by Jenny Feldon
It was almost midnight when I finally climbed into bed next to Jay, brushing the damp dark hair out of his eyes. I lay down beside him and watched him breathe—the easy rise and fall of his chest beneath the sweatshirt, the occasional shudder as he huddled deeper in the sheets. Tucker stretched out between us, a furry horizontal line that made an H out of the three of us. This, at least, felt normal. I twirled the dog’s floppy ears through my fingers, staring at the ceiling fan, trying to fall asleep.
Chapter 4
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Pizza Corner: Chikunwa Hameda Mumeda Hameda, Vishnu speaking.
Me: Hello, is this Pizza Corner?
Vishnu: Yes, Madam.
Me: Great. I’d like to place an order for delivery.
Vishnu: Delivery, Madam?
Me: Don’t you deliver? I’m looking at your menu and it says you deliver.
Vishnu: Certainly, Madam. What will you be having?
Me: I’d like a medium plain pizza.
Vishnu: Deep dish or original crust?
Me: Original, please.
Vishnu: Will you be having any meats or vegetables on your plain pizza?
Me: No, just plain pizza. Cheese pizza.
Vishnu: OK, Madam, we will be delivering your original crust meat and vegetable pizza to you within thirty-nine minutes. Thank you for calling Pizza Corner.
Me: No meat or vegetables. CHEESE PIZZA! And don’t you need to know where I live?
Vishnu: Yes, Madam.
Me: I live at Matwala Shayar, on Madhapur Road. Flat number Alpha 112, first floor.
Vishnu: And what would be the flat number?
Me: 112. In Alpha block. Alpha 112.
Vishnu: And what floor is that on, Madam?
Me: The first floor.
Vishnu: Madam? I regret to inform you that we are being out of original crust pizzas today. There will be only deep dish.
Me: Well, why didn’t you tell me that when I ordered it in the first place?
Vishnu: Pardon, Madam? I do not understand. What size pizza would be to your liking?
Me: Medium. Same as before.
Vishnu: You ordered another pizza before, Madam? Have you received that one yet?
Me: I meant before when I ordered the…forget it.
Vishnu: Very good. Your order comes to 140 rupees.
Me: Great, thanks. (Finger poised on hang-up button.)
Vishnu: Madam? It will be costing minimum of 150 rupees to deliver your order to Matwala Shayar. Would you like to order something additional?
Me: Do I have a choice?
Vishnu: I beg your pardon, Madam?
Me: Just give me a Coke or something.
Vishnu: OK, Madam, one of Coke. Your order comes to 185 rupees. Congratulations! When your order comes to greater than 175 rupees you get a free gift. It is a Coke. I’ll be sending it with your order.
Me: Wait. I just ordered a Coke so you’d deliver to me. Now you’re giving me a free one? I don’t want another Coke. I don’t even want the first one! How about you keep your free Coke and just deliver my pizza for 140 rupees?
Vishnu: I’m sorry, Madam, but that cannot be done. You must order 150 rupees to be receiving your delivery in Matwala Shayar.
Me: But you’d save the money on the free Coke if you’d just deliver without the first one. It’s win-win!
Vishnu: Win-win, Madam? I am not understanding what is “win-win.” Your order will arrive in thirty-nine minutes or it will be free of charge.
Me: Really? Free? Well, that’s good, at least.
Vishnu: Madam, I must be informing you, however, that long distances or traffic may interfere with the driving time, in which case the thirty-nine-minute offering would be invalid. Thank you for calling Pizza Corner, Madam. We hope you will be having a good day.
FRIDAY MORNING, 7:00 A.M.
Me: Hello?
Pizza Corner: Good morning, Madam, this is Supriya calling from Pizza Corner. How are you today, Madam?
Me: What? Pizza Corner? Why are you calling me? It’s SEVEN IN THE MORNING.
Supriya: Well, Madam, we are calling in regards to your order for pizza.
Me: But that was yesterday. I ordered a pizza yesterday. Not today. I didn’t order anything today.
Supriya: Yes, Madam, this is a customer service call. We are calling to find out how you were liking your medium meat and vegetable deep dish pizza and the Coke which you were ordering from Pizza Corner yesterday?
