Page 10 of The Love Thief

CHAPTER SIX Destination India

Six weeks after my accident, I was free of wires in my mouth, the cast on my wrist, and the scar over my eye was barely noticeable.

I was pleased and grateful for the healing progress of my physical wounds, yet my internal, emotional injuries remained in critical condition.

I was able to walk and talk, but inside I carried deep, weeping, bleeding wounds for which there were no pills, lasers, stitches, or miracle cures.

To acknowledge the milestone in my healing, my precious Auntie Geeta sent me a beautifully wrapped gift.

The box contained a gorgeous coffee-table-sized cookbook of vegetarian recipes from India and a large, round, stainless steel spice box filled with smaller round containers of colorful Indian spices.

The gift was deeply meaningful to me. After all, it was Geeta who had instilled in me a curiosity about all things Indian, and her early cooking lessons had paved the way for my career as a chef.

A red envelope floated out along with the gift and that included a handwritten letter and a surprise: a check for ten thousand dollars!

Auntie Geeta had always been exceptionally generous with me, but this was above and beyond.

I took a moment to acknowledge how much gratitude I felt for this woman, who showered me with love like a second mother, perhaps because she had never had children of her own.

In a beautiful looping script, Auntie Geeta wrote:

Dear Holly ,

It’s time to rescue yourself and give yourself the space to discover what you are going to do “with your one wild and precious life,” to use the words of the late poet Mary Oliver.

I know how traumatizing this time has been for you. I also know that pain is the fuel for change and that you will come out the other side of this. While it doesn’t feel like it now, there will come a day when you will be happy again.

I had planned to give you this money as a wedding gift and now would like for you to have it as a “restart and reboot your life” gift.

It comes with an idea: I will soon be bringing my parents from Michigan to San Diego to live in my guesthouse, and I will need someone to cook their favorite Indian comfort foods for them a few days each week.

My cousin Divya lives in Rishikesh, India, a beautiful place on the Ganges in the foothills of the Himalayas, and she runs a cooking school there.

Given your love of cooking, if it feels right, I think a few weeks with her would be perfect for you. And then, you can bring your new Indian culinary skills back to San Diego to share with my parents and all of us. What do you think?

Love, Auntie Geeta

P.S. Hopefully, by the time you return home, I will have gotten your money back from Barry.

P.P.S.—A quick joke: Did you hear about the zoo with only one dog? It was a Shih Tzu!

I laughed out loud for the first time in a zillion years. In my head, I made a mental note to call Auntie in the morning and tell her how much I loved her and how much I appreciated her lifetime of care and support.

Then I picked up the check for ten thousand and began talking to it.

“Okay, beautiful windfall gift. What shall I do with you? Yes, India is enticing but also very scary. You know, I’ve never traveled alone, and I’m not sure a country like India, with over a billion people, is for a beginner like me.

What do you think? Do you think this money might be better used extracting my rapidly aging eggs just in case I manage to find my soulmate before my system shuts down and I am consumed with hot flashes?

You probably don’t know this, but thirty-eight is two years past the recommended age for extracting eggs, with any real hope of eventually having a live birth.

So, Mr. Check, what do I do: India or potential babies? ”

Unfortunately, Mr. Check was not forthcoming with any sage advice, so I dug out a notebook and pen from my bag and drew a line down the middle of a page to make a good, old-fashioned pro-con list.

On the plus side of the column, I wrote the following:

Might be a life-changing adventure.

Learn new, useful career-enhancing recipes and dishes.

Cooking school in India will look great on my résumé.

Auntie Geeta’s cousin is extended family, so I wouldn’t be totally alone.

No possibility of running into Barry.

Then, on the minus side of the page:

Risk of getting deathly ill and miserable from Delhi Belly.

Twenty-one hours of flying time to a strange land.

What if I get kidnapped and disappear, never to be found?

I may fall into even deeper despair and loneliness.

I sat for a few minutes studying both sides of the page, then in a rare instant of clarity, I thought, “Oh, Holly, don’t be such a chickenshit. You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain. This is an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime gift. Just do it!”

