That night in New Delhi when I slept with a nun.

The end of the 90s found me in Dharmsala, northern India, staying with the Dalai Lama. Chance had brought me there: An Australian friend, Betsy, helped the 'living Buddha' to plan his rallies in her country. She knew I was interested in the discipline at that time, and invited me to join her on a trip. We would be based in the territory known as 'Tibet-in-exile'; Dharmsala, its capital, was a hill town in the foothills of the Himalayas. 

We flew to New Delhi and made a connecting flight to the state of Jammu Kashmir. There, we transferred to a minivan and drove recklessly for four hours to Dharmsala. As we rocketed along the mountain tracks, I remember thinking ‘surely this guy will slow down as we enter a village?’ But knowing better, ducks and geese and chicks scurried to the side as he accelerated through the narrow streets.

‘Sir’ I pleaded, ‘we will have an accident.’ He didn't give me a sideways glance. ‘If it is our karma, sahib, we shall have an accident. If not, tally-ho!’

‘Tally-ho?’ Where on earth had he learned that phrase? Then I remembered: we were in the former British Raj; although British rule had ended decades earlier, it seemed that some linguistic quirks had lingered.

Thanks to Betsy, we were able to stay in the Dalai Lama’s private compound. Every morning I'd wake to the sound of chanting monks. Opening my window, I'd gasp at the breath-gulping air of the mountains, pinked by the sunrise.

After a breakfast of seed cakes, I joined five hundred other travellers in an amphitheater. And for the next several hours, while the Dalai Lama spoke in Tibetan, we listened to an English translation via our Sony 'Walkmans'. Others did the same in their own languages as the great man gave his interpretation of Buddhist philosophy. Every now and then, monks in saffron-colored robes mingled through the crowd, dispensing tea from huge urns. But that’s another story…

A week later I was back in New Delhi. Wanting an extra day in the city, I’d taken the precaution of booking a room at the Imperial Palace Hotel; this was a wedding cake of a building, with architecture to match its name.

As I turned the key to my room, I was startled to find a short, middle-aged Indian man behind me. He raised his hands in surrender. ‘A thousand apologies, sahib! I am shocking you.' 

Still aglow with Buddhist bonhomie, I managed a forgiving smile. But he seemed to have attached himself to me. He sidled past and spread his arms. ‘This is a most excellent room, sahib. Notice, please, the two most comfy beds and the view of the courtyard. And see – a peacock strutting his magnificence!’

He led me to a door at the side of the room. ‘Let us examine the bathroom, kind sir. Here, sahib, you will enjoy the greatest pleasures for the weary traveler.’ I could see a long, deep bath, gleaming brass fittings. A dozen snowy towels hung from steel racks.

‘If there is an insufficient quantity of towels, I will provide more.’ He bowed and clasped his hands together, as if in prayer.  He continued. ‘Sahib, my name is Babu Singh and I have the honor to be your towel wallah. I am being at your service for the duration of your stay at our unworthy establishment’

‘Well, I am alone’ I explained, ‘and I’m staying for only one night. There certainly seems to be enough towels.’

‘Excellent, sahib, excellent! Now, may I draw you a bath?’

An hour later I was settled in the dining room, feeling renewed after a wash and a thirty minute nap on one of the two beds.

My meal of tandoori prawns with brinjal and basmati rice, though good enough, could not match the perfection of the dish at my local Indian restaurant in London’s Brompton Road. However, the food's mediocrity seemed minor compared with the excitement I felt about dining in New Delhi. 

I had finished a bottle of the local beer and was about to order another, when a tall Indian in a red-sashed white jacket, approached. He bowed. ‘Forgive the intrusion sahib, but a lady who says she knows you is asking for you.’

‘There must be some mistake ' I said, 'I don’t know a soul in New Delhi.’ 

‘Yes, sahib, I understand your puzzlement but the lady in question says she met you in Dharmsala;’ he coughed, ‘she seems to be a religious person and calls herself Sister Agnes.’

At that moment, a short woman in a grey tunic dress walked up to my table. The tall Indian bowed, said ‘Sister Agnes’, and left.

I didn’t recognize the woman. She had the striated face of a smoker, so was probably younger than she appeared. She carried a rucksack on one thin shoulder. From what I could see of it, her figure looked unacquainted with regular meals. Grey hair hair peeped from a headscarf that matched her severe outfit. Her ice-blue eyes, however, were compelling.

‘Gave you a shock did I?’ she said, grinning. ‘Have no idea who I am, do you, mate?’

I stood up. ‘Please, sit.’

She eyed my uneaten peshawari naan as she settled into her chair. ‘Mind if I take some of that?’ She began to tear the soft bread into pieces.

I sat back in my banquette. “No, please, help yourself; I can order you some dinner. But, first, how do we know each other?’

‘I was in Dharmsala with Betsy.' She chewed thoughtfully. 'I know her from our community in Brisbane. I’m what they call a lay nun.' She gave a brilliant smile. 'I never met you but I remember seeing you in the crowd with Betsy. What a flaming crush! No wonder we never hooked up.'

I nodded. 'We never met, no. But you're here, now; why?'  

'Betsy got a message to me that you’d booked a night at the Imperial Palace.’ She gave me another grin ‘So I tracked yer down!’

Still puzzled, I handed her a menu. She shook her head. 'Oh, you choose for me, darlin'. I don't know my way around that posh Indian tucker .'

While we waited for the food, I forced myself to say 'So, Sister, how can I help you? Apart from giving you dinner.’

