by Reece Willis
Despite me asking how I could help, he said nothing at first, but stared straight through me, finally slurring a reply in a thick Indian accent, ‘Currency. See your currency.’
I didn’t understand. Why did he want to see my currency?
He became forceful, repeating and raising his voice, stepping forward through the doorway. I put out my hand to try and prevent him from coming any further, ‘Hey, wait a minute, back up,’ but he slapped it away and pushed past me.
Locating my luggage, he bent forward, ripped away the zip – the last thing holding my bag together – and grabbed my clothes, throwing them in all directions.
Severe dizziness had me leaning to the wall for support. ‘For God’s sake,’ I shouted. ‘I can give you five hundred rupees, have my wallet, take it it’s yours.’
‘Dollars?’ he spat.
‘No, only rupees,’ I replied, clinging to the last particles of consciousness.
Nausea welled as daggers of light pierced my eyes before I succumbed to darkness.
‘On your feet, boy!’
I knew that voice only too well and what would follow if I wasn’t at the end of my bed in a few seconds. He didn't have to look round. He knew I'd be standing to attention, arms tight to my side, back straight, chin up, head facing forward. Slowly he hovered, scanning the room for the slightest discrepancy, wiping his finger for dust on the bookshelf, accounting the drawers for balled socks lined side by side, shoe polish and brushes in the correct order. On to the wardrobe, creaking open the doors, checking the spotless mirror, inspecting the clothes, ironed and folded in appropriate order. And then to the suit stand – every morning would be the same, every morning he would discover something unsatisfactory. This morning was no different, however many times I’d gone through my final checks the night before. He would always find something not to his liking.
He scrutinized my shoes, holding them at eye level, catching the light, commenting on my inability to produce a mirror shine. I was reminded for the millionth time how I would make a useless pile of shit soldier. I scanned the room, mentally working through my check list. Everything seemed in place, except not quite. At first, I couldn’t figure out what it was. He commented on an invisible crease on the collar of my school shirt. Then I spotted it – the jeans folded on the top of the bookshelf. How could have I been so stupid? I must have fallen asleep last night before I managed to hide them. I embarked on a rescue attempt even though in my heart I knew it was a futile mission.
‘Stop what you are doing right now.’
I did as I was told and stood motionless with one foot in front of the other as if I was trying to re-enact the famous crossing of Abbey Road by The Beatles.
‘I saw them the minute I walked into the room,’ he barked, still with his back to me.
This was the first time he'd worn his army uniform around the house. Dressed in impeccable khaki, with a peaked cap on his head and a stick held under his arm, he marched out of the room, but I knew it wasn’t over. Thumping back up the stairs armed with a pair of scissors, he stormed straight over to the jeans and shredded the denim to rags. Then, as he always did, he smashed everything to pieces. He threw my clothes everywhere and tore up my school books and homework.
The usual lecture followed. I would have to pay for the damages by washing cars and doing more newspaper rounds. When I wasn't working or at school, however, I would be confined to my room with nothing to keep me occupied. I was grounded from any other activities because of my disobedience until further notice. He left, breathing heavily from exhaustion, the smell of rage and sweat clinging to the air.
Before me was the aftermath of a cyclone: splintered wood, tattered homework, clothing strewn and glass smashed. All my belongings, the few that I had, were damaged. It wasn’t the first time I faced such destruction and I knew I would have another late-night cleaning it all up ready for the following morning’s inspection. But for now, I had to concentrate on not being late for my paper round. I had to be at the shop to fill my bag at 6am, ready to make my deliveries in time for the daily news to be read over breakfast. Afterwards I would come home and try and salvage what I could of my homework, get dressed in my ill-fitting school clothes (because despite having grown out of them, there “was still plenty of wear left in them yet”) and jump on my rusty bike, only to be a punchbag at break times at the hands of school bullies. Before leaving my room, I looked around once more and briefly closed my eyes, pretending for just a few seconds that all of this was a dream.
