive, and troubling in their purity.

Aliya gently handed Janice a cup and saucer, then set a strainer on the cup. The tea burbled musically into the small chinaware. Aliya did the same for Mehrotra and the motherin-law, casting shy glances at Janice.

“Arun!” Mehrotra called.

Shyly, a slender boy, about ten years old, emerged from the kitchen and nestled himself onto Mehrotra’s lap.

“Now,” Mehrotra said, “my sister’s mother-in-law will tell you the story of her Uncle Vinoba.”

Mehrotra directed the mother-in-law to begin. The lady had a slightly humped back, so she had to move the chair to face Janice.

“I will translate,” Mehrotra said.

The woman began. The language did not seem even to have syllables, only melodic rambling.

“She is speaking a very old dialect,” Mehrotra whispered, “about the days of her mother. It was when the British were in India. She always begins the same way.” Mehrotra translated: “In those days, not far from here, the British had rubber plantations. But they always made the men elect a foreman of their own choosing to be the go-between. In this way, they controlled the workers more easily.”

The aged voice continued.

“Now Uncle Vinoba wanted to be that foreman. After all, the pay was good, he could have a hut to himself and sometimes wear the company watch on a chain.”

Janice leaned toward Mehrotra to hear better.

“Now, in those days, there were always rebellions in the rubber plantations. Uncle Vinoba ingratiated himself with the workers. But also with the British. To make a long story shorter, he was elected to lead a rebellion. Now this was very bad, because he was afraid of the British. But he did not want to anger the rebels. So he said yes.”