‘Hey – it was nothing. Anyone would have done the same.’ He passed me a corner of the sheet to wipe my face.
‘You’re very kind.’
‘No problem. Really.’
He smiled at me, obviously trying to gauge whether I had calmed down enough for him to make an exit.
While I snivelled, he patted my leg through the sheet and eyed the door.
‘I want to go home, Igor. I WANT TO GO HOME!’
His face fell.
‘You’ll be fine soon. You just need to get your strength back.’
‘I WANT TO GO HOME!’
‘Go, then. If you want to go home, you can.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can.’
‘I can’t. There’s still three weeks on my ticket.’
‘Then change it.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can.’
‘I can’t. It’s… it’s a wadyoucallit.’
‘Apex?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You can still change it. You just have to pay.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just can’t.’
‘Why? You can’t afford it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How much money do you have left?’
‘About five hundred pounds.’
‘What’s that? Seven hundred dollars?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Then you can go home. Even if you buy a new ticket you have enough to go home.’
‘I can’t, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’
‘Because what?’
‘Just because.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s embarrassing.’
‘Aaahh, so this is it. If you go home early, you’ll feel like you’ve given up.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You’ll feel like you’ve failed the test.’
‘I’ve done over two months – I’ve almost finished. It’s stupid to give up now.’
‘It’s not meant to be a strength test, you know.’
‘What else is it, then?’
‘A holiday?’
‘It’s not a holiday. It’s travelling. They’re completely different.’
‘Well, why don’t you stay, and try to turn it into a holiday? Then you have some fun. Go to one of these stupid resorts where people just hang out on the beach and forget they’re in India. Why don’t you sit the rest of your time on the beach in Goa?’
‘I’ve just come from Goa.’
‘There’s other places the same. You could go to Kovalam. Or Ajmer.’
‘That’s where I was before Goa.’
‘And now you’ve had enough of India?’
‘Yes.’
‘But it doesn’t seem like you’ve seen any of it.’
‘I don’t care. I’m sick of India.’
For the first time since I had known him, Igor went silent.
‘You think I’m stupid,’ I said.
He shrugged.
‘You do. You think I’m stupid.’
‘Not stupid. Just young. Too young.’
‘For what?’
‘For this country.’
‘There are Indians much younger than me.’
He laughed. ‘But they live here.’
‘So?’
‘Dave – I have to go.’
‘OK.’
‘I’m going now.’
‘Go, then.’
‘Bye, Dave. All the best.’
‘Bye. And thanks.’
‘Have fun, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
He walked out of the room and closed the door without even looking back at me. It seemed a shame to part like that, but I couldn’t really help it. I didn’t want to be abandoned again, and I found it hard to be magnanimous.
After staring at the closed door for a few hours, I decided that the time had come for a taste of the outside world. It took me a while to locate my shoes, which were next to the toilet where I had taken them off a week ago.
On wobbly legs, I headed down the corridor, through the hotel lobby and out into the devastatingly bright sun.
Most educative
I tottered across the road, and after a brief wander I was so tired that I sat on the kerb to rest. It was a good spot for watching the world go by, and I was soon joined by an oldish man, who came and sat next to me.
‘Would you believe me if I told you that before partition most of my playmates were British citizens,’ he said.
He looked like he was probably a bit of a boring old duffer, and normally I would have blanked him, but for once I was pleased to have someone to talk to, and tried to think of a friendly response.
‘Really? That’s… um, impressive.’ I said.
‘Oh, most assuredly. Johnny, Peter and Freddie were the names of my three closest chums. Of course, they all departed after 1947.’
‘All of them?’
‘Partition, old chap. A lot of good eggs decamped pretty sharpish.’
‘That’s terrible. And… er, why did you have so many English friends?’
‘British, old boy. One mustn’t forget our Caledonian compatriots. Freddie was a Scot, you see.’
‘Oh, right. But why were they all…?’
‘My dear departed father, God rest his soul, was a pillar of the church. And I in my turn have had the good fortune to follow in his footsteps. Are you a Christian?’
I toyed with the idea of telling him that I was an Arsenal supporter instead, but decided that it would be more tactful to lie.
‘Yes.’
‘C of E?’
I couldn’t quite remember what C of E stood for, but it was obvious that he wanted me to say yes, so I nodded.
‘Marvellous. What a happy coincidence. Allow me to introduce myself- Charles A. Tripathi, junior.’
He shook my hand.
‘I’m Dave. David.’
‘Delighted to meet you. Do you take tea?’
‘Um… I suppose so.’
‘Come to my house. It isn’t pleasant to be alone.’ I didn’t know whether this referred to me or to him, but I obeyed and followed him down the street. He turned off down a side-road, marching a few steps ahead of me and making no effort to converse.
Just as I was beginning to feel that I couldn’t go much further, we arrived at a tiny concrete house. He stood at the door and ushered me in.