My eyes opened slowly and I could make out the fan on the ceiling above me and a bright light. It took me a while to realise I was still in Dehra Dun. I had no idea what the time was or how long I’d been unconscious. Pain pounded at my head, the slightest movement increasing the intensity. I was on the floor, lying on my back, between the valet stand and bedside cabinet, my head at an awkward angle against the wall. I leant forward to check for any injuries. There were none apart from the sore bump on the back of my head. It was the tickling on my fingertips that was my immediate concern. A cockroach was scaling my hand. I yelped, throwing it into the air, springing to my feet with an energy that surprised me. The creature turned from its back and scuttled under the bed.
The room was a mess. The entire contents of my luggage were strewn all over. Nothing was missing from what I could see and there was no sign of anyone. The door was locked again from the outside.
I looked around the room, remembering the seven long years I spent here. My only joy came from the school library books I stashed between the mattress and the springs in my bed – my imagination, my only form of companionship. I counted myself lucky he never discovered this hiding place.
I'd had enough of this room. I’d had enough of India all together, of being sick and getting nowhere fast. I came here to forget, to find a certain peace and happiness and a freedom to breathe. Instead I felt stifled and confronted by every step. India had defeated me, had broken and bruised me and left me in the gutter. Adventure was one thing, but I no longer felt human. I was a physical wreck and wanted out. In the morning, I’d try and find a bus back to New Delhi and take the first plane back to England.
I updated my journal to keep my mind free of my past and as I came to the end, I hesitated. After everything I'd been through to get here, I couldn’t believe I was giving up. I felt sad my adventure was over, but the pull of home was too strong. With my mind made up, my sore eyes closed and I slipped into a broken sleep.
15
Standing beneath cold jets of water, I leant against the wall, glad the fever was lifting and I was starting to feel moderately well again. I had another long day ahead of me. There was still a part of me that wanted to try for Manali, but the likelihood of yet more disappointment outweighed any of the positives.
The rain had stopped. Pale light warmed to sunrise. Through the front door, I heard a passing vehicle or two. I inched the bolt across, lifted the handle and pulled, expecting resistance, but there was none and the door opened. The balcony was empty, no sign of any staff or my evening visitor, just a row of doors and drying puddles.
I’d tied a belt tight around my bag, but it wasn’t looking good; clothes poked out at all angles and things fell out from loose ends. I closed the door and as I did, I noticed the room number: 26. This was the same number of the apartment I lived in when I was younger. My decision to return to England was cemented there and then. This was all too weird.
A film of white dust covered the empty reception area. I returned the key to the counter, glad to leave. It was just after six. Shutters were pulled down and the road was lifeless apart from a stray dog snoozing under a wooden cart alongside an old man, also asleep, with a crutch by his side. It wasn’t long before I saw parked buses and a queue of eight or nine people at a ticket kiosk. Four of the people were western: two guys and two girls in their mid-twenties. I joined the back of the queue and asked one of the guys in front if he knew if a bus left for Delhi from here.
‘Yes, i
t will be leaving in about ten minutes,’ he replied in a German accent. His brown hair was shoulder length. His jaw was strong, like his physique, and his eyes were kind – light blue – with a softness that matched his smile. ‘Have you been in Dehra Dun long?’ he asked.
‘Only for one night.’
I looked over the heads of the queue and then to my watch.
‘Can I get your ticket for you?’ he asked. ‘Maybe it would save you some time.’
‘Thanks, that’d be great.’ I gave him three hundred rupees.
‘It shouldn’t cost this much. I will bring you change.’
His friend had a slimmer frame, wavy dark brown hair hanging loose below his shoulders. ‘You at the end of your trip, huh?’ he asked, in what sounded like an American accent.
‘Yes and no. I had intended to spend a little over three months in India, but it’s kind of got the better of me. I’ve only managed seventeen days.’ I half smiled and disconnected eye contact, looking over at the bus that was about to leave for Delhi.
‘Why? India is amazing. This is no good, you must stay,’ the German said.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed some of it. Naini Tal was nice, Corbett was great, even a few places in Delhi were cool, but getting everywhere is a nightmare and I’m as sick as a dog.’
