Journey From the Summit

by Lorraine Ereira

  Eventually we found a family who were a little better off and with the offer of a small down payment for food and bills they agreed to take her. I could only hope and pray that they didn’t just keep the money and turn her loose. She was such a gentle creature, she would not have survived in the wild like the others. In many ways we had done her a disservice by taking her in and giving her a Western lifestyle. I took in her sweet face as she looked back at me with her chocolate brown eyes, her little brows knitting together as she silently asked what I was doing. I held her for the last time, and sobbed into her soft coat as I handed her to what I prayed would be her new family.

  Finally it was time to say goodbye to Daniel. From the time I had arrived and felt that first stab of disappointment that he was not Saul, he had taken care of me. I had become his kid sister, following him around with annoying questions, sulking when he wouldn’t take me on legal missions with him. I had washed his clothes, shared his room and on a few occasions fought with him. He had made me laugh, made me cry, and enveloped me in huge bear hugs when it all got too much. In a few short months we had become family and the bond I had with him was something I would never forget. The last bear hug from my big brother meant the end of my time here in Goa; the excruciating parting from my Saul; the leaving of my friends, my dog, a whole other life that I had built for myself.

  When I climbed on the bus to Bombay to begin my sixteen-hour journey, I felt as though I was leaving behind me everything I had ever cherished.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Before I left Goa I had received a last fax from my dad, telling me that he had been in touch with his sister Pattie who lived in the outskirts of Bombay. He had told her about my visit to the family house in Assagao, and that I would be leaving India soon. She had got back in contact and said she would love to see me before I left, so in the fax Dad had included her phone number so I could contact her. I had called her before leaving Goa, and she said she would send someone to meet me from the bus and take me to her apartment.

  I had known that this was going to be a long, uncomfortable journey racked with painful melancholy. Someone had kindly advised me to take a Valium to deal with the lengthy bus ride. They were easy to come by as you could buy them over the counter in the chemists. I had bought myself a small packet of them. I didn’t want to sit and cry for sixteen hours straight, so I tied my rucksack to my foot, stuffed my money belt inside the top of my skirt, popped a Valium and slid into oblivion.

  Sixteen hours later I arrived in Bombay feeling groggy from the drugs and numb from my severance.

  I climbed off the bus feeling stiff and heavy. I had got off at a central bus stop where Aunty Pattie had told me to wait. Lugging my rucksack behind me I made my way to what I hoped was the right terminal and, although I yearned for a cool shower, to refresh me, I knew I would need to make do with a drink. All I could find was a lukewarm one at a street-stand, so after purchasing this I dumped my bag on the ground and sat down in the hot sun. I felt sticky and achy. The sugary drink barely quenched my thirst but it still tasted divine.

  I sat watching people come and go. Getting on and off buses, in and out of taxis, being collected and dropped off, but there was no one there to meet me. All I could do was sit and wait.

  The bus terminal smelt of old diesel fumes and rotting fruit. People shouted and called to one another in a language that meant nothing to me. I felt like a small, lost fish in a huge sea of colourful aquatic creatures. I had deliberately dressed in dark clothes that covered my limbs as best as I could after being advised that to do otherwise may draw unwanted attention especially as a female travelling alone. I had dressed to blend in, but realized that I was the only woman clad in plain colours and this alone probably made me stand out.

  As if just thinking of my situation had made it real, I turned to see a very bizarre looking man staring at me. I think he was a man of Indian origin by his attire and demeanour, but his hair looked as if it was dyed a synthetic shade of ginger and his eyes were a piercingly cold ice-blue. As soon as he realized I had seen him looking at me, he began to walk over. Fleetingly I wondered if this was my lift, but soon realized it was not the case.

  He spoke to me in a sickeningly dulcet tone, in surprisingly perfect English, “You are an English girl, travelling alone.” It was a statement more than a question.

  At first I tried to ignore him, turning away and not responding, but he became persistent, “I have been watching you, and I can see you are alone. You need a friend, someone to talk to and look after you.”

  The more I ignored him the more determined he became, “Why don’t you speak to me? I only want to be your friend,” he continued in the same sickly sweet way.

  “Leave me alone,” I finally replied. “I don’t need to talk to you or anyone else.”

  “That’s not very friendly. I am being nice to you, why would you speak to me like that?” His tone had changed, becoming more sinister.

