The Wishing Trees by John Shors

Author:John Shors
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Historical - General, Widows, Family Life, Asia, General, Fathers and daughters, Americans, Historical, American Contemporary Fiction - Individual Authors +, Fiction, Fiction - Historical
ISBN: 9780451231130
Publisher: Penguin Group USA
Published: 2010-09-15T06:11:54.221000+00:00

TWO DAYS LATER, IAN AND MATTIE SAT on a train bound for Varanasi. They once again had paid for a sleeper car. Though the day had been hot, the train’s windows were open, and a refreshing breeze tumbled from car to car. The clatter of the steel wheels on the tracks was soothing—a combination of gentle movement and soft, constant noise. Ian thought that riding on a train like this one must be similar to being in the womb. The warmth, the background noise, and the movement merged together into a sensation that could hardly have been more pleasing. For the first time since he’d lost Mattie, he felt completely relaxed.

The sun had set, and scattered lightbulbs illuminated the train. Mattie and Ian sat on one side of a stainless-steel table, while an Indian couple occupied the other seats. The woman was dressed in a red sari with blue trim. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, her nose and ears pierced with gold jewelry. A red bindi dotted the spot above and between her eyes. Sitting beside her, a balding man in black pants and a white collared shirt put down his newspaper and looked out the window. His companion carefully unfolded a misshapen box of aluminum foil. Inside were small yellow cakes. She handed a cake to the man, then looked at Mattie. “Would you like one, dear?” she asked in well-spoken English, holding out a cake. “This is mango halwa, really nothing more than mango puree mixed with a little sugar syrup.”

Mattie glanced at Ian, unsure if she should accept food from a stranger. He nodded and so she smiled and extended her hand. “Thank you.”

“And you, sir?”

“I’d fancy a go at one,” Ian replied, the smell of the treats making his mouth water.

“I made these from fresh juicy mangos,” she said. “Not like those monsters grown from fertilizer that you buy in the city.”

Ian smiled, biting into the dessert, which was sweet and soft. “Crikey. That’s quite good.”

“She’s a good cook,” the man said, reaching for a second helping. “Of course, her cooking makes me fat, but I’m not complaining.”

“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.

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