Short story by Gair Hemphill Crutcher, Sept. 2024

“The universe always conspires in my favor. Isn’t that your motto?” This only makes her cry harder. “Do you want me to come pick you up?” Hank asks. “No, I’ll see you in about a half hour.”
Anita has just left the El Paso Youth Detention Center. Their 16 year-old daughter Daphne will be released next week. Anita spends extra time with the guards, thanking them for helping her survive the six dreary months. Some give her a hug. Some uphold their military correctness. On the drive home to the ranch, she replays the devolve. Their youngest child, always the happiest, most resourceful one–arrested? Serving time? Dreams consigned to the gutter? How did this happen?

She feels feverish. She starts to double over, and quickly pulls over to park. She rests her head on the steering wheel. Luckily she is near the diner she’s called home for half a year—Smoke and Shirley’s Sizzling Soul Pit. She scores a stall in the surprisingly clean bathroom. The fragrance of fresh lavendar helps clear her head. Wow. Blood spotting on the toilet paper. Once in the booth, they bring her the usual herbal tea. “On the house,” they say. She puts her head on the counter between her arms and cries some more.

The drive passes in a haze. Once home, she finds Hank asleep on top of the bed, phone next to him. She loves his comforting snore. 35 years of his stable, reassuring substantiality.

He wakes up and immediately brightens. “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

As is her habit, she flings a non-sequitor: “Do you think being a person of substance is the same as being a substantial person?”

But Hank (who wakes up firing on all cylinders) is prepared, and amicably enters her drift: “Is this a rhetorical question?”

“I mean, YOU are both a substantial person AND a person of substance and that isn’t the same thing. You got BOTH heft AND depth.”

“Thanks for the com-plee-ment, darlin’. Wanna dance the Tennessee waltz with me?”

“Only if it’s Mark Knopfler singin’.”

“For sure he’d do it dandy, little darlin.’ “

Next day, they wake up to birds greeting the dawn. She says, “I’m spotting with blood, like I’m miscarrying.”
“Uh oh,” he says: “Miracle birth?”
“No, the opposite. Like my womb is falling out of my pelvis.”
“Hmmm. Prolapse collapse?” 
“Prolapse. Yup, that’s what they call it.” 
“Like when we have to push that cow’s uterus back into her gut, with the full length of our arms?” Hank makes grunting sounds.  
“Not sure that’s how it works in humans, but same idea,” she sighs.
“Well, you’re a healer. What do you think is up?”
“I think my uterus is falling out of my body because I have failed. At my most meaningful job. To be a good mother.”
She starts crying again. He’s used to tears on his chest. He holds her, lets her take her time. He is the nest, she is the fledgling. Sometimes the roles reverse.
“Because our faultless princess, bearer of so many high hopes, is in jail?” She cries even harder.
“You know, I know and our children know you are the most caring, least judgmental, wisest, welcomingest mother known to human kind.”
“Apparently my body doesn’t agree.”
“Ach weill,” he says with a Scottish accent: “Do you think you need a doc?”
“No, my fever has come down. Cuddling with you is much better than seeing a doctor.”

They have breakfast. She savors the stark beauty of new day breaking, while noticing her intensifying longing for their home in Klamath Falls. The Spanish-speaking former juvenile detainees have arrived. They are initiating their farm chores with their usual good cheer.
“I see Fri/Sat/Sun marked on your calendar: Festival of Chariots. Still going?” She appreciates the light touch of this man of hers: concern without fret.
“Yeah. Melody and I want to support each other.”
“What’s happening with her spa?”
“It’s sad. She’s thrown in the towel. Uphill battle against neighbors the whole way. Remember when she suggested changing the name from Last Chance Gulch to Lasting Change Gulch? She thought the locals might secede over that one. We laugh because her Younglife essential oils distracted them into even bigger hissie fits. Anyways, this weekend’s Bye-bye Spa-in-the-gully Half-price Ayurvedic Gala is her swan song. She’s already listed the property. She needs to repay her grandfather, not to mention student loans. She can’t win for losing.”

