Bowling Through India

by Justin Brown

  ‘This is mainly for tips,’ said John to Reece. ‘Be generous to the guys who help you out. Tell the others to fuggoff! There should be enough to last till Mumbai.’

  For bigger expenses, Brendon’s credit card would be the Black Craps’ new currency. Which didn’t bother Reece and Stew one bit: ‘I’ll have another beer if that’s the case!’ said Stew.

  ‘Piss off,’ said Brendon.

  ‘Make mine a vodka,’ said Reece. ‘Double.’

  ‘Like hell,’ said Brendon. With two new Dads, things were going to get messy.

  With a belly full of wine and kebabs — effectively the last supper before Brendon’s credit card would take a hammering — we sat and reflected on a less than typical travelling day. You could almost see the weight on John’s shoulders. We all admired what he was about to do, but wondered how he could. Flying to Cairo to identify Anna, negotiating with Egyptian consulates, completing heinous paperwork and then taking her home to New Zealand was something no one should have to go through. But it was his only option if he wanted the body home with his daughter as soon as possible.

  Reece, all out of crass jokes, pushed on with the itinerary. ‘Tomorrow we fly to Orchha,’ he said. ‘You are going to love Orchha. It is, without a doubt, India’s best-kept secret. A medieval city built by its Bundela rulers in the sixteenth and seventeenth century, and unlike anything you’ve ever seen. What’s more, you’ll be treated like a pseudo-maharaja.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ said John, lighting up. ‘Don’t worry about me, will you? You guys just go and have a bloody good time.’

  ‘I told you I wouldn’t be the first one off the island!’ I said.

  To his credit, John laughed.

  However, we never made it to Orcha: nothing ever goes to plan in India. Despite Reece’s enthusiasm, India’s best-kept secret would have to stay that way. Our trip was once more about to be tipped on its head, this time due to the F-word.

  A NEW F-WORD

  Next morning, Brendon and I sat in the hotel foyer proudly wearing our half-pants. Reece soon joined us and shook his head ruefully. ‘Where’s your respect, walash!’ he asked.

  ‘Where’s your blanket?’ I replied.

  ‘You might as well be wearing underpants! And it’s cold out.’

  ‘We’re not wearing them because it’s warm,’ said Brendon. ‘We’re wearing them to piss you off.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Reece.

  We had decided that this morning we would watch the sunrise on the shores of the Ganges. I could easily have stayed in bed, but my team mates had other ideas. We didn’t, however, disturb John. With a hell few weeks approaching we figured he’d much rather visit the toilet in his hotel room than the one at the end of a hectic taxi ride. Speaking of which, if you need to get to a business meeting on time in Varanasi, leave at 6.30 am. Your only hold-up will be the odd lost cow and a bunch of men carrying their dead relative on a bamboo stretcher to the river chanting, ‘Rama nama satya hain’ (‘The name of God is the truth’). Even in death, vibrant colours are chosen: the stretcher is covered in faux gold-edged, red nylon cloth, while the corpse is wrapped in white khaddi (homespun cotton) or silk for the wealthier deceased.

  Compared to the night before, the Ganges was a different being. The calming sunset was replaced by a morbid, graveyard-like fog. It was cold, creepy, uninviting.

  Reece’s latest flashback hardly helped. ‘One day when I was here,’ he said, readjusting his blanket, ‘a small crowd gathered around a guy who was lying face down in the water, a couple of metres from the riverbank. The crowd grew and so did their curiosity. I decided to join them. After all, if there’s a crowd in India, something is going on. Anyway, an elder soon came along and prodded the guy in the river with a long bamboo pole. His thinking being, if he’s dead we need to push him downstream.’

  ‘I can see why you like this place, Reece,’ said Stew.

  ‘Then what happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Well,’ continued Reece with another hair-raising grin, ‘everyone stood around the floating body for twenty minutes arguing about how they should get rid of it, when suddenly it jumped out of the water!’

  ‘Who, the dead guy?’ Brendon asked.

  ‘He wasn’t dead,’ laughed Reece.

  ‘What do you mean, he wasn’t dead?’ I said. ‘He’d been under the water for twenty minutes. What was he, a fish?’

