Eighty Days to Elsewhere

by kc dyer

  Of course, as soon as these feelings of pride and accomplishment rise within me, I walk through the station entrance and everything goes to hell.

  Inside, the crowds that fill the streets condense in a way that gives me pause. But by the time I’ve queued for my ticket, and then passed through the turnstiles, it’s too late. The crush is immediate, and overwhelming.

  I mean, I’m a New Yorker. I know how to endure a crowded subway. I know what walking down a busy street feels like. But stepping inside Churchgate Station schools me.

  You know nothing, Romy Keene.

  The first hint I’ve made a big mistake comes to me as I emerge through the turnstile. There suddenly isn’t a single woman to be seen.

  Not. One. Woman.

  The platform is a surging sea of humanity, and as the train pulls up, things swiftly worsen. I find myself being swept away from the tracks by a crowd as inexorable as a riptide. I’d slung my pack across my chest to go through the turnstile, so my front half is somewhat shielded. But trying to reach the train, I find myself swimming upstream in an endless flow of grabbing, clutching, caressing strangers. I’m trapped in a school of slithering, hand-shaped fish, unable to escape. Unable to breathe.

  Barely keeping my feet, I’m slowly, inexorably pushed away from the train. I don’t know how long I spend caught in the crush—several lifetimes, maybe?—before I feel a whisper of cool tile against one arm. Galvanized by the feel of a wall at my back, I use my suitcase as a battering ram and slide along the tile until I’m close enough to the gate to draw the attention of a guard.

  The disinterested expression on his face changes as he looks at me, and he flips the latch on the gate and steps out of the way. The crowd spits me out like old chewing gum, and I hit the ground hard with both knees, vomiting my fear—and my mercifully small breakfast—onto the station floor.

  chapter thirty-five

  IMAGE: Old Factory Sign

  IG: Romy_K [Mumbai, India, April 14]

  #Rescue #AlexanderHamilton #MumbaiCallCenter

  429

  The combination of revulsion and fear is too much, and I burst into tears. The guard has disappeared, my knees are battered, and beside me is a puddle of sick that I desperately scramble away from. I’m on my haunches, in the act of madly searching my pockets for a tissue, when a perfectly manicured hand swims into my vision.

  It’s holding a white cotton handkerchief.

  Before me stands a small, smiling woman. She’s an angel come to earth, albeit one dressed in a navy skirt suit, with a high neck and a colorful scarf. Her dark hair brushes her shoulders, and she’s carrying a large leather messenger bag over one arm.

  “For your eyes,” she says, and then adds hurriedly, pointing at my puddle, “Stay away from that!”

  Wiping away the tears on my face, I take a deep breath, roll onto one sore knee, and stand up.

  “Thank you,” I say, offering the handkerchief back, but she shakes her head firmly.

  “Nose too,” she says in a tone that reminds me so much of Tommy that I almost start to cry again.

  Instead, I wipe my nose and repeat my thanks.

  She smiles up at me, and a small bottle of Purell appears in her hand. “The floors in here are dreadful,” she says, and waves the bottle.

  “I think I made them worse,” I mutter, and hold out my hands, palms up.

  She squeezes a few drops into each of my palms, and then deftly sanitizes her own hands.

  “My name is Priti Chopra,” she says, and then shakes my newly sanitized hand with one of her own. “Let me . . .” she begins, then turns her back to me and gives a piercing blast on a small silver whistle that she’s wearing on a chain.

  The crowd, which has begun to fill in around us—though nowhere near the volume of bodies crammed onto the train platform—parts, and a station attendant approaches.

  “Someone has been sick here, Gurdeep,” Priti says to the man, her tone disapproving.

  Making a sweeping gesture toward my mess on the floor, she says, “You must see to this right away before someone slips in it.” She clicks her tongue. “Health and safety, you know.”

  “It’s my fault . . .” I begin, but Priti gives me a warning squeeze on the arm.