  “I know you are alone. I don’t live far from here. I think you should come with me. We can be friends.”

  “Just sod off and leave me alone,” I said, much more bravely than I felt.

  I began to look around for someone to appeal to for help. A young couple nearby saw what was happening. They offered to let me stand with them and told him to leave me alone.

  He smiled at me, and leaned in close. He reeked of stale spicy sweat and his breath smelt of rancid meat.

  “I’m still watching you. They wont be around for long and then you will be alone again. I will be back,” he breathed.

  “Leave her alone,” the young man said to my tormenter. He skulked away into the shadows of the bus depot.

  The couple told me not to worry and stayed chatting pleasantly to me. However, soon enough their bus arrived and they had no choice but to leave. They looked at me apologetically as they boarded. No sooner had they gone than my stalker remained true to his word.

  He walked slowly back to where I stood, smiling his insane grin.

  “No one to hide behind now, have you? Nowhere to run to?” He gestured the empty bus depot. “Perhaps now we can be friends.”

  I picked up my bag and walked away as fast as I could. I found a bus stationmaster and told him I was being harassed. He laughed cruelly, looking at me as if I was asking for the unwanted attention.

  I needed to find a phone, so I could call my aunt and tell her my lift had not turned up.

  I saw a public phone booth at the side of the terminal building and made my way over to it. Rummaging in my money belt, I dug out my aunt’s phone number and began to dial. When she answered I began to explain that my lift had not arrived. The next thing I knew my stalker was trying to grab the phone from my hand so I could not speak into it, or hear what Aunty Pattie was saying.

  “I’ve bought you a drink,” he said interrupting my conversation very deliberately. “Put the phone down so you can have it. Lovely cool lemon drink, just what you need!” he was ranting loudly whilst trying to pull the phone from my hand. He put his hand on the button to disconnect the call, and before I knew it he had cut me off!

  “For God’s sake why don’t you just fuck off!” I yelled, so angry now that I could feel myself losing any sense of rational thought.

  I noticed he had taken the top off the bottle of Limca – a usually fairly clear drink, which was looking decidedly cloudy! What had he put in the drink? Was he trying to drug me? He caught a fistful of my hair and tried to force my head back, shoving the bottle into my mouth. I wriggled from his grasp, spitting any liquid onto the ground. Realising he was not going to give up, I tried a different tack.

  “Okay, okay,” I said pretending to relent, “I am thirsty I admit, I will have the drink, but please just give it to me?”

  “Of course,” he said slyly, “I just wanted to buy you a drink, that’s all.”

  I took the bottle from him and walked a few steps away, where I swiftly upended it and poured its contents onto the ground.

  “You ungrate
ful little bitch,” he snarled. I smiled, pleased with my quick thinking, and walked away.

  I needed to get away from him; somehow I had to get to my aunt’s house. I knew if I tried to call her again he would take the phone from me, and anyway I had already informed her that I was still here.

  I began to make my way to the taxi rank, but not without him hot on my heels.

  A taxi-driver wound his window down as I approached.

  “I want to go to Andheri.” I said to him through the open window.

  “No speak English,” he said unhelpfully.

  I turned to see the stalker smiling a twisted smile at me; he had discovered my mistake.

  “Need a translator? Tell me where you want to go, I will explain it for you,” he said, a grovelling tone now to to his voice.

  I hoped he had not overheard my destination when I was trying to tell the driver. My only hope was to get in anyway and hope the driver could at least read the address I had on the fax from Dad.

  Ignoring him I started to get into the cab, pulling the door closed behind me. However he was trying to get in with me, pulling the door open as I tried to pull it shut! I kicked out at him and managed to pull the door closed shouting at the driver to drive. He didn’t understand English and looked at me agape.

  Stalker-man was still trying to get in as I yelled to the taxi driver, “Drive! Just go!”

  Eventually he understood and began to drive away. I slumped back in the seat with relief. At last I had got away from him. I sank into the worn seats of the cab, my skin damp with perspiration from heat and anxiety. Pulling the fax from my money belt, I showed the driver, pointing to the address, hoping he would understand. He looked at me blankly as I tried in vain to explain where I needed to go.