***
I’d been ordering a lot of pizza.
At first it was just a practical decision: Jay was recovering from his fever; obviously I needed to stay close to him in case he needed me or relapsed or something. Then he got better and went back to work, and I went back to eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and staring out the kitchen window at the construction site. Alexis had stopped by to visit a few times, but her new Indian painting class occupied most of her waking hours. She tried to convince me to take the class with her, but I assured her anything more advanced than stick-figure drawing would be way out of my league.
I hadn’t braved another trip to Coffee Day. Caffeine withdrawal was making me crabby. There was also the jet lag to overcome, the heat to contend with, the never-ending cycle of electricity on, electricity off. The Matwala Shayar apartment complex had a backup generator, but it was just as unpredictable as the power cuts themselves. I’d used my to-do list (unpack, explore the town, buy groceries, meet the neighbors, write a blog post) to kill a giant spider on the bathroom floor. When I tossed the list in the trash, crumpled and covered in spider guts, not a single item had been checked off.
Comments on my blog were pouring in, asking if we’d arrived safely and demanding details of our Indian journey so far. I’d developed a decent following in New York, writing about daily life as a writer and a yogini. My readers were eager to read about my new experiences in the third world. I scrolled through the comments (“Where are you? What’s happening? We miss your posts!”) on my new Indian BlackBerry without responding to a single one.
The truth was, I was being lazy. Lazy and afraid. My clothes were wrong, my communication skills poor, my sense of direction unreliable. I hadn’t even so much as glanced in the direction of my computer. We didn’t have Internet yet, and besides that I was too overwhelmed to face the mocking tyranny of an empty page. Instead of fascinating stories to tell and exotic pictures to share, so far I’d collected nothing but a bunch of crushed expectations.
Venkat arrived each morning and waited outside, engine idling while he examined his slicked-back hair in the rearview mirror. Jay woke up, took a shower, put on his suit, kissed me good-bye, and went to the office. When we heard the Hyundai’s engine grunt to life, Tucker and I got out of bed. I went to the bathroom, cursed Jay out loud for soaking the roll of toilet paper AGAIN (“It’s not MY fault the toilet is in the shower,” he’d say, indignant, when I complained), and took a shower of my own, relishing that fleeting moment of clean before the heat and dust of the day set in. I’d sit on the sofa with Tucker on my lap, flipping through the pages of The Times of India Subu left outside our door every morning, and wonder when our great adventure would begin.
I knew Jay was feeling stressed and insecure about his work in Region 10. He’d never admit it, to me or to anyone, but I could see it in the tilt of his shoulders and the stubborn way he clenched his jaw. Things didn’t feel quite right between us. I missed the old us, the ones who laughed together and teased each other and kissed goodnight before rolling our separate ways to go to sleep. The past few nights, Jay had been so exhausted he’d passed out as soon as he pulled his sleeping hat down over his ears, turning and moaning to himself in fitful sleep. I watched his restless tossing and felt guilty for being the one with so little to accomplish.
I was chewing absently on a breakfast slice of leftov
er pizza and watching the construction site (today the women were climbing the scaffolding with bowls of water on top of their heads, a feat I found as fascinating as it was dangerous) when a chorus of honking horns came from outside, followed by knocking at the front door. I grabbed Tucker and opened the door a crack.
“Yes?”
“Jay Sir?” A man holding a clipboard and wearing an enormous garland of orange flowers looked over my shoulder, clearly disappointed I’d been the one to open the door.
“He’s at work. Can I help you?”
“I am Vishnu, from Mahindra? Today is the most auspicious day we are delivering Jay Sir’s brand new top of the line Scorpio, color black? We are here for celebration.”
I peered over the top of the staircase, looking down into the parking lot. Sure enough, there was the Scorpio—dark, hulking, and inexplicably adorned with dozens of the same orange garlands Vishnu was wearing. The flowers were marigolds. Behind the Scorpio was a procession of similarly decorated cars, all bearing the Mahindra logo. It was a car delivery parade. If I’d known, I would have put on something more festive.