  “We’ll be on our way, then,” she says. Linking her arm through mine, she marches me away.

  “A breath of air is all you need,” she adds as we hurry along. “And a lick of good sense. You are American, yes?”

  I nod, still hiccupping a little. We trot up the last set of stairs, and step out onto the street, where the heat hits me like a solid blow.

  “Over here,” says Priti, and keeping a firm hold on my arm, pulls me expertly through the traffic and safely across the street. We step into the shadow of an old stone building, and she pauses beside a heavy wood door, painted deep green. A worn and heavily tagged sign beside the door reads: “House of Exquisite Textiles.” Expertly flipping a set of keys from one of her pockets, she has the door open and the two of us inside in seconds.

  My first feeling is relief. There’s no air-conditioning, but the thick walls of the building make it feel much cooler in here. My second is anxiety. As the door swings closed behind us, we are swallowed up in darkness.

  “Tsk,” she says impatiently as she releases my arm at last. “Let me get the lights. Don’t move.”

  Seconds later, the lights rise up, and my anxiety falls away.

  We are standing inside the entrance area of an office space filled with desks that looks so familiar, I nearly laugh out loud.

  “Is this—a call center?” I ask, and Priti bobs her head. “From the sign outside, I thought it was a factory.”

  “It used to be, until we took it over,” she says. “My brother is the manager.” Glancing down at her watch, she adds, “He’s late.”

  She leans across the counter to flick the switch on an electric kettle, and then pulls out a chair. “Sit down a minute,” she says. “I’ll make us some tea.”

  She drops her messenger bag onto one of the chairs in the reception area, and smiles as the kettle begins to whistle shrilly.

  “Do you work here?” I ask as she unplugs the kettle.

  Priti shakes her head. “It’s a family business,” she says. “I used to work for the transit authority.”

  “Which explains the whistle,” I say, and she grins.

  “Let me guess,” she says, dropping tea bags into two sturdy white mugs. “First time in Mumbai?”

  “Does it show that much?”

  She heaps three spoons of sugar into one cup and one into the other before adding milk to both. Pushing the sweet tea into my hand, she takes a seat beside me.

  “For the shock,” she says firmly. “Drink it up.”

  I take a sip, and the warm tea flows through me like liquid energy. I feel immediately better.

  She smiles at me approvingly as I take a second sip. “Good. Now, we have already established who I am. And you are . . . ?”

  “Ramona Keene,” I say hurriedly, and offer her my hand again. “From New York City.”

  Her eyes light up. “I love New York,” she says. “I’ve been to see Hamilton three times!”

  I can’t help smiling back at her. “I haven’t seen it yet,” I admit. “Too pricey for me. I know all the songs, though.”

  “Me too,” she says, and we both grin.

  “When were you in New York?” I ask, and she laughs.

  “Which time?”

  It turns out Priti works for a company called Travel India, and while she spends most of her time touring visitors around her own country, she also takes tours overseas. This has meant a half-dozen visits to America, including two to my own city.

  And then, because I have no self-control, I tell her about my own quest to get around the world, and why. Because the story is long enough
already, I leave out all the bits that include Dominic.

  Her eyes light up when I explain my efforts to get a job with ExLibris.

  “Oh, I hope you get the job,” she says. “We can be sisters in travel! And the next time I come to New York, we can go see Hamilton together.”

  I laugh. “It’s a deal.”

  Her eyes still dancing, she puts down her teacup. “So, Ramona, tell me. Do you hop on the subway regularly during rush hour in New York?” she asks.

  “It’s Romy,” I say, shaking my head. “And never—at least not if I can help it.”

  Priti jabs her thumb over her shoulder toward the front door. “Well, now you know. Same rules apply here. And it’s maybe a little bit worse, even?”

  I laugh. “A little. It was a stupid mistake.”

  She shrugs. “You didn’t know. But now you do. Where are you trying to go today?”