As I entered, it occurred to me that this was the first home I had seen since arriving in India. I was surprised by how much it looked like an English one: TV set in the corner, a few chairs, a rug, pictures on the wall. Everything seemed pretty recognizable, really.
‘Sit, please,’ he said, indicating a chair. ‘Feel free to examine some of our literature.’ He pointed at a pile of leaflets on a coffee-table, then left the room.
I could hear him shouting things in Hindi, so I picked up a leaflet and started reading. The colours and typeface made it look like it had been printed in the seventies. On the front it said South India Christian Mission: An Introduction. Below that was a whole load of text that I couldn’t be bothered to read, so I opened it up, revealing three pictures on three pages, each with a large caption at the top. On the left, it said, ‘knowledge’ above a picture of a wise old man with a grey beard; in the middle, it said, ‘beauty’ above a picture of a butterfly; and on the right, it said, ‘strength’ above a picture of a nuclear mushroom-cloud.
I was in the process of retrieving my jaw from the coffee-table when Charles returned with a child dressed in rags. He shouted something at the kid, who started sweeping the floor under my feet with a long bundle of twigs. On another command, the kid ran out of the room.
‘Tea and cakes will be arriving presently,’ said Charles.
He remained standing and hovered around me nervously, while I sat in the chair riddling with the leaflet, trying to think of something to say.
Af
ter a while, seven or so smartly dressed children bundled into the room, pushing and shoving at each other to get a good view of me without getting too close.
‘These are my grandchildren. And if you don’t mind, they would like your autograph.’
‘My autograph?’
‘Exactly. A sample of your handwriting will be most educative.’
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my handwriting had been bad at the age of ten, and in steady decline ever since. He passed me a pen and said something to them in Hindi. One by one, they came up to me and gave me a scrap of paper. I wrote my name and a little message for each of them, as neatly as I could, and gave each child a pat on the head.
The children then trooped out of the room and ran into the street, laughing.
‘You are a very kind man,’ said Charles. ‘I can tell already. Above and beyond the call of duty – this is your motto.’
‘Um… I suppose it is.’
‘And modest, too, of course. English schooling is still the best in the world, I am pleased to see.’
‘I’m not sure about that, you know.’
‘Come, come. You have made your point already. Grammar school or public school, I don’t even want to know which one. You have the mark of a gentleman stamped all over you.’
‘Thank you very much. And may I be permitted to say the same of you.’
Christ! I was beginning to talk like him.
‘I try my best. I try my best.’
At this point an old woman entered, carrying a tray of tea and some cakes so lurid it made my teeth ache just to look at them. She placed the tray in front of me, and retreated to the doorway.
‘My wife,’ said Charles.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, with a little wave.
‘Namaste,’ she said, nodding and smiling.
I nodded and smiled back at her, then she left.
After this, Charles and I slowly ran out of conversation. I tried to ask about his family and his work, but I didn’t really get very much out of him. He kept giving short, awkward answers, as if my questions were either rude or boring. I knew this was my big chance to find out what it’s actually like to be an Indian, but I somehow never got very far.
When my attempt at conversation had run aground, he took over, and inflicted the usual job/marriage/home Tquestions on me. After that he bombarded me with endless inane crap about his position in the church and the success of the South India Mission. It was impossible to leave, and only when I was climbing the walls with boredom did I finally get out of his house.
Although we hadn’t really managed much of a conversation, and I’d been mostly bored out of my skull, I felt that the visit marked a significant and positive watershed. I had actually gone inside an Indian house. Gone inside, sat down and talked to a real Indian person.
Throughout my entire two-month stay, I’d been tantalized by occasional glimpses into people’s houses and had always wondered what it really looked like inside. Previously, I’d never been able to get beyond the odd glance through a window or door, but now I’d actually broken through. I had seen the real India. I had discovered how people lived.
Suddenly, everything else I had done in India seemed totally superficial. I’d just sat around in hotels and talked to other travellers. I’d been wasting my time. Igor was right -1 hadn’t actually seen anything. From now on, I decided, things were going to be different. I was going to stay on my own. I wasn’t going to look for other Westerners to hide behind. I was going to make an effort to talk to Indians. I’d befriend them and try to get into their houses. I would make myself into a proper traveller.
India does that to you
That evening I ate my first proper meal since the dog-burger. A couple of months ago I would have been unlikely to describe squidgy lentils dribbled over a lump of coagulated rice as a proper meal, but in the context, this was the most challenging thing my guts had attempted for quite some time.
After a few grumbles of objection, I felt my stomach reluctantly accept the extra workload. My food no longer seemed to float inside me, ready to hurl itself out of my mouth at a moment’s notice, but actually settled down and gave the impression that it was willing to be digested. If I could just get the passing-through time to more than ten minutes, I felt I might be able to derive enough benefit from my food to begin to get some strength back.