“Wow. This is pretty awesome, thanks. Jay will be sorry he missed it. Do you need me to sign or something?”
“My apologies, Ma’am, but you cannot sign,” Vishnu said, clutching the clipboard. “Only Jay Sir. When will he be available?”
“He won’t be back for another few hours. I’m happy to sign.” I reached for the papers. Vishnu held them over his head.
“Might you be calling him to let him know of our arrival? Perhaps he will be coming with more haste if he knows his brand new Scorpio vehicle is waiting for him?”
I called Jay’s mobile.
“Is everything OK? I’m sort of in the middle of something.”
“Yeah. It’s just the guys are here with the car and they won’t let me sign for it. There’s a lot of them and it’s all wrapped up in these flower things? Can you come home?”
Jay sighed. “Not for at least another few hours. Do you want me to talk to them?”
I held the phone out to Vishnu. He bobbled his head back and forth, horizontal instead of up and down, a native gesture I couldn’t figure out. It seemed to mean “yes” and “no” simultaneously, but whatever action followed the head bobble was usually the opposite of the one I’d expected. Vishnu’s bobble seemed to indicate acknowledgment, maybe gratitude. I added these to my running mental list of possible bobble meanings.
Vishnu spoke to Jay for less than a minute before handing the phone back to me. “Jay Sir will be coming. Imminent. We will wait.”
Jay showed up two hours later, hopping out of the back of Younus’s hatchback and high-fiving Peter, who gave the Scorpio a thumbs-up before heading toward the Delta block flat he and Alexis shared.
Vishnu drew himself up off the ground outside our door, where he’d been camping with his clipboard in anticipation of Jay’s “imminent” arrival. So there, I thought as he rubbed at an oily stain on his pants. Should have let me sign the papers after all.
After a few minutes, Jay came in whistling. He dangled the keys to the Scorpio like a giant trout he’d just caught. “Should we take it for a spin?”
I gaped at him in horror. “Right NOW? On these roads? With YOU driving? You’ve lost your mind. Where’s Venkat, anyway? I saw you get out of Younus’s car.”
“He needed a couple days off. Something about going back to his village. A festival or something.”
“But it’s Friday! I was thinking we’d do some sightseeing or something. Go out to dinner. Maybe get groceries.”
“We can still go. I can drive.”
The only thing that scared me more than braving the city on my own was the thought of being a passenger in a moving vehicle, on Hyderabadi streets, with Jay behind the wheel. He was a terrible driver on a good day in a familiar country: reckless, impatient, a tad belligerent when things weren’t going his way. The thought of him on the wrong side of the car, on the wrong side of the road, mixing it up with livestock and motorcycles, possibly plowing over small animals or sleeping humans in the massive Scorpio…I shuddered. Why didn’t India have a decent system for mass transportation? When we made it back to New York, I was never taking the subway for granted again.
“No way. You’re not qualified to drive on these streets, and it’s total insanity out there. We’ll just have to wait for Venkat to get back. Want me to order a pizza?” I waved the Pizza Corner menu, though by now I had it memorized. “We could try something different for a change. Something with vegetables?”
“Put some decent clothes on,” Jay said, loosening his tie. “I’m going to change, and then we’re getting out of this apartment. We’re in India. Let’s go eat some Indian food.” He headed for the bathroom. A minute later, he let out a yelp.
“The toilet paper’s all wet!”
“It’s not my fault the toilet’s in the shower,” I yelled back, smirking. “How are we going to get to Indian food? I just said I wouldn’t get in the car with you driving, remember?”
“Just like the Indians do. We’ll take a rickshaw.”
***
Just before I left, Kate and I were walking toward the subway at Seventy-Second and Broadway. Dripping wet from yoga, sipping spirulina smoothies, soaking up the late spring sunshine…and taking (though I didn’t know it then) our charmed existences entirely for granted. We talked about India.
“Well, it’s not like it could be any worse than this,” Kate commented with disgust. Her slender arm, Hermes bracelets stacked three high, swept the air to indicate piled bags of garbage on the side of the street, the angry honks of passing taxis, the homeless guy in front of Gray’s Papaya, wearing Lucky brand jeans and ashing his cigarette into a Starbucks cup. We climbed down the narrow stairs into the station, holding our breath against the subway smell of urine and popcorn and damp cardboard, shaking our heads, impressed with our own gracious tolerance for the dirty city we loved.
