by Irene Black
The cloth disappeared, and the car swerved as if a load had shifted. A movement in the blackness outside the passenger side window: a hand. Putting her foot down hard on the accelerator, she saw in the headlights a large pothole and plunged the car into it. She hung on to the steering wheel to stop herself from crashing up into the roof. From overhead, a loud bump and a wail. Surely that had done it? She glanced across.
To her horror, the hand was still there, and something worse: a face, upside down and pressed into the windowpane, a face so distorted by the glass that it was impossible to make out the features. The disintegrating turban had wrapped itself around the upper part, obscuring the eyes, but Hannah could feel them boring through the cloth, cold as a mummy’s curse. The car careered on. Hannah was aware that the body was gradually working its way down the side of the vehicle, one hand hanging on to the roof, the other groping for the door handle. Ahead, a stone wall lined the roadside. Screaming, Hannah veered to the left. Without slowing down, she scraped the side of the car along it, but it seemed that the man was stuck to it like glue. Now his hand was on the door handle. A clunk as it opened. She stretched across and tugged at the inside handgrip with the full force of her body. But she couldn’t control the car with one hand. It zigzagged across the road. She let go of the handgrip. The door opened wider. She slammed her foot on the brake. Still the man hung on. Once more she accelerated. Now the door was fully open, and the man was trying to get a foothold inside the car. Ahead, Hannah could make out some bushes protruding into the road. She steered at them. The strong, sharp branches squealed as they cut into the vehicle’s side and pressed against the door, forcing it to close. A yelp of pain as it slammed onto the man’s leg and the branches cut into the hand that was trying to resist it.
Then the thud of a body falling onto the ground.
She traveled on for another mile before slowing down to lean across and slam the passenger door shut.
Chapter 3
Although it was nearly lunchtime when Ashok and his parents boarded the Tipu Express from Mysore to Bangalore, none of them was hungry. Sweet and savory offerings of every description had been pressed upon them all morning at the girl’s house. Thus they waved away the vendors who plied their wares along the corridor of their compartment, maneuvering their trays of carefully stacked lentil and rice-flour snacks —crispy, fried vadas and soft round white idlis—through the closely packed standing passengers. The usual crowds on the train had been boosted even more by a midday rush, and it had taken a while to argue and cajole themselves into seats that had originally been taken up by a contingent of bundles and battered brown boxes.
Neither did they give a moment’s thought to any of the plastic scissors, yo-yos, balls, knives, sari lengths, pan scrubbers, wicks for oil lamps, ties, socks, hair slides, scarves, shawls, and other objects on offer during the course of the journey. The old blind man who entertained the carriage with his sacred songs was favored with a few paise. This aside, Srinivasa and Ashok were too engrossed in serious matters to take much notice of the enterprising cavalcade. Girija watched in silence, weighing up their conversation as if she were waiting for the right moment to intercede.
“I don’t know, Bapa. I had so little chance to talk to her. She seemed nice enough, but so shy.”
“Well, what are you expecting? That girl does not know you. How else should a well-brought up daughter be behaving? Give time. This is, after all, first meeting only.”
“I know. And, yes, I agree, family is good. The girl has a good education…”
“A degree in Chemistry from Mysore University, no less. And she is working towards Masters.”
“I know. I suppose she is really quite pretty, not that I mind too much about such things…”
“A lovely girl. You will not find one more beautiful. I am thinking she is very much like your mother at her age.”
Girija waved her hand. “Oh, what nonsense, such foolish talk.” But her eyes were smiling.
Ashok ignored her interjection and addressed his father.
“But to me looks are of minor importance. What are we having in common is what I am asking myself?”
“In common? That will come with time only. Once there are children. Believe me, I am telling only what is true.”
“I believe you, Bapa. But…somehow something is not right. She is a very serious girl. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Only I am wondering where is her sense of humor. There was no laughter in that house, I think.”
Srinivasa spluttered in disbelief.