She studied the tablecloth. ‘This is difficult for me, mate, but can you offer me a bed?' She saw my surprise because she rushed on: 'You see, I’ve tried all over the city - even this place has no free rooms. There seems to be - ’ she raised her head, frowning, ‘ - no room at the inn. That's why I got in touch with Betsy; I thought she might help.'

Her food arrived so, leaving Sister Agnes to attack a range of dishes, I went in search of Babu. He was sitting on his haunches outside my room. He stood up and saluted. ‘You have returned early, sahib. Was the food not to your liking?’

‘Food was fine, Babu. But we have an emergency. I have a visitor for the night. We shall need more towels. Come, we need to prepare the room and move the beds further apart.’

He hurried behind me. ‘It is most impossible to be moving beds, sahib, they are nailing them to the floor. But I am thinking they are not close together. Is our visitor, may I ask, another gentleman?’

I was tugging at the bed. It wouldn't budge. ‘No,’ I said, ‘it is a lady - a religious lady.’

Babu chortled. ‘Excellent, excellent, my sahib! So we must be showing that you and this, this… religious lady, are sleeping apart?’

I stared at him ‘We shall be sleeping apart, Babu!’

‘Of course, of course, sahib’. He turned away, I felt sure to hide a smirk.

Three minutes later Babu returned with an armful of towels. Meanwhile, I had turned down the coverlets on the beds and plumped up the pillows. I moved swiftly to the bathroom and re-arranged my toiletries to give more space on the counter-top.

Babu peered in. ‘Excellent, most excellent! You are making a most welcoming place for the religious lady.’ He coughed. ‘Will she be joining us soon?’

I shook my head. ‘She is finishing her supper. The sister will come alone. I will join her later.’

Babu raised his eyebrows. ‘She is your sister, sahib?’

I raised my hands. ‘No, Babu, no. That’s what they are called in her religious order; she is known as Sister Agnes.’

He nodded in a way that conveyed disbelief. ‘Of course, sahib, of course.’ He tilted his head, as if savoring the words: 'Sister Agnes.'

By the time I returned to the dining room, Sister Agnes was taking coffee, accompanied by what looked like a balloon glass of cognac.

‘Hope this is all right, sport? I felt I needed something to make me sleep. To balance the coffee, if you get my drift.’ She winked in a way that made me feel uncomfortable.

‘Of course, that’s fine’ I mumbled as I slid into the banquette opposite her.

She cocked her head ‘Everything all right, cobber? With the room?’

‘Everything is ready for you, Sister. It may be a bit cosy but at least you’ll have somewhere to stay.’

‘Good on ya!’ she said, ‘I shan’t forget this.’ She lifted the glass. ‘I think I’ll take this with me. No point in wasting good brandy.’ And with that, she grabbed her rucksack and left.

I sat there for another twenty minutes, my tummy rumbling with uninvited stress. How had this happened? What would it feel like to sleep a meter apart from a strange woman, a nun? ‘Thank god, she’s so plain’ I muttered to myself, as if this observation would keep my primordial male instincts in check. Finally, I signed the bill and left the dining room.

‘Sahib, sahib!’ It was Babu, racing towards me along the corridor.

‘Yes, Babu’, what is it?’

‘Your sister is not yet ready for you, sahib.’ He gathered his breath. ’She is still abluting in her bath.’

We faced each other, at a loss to proceed.

“Come’ said Babu, ‘we shall be waiting by the door.'

We sat on our haunches outside the room for another quarter hour. Eventually, Babu tapped on the door. ‘Enter’ said a voice.

‘Good evening, memsahib; may the sahib join you?’ I heard him say. (‘An unfortunate choice of words’ I thought, standing outside the door)

‘Send the old feller in.' Old? I wasn't that old.

Babu beckoned me.

The nun was sitting upright in her bed; the glass, brandy gone, was next to her.  She was working the beads on a rosary.

‘Don't mind me, darlin’’ she said, ‘just do what you need to do in the bathroom.’

I turned to Babu. ‘That will be all for this evening, Babu. Thank you.’

The Indian bowed deeply. He placed his hands together, as if in prayer, and said ‘May your dreams be fruitful, sahib –‘ and, turning to the nun, ‘memsahib.’

‘Good on ya, Babu. And thanks a million by the way.’ She made the sign of the cross. Babu's eyes  widened, and he fled the room.

I brushed my teeth and, in a weird act of self-censoring, kept on my underpants as I stepped into my pyjamas. Through a crack in the door, I saw that the Sister was still counting her rosary. I crossed the room, averting my eyes from the woman a meter away. I mumbled ‘good night’ over my shoulder and crawled into bed.

Night did not bring sleep. I was aware of soft snoring, an occasional snort or body sound. I remained on edge, still appalled at my situation.

Eventually, darkness leached from the room. I could hear the nun getting up. I lay as if paralyzed, pushing my body against the wall, trying to disappear into it. There was the rustle of clothing; she was going to the bathroom, brushing her teeth. Moments later, I heard a rucksack being zipped, and a grunt as it was lifted.

Suddenly, I knew she was looking over me, probably observing my tightly closed eyes. I sensed something being placed on my bedside table. The door clicked. She was gone.

I slept deeply for more than an hour, then rolled over to see Babu sliding into the room with a tray. I struggled upright, rubbing my eyes. I noticed that Sister Agnes had made her bed. Babu looked at me, adrift in my rumpled sheets. Then he looked back at the pristine bed.

‘Good morrow, sahib.' He picked up something from the bedside table. He placed the object on the tea tray and nodded approvingly. ”Sahib, you are indeed, a most magnificent fellow!’

She had left me her rosary.



© Brian Clewly Johnson

London, March 2017.