After having eaten as much as I could force down, I scanned the hotel dining room for someone to talk to. People came and went, but I couldn’t help feeling that everyone was ignoring me. I sat there for at least an hour, desperate for someone to talk to, but whenever I caught anyone’s eye, they looked away before I had time to say anything.
This was extremely puzzling until, on the way to bed, I caught sight of myself in a mirror. I looked like one of those comatose skeletons I’d seen on my first day in Delhi. My cheeks had caved in and were covered with long, tufty stubble, my eyes were dead, my hair was greasy, and my mouth was stuck in a sour downward curve. I looked like hell. I would have run away from me.
I went to bed and stared blankly into space for a few hours.
I really had turned into one of the living dead.
Despite my ‘meal’, I slept through the entire night without any emergency trips to the toilet and woke up the next morning resolved to stuff myself with food until I looked like a human being again.
I still didn’t trust any greasy or spicy food to stay down, so I had four boiled eggs and a couple of chapatis for breakfast, then set out on my mission to make friends with the subcontinent.
I wandered around for a bit, smiling at everyone, but it didn’t seem to make anyone want to talk to me. Remembering that I looked like a Moonie, I toned down the smiles a fraction, but people still avoided me.
Feeling dispirited, I went into the busiest restaurant I could find for a bite of lunch. I sat down next to a lonely looking man, smiled at him and said hello. He picked up his tray of food and walked to a different table, looking mildly frightened.
This represented a new low. To be abandoned by other travellers was one thing, but to be shunned by Indians – that was just the pits. In desperation, back at the hotel I tried to start a conversation with the boy whose job it was to sweep the floor. He ran away.
The only thing left to do was to write a postcard.
Dear Mum & Dad,
I’m now in Bangalore -the modem, industrialized capital of Karnataka.
It’s a relatively pleasant city, and feels more prosperous than most other towns I’ve visited. I haven’t actually seen much of it yet, though, because for the last week or so I’ve been violently ill and haven’t left my hotel room. I can just about walk again now, and today I went on my first little excursion. I seem to have lost loads of weight, but I’m sure I’ll get it back eventually. I’m still missing you and feeling terribly lonely, but have changed all my ideas about travel, and am now resolved to stay on my own until the end of the trip. Travel shouldn’t be about other travellers – it is about India and Indians. If you want to find yourself in this country, you have to lose yourself. This is my next step. I really am learning an incredible amount.
love,
Dave
Having finished the postcard, it dawned on me that even if no one else was willing to have a conversation with me, the hotel receptionist would have to. It was his job, for God’s sake. I was paying for a room in his hotel. If I cornered him at the reception desk, he wouldn’t be able to run away, and I’d be certain to get a small amount of conversation out of him.
Having waited for him to take his place behind the desk, I engaged in a surprise attack.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Hello, sir,’ he replied.
I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Is everything all right?’ he said.
‘Fine, thanks. Yes.’
I still couldn’t think of anything. Then a thought dawned on me.
‘It’s hot today,’ I said.
&
nbsp; ‘Yes. Very hot. Less hot than usual, of course. But hot.’
I was just about to give up when an Indian man walked in, with a cotton scarf wrapped around his head and neck, also covering half of his face. He approached the desk and asked for a room in a heavy South London accent. The minute I heard that voice, I knew who it was.
‘Ranj!’ I screamed.
He spun round and looked at me suspiciously. After a few seconds, I saw recognition dawn, and he tore the scarf from his head.
‘Dave! Is it you?’
‘Of course it’s me.’
‘What the fuck happened to you?’
‘I’ve been stuck here. I got a bit ill.’
‘You look like shit. You look like a piece of shit.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘I hardly recognized you. Jesus – have you weighed yourself ?’
‘No.’
‘Have you been to a doctor?’
‘No. I don’t need to now. I’m on the mend.’
‘Fuckin’ell. That’s good to hear, man. You look absolutely fucked.’
‘I tell you, I’m glad to see you.’
‘Likewise, man. Likewise. Where’s… whatsername. The fit one.’
‘We separated. Irreconcilable differences and all that.’
‘She left you then.’
‘Sort of. We just… kind of started off on the wrong foot anyway, and I can’t really remember how, but we ended up hating each other’s guts.’
‘Bad news, man. India does that to you.’
‘We always got on fine in England.’
‘Me too. I always got on OK with my family in England. Now they all want to kill me.’
‘You ran away again?’
‘Yeah. I’ve just flown in from Delhi today. I wanted to get down to Trivandrum, but there were no flights, so I came here.’
‘They’ll be gutted. I struck up quite a friendship with your brother.’
‘And it’s worse this time, because…’ he lowered his voice and looked around the room ‘… I nicked a load of credit cards and cash before I left.’
‘From who?’
‘Uncles and shit. They were just getting on my tits too much.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You nicked from your own family.’
Are You Experienced? Page 14