“Sense of humor? Laughter? What is it you are wanting? A funny girl? A wife who is making you laugh? A brazen hussy? I think you are becoming too much an Englishman, Ashok. This is not Indian way. A wife should be modest…”
“That’s not what I mean, Bapa. I should like a wife to be cheerful and smiling. This girl is looking miserable all the time. Perhaps it is thought of being married to me that makes her look like that.”
This was too much for Girija, who rounded on her son angrily.
“Now you are becoming ridiculous. My son, my handsome English doctor son is a great catch for any girl.”
Srinivasa added, “Certainly the mother is very keen. That is plain for all to observe.”
“Perhaps I should forget the girl and set my sights on the mother. A good-looking woman, I thought.”
Srinivasa snorted. “What are we to do with you? This is now third girl you have rejected since homecoming. Soon we will run out of suitable young ladies.”
“Now did I say that I am rejecting this one? I am saying only that I need more time, and she also. Certainly this one is a vast improvement on that first one, who was clearly a fortune hunter, and second also, who was very silly.”
Srinivasa shook his head and sighed.
“For sure you have picked up many strange ideas in England.”
Ashok sat back and closed his eyes. There was a hint of a smile on his lips. Keep the parents guessing for a bit longer, he told himself. After all, this isn’t a decision that can be finalized after one meeting. But the truth was, he liked the girl. Janaki. He repeated the name in his mind. A nice name. A sweet, gentle young woman. True, she was shy. He’d hardly spoken to her. But perhaps that was his fault. He didn’t want to be too forward at the first meeting. After all, this wasn’t England. He’d been away from home for so long that he was no longer sure of the exact etiquette when it came to such matters, so he’d erred on the side of caution. Somehow though, despite this and the gravity of her expression, he felt that there was depth to her character and an individuality that he found appealing. Yes, he mused. One or two more meetings to be sure. But I think this is the one for me.
The train rattled out of Mysore. It passed the remains of the fifteenth century fortress, a tantalizing reminder of a time when the great Vijayanagar dynasty ruled the land, followed by the Maharajas of Mysore and the great Muslim leaders, Hyder Ali and his son Tipu Sultan, who were finally defeated by the British in the eighteenth century.
Then they were in open countryside, passing scenes which spoke of hard lives despite the veneer of rural tranquility: men ankle-deep in water, plowing the paddy fields with a couple of weary oxen; women in bright cotton saris pitilessly beating the laundry against a rock on the bank of a dirty lake; a painted truck backed into the lake for cleaning; a small girl washing and scrubbing her teeth in the same lake. They passed coconut plantations, mango groves and fields of mulberry bushes, grazing buffalo and herders tending their mixed flocks of sheep and goats, villages of mud-walled huts nestling by the side of the line as though anxious to be within touching distance of this contact with the wider world. Sometimes they sped over level crossings where trucks, bullock-carts, cars, and bicycles waited patiently for them to pass. Small boys waved at the train as it lumbered past them. At times, the country became less cultivated, wide-open boulder-strewn spaces replacing the farmland. Ashok felt at peace. Yes, this was his land, the land to which he and Janaki belonged. They were b
oth hewn from the same eternal granite. No need for prolonged introductions. They would understand each other.
At last, some two and a half hours after leaving Mysore, the train trundled into Bangalore, where it emptied its chaotic load of human cargo and assorted baggage onto the platform.
Ashok and his parents commandeered an autorickshaw, and they squeezed with some difficulty into the bench seat behind the driver. They passed out of the busy town center and headed north towards the part of the city where green and leafy campuses of science institutions, hospitals, and university departments flourished, untainted by the turmoil and poisonous effluence of the city. Life had a never-ending feel of normality here. Ashok felt as if he had never left. Superficially, little had changed over the years. The corner cricket pitch was still continually in use by every aspiring Azharuddin—and that meant practically every boy around. A donkey family meandered along Margosa Road, shepherding tiny, black, gangly-legged foals with seeming nonchalance through the traffic, stopping only to munch the leaves spilled from a passing street vendor’s cauliflower cart.