  ‘Not quite. But he was a sadhu, proficient in the teachings of yoga. It’s a well-known fact that some people who practise can breathe underwater for an unusually long time.’

  ‘Yeah, but twenty minutes!’ said Brendon.

  ‘This guy had been there at least twenty minutes,’ said Reece. ‘I’d been watching from my balcony for ten before I even went down.’

  ‘What did everyone do when he jumped out of the water?’ Stew asked.

  ‘They screamed and took off. You know how superstitious Indians are. And when they’d all gone, the sadhu went back under.’

  As we began to walk toward one of the main funeral pyres, with piles of firewood not destined for home cooking, I thought back to the baby being dissected by wild dogs; and the cow trampling the puppy; and the exploding skulls; and stepping on a torso while having your morning dip; and seeing a miracle right in front of your eyes in the form of a sadhu who scared the shit out of innocent bystanders just for the hell of it. ‘You must hate life in New Zealand, Reece.’

  ‘It’s definitely not as interesting as here.’

  No one knew if we were allowed backstage at the funeral pyre, but obviously it wasn’t entirely forbidden as a guide who ‘didn’t want money’ but added, ‘It’s all about karma if you don’t,’ took us under his wing. We felt voyeuristic walking down the steps to the latest body burning where, thankfully, photography wasn’t permitted. There was the son of the deceased, dressed in a white silk robe, representing purity, with his head shaved but for a tuft on top. There is some esoteric belief (especially strong in Sikhs who never cut their hair) that hair is like a radio antenna to God. By shaving it off, the eldest son temporarily cuts his communication with the heavens, the thinking being that God can then concentrate on the soul of the deceased which, of course, is released from the body once the skull has exploded.

  A sacred fire is lit in the earthen pot, and the body, after it is washed and bound about the waist with a piece of cloth, is stretched upon the bier and completely covered save the face, which is left exposed. Friends then carry away the bier. The son, who lights the funeral pyre, walks ahead with the earthen pot in his hands. When the body has been placed upon the pile, some of the mourners scatter pieces of sandalwood over the body. The chief mourner then walks around the pile three times and fires it up.

  What surprised me most was that it didn’t seem to concern the son in the slightest that we were effectively gate-crashing his father’s funeral. You forget, too, how long it takes to burn something as dense as a corpse. Or how boring it would be. In the time we were there, no longer than ten minutes, the son made phone calls on his mobile phone, facing the water, not his father, either to escape noise or to get a better reception. You can hardly blame him. Given that the average body takes about three hours to become ash, it must be an exhausting experience. Once it’s all over, the fire is put out and all attendees proceed to the river to bathe.

  Ambling up the jagged steps, we passed mounds of black hair lying on the ground. Before I knew the ins and outs of cremation, I thought they were leftovers from a makeshift barber. Just as I thought my shoulders were covered in dandruff, until I realised it was probably the remains of Grandpa Singh. In fact, white flaky ash covered most of our clothing. Outside, every spare inch of space was taken up by endless stacks of firewood: two hundred kilos for part cremation, three hundred for full.

  Our ‘guide’ kept repeating that he didn’t want a tip but to ‘pay one of the widows waiting to die’. He took us to a dank upstairs room with a view of the Ganges, where three sunken-faced widows wore white saris and mise
rable frowns. This was the Death House, where the sick and old with no family were left to die. This, too, was clearly our guide’s finale, an opportunity to milk near-death for tips.

  ‘I don’t expect anything,’ he repeated tirelessly. ‘But it is all about karma. If you are going to give money, give to the widows.’

  I caved in and gave a hundred rupees to a woman who looked as though she had only hours left. If I had known the language, I would have told her to make a run for it, because I knew exactly where the money would be going. Karma Man nodded his head and guided us down the steps, away from the widow waving weakly, death in her yellow eyes.

  At breakfast in the hotel we discovered John already seated, slurping coffee. Due to unfavourable time differences he’d been on the phone all night. Mr Straya and his wife were seated at the next table. Eager to hear stories from our trip rather than his wife’s shoe-shopping escapades, he asked how many games we had managed to play.

  ‘Six,’ said Stew, spreading another dollop of honey on his toast.

