It seemed as if Bobby had been gone for months instead of sixteen days. When she returned home from England where she had attended her only sibling’s funeral following his unexpected death, the excitement of being together kept us awake talking long after our usual bedtime.

Two days after our joyful reunion, on September  27,  Bobby waved goodbye as she pedaled off to return a sweater at the Arsenal Mall in Watertown.  An hour later, the phone rang. Since the number was unfamiliar, I hesitated before answering. When a woman’s voice asked if I was related to Roberta Wiggins, my heart stopped. For years, long before Bobby lost most of her hearing, I’d had a premonition that Bobby would have an accident while riding her bicycle. I considered asking her to stop biking but knowing the joy and sense of freedom it gave her, I couldn’t myself to do it. Also, I’m a fatalist, believing our end time is predetermined, unable to delay the angel of death. 

“Yes! Yes, I’m her husband! What happened?”

“She’s been hit by a large truck…her leg…so much blood. The police, ambulance are coming!”

Frantic, I called the Watertown Police who assured me that someone would call back as soon as they knew where Bobby had been taken. Fifteen long minutes later,  they said she was in Beth Israel Hospital Trauma Center. A neighbor drove me over. 

 I was led into the  Waiting Room. One hour passed.  Another hour.

“Where is Bobby,” I asked. 

“As soon as she is out of the OR, we will come for you.”

On the five o’clock news, there was a short segment about a truck hitting a bicyclist in Watertown. When I saw the size of the vehicle, my heart dropped. How could her slight frame survive such an impact? Two more hours passed.  Finally a nurse guided me through long corridors and up an elevator to the E R Trauma Center. The scene was impossible to comprehend.  With so many IVs, a breathing machine with a large tube down her throat, I could barely recognize my wife. The young nurse did her best to answer my questions. 

Near midnight, a doctor entered. “The miracle here is that she’s alive,” he said. “We’ll need another miracle for her to survive without catching an infection or pneumonia.” 

A day later, our long time friend, Diane, came to stay with me. As we walked to Beth Israel each day, we’d tell old stories about Bobby, unable to digest the seriousness of her condition. We sat in silence  watching her motionless body, listening to the sound of the breathing machine in the antiseptic glare of fluorescent light, never mentioning the tube sucking blood from some unknown place under the sheets into a canister. 

For eight days, Bobby’s severe wounds needed to be changed daily in the OR under anesthesia.  I asked the nurse why the breathing tube needed to remain in place. “I want to talk to her.” When the tube was finally removed, Bobby’s vocal cords were traumatized, rendering her unable to eat or drink. She spoke with a whisper but at least we could talk, and when her beautiful blue eyes focused on me, I cried. 

Finally, Bobby was moved from the ICU to a private room. The sun shone in the windows. The nurses were so caring, every few days one would braid Bobby’s hair. As her bandages were being changed, I found the courage to take a look. My God, the damage was inconceivable. But hope serged whenever her eyes met mine. I remarked to Diane how Bobby’s demeanor had become almost childlike, innocent.  Diane had noticed as well. Andy, Diane’s husband, joined us on our daily visits. The three of us sang devotional songs to Bobby.  Her eyes stayed riveted on Andy as he led the song. 

Friends came for a short visit. I couldn’t tell if they thought Bobby was doing well or dying. Someone asked how long I stayed each day. ”All day, 7-8 hours,” I said. “What do you do all that time,” they asked? I had to think because the time passed so quickly. I loved being with her, massaging her feet, helping her with simple exercises, and chatting like we’d done for over 50 years.  There was nowhere I’d rather be.

After three weeks, Bobby’s progress slowed. Full of hope, we didn’t seem to notice or didn’t want to notice. But when both Diane and I noticed Bobby peering at her massive wounds with an expression of disbelief, our hope waned. I continued to ask questions about her progress and  how they planned to skingraft such a large area. Definitive answers were rare, but a nurse said it was good to ask questions; Bobby needed an advocate. Another week passed as her condition continued to decline, Bobby began to have spiritual visions.Her Guru appeared to her within. I’d heard of Indian followers of the Saint having similar experiences but for Bobby to confirm that our Guru had come to support her was awe inspiring. Diane, Andy and I were so moved by her proclamations that we temporarily forgot the seriousness of Bobby’s broken body. 

Despite knowing how dire Bobby’s situation was, the nurses remained positive. They commented how radiant she looked, how bright her eyes were. They were brilliant!  Instead of having a touch of green, they were now a vibrant blue. No one had an explanation. 

