Page 41 of The Love Thief
CHAPTER THIRTY Delhi, Here I Come
As far as airports go, Dehradun is considered an oasis of calm.
A rectangle of tall floor-to-ceiling glass walls surrounding a handful of gates, it is clean, modern, and highly organized by Indian standards.
My fellow travelers, many sporting wrists and necks adorned in prayer beads, emitted an essence of sandalwood-scented chill as we lined up to pass through the relatively short security line.
It seemed like a year had passed since I arrived in India, a tired, confused, and lost woman terrified of the future.
Now, just twenty-two days later, the future was still a big mystery, but I was no longer frightened.
In fact, I was actually feeling excited, having finally accepted Maya’s incredible offer.
As I sat in the boarding area for my Jet Airways flight to Delhi to meet Maya, I checked my watch. Was it possible that only five hours ago I had floated in the Ganges and had an experience for which I have no name? Transcendence? Bliss? A combination of both?
I had consciously stepped into the river to surrender my pain to Ma Ganga, hoping that Sadhviji was right. That I would be healed of my suffering. What happened transported me to a place of knowing and feeling utter contentment. My desire to be free of suffering was fulfilled.
I was finally at a misery level of zero and I went deep inside myself, hunting, trying to figure out where my pain was lurking.
When I peered fiercely into that space where it was once housed, I saw a tingling light, a pulsation of unspeakable love.
Gone were the sticky feelings of despair along with the fearful, sloshing queasiness that cropped up every time I thought about the future.
When I tried to tap into the searing heat of my rage at Carly’s betrayal, I found stillness where a stinging sensation had existed. And when I thought of Barry, my heart no longer ached. My time of simultaneously hating him and longing for him had vanished.
What I had never anticipated was that I would miss my pain.
I had heard about veterans who had lost limbs in battle but continued to experience pain from an arm or leg that was no longer there.
It was as if I had allowed my suffering and misery to become such a part of me physically and emotionally that I found myself searching for it.
I had created a deeply held identity as a victim of love.
For the past three months I had been so wrapped in storm clouds of despair that, without the heaviness of my anguish, I now felt naked.
Surprisingly, a new me was emerging and I found myself smiling for no apparent reason.
I was feeling sunny and optimistic, even though I was no closer to having a game plan for the rest of my life than before my trip to India.
Despite this newfound serenity, my rational mind, always in practical mode, was filled with questions:
Was this real? Would the experience of santosha wear off like novocaine? Who am I? What will become of me? Where do I belong? Should I stay in India or should I go home? If I go home, where would I live?
And, while my mind was skipping through these possibilities, I noticed that my body wasn’t responding with the usual feelings of dread in the pit of my stomach.
The questions arose and lightly floated by, and somehow, I had faith—and trust—that it would all work out.
Even better, I realized that I didn’t need to know the outcome right now.
What exactly happened to me in the river? And more importantly, will this new state of contentment last? If so, for how long?
Maya sent her driver to pick me up at the Delhi airport. My evening flight from Dehradun was less than an hour, about the same length of time it took to crawl through the tangled mess of typical Delhi traffic as we headed to her family’s five-star hotel.
We pulled into the brightly lit porte cochere where my car door was instantly opened by a tall gentleman sporting a striped turban, a huge handlebar mustache, and a cummerbund cinching his long white dress coat with brass buttons.
I felt like Cinderella arriving at the ball as he helped me out onto the red carpet.
“Welcome, Madame Holly! We have been expecting you. My name is Mohan, and if you need anything at all, I will take care of you. Madam Maya has arranged for you to stay in our Gayatri Devi Suite. It is her favorite. We will have your bags sent up momentarily. Now, please follow me.”
The noise of the Delhi traffic was noticeably absent as I stepped through the double brass doors of the suite into a large foyer of the most luxurious room I had ever seen.
Several steps into the center of the foyer was a big circular copper pot floating with an array of fresh flowers, including lotus blossoms, rose petals, and marigolds.
Mohan handed me an old-fashioned brass room key, and took me on a tour of the suite, which included a living room, dining room, and two master suites, both with king-size beds.
The hardwood floors were a warm almond color, the walls a muted pale pink.
There were two raspberry-colored velvet couches perched on a Mughal-design rug of various shades of beige and copper.
An ornately carved wooden dining room table was surrounded by eight large throne-like chairs upholstered in shiny red silk with gold threads running through it.
I had no idea what or who Gayatri Devi was, but this suite was clearly designed to house a queen.
A delicate chime announced the arrival of a porter with my small suitcase and backpack.
A short, younger man in a less impressive white uniform walked in and asked if he could unpack my bags for me.
I suppressed a laugh as I thanked him and declined.
He walked backward to the door and left.
Mohan gave me a card with his direct line and the Wi-Fi code, and made me promise that if I needed anything at all, anytime, day or night, to please let him know.
Since both bedrooms were the same size and equally beautiful, one with hues of dark purple and gold and the other a bit more masculine in shades of beige, taupe, and chocolate, I chose the purple one. In the center of the bed was a square, ivory envelope. The notecard read:
Dear Holly ,
I am so happy you are here with me, and I knew you would choose the purple bedroom!
I will come to see you tomorrow morning.
Whenever you are hungry or want anything at all, pick up the phone and call room service.
You are my guest. There is no charge, just go easy on the Dom Pérignon.
See you at 9 A.M. ! Maya
P.S. Check out the closet. I selected a few things for you from our lobby boutique.
I was definitely hungry. It had been nearly twelve hours since my last meal.
The room service menu, encased in a rich leather cover, was on the bedside table, and I quickly found the twenty-four-hour dining page.
The moment I spotted the French toast made from brioche with real maple syrup and blueberry puree, I began to salivate.
I ordered it with a side of chocolate ice cream.
I was ready for a trayful of all-American comfort food.
While waiting for my late supper, I went to the closet to see what goodies Maya had gotten for me.
Expecting to find just a few items, I discovered at least a dozen hangers containing several colorful tunics, a few skinny pants in matching colors, a pair of American jeans, and some really cute and fun tunics and T-shirts.
If Maya was trying to bribe me into staying, she was doing everything right.
I had seventy-two hours to decide whether to stay or rebook my return ticket for a later, unspecified date. I would think about that later. For now, I sank happily into the purple king-size bed and hungrily waited for my meal.