Everyone was honking okay, maybe to let people know they were alive and driving. Bells tinkled, bus horns blared, and above it all was the sound of thumping music. The shopkeepers along the main street probably thought it was way too quiet and had decided to raise the noise levels by a few more decibels.
Muscles swerved expertly in and out of the traffic, taking some turns almost on two wheels. We bumped through potholes and were airborne for a few brief seconds before a jarring touchdown. I’m sure a drop or two must have leaked out. It was the most exciting and excruciating ride I’ve experienced.
We finally hurtled down a side road that was a graveyard compared to the main road. We stopped in front of a squat gray building and got out, shaky and dusty, while Mrs. Lal paid the driver.
“Please call this humble servant if you want a tour of Deolali,” he said, pocketing the money and inclining his head. “Ask for Khan and they will tell you where to find me.”
He seemed really into himself, but he must have been kinda important since he’d hijacked us from under the other drivers’ noses and gotten away with it.
Mrs. Lal nodded. Khan gunned the engine again and shot off, waving goodbye.
The entrance of the three-story building was cool and dark. A flight of stairs faced us. No elevator in sight. “What floor are we on?” I asked, gritting my teeth and pulling my backpack higher on my shoulder. My willpower had weakened considerably during the scootie ride. The dam was about to explode.
“Third,” said Mrs. Lal. “I should warn you, the cleaner doesn’t start until tomorrow. I will expect both of you to help so we can make it livable by—”
“Bathroom,” I said in a strangled yelp, cutting her short. “I’ll scrub our flat and the neighbors’ flats if you want, Mrs. L, just as soon as I go.”
“Almost there, Dylan,” she said, patting me on the back. “Be strong.”
Rohit climbed at a steady pace. I followed gingerly on tiptoes. I had to avoid peeing my pants because I knew Ro would never let me forget it. I didn’t even want to think about what Mom would say when she heard about it, and she would, if I knew Rohit well enough.
Rohit slid the key in and fumbled with the lock while Mrs. Lal caught up. As soon as he flung the door open, she flicked on the switch but no lights came on. The interior was murky, dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight pouring in through closed windows. A musty smell hung in the warm, still air.
“Power outage again!” she sighed. “When will the building management get a generator? We’ve been asking for years. It’s just as well we’re planning to sell this place.”
“No problem, Mrs. L. Just tell me where to go.”
I dumped my backpack on the ground, shuffled into the bathroom, and shut the door. Fingers of pale light slid in through the opaque windows high up on the wall. I scrabbled with the zipper on my shorts. Just. One. More. Second. Please and thank you!
My eyes adjusted to the gloom. I looked down and got the shock of my life. There was a white keyhole-shaped depression in the floor. Toward the top was a hole filled with water. A chain, attached to a water tank on the wall, hung three-fourths of the way to the floor. But the most important bit was missing!
“Oh crap!” I yelled as I yanked up my shorts, pulled my T-shirt over them, and raced out of the bathroom. Where was the toilet? Who would steal a freaking toilet?
“What?” said Rohit, who’d been splashing his face at the sink just outside.
“Someone stole your toilet, Ro! There’s just a hole in the ground. What are we going to do?”
Rohit stared at me for a minute. Then he collapsed on the ground, laughing so hard his glasses fell off. I marched back inside, slamming the door behind me. It dawned on me (too late!) that the hole in the ground was the toilet. An Indian toilet—the first and only one I’d seen on this trip. Now I understood the glint in Rohit’s eyes, those mysterious comments, that Gollum-like smile. This is what he’d been supposed to “fill me in” on. And conveniently hadn’t.
When I came out a good ten minutes later, weak-kneed with relief, Rohit was in the bedroom, talking to his mother. “Someone stole the toilet!” he shrieked, imitating me. “I will never let him forget this …”
The flat rang with laughter as Mrs. Lal tried, unsuccessfully, to get him to calm down.
