Darpan speaks last. “I will work hard on my stories,” is all he says.
As she leads them in a discussion about how the class will work, what it means to workshop a story, the revisions they will be required to do, their potential goals for themselves, she realizes this will not be a onetime class.
For the next two hours and forty-five minutes, Joan watches Lakshmi, Hoshi, Edhitha, Qadir, Oni, Taj, Jalaf, Medh, Zafar, Tanvi, and Darpan start to break out of their shells, find common ground with one another, always looking to her, for guidance, for illustration, for explication, as their serious faces grow lighter, smiles opening wide, white teeth flashing the private desires they carry within, that she will see them through to the other side, where their hopes might match their dreams. She isn’t sure most of their dreams revolve around writing, but it doesn’t really matter. She is heeding the call of these people standing—well, sitting—before her, with their hands held out, their hearts demanding succor, commanding her not to look away, but to dig deep, give of herself unstintingly, offer up everything she can.
When the clock shows it’s already five, Darpan says, “Thank you for a most wonderful first class, Ashby. Everyone knows what they must do this week. You must work hard on your stories and be brave, like Ashby says. On Monday, I will have behind the counter copies of everyone’s stories, so make sure you come and get your packets. Anyone who doesn’t will be tossed out of the best writing class ever.” And just like that, Joan is running a writing class, with a taskmaster she need not beckon or call.
There are hugs and bows and handshakes, and then the writers scatter away. Darpan bows to Joan and says, “Maybe we should consider more than one class a week? Start a second class?”
“I can only handle one, Darpan. I’m busy with other work.”
Darpan’s eyes light up. “One never asks a writer about her work, and so I will not, except to say, if it is true what I am thinking, then I am most delighted in every way.”
Joan smiles. “Don’t let your thoughts run away. Or let them run away, but to your own story, which I’m interested in reading, since you didn’t turn one in.”
“I will make you proud, Ashby. Don’t you worry about that.”
*
Then Joan is out the bookstore door, sighted for home, and that’s what she hears in her head: home. It has such a different connotation now. Home no longer means the soaring house, the gardens and vegetable plots, the red maples, the elms, the Cleveland pear trees, the weeping willow, the shed she and Fancy built themselves that she imagined turning into her writing office. It no longer means the long lap pool in the glen, or the knoll, or the four acres of land. Home is no longer Rhome, and Joan might as well directly acknowledge such truths to Martin, who may not be part of home anymore either.
Home is now her pine suite, with its red coverlet bed, and her laptop on her pine desk, and the forest outside of her windows, the marigold curtains creating a frame.
Home is Ela’s meditation class each afternoon, it is Darpan and the bookstore, Kartar at the front desk, her friendship with Willem, if he ever returns. It is Eric, and will be Amari. It is her calls to Vita in Udaipur every two weeks, talking to Joan from the house Vita has bought on Lake Pichola, and her weekly Sunday calls with Camille, after Camille meditates and wants to catch up.
Home is Paloma Rosen, the book that is tangibly and seductively flowering. It is Theo Tesh Park finding a true home with Paloma.
Joan is nearly up the hill, nearly at the hotel, when she imagines Paloma Rosen published. She stops in her tracks and realizes readers of her famous collections will believe Paloma Rosen is her first novel, that the critics and reviewers will waste time conjecturing what has taken Ashby so long to publish again. Iger sent her an email last week telling her that Paradise of Artists and The Blissed-Out Retreat are still on various bestseller lists, asking again if it might be time to correct the wrong, to clarify that she is the writer, not the ignoble J. D. Henry. It still feels like an impossible decision to make, and she has been so happy lately, she does not want the fury that accompanies such thoughts, having to chant “Om Dum Durgayei Namaha” over and over again: Om and Salutations to that feminine energy which protects from all manner of negative influences.
Perhaps she’ll agree to acknowledge her authorship of the books if they’re nominated for some kind of prize, then Joan is up the hotel’s wooden stairs, and Kartar is at his post, at the low teak counter, calling out “Ashby, happy late afternoon. A letter for you from the illustrious Willem Ackerman, hand-delivered just an hour ago by himself, and also a large package,” which he lifts onto the counter. “From USA. Rhome, Virginia, it says.”
He hands her Willem’s letter, and says, “I will carry the box to your suite,” and they walk down the long hall, and she opens her door, and Kartar places the box on her bed.
“May I do something else for you this fine afternoon?”
Kartar has never once failed to make good on his promises, and looking at the box on her bed, at the letter in her hand, Joan knows what she needs.
“Any chance of another nice bottle of white wine?”
“I will endeavor to do my best. If I can find more than one, Ashby?”
“More than one, yes. More than two, yes. Up to five, if that makes the job easier.” She wonders if she should simply ask if he can find her a case. She reaches for her bag, for her wallet, says, “How much shall I give you?”
“Later Ashby, later. Let me see first if I can perform what I am promising.”
It’s not easy getting wine here, but Kartar has proven himself a steady supplier. Along with his earlier deployments on her behalf, he gifted her a heavy-duty corkscrew wrapped up in Indian red cloth. Now that Willem Ackerman is back, Joan could ask for a bottle or two of the rich red wine from his cache, but she ought to read first what he has to say.
“I’ll endeavor to return promptly,” Kartar says, and shuts the pine door behind him.
Martin has sent this package from home, which used to be her home—is still hers, she emends—though it doesn’t feel true anymore. Dharamshala has become her home, and whatever exists beyond Dharamshala is a story someone else wrote long ago. She looks at the package on the bed, and then at the letter in her hand, and knows which one interests her most.