An infection invaded one of the large wounds and found its way into Bobby’s blood steam. Back to the ICU with low, very low blood pressure, kidneys failing and her lungs were filling with fluid. A surgeon told me without dialysis, she couldn’t last. 

“And with Dialysis?” I asked. 

He looked down, “Her kidneys might rebound.”

“And?”

“Her prognosis is grim.

A meeting was called. Diane sat in. The doctors wanted to persevere. After all the time and energy put in to save Bobby, they didn’t want to quit. I knew that Bobby had no fear of dying; we’d discussed end-of-life issues many times through the years. I asked Diane for her thoughts. She said a few days earlier Bobby had told her how pointless it was to keep her alive.

“No more treatments,” I said. “ let her have some peace before dying.” That’s my decision,”

Bobby was moved to a new room where she drifted in and out of consciousness. Her labored breathing was torturous to listen to, but Diane, who had worked for years in hospice, knew as bad as it sounded, this was normal. “Don’t let them give her morphine, it will cloud her mind. She should be as alert as possible for the transition.” 

All night I listening to that death rattle. The next day friends came to stay farewell in silence. How do I say goodbye after 53 years? That night at 9:30, Bobby took her last breath. I sat with her lifeless body trying to grasp what had happened. I couldn’t. But even in my state of shock, the silence in this room was inescapable. Dead silence! Now I understood that expression, without life, there’s only silence. She was pronounced dead at 10:40 pm on Nov.14th. I went home.

Diane and Andy stayed for another two weeks to help me begin the impossible task of adjusting to life without Bobby. Bobby and I were so close, so attached.  I felt that half of my heart and soul had just been torn away. At this later date, there will be no recovery for me, just living without intimacy, without the person who knew me inside out and still loved me, without my best friend. And what about all my love for her? It’s turned into grief. ‘Grief is love that has nowhere to go’. Our house is full of her absence, everything reminds me of Bobby. 

Traveling to India was out of the question this winter. I wonder if I’ll ever return—too many memories. 

This will be the last entry of A Small Case Across India that Bobby and I took so much pleasure in writing. I hope through the years it captured our love affair with India, its people and culture as well as the love we had for each other. Our marriage was no less than heaven on earth.   

As our time in Pushkar was drawing to a close, we took up Marina on her promise to show us Ajmer. Only a half an hour away, the main attraction is a Moslem Dargah (a shrine built over the grave of a revered religious figure, often a Sufi saint or dervish). Rajiv’s daughter, Pryanka and her friend, Nadine joined us. Before the Dargah, we visited the ruins of Adhai Din Ka Jhonpra, the oldest mosque in India, built in 1190.

A peaceful spot in the center of the hustle and bustle of the Moslem quarter with goats grazing and families relaxing in the shade.

It was Ramadan (when the Moslems observe fasting during the daytime) meaning there were less horn blowing vehicles in the narrow streets and lanes than usual.

We had lunch hidden behind a curtain so not to offend the faithful. Beside the restaurant, a man stirring a huge cauldron of dahl enough to feed 700 when the Ramadan fast is broken that evening. A woman beside him was making stacks of chapatis.

The Hazrat Khwaja Garib Nawaz Dargah is where Sufi saint, Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti was buried in 1236 and is visited by Hindus, Christians and Buddists. For Moslems, this is the third most holy place for pilgrimage.

We spent time sitting in the mosque courtyard, taking in the charged atmosphere before entering the tomb to receive any benefit the Saint wanted to give. But first, Gerard needed a head covering and was given a heavily-starched white handkerchief. It perched on his head like a chef’s hat that amused us but he didn’t seem to mind.

The tomb was crowded but we were able to find a spot to contemplate, undisturbed. Beside the tomb or in the courtyard, for once, everyone dropped their religious identity and became a moving mass of humanity.

The second place Marina and Rajiv wanted us to visit was a Jain temple that was built and is still owned by the wealthy Soni family of jewelers. Constructed in 1865 with a the two-story museum added 25 years later. In the museum, artisans from Jaipur fashioned a gold-plated three dimensional replica of a the Jain vision of the world. The golden city was like a huge elaborate dollhouse with its intricate carving, miniature figures, and flying spaceships. Five auspicious events in a Jain’s life are represented: conception, birth, renunciation, enlightenment and salvation.