“If the thunder don’t catch her, the lightning will.”
“Spoken like the dyed-in-the-marbled-wool Dead Head you are.”
“As my Irish grandfather used to say: there’s nothing queerer than folk.”
“Anyways, can you please give me a ride? I hate driving through all the arroyos in the pickup. Too far from assistance and too soon after the flash floods.”
“Stick with me, lassie, and yer taggets will nae roost.”

Hank and Anita arrive at the Spa in the Gully. Several SUVs are disgorging a passel of ladies in brightly colored saris. They chat chirpily in Hindi. They have arrived en masse. He recognizes some of them from a ceremony he attended at the Southwest Hindu Temple Society. His host had boasted of El Paso’s model team of expert cooks always available at the drop of a bangle. They prepare Indian food for weddings, funerals, graduations, festivals, holidays and celebrations. Hank smiles remembering the attendees who timed their arrival for the exact moment the food was served. “Some people only come for the food” commented his host.

Hank hugs Anita goodbye: “See you on Sunday at 1 pm, babe. You know where I am if you need anything.” Anita watches him drive away and give thanks for his sane harbor in their stormy sea.

Anita had been invited to the swan song of the spa in the Gulch by the owner-creatrix Melody. “Oh, come on, Mellie. No way this is free. I know you’re hard up.” “I wouldn’t think of it. This is a thank you for bailing us out during Miele’s concussion.” “She got through it unscathed, that’s the main thing,” responds Anita.

“Anyway Jose Dupray, forgive me–Welcome to El Paso’s first and last Ayurveda Fair in Last Chance Gulch! You look drained, sugar pie. I hope you instantly fall into the Elixir Field of Heavenly Relaxation.” They both laugh as they survey the various booths and the carnival atmosphere. “I reserved the Lotus Blossom Suite for you, and Mandy is at the ready for anything you need. This is a spa retreat. Heavenly Relaxation–remember!” Melody undulates off to mingle with the ever-changing tableau of humanity and creative explosions washing through her compound.

Anita feels too tender to interact. She retires to the quiet roomy suite Melody has designated for her. She loves the privacy and Melody’s color pallette: dusky rose, sage green, moonlight eggshell. At dinner, she gravitates to the Indian ladies. They are cozy fleece to her chilled spirit. Wives, mothers, grandmothers, girlfriends of IT professionals and students from India, they flock to events that remind them of home. Many study or work at UTEP (University of Texas, El Paso). They especially love Ayurvedic fairs.

“Come, bedi (daughter), come ! Join us!” they trill. “Bedi! You are looking ghostly white—what is the matter?”
 Oh dear, she thinks. Here it comes, full faucet. She starts sobbing. A few ladies serenely sit next to her. They bring ashwaganda tea, pat her hands and smooth her face. Anita is soothed. Had this happened with, say, her women’s group, she would have felt an explanation was expected. It doesn’t seem to matter to these warm, inviting aunties.

Eating with their fingers, the aunties tuck into metal plates of home-cooked dahl, chipatis, buffalo milk yoghurt and cucumber raita. All the while they keep a calm eye on her. They have wrapped pashmina shawls over her shoulders to make sure she stays toasty.

Finally she sniffles:”I’m worried about my daughter.” “Well, then,” declares Miraben from Hyderabad. “Have you asked Lord Ganesha? He is without equal in overcoming obstacles. Ask him anything! It is his honor to grant your prayer. And we also will ask him. Now, eat this dahee and rice. Easy on the belly. You look too tired, bedi. You must take rest.” One of their delegation makes sure Anita makes it to her suite. “Good night,” smiles Anita. “A blessed night, my dear. May you dream of Lord Ganesha!”

Anita showers and spritzes herself with Bulgarian rosewater that Melody left for her. She climbs into the linen sheets and falls into a fragrant sleep. She dreams she is aboard a ship called Love without Borders. Fellow shipmates are wearing diversely-patterned kimonos, robes, saree blouses, circle skirts, djellabas and harem trousers. Musicians are playing sonorous tunes on instruments from the ancient Silk Road. Teak stalls feature a bedazzlement of goods—oil of night-blooming jasmine; sandalwood smelling salts; tea of omanthus blossoms. Perfumed fans of mulberry and aquamarine silk. Vermillion, teal, lapis and pyrite salves. Potions to cure infertility, insomnia, and soul loss.