‘Yes, you look it.’ I admired his honesty. ‘How did you end up in Dehra Dun?’
I gave them a brief rundown of the last couple of weeks as the queue dissolved and we shuffled forward.
The two girls, who I assumed the German and American were with, sounded Australian. They bought a ticket each to Shimla.
‘Take your luggage and I will bring you your ticket,’ the German said and pointed to the parked buses.
‘Oh, okay.’
Feeling unsettled about leaving him with my cash, I neared the buses, keeping the best view of the kiosk as I could. The girls boarded a bus behind me as the guys came over. The German handed me a bus ticket, ‘Here is your ticket.’
I thanked him, took my change and said goodbye. I turned to leave and looked at the ticket. It read Dehra Dun to Shimla. He’d obviously made a mistake and given me his ticket.
He was lifting his backpack up to the American on the roof of the bus, ‘Excuse me,’ I called out. ‘It appears I have your ticket.’
‘No, you have your ticket,’ he replied, without looking around.
‘But I think you’re mistaken. My ticket says Dehra Dun to Shimla, not Dehra Dun to Delhi.’
‘Yes, this is correct.’ He turned to me as his friend climbed down to join him, ‘Please do not give up on India, it is an amazing country. I ask you to give her one last chance and do what you came to Dehra Dun to do, to see Manali. If you really do not like Manali, then I will pay your full bus fare back to Delhi.’
Time wasn’t on my side. The final calls for Delhi were made and the last of the passengers boarded the bus. A slight crack had appeared in my plans, but the light that shone through was enough to sway my decision.
‘Okay,’ I said as I followed them to my seat.
Daniella and Harper – the two girls they were with – sat two rows in front. The German and American sat side by side to my right. I sat next to an elderly Indian gentleman who seemed overdressed for the climate. Upon his head was a woollen hat and below, a face that held a thousand wrinkles and a million tales to tell.
‘I’m Sam.’
The German, nearest me, sorted through his shoulder bag, ‘I am Kurt and this is Tyler.’ Tyler raised a hand from his Lonely Planet.
‘You’re from Germany?’
‘Austria. Tyler is from Canada.’
I’d not only got the nationalities of Kurt and Tyler wrong, but also the girls’ who were from New Zealand. Kurt and Tyler met in Pushkar in Rajasthan and from there they travelled to Delhi where they met the girls.
Kurt laid a couple of slices of bread on a serviette, took a can from his bag and opened it with a utility knife. He flipped the lid to reveal processed cheese, dug the knife in, scooped out a chunk and began spreading. Slapping on the top slice of bread, he offered it to me. ‘Eat. You look like you have not been eating properly and you need to keep your strength up.’ It looked enticing considering the options I’d been presented with over the last week.
I never thought a cheese sandwich could taste so good and by the time I got to the end I was presented with another and a small bottle of water to wash it down with, to which Kurt had added some rehydration powder.
Aside from a passing gust of diesel, the air blowing through the top of the windows was fresh and clean. From the gateway of the lesser Himalayas we ascended the hills through the Doon Valley and my mood shifted. A weight dropped from my shoulders and lifted from my heart and a sense of security steadily resumed.
‘It is maybe three hundred kilometres to Shimla,’ Kurt said. ‘Do you have a guidebook?’ I shook my head. From his bag, he produced a dog-eared Lonely Planet, ‘Here, you can have this one. It is from the last time I visited India. I have a newer copy in my backpack.’ I opened it randomly and scanned the pages.
On a bridge beside a large waterfall we made way for a convoy of orange goods carriers. I followed the eyes of the other passengers to the valley dropping away below. Half way down, a bus was upended, its wheels pointing to the sky. It was completely flattened. The roof had smashed in to the point the window frames had disappeared. The idea of it being full to the brim with passengers was sickening. I looked away and grabbed the handrail a little tighter as the wheels of our bus moved off, teetering the edge of the road, sending dust and rocks over the side.