WHEN I MUSTERED THE COURAGE TO WALK INTO the bedroom, Mrs. Lal was wiping tears from her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Dylan, but I thought you knew about Indian toilets,” she said, trying desperately to look serious. She stopped, cleared her throat, and tried to compose herself. The crinkling around her eyes gave her away.
I shifted from one foot to the other. “You’d, er … said that you were worried something might be stolen from the flat … so I assumed …”
Neither of them was buying my lame excuse. How was I supposed to know? I mean, it’s the twenty-first century! Ro was definitely not going to let me forget this. The list was growing long. Nothing to do but suck it up.
“Be back in a sec,” said Rohit as he raced to use the bathroom, too.
“I’d asked Rohit to tell you about it,” Mrs. Lal continued, blushing. “I thought it would be better coming from him than me but it’s my fault, too. I should have warned you. We rarely use this place, so it didn’t make sense wasting money on upgrading it. Sorry, Dylan.” She looked away, blushing some more.
“We’re cool, Mrs. L,” I said, embarrassed by her apology. “I’ll just put it down to a new experience.”
“I’ll get toilet paper when I go shopping but in the meantime, all you have to remember is to use your left hand to … er … wash up. Never use the right, which is your eating hand. It’s culturally and hygienically inappropriate.”
I stared at her, feeling the heat creep up my face at hearing detailed instructions about something I barely felt comfortable talking about with a doctor. She was deep into the TMI zone and I wanted her to stop.
“Sure, Mrs. L,” I said, wondering if I should ask Rohit for a demo. No way. He’d never let me live it down. Dylan, my man, you’re going to figure out this right-left-hand thing on your own. It isn’t rocket science.
Rohit came back moments later and threw himself on the bed, raising a puff of dust. “I’m tired, Ma. Can we eat first and then clean up?”
“No, Rohit,” she said, her voice sharp. “First we clean and then we eat. I do not like to sleep in a dusty bed, and nor will you. Stop arguing with me and get to work. You’ll thank me later when your stomachs are full and all you want to do is crawl into bed and sleep.”
Mrs. Lal handed me a duster. “Get started in the living room with Rohit and I’ll do the bedrooms. With all of us working it should be done in no time and then we’ll go for a late lunch.”
“You’re not serious, are you, Mrs. L?” I said. “I’m so weak I can barely walk.” I’d avoided eating and drinking completely during the train ride and now I was starving. “It’s so hot! Can’t we clean up when the power comes back on?”
As if on cue, the fan whirred to life and the fluorescent tube light came on, making the sunlit room brighter. Mrs. Lal winked and draped the duster on my shoulder. “The electricity gods have spoken.”
I made one last attempt. “Can’t we call a maid service or something?”
“No, we can’t,” she said firmly. “I’ve arranged for a cleaning lady to start with us tomorrow but today we’re on our own. The sooner we finish, the sooner you eat.”
I admired Mrs. L but was annoyed, too. I was tired and hungry. Why couldn’t the cleaning wait for the professionals like it would have back home?
New Year’s Eve at Chez Moore. The place was swarming with hired help: cleaners, florists, chefs, and servers. Maria was ordering everyone around while Mom was getting dressed. Dad was powering through some final negotiations on a large building deal. He shooed me away when I went into his office to ask if I could borrow the car and driver the next day. I wandered into the kitchen and sampled a few canapés that were being served that night. As soon as I was
done, Maria was at my side to whisk away the plate. I strolled out of the kitchen and watched the frenzied last-minute activity, wishing I could be a part of it. Weirdly I was hungrier after my snack than before. I went back into my room, picked up The Hobbit, and slipped into the Shire. Somehow, a hole in the hillside seemed a friendlier place than my own house.
“All right, Mrs. L,” I said, sliding the duster from my shoulder. “We’ll do it.”
Rohit glowered at her but she’d already turned away and was pulling the dusty sheets off the bed.
“Come on, Ro. You know it’s no use arguing with your mom,” I said, dragging him away to the living room.
“Stop being such a suck-up,” he snapped. “I bet you’ve never done anything like this in your life!”
“There’s always a first time,” I said, trying to keep my temper under control. “And really, I don’t mind. How hard could it be?”
