The Wishing Trees (25 page)

“Do you live in Varanasi?” Ian asked. “Or are you on holiday?”

The woman adjusted her sari, pulling the garment higher. “Our son is an engineering student there. We visit him every few months. And you? Where are you from? Why are you in India?”

“My wife asks too many questions,” the man said, though he smiled.

Ian finished his sweet. “No worries, mate. My daughter, Mattie, and I are from New York. We’re in India for a few weeks.”

“What have you seen in India?” the woman asked, looking at Mattie, handing her a napkin.

Mattie wiped her hands. “We saw the Taj Mahal.”

“What time of day was that?”

“Morning.”

“Morning is good. But on your next trip to India, visit the Taj at night, under a full moon. Then your knees will really grow weak.”

The man nodded to a uniformed attendant who pushed a cart down the aisle. Words in Hindi were exchanged before the passenger handed over a few bills. The attendant put two beer cans, a bottle of Sprite, and a glass of tea on their table. “For our companions,” the man said, handing Ian a beer and Mattie the Sprite.

“Thanks, mate,” Ian said, feeling as if he should have done the same.

“It is our pleasure,” the man replied. “We are your hosts in our country, after all.” He opened his beer, then lifted up his newspaper and pointed to a picture. “We are very excited that your president will be coming to visit us next week.”

“I reckon he’ll have a lovely time,” Ian said, sipping his beer.

The man smiled. “America is the place where all dreams can happen.”

“And what about India?”

“Someday, India will be the same. We are getting closer but still have a long way to go.”

“I think you’re doing well.”

The man shrugged. “We are trying. But educating, feeding, and taking care of more than a billion people is not easy. Our son is lucky. We could afford to send him to a university, and he has studied hard. But too many sons and daughters will never go to such schools. In that way, India has not changed so much. The class system is gone, on paper anyway. But really, it is not gone.”

Ian nodded, sipping his beer, noticing how the man’s wife had grown quiet once the political discussion began. The train’s horn blew ahead into the darkness. “I reckon every country has a class system of sorts,” Ian answered. “Though back in the States, our skin color doesn’t matter as much anymore. And that’s a real rags-to-riches story.”

“It is,” the Indian replied, rapping his knuckles on the table. “And what is your dream? You do not sound like you are from America.”

“Well, it’s my adopted country, you could say. I married into it and am glad I did, because you’re right; it’s a good place for dreams. The best place, I reckon. Six years ago, I started a little company, a little company that sold Japanese foodstuffs online to those of us who acquired a hankering for their treats. You know—dried noodles and spices and so on. Anyway, when I recently hung up my hat, we had more than twenty employees. Even a few blokes in Bangalore were working for us.”

“Really, in Bangalore? Did they perform well for you?”

“Like wheels on a wagon.”

The man nodded, finished his drink, and set the can aside. “You will enjoy Varanasi. Be careful, for there are thieves and pickpockets. But when you take off your shoes and put your feet in the Ganga, you’ll feel like you have come home.”

“We’ve heard as much.”

“Well, enjoy your trip. And the Ganga.”

Noticing that Mattie looked tired, Ian smiled, thanking the couple for the food and drinks. He then helped her climb a small iron ladder that rose to a padded bench above their seat. A curtain could be strung around the bed, and Ian pulled it shut, surprised that the mattress was covered in a clean white sheet. Though the bed was designed to accommodate one sleeping passenger, Ian knew that Mattie would want him to rest beside her. “Reckon there’s enough room for us both?” he asked.

“Sure, Daddy,” she said, moving over as much as possible to make room for him, her great-grandmother’s ring held tight in her hand.

Ian lay next to her, settling on his back. She put her head on his chest. The train rocked to and fro beneath them, the rhythmic thump of the wheels on the tracks obscuring conversations below. “Fancy a story, luv?”

“Can you tell me a new one?”

“About what?”

“About . . . about a girl who finds a little sister.”

