Free Traveling with Spirits by Valerie Miner

rows.
      Panic rises. At Lake Clinic, she entered a side door after lunch. Patients were escorted to her, already weighed and measured and partially screened. Here she’s conscious of people waiting, endless lines of them.
      “Just a moment, Sister Melba, and I’ll be ready for the first patient.” She retreats to the tiny exam room, washes her hands, reminds herself she can only see one person at a time and says a quick prayer for guidance. All the afflictions of India are not her responsibility. She’ll do better if she concentrates on the person before her than if she frets about those on folding chairs.
      Sister Eleanor stations herself in the corner to help with translation. Monica likes the young nun, but looks forward to the time when she knows enough Hindi to see patients alone.
      The sun gradually drops lower and lower in the trees. It’s several hours before she can see the boy and his mother.
      The mother greets her in English, “Good afternoon, Doctor.”
      He follows shyly, “Good afternoon, Doctorji .”
      “I am Sudha Badami, a teacher at Walkerton School. This is Vikram, one of our finest students.”
      The boy drops his gaze.
      “Thank you, Sister Eleanor,” Monica smiles. “We won’t need translation for this patient. Would you like to take a break?”
      The nun regards her warily.
      “Really, Sister, we’ll be fine. Why not have a cup of tea and stretch your legs?”
      Sister Eleanor smiles hesitantly and withdraws.
      “You speak no Hindi?” observes the teacher.
      “ Thora Sa . I am learning.” Monica is embarrassed by the teacher’s challenge. “How can I help Vikram?”
      “Something is occurring in his eyes.” She tilts her pretty dark face, concerned.
      Monica notices that Sudha Badami is her age, mid-thirties—a poised woman wearing an elegant green silk sari. Saris make Indian women look older, more grown up. In comparison, Monica feels bleakly utilitarian in her brown skirt and black sweater.
      “Vikram, do you speak much English?”
      He glances uncertainly at his teacher.
      “He speaks more than he lets on. But if I may be permitted to translate, you both might be more comfortable.”
      Edgy lady. Focus on the patient.
      “How long have your eyes been red?” Monica asks.
      “He has suffered four days only.”
      Monica examines the boy’s shy eyes. “Vikram, you have conjunctivitis. Do you know what that is?”
      “No, Doctorji. ”
      “There’s an infection in the membrane over your eyeballs and inside the lids.”
      Sudha Badami translates.
      Vikram’s face grows solemn.
      “We can treat this relatively easily if you take the medicine as directed.”
      She notices a flicker of reprieve in Vikram’s rich brown irises. She loves how examining eyes reveals patient’s deeper feelings.
      Sudha Badami sits back in relief.
      She hands him a scrip. “You can show this to Sister Melba in reception and she will direct you to the pharmacy desk.”
      Sudha Badami watches.
      “And Vikram, please keep your hands away from your eyes. Conjunctivitis spreads easily and before long your entire class will be ill.”
      “Yes,” the teacher complains. “We have much eye disease here. It’s the wind.”
      “It’s hygiene,” Monica says automatically. Too brusque; she needs a tea break.
      “Families do their best. Sometimes wells function. Sometimes not,” her voice simmers. “Indians wash more than any other people on earth. Here the dust, the dust…”
      “Indeed,” Monica’s voice softens. “I don’t mean to impugn. Still, there are certain precautions, even in this challenging climate…”
      Sudha Badami studies her. “I believe you are the perfect person to present a lecture about hygiene for my afternoon students. Do you ever get away from the hospital?”
      She pictures her half day, exploring Moorty and visiting the internet shop. However, she came here to serve. Wasn’t she