  “I need a ticket to Howrah on the fast train,” I say. “I thought I could hop the local commuter train to get to Mumbai Central, and buy a ticket there. And I need to send a report in to ExLibris before I go.”

  Priti rolls her eyes at me. “Ever heard of the internet?” she asks. “You can use the office Wi-Fi to get your ticket organized. And send your e-mail too.”

  As she glances at her watch again, the door opens behind her.

  “Hey, sis,” says a cheerful male voice. “Thanks for opening up. Some asswipe was sick on the platform in the station, and they shut down all the turnstiles on that side. Took forever to get through . . .”

  He stops speaking as he catches sight of me.

  “Who’s this?” he asks, his smile broadening. “Introduce me to your charming friend, Pritisita!”

  Priti rolls her eyes.

  “Prem, this is Romy, from New York. She’s on her way to Kolkata, so no putting your famous moves on her, okay?”

  She glances over at me before pulling something out of her bag. “Listen, Romy, I have to go to work now. But here’s a map of this area. We are here, not far from Marine Drive, see?” She marks the spot on the map. “And here’s Mumbai Central. It’s a bit of a walk, but if you stay on Lamington Road, it will take you straight there. Or there’s a stop right across the street where you can catch a bus that will take you there too.”

  “Thank you so much for this,” I say, folding the map into my daypack. “And for rescuing me at the station. I was really scared.”

  She waves away my thanks. “It’s my job,” she says. “I’ve seen worse, believe me.”

  Prem smirks and gives me a familiar little pat on the shoulder. “Don’t give her too much credit. She’s supposed to make the tourists happy, right, Preet?”

  Priti huffs impatiently and shoulders her bag. “Nice to meet you, Romy,” she says, ignoring her brother’s grin. She pushes open the door, and then she turns back and points dramatically at her empty teacup.

  “I’m not throwing away my chai!” she sings, and then lets the door close behind her.

  I laugh out loud, but Prem shakes his head. “I don’t know what she’s talking about half the time,” he mutters, but as he glances at me, his face brightens.

  Reaching over, he touches my arm, and I experience the strongest sensation of déjà vu I’ve ever felt in my life.

  “So—you need to send an e-mail?” he says.

  It takes maybe half an hour in total, between booking the ticket and sending in my report to ExLibris. All the while, a steady stream of workers enter through the front door. Prem greets them all—handshakes for the men, and effusive hugs for the women—and introduces me to every single person as “his friend, Romy, visiting from New York City.”

  At least two of the women roll their eyes at me over his shoulder before he releases them to hurry off to their desks.

  And I’m struck by how, in spite of being literally on the other side of the world, Call Center Prem could be a brother to Jonah in New York. Shaking my head, I send in my update, with Prem’s left hand casually resting on the back of my chair the entire time.

  chapter thirty-six

  IMAGE: Train Station Ceiling

  IG: Romy_K [Mumbai, India, April 14]

  #MumbaiMayhem #CityofDreams #Dharavi

  165

  After declining Prem’s increasingly intense invitations to dinner—or perhaps a spot of tea? Or how about an escort up to the train station?—I hurry away from the call center. I’ve got a ticket on the Howrah Superfast Express, departing from Mumbai Central station in just under two hours. The heat immediately wraps itself around me like a warm wet cloak, but Priti’s directions prove successful, and I spy the bus stop right away. Even better, there’s a definite queue, and I hurry up to take my place in line.

  Five minutes later, the bus pulls up. Inside, it’s standing room only, and two of the window openings have men sitting right on the sill, legs dangling. I reevaluate and decide to make the walk. According to Priti’s map, it’s about three miles to the station and I’m a New Yorker used to walking. How hard can it be?

  Things I learn walking the streets of Mumbai:

  1. Street sitting—and lying—is a thing here. At noon, in the heat of the day, there are as many people sitting—and lying—on the sidewalks as there are pedestrians walking.