He stroked the back of her head, wishing that she didn’t ask to hear such tales, for she wanted happy endings, and happy endings in a story were easier to create than those in real life. “There was once a brown-eyed girl,” he began, “who lived all alone on a train.”

Ian continued to tell the story, wondering what words might make her smile, if she ever would have a little sister. He wanted more than anything in his life to give her such a treasure but he couldn’t imagine marrying again. And as a single man, adoption was out of the question. No agency would grant him a child.

At the end of his story, the girl found a little sister, which brought a smile to Mattie’s face. She thanked him, handed him the ring, and closed her eyes. He remained awake, his mind churning, his fingers turning the ring over and over. He didn’t know if ultimately he could offer her hope, as he so wanted to. At some point their trip would be over, and he’d have to find work, to be pulled from her. She’d need him, and he would be at a meeting, perhaps just a few miles down the road, but a span too far for him to bridge.

The night aged, but sleep eluded Ian. For the first time since their journey began, he didn’t want it to end.

FROM THE WATER, VARANASI LOOKED SERENE. ALONG the cement-lined banks of the Ganges River, two- and three-story temples, shrines, and palaces rose like colorful castles. The temples often featured a rectangular base and a colorful pointed top. In courtyards below the temples, near the river, Hindus wearing ceremonial robes prayed, often gathered around a body covered in flowers. Rows of shallow steps descended from the temples directly into the Ganges, allowing people to pray and wash with equal ease. Mattie had once been to a New York Giants football game, and thought that the side of the river in some ways resembled the rows of bleachers at a massive stadium. Pink and red temples dotted the riverbank, and thousands of Hindus walked up and down the stone steps, pilgrims who had traveled from all over the country to swim in the Ganges and be cleansed of their sins.

The Ganges was much larger than she would have guessed. Blue-hulled boats bobbed in the current as fishermen cast nets into the murky water and tourists snapped photos. Mattie’s father had told her that Varanasi was one of the oldest cities on Earth, and that Buddha had given his first sermon here after becoming enlightened. A stone pier jutted out into the water, and children leapt from it into the air, spinning and somersaulting before landing with a splash.

Sitting at the front of their boat, Mattie had her sketch pad out, and though she was tempted to draw the children, she focused on the temples and the worshippers. She’d never seen people dressed so color-fully and wondered why everybody in America who went to church seemed to wear black or gray. She asked their guide this question and he paused from rowing.

“The Ganga is the most sacred place in India,” he said, his English quick and precise, much like his oar strokes. “People come to Varanasi to die, and this makes them happy, their families happy. If you are Hindu and you die in Varanasi, then you have much to smile about. You have won the lottery for death.”

Next to Mattie, Ian studied her face, wondering if they should be here. He wasn’t certain what she would think of such a place. She’d asked to walk along the river, among all the people, but he hadn’t wanted her to get such a good view of the dead bodies. Better to watch such things from afar on the river.

Though Ian feared letting Mattie see the dead up close, he’d been reluctant to skip Varanasi. He believed Hindus possessed an acceptance of death that didn’t often exist in the West. They saw death as a spoke that made up a wheel of life, believed death led to rebirth. And while Ian didn’t seek to remind Mattie about death of any sort, he hoped that somehow a trip to the Ganges River would show her that some cultures associated death with hope.

“Can we go closer to shore?” she asked, a yellow pencil moving incessantly in her hand.

The man adjusted his turban. “My oars will take you anywhere you like. Except north to the mountains. I have enemies there.”

“Enemies?”

“A girl,” he said, smiling. “It all began with a girl.”

Mattie nodded, not understanding, and wanting to finish her sketch. As she worked, Ian turned around, looking across the river. In the distance he saw what he thought was a bloated body floating past. The poor, he knew, couldn’t afford to burn the bodies of their loved ones and simply set them free in the Ganges. Glad that Mattie hadn’t seen the corpse, he turned back to her.