I left for India on November 1 with one wheeled carry-on bag stuffed with my favorite and most comfy clothes for layering, along with an extra pair of walking shoes.

Auntie Geeta assured me I wouldn’t need my usual hair and makeup supplies or fancy clothes.

Whatever I needed could be purchased there, including an extra suitcase for the trip home, should I decide to indulge in retail therapy.

She gave me strict instructions on how to avoid the dreaded Delhi Belly, which included me raising my newly mended and now pain-free right hand and taking an oath swearing that I would not, under any circumstances, eat street food or salads, or anything that wasn’t cooked within an inch of its life.

And the only fruit allowed was fruit that I personally peeled myself.

I also promised that I would always use bottled water to brush my teeth and would keep my mouth shut in the shower.

Mom put together for me a backpack of everything I could possibly need to stay healthy, including antibiotics, over-the-counter stomach remedies, an assortment of strange-to-me medicines, and Bach flower remedies.

She included my favorite go-to protein bars, instant oatmeal packets, and several one-serving packages of my favorite gluten-free chocolate chip cookies.

At 4:30 A.M. , Mom drove me through the inky black early morning to San Diego International Airport, and we both cried as we said goodbye. My flight to Newark departed at 6:30 A.M. with a connection in Paris before landing in Delhi and catching the short one-hour flight to Dehradun.

After twenty-three hours of flying time and countless layovers, I was grateful that, with Auntie’s generous gift, I had splurged and bought business class tickets.

When I reached my final destination, I was exhausted, dazed, jet-lagged, and confused.

Thankfully, I easily spotted the driver holding the sign with my name waiting just outside the small terminal.

The weather forecast for Rishikesh was sunny skies with a high of 72 and a low of 55 for every day in the foreseeable future.

Too bad they were wrong. A curtain of light rain fell as we drove along the winding road through forests and small roadside stands into Rishikesh, giving the landscape a dreary glow.

While there wasn’t a lot of auto traffic, we encountered all kinds of unusual things on the road: We barely missed hitting a family of five on a scooter, passed an oxen-pulled cart loaded ten feet high with hay, and avoided dirty skinny cows wandering in every direction.

I noticed my driver often putting two fingers to his lips in a kiss and then touching his heart.

I was uncertain if he was giving thanks for narrowly avoiding an accident or doing another kind of worship.

Soon we barely moved at all. We hit a traffic jam.

I could see (and hear) what seemed to be a parade.

The driver explained, in his singsong, broken English, that it was the first day of wedding season.

This parade was composed of a colorful group of musicians playing drums and brass instruments that sounded a lot like a New Orleans second line.

As we slowly inched forward, I could see the parade was leading a handsome groom wearing a bejeweled turban, riding a white horse draped in brightly colored silks embroidered in gold.

The surreal sight felt like a bad omen, a visual reminder of the death of my wedding dreams. This wasn’t the Welcome to India!

We’re glad you’re here! I had imagined. A wedding season?

Really? After I had just canceled my lifetime subscription to happiness forever? Misery level: 10+++.

When Mom had delivered my backpack for this trip, I had emptied it to check out all the goodies she had packed for me.

In addition to all the pills, potions, and tasty treats, she had included a “gratitude journal.” Ever the self-help junkie that she is, inside the journal, I found a photo of the two of us along with a note:

Dear Holly ,

I am hoping you will take a few moments at the end of each day to write down the things for which you are grateful, things you found beautiful or made you smile, and to rate your misery level so you can begin to see the lessening of the pain you have suffered.

By doing this you will have a reference for your healing process.

Love, Mom

Despite the wedding parade traffic slowdown, I arrived at my hotel in less than thirty minutes. Divya knew the owner of the place and had arranged for a forty-dollars-a-night rate for three weeks that included breakfast and promised a Ganges view.

As I walked into the lobby, the young Indian man behind the desk smiled and put his hands into prayer position over his chest as he greeted me. “Namaste, welcome, Miss Holly.”

I couldn’t namaste back as both hands were busy with my various travel bags, but I did my best to put a pleasant smile on my face.