“Must be such a unique experience for you,” Rohit said, an ugly sneer on his face. “Want me to click a few pictures while you’re slumming? As a keepsake for your album?”
“What’s wrong with you?” I snapped, dangerously close to yelling. “Why are you being such a baby?”
“Mom’s already mad at me and you’re making me look worse by taking her side all the time.” He blinked rapidly, arms twitching. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I have to be a doormat,” I said. “You need to lighten up, bro. Your whining is getting really boring. And don’t forget the toilet trick you just pulled. I looked like a total dork and I almost peed my pants, but you don’t see me crying about it!”
For a moment we stood there glaring at each other. After a tentative cease-fire, I didn’t want to start fighting again. The last couple of days had been bad enough. Besides, he was all I had, especially with the stuff between my mom and dad. They might not even be living under the same roof when I got back. But I hoped that wouldn’t happen. The hijda’s blessings might work.
“Okay, listen,” I said when Rohit still looked angry a few minutes later. “I’m on your side. Always have been and always will be. But I’m starving. Can we get this done so we can go eat? Your mom’s a tough lady and we both know she’s not going to budge till she gets her way.”
Rohit’s puckered face relaxed. “Yeah, that she is. Yours is so laid-back compared to mine. We should switch someday.”
“Yeah, someday,” I said, trying to ignore the ache in my chest. “So where do we begin?”
The tiny living room had a floral-patterned sofa, a dining table thick with dust pushed against the wall, and four chairs. A hutch containing a few glass knickknacks was the only other piece of furniture. A door led to a small balcony that Rohit and I managed to force open in spite of the rusted hinges.
A light breeze wafted in and hot sunshine speckled the brown-and-white tiled floor. I stepped out. Across the street from our building, green fields stretched out as far as the eye could see. A lone farmer pedaled along a narrow road snaking through the field and the sound of his cycle bell tinkled, soft and sweet in the distance. Mostly there was a buzzing silence—the kind that makes you wonder if you’ve gone deaf or if your ears are ringing. Despite the heat, I stood there mesmerized.
“We ain’t in Kansas anymore, Ro! This is awesome.”
“Whatever,” he said. But seeing my expression, he added, “Yeah, it’s not bad.”
We hurried back inside and started thumping the cushions, wiping down the tables and chairs, all the while sneezing and coughing.
“This is pathetic,” said Rohit, sneezing five times in quick succession, his glasses shooting off his nose with the first violent one. “We could have been at an air-conditioned movie theater back home enjoying a Coke right this minute. But here we are in the middle of nowhere, dusting!” He grabbed his glasses, wiped them, and jammed them back on his nose.
“Yeah, hadn’t counted on such strenuous activity,” I said. “But once it’s done, we can rent bikes and explore Lolly-land tomorrow. I have a feeling I’m going to get some great shots. What say?”
“Maybe,” said Rohit. He was red-faced, sweating, and definitely not having a good time. I was feeling grimy and hungrier than before. I would have traded my pinkie for a shower and a snack but I wasn’t going to buckle before he did. After all, Sam was the tough one, not Frodo.
Time crawled on as we swept tons of dust, a couple of dead lizards, and a petrified mouse into large garbage bags. Finally Mrs. Lal walked in to check our progress, a cobweb floating from the tip of her nose. “I’m done with the bedrooms. I could give you boys a hand in here. Then we freshen up and head out for lunch. Okay?”
“Now you’re talking,” I said, nodding my head vigorously. I was so hungry, I was ready to start gnawing on my fingers … or Rohit’s.
“Thanks, Ma,” said Rohit, surprising us both with his sudden mood swing as he started mopping the floor. Within half an hour the room was clean. With the balcony door open and the fan at full speed, the intense heat was bearable.
“Good work, boys,” said Mrs. Lal. “You can stop now.”
I almost sank to my knees and kissed her feet.
“Go freshen up while I clean the kitchen.” She wiped a hand across her sweaty forehead, leaving a black smear of dust.
