Free The Sandalwood Tree by Elle Newmark Page B

to assist Gandhi three years ago and rediscovered my mother’s spiritual roots in Ladakh. At the moment I’m attempting a meditative retreat at an ashram, but frankly it’s not going well. I find the silence quite unbearable, and I tend to sneak out every day. I walk around town just to hear the sounds of life, and I end up here.”
    “Well, that’s honest.” I offered him my hand. “My name is Evie Mitchell.”
    He did not shake my hand, but stepped back, pressing his praying hands firmly to his nose and bowing deeply. Later, I would learnthat while on retreat Buddhist men refrain from physical contact with women. He said, “A pleasure, Mrs. Mitchell. My name is Haripriya, but you can call me Hari.” He looked slyly amused. “Harry, if you like.”
    I’d been dithering around trying to understand India for months, and here was an Indian who truly spoke my language. I saw the heavy, opaque door to that inscrutable country swinging open, and I returned Harry’s bow. “Please, call me Evie.” I gestured at Billy, still asleep in his wagon. “This is my son. We were out for a stroll and I saw the temple. I couldn’t resist coming in.”
    “I understand. It’s human, don’t you think? To be drawn to places of transcendence.”
    “Is that it? Transcendence?”
    “I think so.” He chuckled. “Or in my case, escape. We get up so bloody early, every day seems endless.” He shook his head. “I have a long way to go.”
    “Well, since we’re being honest, I actually came out today sleuthing for information that’s probably none of my business, but I’ve become intrigued. I’m living in a house where an English lady lived about ninety years ago. I’ve found her letters, and her friend is buried in a graveyard in Masoorla.” I stopped short, amazed to hear myself talk so freely about Felicity and Adela for the first time, and to a stranger. But it felt good. “I believe they were here during the Sepoy Mutiny, and I’d like to know what happened to them. But …” I shrugged. “Ninety years …”
    Harry smiled, more with his eyes than his mouth. He said, “In India, ninety years is nothing. The monks at the ashram have records from before the Moghuls. Almost everything that has happened here has been written down somewhere by someone. When did your elusive ladies write their letters?”
    Gentle excitement swelled in my chest. “The letters are dated from 1855 to 1856.”
    “And their names?”
    “Adela Winfield and Felicity Chadwick.”
    He nodded, committing the names to memory, then said, “Two young women living alone in the mofussil? That would have been highly unusual. Girls came out to India to find husbands, and if they didn’t succeed in a year they went back home. Poor things were called ‘Returned Empties.’” He shook his head. “But you’ve made me curious. I’ll check our records.”
    “Wonderful.”
    “Sad to say, you can find me here every day about this time. I’m sure they think I’m in my cell communicating with my inner self. Unfortunately, I’ve discovered that my inner self is rather a bore.”
    I laughed. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
    Billy stirred and sat up in his wagon. Bleary with sleep, he looked soft and defenseless, his eyelids pink and puffy. Harry and I watched him rub his eyes. I said, “Hi there, sleepyhead.”
    “Hi.” Billy looked at Harry, then at me, then back at Harry. He said, “Who the heck are you?”
    “Billy, that’s rude.” I turned to Harry apologetically. “He’s only five.”
    Harry smiled and bent down with his hands on his knees. “I was just talking to your mother.”
    Billy scowled at me. “I thought we’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”
    “
You
are not supposed to talk to strangers. This is Harry.”
    Harry bent down farther and put his hand out. “Glad to meet you, Billy.”
    Billy’s little hand shot out, quick as thought, and he squeezed Harry’s nose between the knuckles of two fingers. He said,