Our day in Ajmer ended sitting by the lake eating ice cream. The city in way ways feels like India from 25 years ago, especially in the Moslem quarter with little emphasis on tourism. We would have missed out on what Ajmer had to offer us without Marina and Rajiv.

With the weather growing hotter by the day, Marina and I decided to visit a hotel with a swimming pool on the edge of town. Pryanka and her friend Nadine joined us. How refreshing to immerse ourselves into the cool clear water. Afterward, we sat beside the pool eating masala potato chips and paneer pakora, playing gin rummy! A perfect ending to our stay in Pushkar.

The next day we boarded our eight hour train to Delhi. Booking our tickets only two weeks in advance, sleeper class (just one class up from madhouse general seating) was all that was available. We had not anticipated the rush to get home for the upcoming Holi festival, and the train was packed (as in sardines). Our ‘compartment’ usually accommodates eight passengers but very quickly there were twenty jostling for a place to stand. And where to put baggage? And the 95 degree heat blowing in the open windows? The only reason we were able to sit was thanks to the boys who got on with us in Ajmer making room for the elderly.

This may have been the first time we were unable to speak to anyone yet everyone was friendly. Gerard loves riding trains but this was too much even for him. This eight-hour journey seemed an eternity. But there was a nice sunset.

As we drew close to Delhi, Gerard worried how we were going to fight our way down the crowded corridor with our backpacks and cases. Again, the friendly young boys took control. One of the windows had no bars as it was an emergency window so even before the train was at a full stop, he jumped out. His mate pasted our cases to him, then he stood guard until we emerged out of the crowd. There was just enough time to thank him before the train started moving again (a two-minute stop). Would we have had enough time on our own? Another random act of kindness so typical of India.

In the morning we prepared to take a tedious five-hour bus ride from Bundi to Pushkar. Raghu, our guesthouse owner, announced that he was going to Ajmer and would we like to join him. (His wife had moved there with the children to attend school) We happily agreed. Pushkar is only a half hour bus ride from Ajmer. It was still a tedious drive but far more comfortable than the bus and on the way Raghu entertained us with family history. He insisted on us meeting his wife who graciously served us tea and snacks.  

She admitted missing Bundi and meeting the guests in the hotel there, but the children’s education was more important.  

Pushkar, a temple town, is likened to a mini Varanasi with its bathing areas for pilgrims.

The town has changed significantly since we were last here ten years ago in the same manner as Udaipur. But Pushkar is still beautiful nestled in a valley, its lake surrounded by ghats and old havelis.

In the early morning light, geese parade,

and pelicans glide.

Unusual hills overlook the town and the more energetic climb to temples at their peak. 

The ghat is shared with the black faced monkeys, often creating mischief.

Decades ago, Pushkar attracted hippie backpackers, but is now a commercial hub for the textile and silver industries. The change in merchandising from when we were last here took us by surprise.  Indians and foreigners are now more sophisticated in their purchases and many buy wholesale to export to other markets in India and abroad. Retail prices have risen and the style of the clothing is less interesting, taking on a more mass production, western style look.   

We stayed several nights in an attractive old haveli, the room was luxurious but too small and, looking into an inside courtyard, very dark. Also next door, sat a noisy wedding hall (this is the wedding season). So we moved on.

Our new room is bigger and quieter (until the weddings caught up with us here too). It boasts a large rooftop balcony we have to ourselves, where I can do yoga in the morning sunshine, accompanied by a chorus of birds–minus squawking crows.

The first evening, enjoying the view at sunset, we saw a huge peacock in a nearby tree, but by then it was too dark for a photo.

Close by is a Sikh Gurudwara looking like a palace from the astral plane, especially at night. It’s less ethereal when the Sikhs begin their amplified chanting of the Guru Granth Sahib at 4 am and continue till 6 am. Fortunately, this only happens on weekends.  

We had planned to only stay here six days and then take the overnight bus up to Himachal Pradesh.  But the weather is still too cold. So we’ve decided to stay for the remainder of our time in India in Pushkar. We’re disappointed to miss the mountains and our friends there but we won’t miss the cold and rain!  

Several of our friends from Gokarna have been coming here for years and we’re happy to reunite with them.  Marina first came here forty years ago and has been returning almost every year since.  She knows all the shopkeepers (some since they were children) and shows us around. One particular cafe, Honey Dew, is owned by the same family she befriended on her first stay. The charismatic owner died tragically from a rare form of cancer several years ago and his wife and son are trying to keep the cafe alive.  Marina has invested much time and effort in helping them. With so much competition in a small space, staying profitable is not easy.  

