3-Déjà Vu

The next morning we were bussed back to the airport for a flight from Delhi to Khajuraho.  Vans then picked us up at that airport for a five hour drive to the Bandhavgarh Jungle Lodge—a time to do nothing more than stare out windows.  When we arrived, we were assigned rooms, settled in, and then met in a separate building for dinner.

I recognized the dining hall.  We had served ourselves at a buffet four years ago.   My husband usually fills my plate and then goes back to fill his own.  This time young men brought bowls around and served each of us.  I wondered why the change.

In the throes of fibro fog and self-consciousness, my imagined reason for the change became my physical limitations.  Maybe that thought was too far-fetched, yet I wouldn’t put it past Mary Ann to make such arrangements.

I remembered the last time we were in India four years ago.  Joe was relaxing in a conversation lounge, and I accused him of the ultimate sin—of teaching me to love photography as much as he did.  That’s why I couldn’t give up and give in to the twin trolls of rheumatoid arthritis and fibromyalgia.  It was Joe’s fault
I was there.  It was his fault that I was there for the second time.

Langur Monkeys
by Phil Haffley