Had I really thought a comparison between India and the Upper West Side was within the realm of possibility? Wrinkled my nose at public transportation, thinking I’d seen and smelled the worst possible commute of the masses? Somewhere back in New York, a phantom version of me was still standing on that street corner, looking into a crystal ball, gazing at the now me, with one hand clapped over her mouth in horror and the other signaling gratefully for a taxi.
The now me was in a rickshaw, one hand clapped over my nose and the other clinging to Jay for dear life.
OK, I thought as Jay had led the way through Matwala Shayar’s gates, the first time we’d ventured through them without the protection of several tons of steel and glass. I can do this. They were just like cabs, right? A mass of people clustered on what would have been the sidewalk if India had sidewalks. They all stared.
Madhapur Road was a major thruway. We stood at the edge of the road, waiting for a rickshaw to come our way. Were we supposed to hail one, like a taxi? Before I could assume my proper cab-fetching stance, one swerved across three lanes of traffic and screeched to a stop beside us, kicking up gravel and mud in its wake. There were three people already sitting on the bench in the back. The driver gestured to us. Get in.
On the side of the rickshaw, there was a red-painted sign: MAXIMUM PEOPLE’S FOUR WITH DRIVER. We would make six, with the driver, and that’s if germaphobe Jay agreed to get into an auto with total strangers. Which he did not. We waved it on and waited for another.
Three more rickshaws pulled up. White people waiting for an auto was clearly unusual. A small crowd of bystanders gathered to watch the commotion. The drivers hopped out and began to argue, fighting over their right to take us. Negotiations began. One driver knew a few words of English. Jay waved the others away while I climbed into the back. A pair of fuzzy dice hung from the cracked rearview mirror.
The rickshaw swayed violently under my weight. Jay threw his hand out
to steady it without missing a beat in his conversation. He wanted to make sure the driver knew how to get where we wanted to go, a restaurant called Ginger Court someone at work had recommended. The driver was concerned only with the fare. Useless, I sat in the back and kept quiet.
Finally they agreed on a price: seventy rupees. Jay joined me in the back on a rickety, pleather-covered wood plank. The driver floored it.
We were off.
The rickshaw maxed out at about thirty miles per hour, but with no doors or windows and only inches from the ground, that felt pretty fast. Two of the wheels creaked with each revolution; the third appeared to be on fire, casting a stream of black smoke in our wake. The rickshaw listed ominously to one side.
I clutched Jay, feigning affection. He didn’t buy it.
“Maybe you should stay on your side. The weight is more evenly distributed that way.”
I moved over. Sure enough, the auto shifted to the right and became perpendicular to the road. Jay smirked. I glowered. Fine. I’d be responsible for my own safety. Gulping back a sob, I gripped the bench with my thighs and began to pray. Please, God, I promise I’ll stop ordering pizza and learn to speak Hindi and have meaningful adventures every day if you’ll just let us get there safely. Amen. I wasn’t sure if I even believed in God, but now seemed like a good time to start.
The driver was channeling Mario Andretti. He honked his duck-horn continually, a red rubber bulge mounted on the roof that reminded me of Bozo the Clown. He wove in and out of lanes, dodging potholes, cutting off two-wheelers, narrowly missing pedestrians every few yards.
We were SO going to die.
Jay was smiling. Infuriatingly, he was having fun. He was probably thinking it was like Disneyland, only without the crowds. We went over a huge speed bump at top velocity. The auto took flight. Jay’s smile became a grin.
If we didn’t die, I was going to kill him.
I hyperventilated as quietly as possible, not wanting Jay to realize how panicked I was. I resisted the urge to stop breathing altogether. From the back of an auto rickshaw, India smelled horrible. Urine, garbage, wet animals, sweaty humans, cooking spices, and exhaust from pipes that would never pass a U.S. emissions test. Plus the smell of burning rubber from the rear right wheel, which was still smoking.