“I’ll go first,” said Rohit. He whooshed past, stripping off his T-shirt and exposing a rib cage that belonged in an anatomy textbook. I promised myself I was going to get in a lot more exercise in Lolly-land no matter how hot the weather. I was going to get fit even if it killed me!
“Can I help in the kitchen, Mrs. L?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t take me up on the offer.
“That’s sweet, Dylan. Thank you, but no,” she replied. “There’s some lemonade in a thermos,” she said, pointing to the cooler that was still by the front door. “Help yourself.”
Rummaging through the cooler I found some granola bars and the thermos. Armed with a cup of lemonade and an almond-honey bar, I headed to the balcony. It was late afternoon and in the scorching heat very little stirred. Bees droned close by and the whispering of the wind through the trees was soothing. This was quickly becoming my favorite place in the flat.
The tinkling of a bell caught my attention. A man with a bright-blue box, fitted with wheels and attached to the front of his cycle, came into view. Along one side of the box was a row of bottles with colorful liquids. The sign on the box read MITHU’S GOLA in fancy writing. What was a gola? I watched in anticipation of discovering another exotic food I could introduce to my stomach.
As soon as he stopped and rang the bell again, children from nearby homes and flats swarmed into the street. They crowded round him, all talking at once. The man opened the lid of the box. I leaned forward and watched him take out a chunk of ice from what turned out to be a freezer. He wrapped a brown rag around it and shaved it on a blade fitted on the lid. He held his hand below the blade to collect the ice shavings and then when he had enough, he shaped it into a ball and stuck a wooden stick into its center. No gloves. Bare hands with dirty fingernails. No one seemed to notice or care. Mithu, which I assumed was his name since it was painted on his freezer, asked the kid he was serving a question.
“Lal!” I heard her shriek and she pointed to a bottle.
Even as she pointed, I knew she’d said red. Rohit had told me what his last name meant.
Mithu lifted up the bottle and shook it over the ice, turning it over and over. The ice turned a bright red, like blood on snow, and he handed it to her. She paid him and then, slurping greedily, she walked away.
The man started making the next gola, which I now realized was the Indian version of a snow cone. He made a few more and then trundled off, ringing his bell. With deep regret I realized I’d forgotten to take pictures. My camera was still in the bedroom. I made a mental note to keep it around my neck at all times. Except when I was in the bathroom, though I did plan on taking a few pictures of the toilet when no one was around. Mom would love t
o see what I’d experienced. Dad, too. He’d never again say that I was so spoiled, I couldn’t rough it or adapt to a situation.
Rohit came out just then, toweling his hair dry. “Your turn, and hustle. I’m starving,” he said.
I gulped the last of my warm lemonade and headed inside.
“Use the cold-water tap,” Rohit yelled out behind me. “Don’t even think of turning on the hot water.”
“ ’Kay,” I yelled back. “I’d prefer a cold shower anyway.”
As soon as I turned on the tap, I understood why Ro had warned me. The water from the cold-water tap was hot. I would have been poached if I’d turned on the hot water! I shampooed and scrubbed, feeling the sweat and grime melt away. I was even hungrier now that I was clean.
“I won’t take long, boys,” said Mrs. Lal, diving into the bathroom the minute I stepped out.
True to her word, she was done in ten minutes and we headed out for lunch. I could have eaten a cow, but knew better than to say it out loud.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY SOUTH INDIAN FOOD, Dylan?” Mrs. Lal asked as we walked along the main street.
“I’m so hungry, Mrs. L, I’ll eat anything.”
After a brisk ten-minute walk, we came to a restaurant called Sagar. Nothing about the place seemed old or sagging. The name was plastered on a board above the entrance and decorated with garlands made of orange flowers. It was spelled out in English lettering and a squiggly font. People crowded the sidewalk outside and spilled over onto the road, chattering loudly. “What’s with the name?” I asked.
“It means ‘ocean’ in Hindi. I guess because tides of people flow in and out of this place during the day,” said Mrs. Lal. “It has the best idlis and dosas in all of Deolali, and is worth the short wait.”
Rohit and I groaned out loud.
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