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still asking herself. Beata will be surprised that she’s still in Delhi, not contributing anything except shit to an already stressed sewage system.
      I saw Eric at the Coop. In the herbal remedy section. Apparently he’s had bronchitis for weeks. More like a broken heart. He asked after you, of course.
      Her throat catches. No, both she and Eric agreed it was over months ago. What she misses is ephemeral: a sense of belonging with someone: holding hands at the movies. Really! She surveys her library of Indian history and literature. She glances out the window at another pair of elephants swaying down the street. And the parakeets!
      You must be wondering about James, the new guy I met at the Y. I’ve seen him twice. He’s smart and funny. I just don’t know if I want to date a banker. Yes, I do use a bank. And James is politically savvy, campaigning against redlining. He tutors prisoners. You know all too well it’s hard for a black woman to find a black man in the Cities. He’s a decent guy, but will I fit into his scene? Of course, I can hear you saying, “How do you know until you’ve tried?” Your voice comes in loud and clear.
      I miss you. I wish we weren’t so many time zones apart. Do you have a cell phone yet? Can you do email there? Write again soon about your health and spirits.
      God’s blessings.
      Much love,
      Beata
      She blinks back tears. Natural to miss a best friend. She also misses the bitter beauty of Minnesota winter. She misses the optimism and excitement she brought on this journey weeks ago. Monica simply never imagined the difficulty of getting settled. Where did she find the hubris for this trip? Where will she find the grace to survive it?

    ****
      She waits for Ashok on a paisley padded bench in the spare, cold lobby, admiring the clean blue of these walls, the simple crucifix, the small statue of Our Lady. She’s never been a rococo Catholic.
      Mr. Asnani connects a caller to Father Koreth and looks up from the reception desk. “Good evening, Doctor. You are going out?”
      “Yes, Mr. Asnani. I am meeting a friend.”
      He returns to his newspaper.
      She admires the sari-like length of her long dress, pleased with her choice.
      “And you are going to the Catholic jamboree?”
      “No, I’m attending a concert at the India Habitat Centre.”
      He scrutinizes her. Those tiny oval glasses and the grey hair make him look like a skeptical scientist searching for empirical evidence.
      “The India Habitat Centre?”
      “Yes, have you been there?” 
      “You are meeting the Professor again?”
      “That’s right, Mr. Asnani.” Does he disapprove? Does he think she’s a nun? “Professor Nair,” she says evenly.
      A buzzer rasps and Mr. Asnani slowly rises to open the large door for Ashok.
      He looks particularly natty tonight in his brown Nehru jacket and black shawl.
      Mr. Asnani clears his throat. “Enjoy the concert, Dr. Murphy. You will remember that we lock the doors at 10 p.m. After that, you shall have to summon the night concierge.”
      “Yes, thank you, Mr. Asnani. And good evening.”
      Descending the broad stone steps together into the boisterous Delhi evening, she grins and notices that Ashok has barely contained his laughter.
      “What’s with that fellow? Is he your long-lost father?”
      She shrugs. Catching her breath, she wonders if in her jet lag she’s told Ashok about Dad skipping out to Wyoming. Of course not. Just an uncanny joke.
      “Does he think I’m abducting you to a rave?” 
      She hoots. “The man likes everything in place,” she explains. “Apparently my place tonight is The Catholic Jamboree.”
      “I trust I’m not keeping you from it?” Ashok takes her arm as they cross the wide street.
      She likes the light feel of his hand, blushes, quickly concealing her embarrassment with chatter. “I have a feeling there will always be Catholic Jamborees in my life. Not sure how often