The autorickshaw stopped at last outside the family home. Ashok untangled himself from the vehicle and entered the house with his parents.
His sister came to meet them. Her face wore a puzzled expression.
“Somebody was ringing for you, Ashok. An English person. I think she said her name is Hannah…Rosen? She was telling that she is at Chamundi Hotel and please to ring there upon your return. I have written room number. Who is this person, Ashok? A friend from UK perhaps?”
Ashok had to think for a moment before he associated the name with the green-eyed girl.
“No, she is not a friend. I was sitting next to her on the plane. She seemed a little lost, so I gave our number. I did not expect her to turn up, however.” His voice conveyed the awkwardness that he felt.
“No matter. She is most welcome. You must ask her to come here.”
Srinivasa’s reaction surprised Ashok. Then he realized he had lost something during his years in England. A natural and unquestioning openness and hospitality. He had lost the generosity of innocence.
* * * *
By mid-morning, Hannah was installed in her room at the sprawling Chamundi Hotel just off Kumara Krupa, close to the center of Bangalore. Remembering the missing brochure with her destination written on it, she had wondered whether to change her hotel. But what was the point? She wanted the man to find her, didn’t she? So let him come. He’d lost the element of surprise. With help, she would be able to deal with him.
She had been afraid that her disheveled appearance and lack of baggage might bar her from entry. However, her simple explanation that she had lost her luggage and was going to restock in Bangalore was accepted with a bored shrug. The hotel was comfortable enough, although without character and slightly shabby—a mediocre Indian chain establishment, with five-star aspirations and two-star accomplishment.
She had hesitated briefly before picking up the telephone and dialing Ashok’s number. She had a feeling that her call would not be altogether welcome. This feeling was supported by the somewhat bemused tone of the voice of the woman who answered, presumably Ashok’s mother or a sister. She seemed wary and vague, but she agreed to pass on Hannah’s number.
Hannah had stripped out of her filthy clothes, including the one dress that remained in her possession. Taking a chance that her garments would soon dry in the warmth of the morning, she washed the lot in the washbasin in her bathroom, scrubbing them with the anonymous bar of hotel soap that had been provided. She turned off the air conditioning and spread out her washing as near to the window as possible. Fingers crossed, she thought, wondering if her hasty laundering activity had been rather foolish. Yes, it was warm in Bangalore, but you couldn’t exactly call it hot. Not compared to Chennai, where there seemed to be no escape from the suffocating blanket of sticky, steamy heat.
Chennai. Had that been only yesterday? During the flight to Bangalore, she had been too exhausted, too numbed to reflect on what had happened. Now in the relative safety of her hotel room, she lay down on her bed, drew a blanket over herself, and soon felt her eyes closing. In her half-sleep, memories of the previous night drifted into her mind. Despite the horror of it at the time, she could not avoid a tiny gloat of triumph. Drawing on her inner strength and ability to think quickly, she had outwitted and outmaneuvered her pursuer.
After she had appropriated the taxi, she had decided to drive on until she could abandon it in safety. Thankfully, dawn had begun to break into the night sky. Blackness gave way to gray. The road ahead seemed friendlier. She drove on for twenty minutes or so. Then a tarmac road crossed the track. To her right, she could see signs of a village. She turned onto the road and headed towards it. She decided against waking the still slumbering inhabitants. How could she possibly have explained away the appearance in their village of a battered taxi driven by an English woman? It was doubtful in any case whether anyone would have spoken English. She drove on. The village extended much farther than she had expected. It seemed to have no end. Soon she saw that people were beginning to get up and begin their morning ablutions. The dwellings became more numerous. There were stores and market stalls. The road was leading her back into Chennai.