Karel and Kryztyna arrived for a few days before moving on to Jaipur. We said goodbye over breakfast with a promise to visit them in Prague again.   

Sitting opposite us at breakfast, the German woman had piercing blue eyes and skin more sun weathered than mine.  When she went to New Zealand to see her daughter; the landscape was spectacular but compared with India, she found it boring after a few days. As an anesthesiologist, she comforts her patients during the last two minutes of their consciousness with tales of the Mystic East.

We used to go to Goa until too many tourists and development diminshed the charm. What has saved Gokarna thus far is that it’s a temple town and the city fathers have regulated development along the beach. But as surely as the sun rises in the east, financial pressure will prevail. We’re grateful that so far it hasn’t changed that much.

Unbeknownst to us our last hike turned out to be the best.

Marina led us through the shady jungle to Half Moon Beach. You can only get there by foot so there’s just two cafes and no accommodations. 

After a swim and lunch, we continued via a narrow path high up above the sea

…to Om Beach which in comparison was a let down –  too crowded.

Another swim, and we took a rickshaw back to town toward evening.  A full day’s outing, and I slept soundly.  But poor Gerard was bothered by his numerous bites –sand fleas, or spiders… He’s a shield for me from any crawling or flying invaders. Not surprisingly, he’s ready to move on, and after six weeks even I’m ready for a change of scene. But I’ll always love the beach.

I didn’t have much difficulty in persuading Gerard to repeat a hike we took through the jungle last year.

This time it went more smoothly, as we set out early to reach a lonely beach, ahead of the full sun. The bus back to town arrived before we had a chance to take a quick dip.

Our guide, Irish Tina a birdwatcher, became ecstatic seeing a pair pied hornbill. Shafts of light turned the jungle into  emerald green. 

In clearings, egrets and ibis flocked looking for insects.  

A few days later we walked to nearby Kudle Beach.  Only a short hike across the headlands to the small crescent-shaped cove. 

After a leisurely breakfast overlooking the still empty beach,

I took a solitary swim in my private lagoon, unaware of two dolphins doing somersaults behind me. 

A hazy view of Gokarna beach

Yesterday we said goodbye to five friends: Marion and Juergen had to return suddenly to Germany after a  death in the family; Assuntina returned to England after a brief holiday from work, and Peter went back to Auroville. Both of us were sad to say goodbye hoping our paths will cross agin before too long. Coincidently, on the same day, our Polish/Czech friends Krystyna and Karel arrived for ten days. The last time we were with them was four years ago in Prague on our way back from India.

The New York Times is finally catching up with what we’ve known for decades.  An article The Case for Chilling referenced research on the value to our health of meeting with friends and simply do nothing which can actually improve relationships. Children naturally do this but adults create scheduled meetings, no longer comfortable with just hanging out. They may think just sitting around with someone is a waste of time unless it’s productive. In India, we enjoy plenty of unstructured time and I’ve finally learned to relax and give up being productive in society’s terms. I enjoy the spontaneity of sitting around in cafes, and chatting with a new friend.  For us there is value in sharing experiences with people from different countries and cultures. 

Russians remain the largest group of foreign tourists here in Gokarna.  And with the war with Ukraine , it’s hard to keep objective toward Russia.  We have made friends with two Russians: Olga in Nagar and Tatiyana in Agonda, but we generally find Russians aloof and dour-faced. Two recent incidents have made us less critical.  First, while waiting with Gerard at the ATM machine, a Russian woman approached me, pointing to a message on her mobile: ‘Please help me make an ATM transaction’ in large bold letters. Of course, I motioned.  A second message read, ‘My English is very bad’.  “As is my Russian,” I replied.  I walked her through the transaction and with gestures, she expressed her gratitude. That evening, we went to a tiny restaurant usually frequented by Russians. Waiting for one of the two tables, we had to sit down quickly before two large Russian women grabbed it.  Annoyed, they stood by looking very put out.  First, Gerard suggested, “There is space at the table out back,” motioning where a group of Russians sat drinking. “I don’t understand” He went back and pointed to two empty chairs and asked, “Free?”  “Da.”(yes)  Then Gerard took one of the women by the hand and led her to the table with their countrymen. “ Ahh!” she said. Fetching her friend, she gave Gerard a namaste with a huge smile. Maybe part of their attitude is because they don’t speak English.  But they’re still Russians!