  ‘Six, well done!’ said Mr Straya. ‘And how many have you won?’

  ‘It’s three-all,’ I replied.

  ‘Close series!’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘You’ll have to bring in the big guns soon. Maybe you need a few Aussies on your team.’

  ‘That would be helpful,’ said Stew. ‘Considering we couldn’t chase down a score of four in Darjeeling.’

  ‘It was a tough pitch,’ I said.

  ‘They were eight,’ Brendon replied.

  Mr Straya laughed and said he wished he wasn’t going shoe-shopping after breakfast.

  With a few hours to fill before John flew to Cairo we took Vicky behind the hotel’s bike sheds. A large open field with a ‘Beware of snakes’ sign became our makeshift pitch for only our second practice of the tour. We managed to convince a hotel worker to join us. The last thing we wanted was to see him fired, but we needed new blood — a fresh bowler with a tricky action and unpredictable tactics. Sadly, this player wasn’t to be it. Yet although he batted like a blindfolded toddler and peered over his shoulder for his boss more than at the ball, it seemed to make his day. Once we had distributed his left arm dibbly-dobblies all over the park, we allowed him to resume his duties.

  And then there were four. Never in a million years did we think it would end like this, with John standing alongside the Goldfish Bowl, waving, smiling, agonising. It was only natural that he would be jealous. He had been having as great a time as the rest of us. The best time of his life had now turned to the worst. We waved. He waved. And we parted ways in the City of Death and Misery and Life. Varanasi, no longer a legend from a dusty school atlas, now harboured smells, feelings and consternation. I can’t rule out ever going back. John, however, would be forgiven for taking to the damn place with an industrial strength blowtorch, his second-cousin dousing and defending the city behind him.

  The drive to the airport was short, even pleasant. Maybe we didn’t realise how eager we were to get out of Bad Luck Town. And although it seemed technically impossible, Wasim’s trousers were actually tighter than two days previous. As he walked towards the airport terminal with us in tow, I wondered how half-pants could be more offensive than a pair of slacks from CHiPs. It was as if Rod Stewart’s Indian half-brother had thrown in his music career for one of getting Kiwis into the biggest travel mess of the century. Okay, that’s not entirely fair. It’s wasn’t all his fault, but you’ve got to blame someone. And today, Wasim was it.

  Before the trip began, the only F-word that came out of Stew’s mouth was a profanity directed at touts. But now a new noun had emerged: fog. It’s widely recognised that while Delhi is world-class when it comes to international flights, as far as domestic ones go it may as well be Papua New Guinea. The problem is one of technical equipment. They have the fog-landing equipment necessary for the big birds, but not for the 737s carrying the olds from Thiruvananthapuram. As a result, the country’s second-largest airport (after Mumbai) is thrown into complete disarray. It’s an annual affair, sending holidaymakers and business folk into a tail spin.

  And it can go on for days.

  Our plane was supposedly arriving from Delhi, ultimately taking us to Khajuraho, from where we would then drive to Orchha. ‘India’s best-kept secret’ Orchha. ‘Unlike anything you’ve ever seen’ Orchha. ‘You’re going to love Orchha’ Orchha. However, if there was no such plane leaving Delhi, then there was no plane to take us to said paradise.

  Wasim fussed about, endeavouring to make our non-journey a smooth one. Every ten minutes he would join us. ‘Still fog?’ we’d ask.

  ‘Yes,’ he’d reply.

  ‘Will be leaving soon?’

  ‘Yes, the fog will clear.’

  ‘What if it doesn’t?’

  ‘We will arrange another flight.’

  ‘So there are other flights?’

  ‘No, just one flight, but the fog should clear.’

  ‘What if it doesn’t?’

  ‘We will arrange another flight.’

  ‘Still fog?’

  ‘Yes . . . ’

  Etcetera, etcetera.