She knew she would have to abandon the taxi fairly soon, while she could still do so without attracting attention. Suddenly she saw a neon sign ahead. “Madras Plaza Hotel”—a grandiose name for a very modest establishment. It would do.
She left the car by the side of the road. As she gave it a last glance, she shuddered as she noticed the sunglasses lying on the dashboard. She was tempted to pull them out and sink them in the nearest puddle. But she left them. Escape was a more pressing concern.
Her dress stank. Hastily, she tried to brush off some of the damp mud. She found her phial of Fleurs de Provence buried in the bottom of her neck-pouch and hurriedly sprayed her wrists. Then she set off to the hotel and turned onto its forecourt. A gaggle of little autorickshaws was waiting there for emerging clients, gathered like flies on a cowpat, many of the drivers still sleeping on the seats. One of the autorickshaws pulled out from the throng and headed towards her. It circled round and hovered beside her. The driver did not speak. He merely looked at her hopefully.
“Airport?” she asked, doubtfully.
He hesitated then wobbled his head from side to side. Ah, Hannah thought, remembering the fruit vendor who had sold her the bananas. This must mean yes.
As the auto roared off, Hannah thought about the Pandava and, ludicrously, under the circumstances, was gripped with guilt because she was fleeing without paying her bill. Then she remembered that she had left her camera, which was worth a good deal more than a day’s lodgings, in the hotel safe.
* * * *
Hannah sat up and looked at her watch. Three hours had passed. She’d dropped off to sleep. Hardly surprising, as she’d been up all night. Now she felt wide-awake, buoyed up by her escape—evidence that she still had some fight left in her. She smiled. You’ve not lost it, gal, she told herself, but a little help wouldn’t go amiss.
She passed the time reading up on Bangalore in her guidebook. She discovered that the capital of the state of Karnataka was the fastest-growing city in India, a world center for the computer software Industry. The city was home to some of the greatest seats of education and learning in the whole of the sub-continent, its scientific institutions counting as among the best in the world. The language spoken was mainly the local Kannada, but Tamil was widely understood due to the presence of a large minority from the neighboring state of Tamil Nadu. The geographical features of Karnataka ranged from thriving cities to mountainous wilderness, from ancient temples to tiger reserves, from the jungle to the sea.
By late afternoon, Hannah’s clothes were dry enough to wear.
At half past four, the telephone rang.
“Hannah? Oh, hallo, it’s Ashok Rao here. Sorry I was out when you phoned.”
“Ashok! What a relief.�
�� The words slipped out, before embarrassment caught up with them. “I mean...well, sorry, hope I’m not being a nuisance...”
“Is something wrong?”
“Look, I’m in a spot of bother. Are you free?”
“Yes, of course. How about if I pick you up at the hotel at around seven, and we get something to eat.”
“Great, but you couldn’t make it earlier, could you? On top of everything else, I’ve lost my luggage—tell you about it later. Is there somewhere I can do some clothes shopping?”
“Yes, sure. I’ll be round in half hour and take you to Commercial Street.”
He arrived on the dot and knocked gently at her door.
“Hallo, it’s me, Ashok.” His voice sent an unexpected shiver of pleasure down Hannah’s spine.
She opened the door. He looked down at her, for he was some four inches taller than she was, his dark eyes sincere, a lock of black hair straying across his forehead, a half-smile forming on his lips. Gosh, Hannah thought, as she felt her heartbeat quicken. Gosh.
“Namaskara,” he said, breaking a moment’s awkwardness. “Nice to see you again.”
“And you. Thanks for coming.”
“Here—I’ve brought you this. Evenings get a bit chilly.”
Hannah unfolded a huge, light woolen shawl. It was double-sided, green on one side and maroon on the reverse. The weaving was intricate and beautiful. She wrapped herself inside it. It covered her completely, and she twirled around, laughing.
“It’s enchanted. I feel as if I’m floating in gossamer.” Behave, she warned herself. Of course it’s simply the shawl that’s making me feel light-headed.