The guys had fallen asleep and although I too was tired, I was kept awake by the content of the book. There were so many amazing places, the photos alone captivated me. I discovered my route to Dehra Dun would have probably been a lot easier if I’d taken a bus back to Naini Tal from Corbett after all. From Naini Tal there were direct buses to Rishikesh and Dehra Dun. Looking back, although it was tough, I was happy with the way I went. I was fed up with backtracking on myself and revisiting the same place time and time again. It felt as if I was never getting anywhere. Plus, if I’d taken a different route, I might never have met my new friends who in the matter of a couple of hours, I felt like I’d known forever.
In the shadow of the forested Shivalik Hills, somewhere on the road from the town of Nahan, we rested and drank chai. The girls were sitting at a separate table from us and were engrossed in conversation. Tyler mopped up some dhal with a roti, while Kurt ate a banana from his bag.
‘You are not eating Sam, why is this?’ Kurt asked. I explained my appetite dilemma, telling him my stomach hadn’t accustomed to Indian food yet and I found it a struggle to eat anything that wasn’t western. ‘It sounds like you have not found the right food yet,' he said. 'Maybe we will find something more to your tastes in Shimla.’
Tyler finished the last of his meal, sat back and lit a cigarette, ‘Looks like you need to get a backpack too.’
‘Definitely, I’ll be wearing all of my clothes at this rate.’
Ever higher we corkscrewed the mountains; dense pine forests, maize terraces and orchards at our sides. For the first time since Corbett, I relaxed. I was rehydrated and although my stomach was still in a touch and go state, the discomfort fell to the back of my mind. I was happy again.
Signs of life appeared. A donkey heaved a wooden cart of bricks; legs buckling beneath the weight, but spurred on nonetheless by its owner. Auto-rickshaws buzzed to and fro and porters – shoulders abound with ropes – gave chase. One got lucky, grabbed the ladder at the back of the bus and hitched a ride the rest of the way. He smiled at me through the window, no doubt his sights set on my departure.
The road led us into Shimla, perched upon a mountainside 2398 metres above sea level, and built upon by the British who once used the hill station town as a base to escape the plains in the unforgiving summer. It had taken us just over seven hours to get here and Kurt, Tyler and I were exhausted. We
decided to stay the night, while the girls pressed on to Manali, having no interest in staying a moment longer.
Stepping down from the bus we were immediately set upon by the luggage carriers. They were handled effortlessly by the two guys with the use of comical banter. Tyler left us and queued in line for tickets for tomorrow morning’s journey to Manali whilst Kurt and I looked out at the breath-taking clouds slowly rolling over a Himalayan wonderland. Behind us, as below, the hills were dotted with hundreds of pale blue, yellow and white properties.
The illusion of this enchanting city was somewhat broken as I caught sight of beggars and the homeless gathered beneath a bridge. Their faces were withdrawn, no doubt tired of the life that had been dealt to them, with each hour melting into the next searching for another way to make it to the end of the day.
Kurt caught my attention, ‘I came here last year. I know of a good hotel close by. We will settle into our rooms and go out again later for something to eat.’
Despite our attempts at suggesting somewhere else, Kurt was insistent on finding the place where he stayed previously. After half an hour of traipsing from street to street we found it, only to be told that there were no vacancies. Instead we walked up a steep incline and followed a sign for another hotel. There was one room left, a double, with a view of a valley of shaded hills stretching out to the horizon. To the right of the window, a deodar tree occupied two infant rhesus monkeys that played and screeched in the late afternoon sun. The room was small and the three of us had to share a double bed. Hardly enough room for ourselves, mind about our luggage, we unpacked lightly. Tyler suggested that we go in search of a new backpack for me.
Outside in the crisp evening air we ambled along the lower bazaar and there, amongst the bustling vibrancy of hotels, restaurants, souvenir and fashion shops, we found a stall selling just the thing: a small, but sturdy recognised brand. Tyler haggled playfully and got the price down from five hundred to three hundred rupees.