Their guide pointed to a stone outcropping below a pink temple. The outcropping extended above the water and held a group of people dressed in orange and yellow robes. Near the river, a fire burned, twisting in the breeze, sending the scent of sandalwood in all directions. “This is a ghat,” their guide said, pointing.

“What’s a ghat?” Mattie asked, pausing at her work.

“A place where Hindus burn the bodies of their loved ones. The body is burned, and the ashes are swept into the Ganga by a relative. Hindus believe that since the body has been burned to ashes, the journey toward rebirth will be easier. And that journey happens in the river.”

Mattie watched a man in white robes add more wood to the fire. Looking up and down the banks of the river, she saw dozens of other fires on similar structures. As the man in white used a long pole to poke at the nearby fire, another man, dressed in colorful robes, began to move his hands and chant.

“He is the priest,” their guide said.

“Might you tell us about rebirth?” Ian asked, edging closer to Mattie along the bench.

The man shrugged. “I am a Muslim, so I do not understand everything that the Hindus believe. Muslims believe that we go to Paradise after death. That is our jackpot. The Hindus believe that one is reborn, and this makes death not such a bad thing, because the soul . . . changes its direction at death . . . and then returns to Earth in a new body to continue its journey.”

Mattie looked from fire to fire, thinking of her mother’s funeral. “What if you were buried? Could your soul still be reborn?”

The Indian picked up his oars and rowed a few times, his lips pursed. “I do not know for certain what the Hindus would say. But I think they would nod their shiny heads. They would believe that the soul could never be caged. The Ganga, of course, makes rebirth easier. But the ground is not so different.”

On the nearby shore, the fire appeared to be losing its strength. The man in white continued to poke with his long pole, sifting through the remains.

“If it is a man they have burned,” the guide said, “his ribs may remain. If it is a woman, her hips may be left. That man is seeing if everything has been burned enough. If it has, a relative of the dead will use a broom to push the ashes into the Ganga.”

Mattie thought about her mother being reborn. She didn’t know if she wanted to imagine her mother in heaven, or if being reborn might somehow be better. If she was reborn, maybe Mattie would meet her again. Maybe they could somehow take a walk together or kick a soccer ball.

A mosquito landed on Mattie’s arm, and she brushed it away, then pointed to a boy swimming in the river directly below the funeral pyre. “What’s he doing?”

“He is homeless,” the man answered, rowing again. “Many people would call him an untouchable.”

“Why?”

“Because he swims in that water, looking for gold teeth and jewelry.”

“For gold teeth?”

“From the burned bodies. He finds the teeth and sells the gold. That is how he lives.”

Mattie watched the boy, grimacing as she thought about swimming through the polluted water, looking for teeth. “Where are his parents?”

“Sick, maybe. Dead already. In another city. I have watched this boy every day for more than two years. He goes deeper than the other boys. Even deeper than the big ones. He is a good boy, I think. Once I dropped my oar in the water and he brought it to me. And once I brought him to shore, when he had a fever and the river was too strong for him.”

Ian saw that Mattie was troubled and took her hand. “Maybe we should go, luv. I reckon we’ve seen enough.”

Mattie thought about her mother’s letter. “Do people really say that he’s . . . an untouchable?”

“Yes. He deals with the dead, and that makes him an untouchable.”

She turned to her father. “I think we should talk with him.”

“He would run away from you,” the guide replied, shaking his head. “The bigger boys steal from him.”

Ian watched Mattie nod silently. “Will you take us to shore?” he asked. “Right in there, between those ghats?”

The guide shrugged, turning the boat and rowing quietly. Within a few minutes the boat’s bow touched cement steps leading into the water. Ian handed the man some bills, thanked him, and helped Mattie jump ashore. Many Hindus were present on the steps—bathers, pilgrims, men carrying wood. Ian and Mattie walked along the water toward the boy. He was about thirty feet from shore, swimming downstream from the large ghat. Mattie realized that he was younger than she’d thought, maybe even younger than she was.