  2. The roads are constant mayhem—a cacophony of honking cars, squealing brakes, revving engines, and roaring motorbikes. The air is so thick with exhaust fumes, I can taste nothing else. Lane usage is considered optional, as is signaling, parking lanes, and yellow lights. Horns, however, are mandatory.

  3. Lunch delivery, in the city, is the most remarkable thing I’ve ever seen. Men called “dabbawalas” collect up commuters’ lunches from their homes all around the district, and deliver them to Mumbai offices by the thousands—the hundreds of thousands—every day, without a mistake. Without a computer. I can only dream of being so organized.

  4. Motorized rickshaws are the bomb. Essentially three-wheeled motorbikes, designed to hold three people. They never hold three people. I stopped counting after seeing one with nine passengers. Plus driver, of course.

  5. Shrines are found in the most unexpected places, and are dedicated to the most wonderful deities. Gods with the faces of elephants and monkeys and beautiful women, tucked under trees and in tents and under little handmade sheds. Most are draped in flowers.

  6. I spotted a single sacred cow on the streets, and discovered that you can buy hay to feed the cow for ten rupees. Afterwards, I learned that this particular cow is known to haunt a corner cafe, and has a fondness for iced lattes. Never have I felt such communion with an animal.

  7. How to know when you’re near a university: Outdoor study centers begin to appear, generally in tree-shaded areas, with built-in desks and benches. While mostly filled with young students whose homes are too small to offer adequate study facilities, they are also hangouts for . . .

  8. Stray dogs and cats. Mostly these guys lay around prostrate in the heat. It’s pretty clear spaying and neutering aren’t really a thing here.

  9. India has a consistent time zone across the whole country, but it’s half an hour off the surrounding ones. I cannot get anyone to give me a reason for this.

  10. Bamboo scaffolding instead of iron. Flexible, cheap, and eco-friendly. Who knew?

  This list could easily be twice as long—ten times as long. Each street holds a revelation in this astonishing city.

  I stumble into the train station close to two hours later, exhausted with the heat but exhilarated with the sights and smells and sounds of Mumbai. As with any city, it presents a mixture of old and new, but the extremes of poverty and tremendous wealth seem so much more evident here than I have seen anywhere else. The walk took me probably twice as long as it would have at home, mostly due to the whole life-in-my-hands element of crossing the streets, but was worth every minute. Every second.


  I line up to collect my train ticket, and follow the ticket seller’s pointed finger in the direction of the platform. Unlike the local commuter station, this place is bustling, but not insanely crowded. Above my head, the ceiling soars to elegant, ornate heights the likes of which were nowhere to be found in the Churchgate Station.

  My train to Howrah runs only twice a week, and I feel lucky to have snagged a seat. The train company’s online ticket service offers six or seven different classes, but when I went to order a sleeping berth, none were available. My seat ends up being near the middle of the train in a car without air-conditioning but with large windows that open. Also, only ticketed passengers are admitted, so there will be no clinging to—or dangling out of—windows, at least not in my car. Several seats remain open, in fact, and I have room to stretch my legs right out. The engine chugs to life, and I feel a sudden pang of regret. If Sumaya doesn’t get in touch, I’ll never know what happens with the Somalians rescued on the Wahash Mahat. The thought leaves me feeling strangely sick.

  As the train pulls out, I slide over to the window seat, and spy what looks like a mammoth outdoor steam bath. It’s only when I catch a glimpse of legions of white-clad men hand-scrubbing piles of sheets that I realize it must Dhobi Ghat—the city’s most storied outdoor laundry. But as the train picks up speed, the laundry is replaced by rickety shacks and shanties draped in tarps, all jammed impossibly close together. I stare out at the slum, mesmerized by the crowded, filthy conditions.

  My thoughts must show on my face, because I hear a voice nearby.

  “Dharavi. The last census put the population at more than a million.”

  I turn to see a grandmotherly lady, stitching something she’s holding on her lap with bright orange thread, and smiling at me from across the aisle.