I went to the room with the Buddha statue. Staring at it, I thought, What are you trying to tell us?
I felt a presence. Someone was in the room with me. I swirled around and my eyes landed on a young man, standing in a dim corner. He was seventeen or so, and his brown skin, black hair, and sharp features betrayed his origin - India.
He approached me, smiling. Not sure if he spoke English, I simply nodded.
“It is beautiful, yes?” he asked.
Surprised, I agreed. “Yes, very beautiful. You’re visiting here?”
His reply was delivered in impeccable English, but with a short, staccato accent. “I am in England to study.”
“Here, in London?”
“No. Well, yes,” he corrected. “I attend school here in London but I live in Hove. “It’s in East Sussex on the south coast near Brighton. Do you know of it?”
I nodded.
“I live with my nephew and niece, my brother’s children, and their mother, in a house my family owns.”
“And your parents?”
“My mother died when I was very young and my father travels a great deal. He wants me to become a barrister, so I now study at the University of London.”
“That’s very admirable.”
“But I do not like the law. I wish to study Shakespeare and Coriolanus and Antony and Cleopatra.”
I noticed his notebook and pen. “You wish to write?”
He nodded. “I have written poetry. And some stories and dramas.” He bowed. “My name is Rabindranath Tagore. People call me Rabi.”
“My name is Poppy. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He bowed again. “I have not heard this name.”
I laughed. “It’s a nickname. A pet name. A shortening like ‘Rabi.’”
“I see.”
“And what are you writing now, Rabi? About the Buddha?”
“No. But Buddhism teaches things I write about. I write about the essence of the love. And about time. Moments in time.”
The essence of the love, I thought. With so much death and suffering and grief all around me, often I wondered if there were such a thing.
“May I hear it?” I asked.
“It is not finished.”
“May I hear what you have so far?”
“The title, I think, shall be Unending Love.”
He had my attention. I seemed to be confronted by unending suffering these days, and I wondered if unending love was obtainable. Except that my love for Sherlock Holmes seemed never to end, and I so often wished it would.
Or did I?
“I call my poem this because ‘unending’ means that love is everlasting and immortal. It is a force felt by the entire universe,” Rabi said, “not just one person. It is unquantifiable, and I think that the love we feel in this life will be passed on in the next and the next.”
“I would like to think that, Rabi. Please, read me what you have.”
“I have finished only the first and the last stanza. The first goes like this.”
He read from his notebook. “I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times /In life after life, in age after age, forever/My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs /That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms/ In life after life, in age after age, forever.”
“That is so beautiful. For one so young, you have a profound belief in the beauty and importance of love.”
He shrugged. “I think the love we have will be felt in the next life, in all lives after, for once it is given to someone worthy, love merges with the memories of the universe. It becomes like an ancient tale, repeated over and over, and people who have met and loved in previous lives will meet again and again.”
“I like that. The concept of timelessness.”
“The moments we have now, Miss, in the present, are part of something bigger, something that is important in the past and the future. Our experiences are a part of something else, something larger, not just who we are, but who we were or might have been or might become. It is all connected.”
I took in a deep breath. This boy was an old soul. “Is there more?
“A little bit. As I said it is not finished.” He read from his notes again. “The love of all man’s days both past and forever/Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life/The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours - /And the songs of every poet past and forever.”
“My uncle says always follow your dreams,” I told him. “You have a talent, Rabi. Don’t become a barrister. Write.” Then I looked at the watch pinned to my cape. “I should go.”
“You look sad.”
I felt a flush to my cheeks. “Do I?”
“Yes. I am sad as well. I am missing home.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy some of your time here in London.”
“Thank you, Miss. But soon I will return to Hove, I think. And then, perhaps, back to Bengal. “
“Good luck to you, Rabi. I may not see you again.”
The shadow of a knowing smile crept across his face. “Oh, but, Miss, of course, you will.”
30
My office was musty and dim. I opened the drapes and windows to let in fresh air and light. I’d found notes on the door from two prospective patients I had missed, so after some housekeeping, I locked the door again and, with a pang of guilt, set out to their homes. By late afternoon, I had treated a woman who had burned her arm when she spilled hot water from a tea kettle and a boy with a sprained ankle.
I was reminded once again of Sherlock - of the day my dog bit his ankle and the severe sprain he’d suffered when he fell on the cobblestone. I’d had one of my brother’s medical textbooks with me that day, and I read the symptoms of a fracture to Sherlock, partly to show him I had some medical knowledge, but mostly to distract him from his suffering and the irritating voice that accompanied