She sees a booth with a sign saying Time to be your own mother. She enters and is directed to a soft doshak and tekay (mattress and backrest). Four young elephants tenderly brush her arms, legs, belly, and face with their trunks. She feels their breath and hears a celestial song. She hears Lord Ganesha say: “Through friendship and joy, beloved daughter, you are healed.” When she wakes up, she is smiling and can still scent a residue of night-blooming jasmine.

Saturday’s offerings include formal classes; free foot massage; cooking classes; children’s talent show; parade of deities on floats; sand mandala creation; sacred chanting; group prayers for the family, neighborhood, nation, world and cosmos; and water blessings. The many delights to the senses and soul mingle like the rivulets that form the mighty Ganges.

Time gently dissolves; the last session on Sunday morning has arrived. Anita has been absorbed into the tribe of UTEP ladies. Their contingent has been given the Himalaya salt spa cave for their final session.
They say, “You, Anita are our honored sister and daughter. Please take this place.”
She lies down on flowered green and mauve carpets on top of heated Himalayan salt. Her companions start to dance. They chant softly while swirling silk scarves. Her eyelids close. She feels the currents carried by the swishing fabric. She falls into a half sleep.

She is on the ship again. Lord Ganesha comes to her: “Your ship is almost at port, my daughter. This is my message, specifically for you.”
Lord Ganesha is not the multi-armed elephant deity whose statues grace households and places of Hindu worship. He is King Babar the esteemed regal elephant monarch! King Babar is dancing to the same beat that the Hindi-speaking ladies, wives, mothers, daughters, aunties, grandmothers are dancing to.

Anita feels her body. It is on a warm carpet in a salt cave in a desert in Texas, being serenaded by a bevy of devotional goddesses. Simultaneously she feels the salty sea breeze off the deck of a familiar ship. Onto this deck, through the amiable carnivale, onto this deck, appears the clear silhouette of King Babar-Ganesha. The Lord is facing out to sea. He is swishing his hips in rhythm to a Bollywood sound track. Lord Ganesha-Babar backs up towards Anita, presenting himself to her, rump first. The regal king comes closer and closer. He backs right up into her nose, placing the orifice under his tail, into her third eye! In a star-burst of surprise, recognition and spiritual catharsis, she receives his blessing: ”I am always with you, darling daughter.” She remembers that elephants sometimes travel by taking each other’s tails. “There is nothing you could ever do to separate yourself from me. Oh, and by the way—don’t take yourself so seriously.”

She awakens from the waking vision. She is laughing so hard, she rolls off the cushions. Everyone registers the shift, and they join in the mirth. The expulsion of breath is so abundant, it shifts the atmospheric pressure in the room.
Into this efflorescence of sacred companionship, the whole good godly earth is dance partner: living, breathing, pulsing, redeeming Mother. She is gladdened. Lanterns, continents and islands are lit from within. The sacred body of Earth (the seat of holiness) is sacralized. All waters are purified and replenished. Liquid light cascades from countless fountains, including the trunks of innumerable Lords Ganesha-Babar.

The mystic moment passes. Time for attentive partners, friends, and family members to pick up loved ones. Anita contemplates fondly how El Paso has become a Silk Road. Hank waves from his truck, hops out and collects her stuff. He is whistling the Tennessee Waltz.

“How you doin’, babe? You look good. But then, you always look good. Well, except maybe when you are prolapsing…”
“No more prolapse. Those luscious ladies from India over there—they brought Lord Ganesha with them. He healed me.”

On the way home he shows her the print-outs. Their relocation back to Klamath Falls is in full swing. Next week Daphne will go directly from the El Paso Youth Detention Center with her older sister. Home to Oregon. Their exile in the desert is over.
From then on, Anita called upon her favorite deity frequently. She called him GABAR: Lord Ganesha-Babar. She lightened up. And Gabar never let her down.