  Eventually, having we had waited for two hours, the fog in Delhi became so dire that our flight was cancelled. During this time we didn’t see Wasim once, assuming he was either buying a tight shirt to match his pants, or maybe, when a less caustic mood prevailed, that he was probably doing his best to help the petulant Westerners. Foreigners harrumphed, moaned and sweated. We had to make a decision, and fast. Would we get a new flight from Varanasi to Delhi and then get the train to Orchha the next day, and so have only one afternoon in such a magical place? Or would swapping plans completely mess up the remainder of the trip? More realistically, should we flag Orchha altogether and spend an extra few days in Delhi before heading to Agra, as per the itinerary?

  ‘We don’t want to spend any more time in Delhi than need be,’ said Reece.

  ‘I agree,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s just bite the bullet,’ said Reece, ‘and take the first available flight to Delhi tonight, then take the first train tomorrow morning to India’s best-kept secret?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Stew.

  ‘Whatever,’ said I.

  ‘I think I need a loo,’ said Brendon.

  We felt slightly better having made a decision. But the joy was short-lived. Wasim now stood before us adjusting his crotch and grinning from ear to ear. ‘Good news,’ he said, handing out airline tickets. ‘I’ve secured the last four seats for the next flight to Delhi.’

  ‘That is good news, gee!’ beamed Reece. ‘We’ll get to Orchha after all.’

  Wasim’s grin faded.

  ‘What?’ asked Reece, suspiciously.

  ‘I just called my travel agent in Delhi,’ said Wasim. ‘He said there are no tickets left for the train from Delhi to Orchha tomorrow morning.’

  So as it turned out, our minds had been made up for us. Tread water and move in some direction, even if it turns out to be the wrong one.

  ‘But Orchha!’ cried Reece. ‘You would have loved it! It’s India’s — ’

  ‘Best-kept secret,’ I said. ‘Yes, we know.’

  ‘Look,’ said Stew, raising his voice above other tetchy travellers. ‘Let’s just get to Delhi, have a shower and a feed, and then reassess the trip.’

  ‘Stew’s right,’ said Brendon. ‘Hey, at least things can’t get any worse.’

  But then they did. As he casually rummaged about in his daypack, he fished out a bulging leather wallet which, by the sheer size and weight of it, could only belong to one person. ‘Oh shit,’ he whispered.

  I leaned in and took a closer look. ‘That’s . . . isn’t that John’s wallet?’

  Brendon nodded.

  ‘Shit,’ I said.

  ‘Shit,’ said Reece.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Stew.

  So now along with the new F-word we had a new problem. John’s wallet was his lifeline. To say it had everything in it would be an understatement. Cre
dit cards, frequent-flyer cards, first-class lounge cards, passport, American dollars and flight tickets stared forlornly at us like Romanian orphans. Brendon held the wallet close to his chest. The rest of us resembled onlookers at a car crash. John, no doubt blissfully unaware, was a forty-five-minute taxi ride away. In an hour, he, too, would be due at Varanasi airport for his connecting flight to Vienna and Cairo. And we had his wallet.

  The problem with one of us becoming a Wallet Carrier Pigeon was that it could lead to more strife if we were to cross paths without knowing it. With our flight still delayed, one of us could make it back to the hotel. But what if John left at the same time?

  Finally, the farmer saw some sense. A few feet from us, border patrol guards were busy sealing checked-in bags with plastic ties from an automatic machine. The result was a conundrum MacGyver would have had trouble hacking. Without hesitation, Stew marched over with John’s wallet, returning with it completely bound in white plastic.

  ‘That should do the trick,’ he said. ‘Now we need someone to take it to him.’

  As luck would have it, the man to sort that job was standing nearby with his elegant shoe-loving wife. Once again, his choice of clothing put the Kiwi backpackers to shame: designer sports jacket, crisp white shirt, polished shoes and neatly pressed jeans.

  ‘Gidday fellas,’ he said, smiling. ‘How’s everything garn?’

  ‘Not too good actually, mate,’ I said, explaining our predicament.

  ‘Struth,’ he said. ‘And he’s still back in the hotel, this John?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Reece.

  ‘And you guys are about to leave?’

  ‘We just got the last four seats to Delhi,’ said Brendon.

  One thing about successful people is they get things done. Some schmooze, others grease. Mr Straya had a far more direct tactic. Having discovered Wasim was our go-to man, he cornered him, dangling the wallet like a carrot. ‘Do you know this Mr John?’