  For some reason, call it a sixth sense if you like, I felt a twisting feeling in the base of my gut telling me it wasn’t over. I turned in my seat and there, in a taxi behind us, was my stalker following me and grinning his lunatic grin. I started to cry then. I hadn’t got away from him and wasn’t going to. I was in a taxi going nowhere with a driver who was no help at all, being followed by a psychotic lunatic who had become obsessed with me and wasn’t going to let me get away. He was going to rape me, kill me and no one would ever know what happened to me. I would be in the news at home as some poor Western girl who disappeared, never to be seen again. I would never be able to tell my family how much I loved them, never talk to my dad about his house, never party with my friends, or go home to my safe life. Now I would never see Saul again and he would never know what had become of me. All that I had been through to be with Saul, the pain, the heartache, always believing that one day we would get through it and be together, was for nothing. I became hysterical in the back of the cab, tears running down my face, huge sobs escaping from me. I couldn’t even try to make the driver understand where I wanted to go; I was too distraught now to even speak. The driver was becoming more and more anxious because I wasn’t making sense and he still didn’t know where I wanted to go.

  Suddenly he stopped the cab. We were on a quiet road leading out of the city, and had pulled up outside a small cabin. My stalker had stopped his cab behind us. Where had he brought me? Surely this was not where my aunt lived? It was some remote shack in the middle of nowhere! He was pulling me out of the cab, gesturing for me to leave my bag where it was. I tried to resist, but he was forcing me to get out. Stalker-man was getting out, smiling his nauseating smile, nodding knowingly as if he had finally got me where he wanted me. My driver pushed me into the cabin. I didn’t understand what was happening? Was he in cahoots with my stalker? Some type of accomplice perhaps? Was this some type of ring they had set up to trap girls like me? I would never escape!

  It was filled with men sitting round drinking tea and smoking. My senses were distorted with fear and my thoughts had become irrational. They all seemed to be mocking me; a helpless mouse in a pit of sneering snakes. Oh God was this some kind of conspiracy? Was I going to be gang-raped then killed? I was sobbing and begging them not to hurt me. I must have sounded like a woman possessed.

  Stalker-man began to speak. His voice was essence of calm itself; a total antithesis to my conduct.

  “You can see she is upset. She needs her medication. I am her husband and only I can take care of her. She is mentally unsound. Surely you can see this?” He looked at me, indicating my behaviour.

  “Just let me take her home. She will be safe with me. I have her medication.” His influence appeared to his audience a soothing balm to my madness; a practised carer who was used to his wife’s emotional breakdowns.

  Just one look at me was enough for them to believe him. Unwittingly I was playing right into his malevolent hands!

  Then the driver of the cab he’d be in approached me and asked me to give him my passport.

  “No!” I screamed. It was my only proof of who I was, the only shred of hope I had.

  “It’s ok,” he said gently. “I only want to have a look at it. I’m not going to take it from you.”

  With my hands shaking I took it out of my money-belt and, keeping a firm grip on it, I opened it to my identity page and showed him. I knew if they wished they could have taken it from me as easily as taking candy from a baby, but I had no choice but to hope and pray that his intention was honest.

  He laughed, but not at me, at my stalker.

  “There is no way this girl is your wife! She is a British woman, travelling from the UK!”

  He addressed me softly, “Where is it that you need to go?”

  I looked at him and tried to speak without stuttering, “I need to get to this place,” I said in a small voice, showing him the fax with my aunt’s address on it.

  He took my arm gently, collected my bag from his colleague’s cab, and told me he would take me there. I was still afraid, but through my terrified muddle of thoughts came a thin stream of hope that this man, this cab driver, was my saviour. It was only then I realized that my cab driver had actually been trying to help. He just hadn’t known how, so had brought me to this taxi base in the hope that a colleague could decipher the hysterical ranting of his foreign fare!

  I sat shaking in the back of this new cab, still sobbing from the experience but also from relief. This man had dragged me from the path to hell. I will never know, to this day, what that psychopath had planned for me, but can only imagine the worst. He was pure evil. Everything about him told me that, before he even spoke to me. I knew I was lucky to escape alive and unharmed.

  Finally we arrived at my aunt’s apartment. The driver couldn’t have been kinder to me, carrying my rucksack up the stairs to my aunt’s door and waiting with me until she answered.

  I must have looked like something the cat dragged in, with tear soaked cheeks and my hair plastered to my head.

  “Florence!” said my aunty using my full name, followed by, “Oh my dear girl!” as she took in my dishevelled appearance. “What on earth happened?”

  All at once, having coped alone in the face of adversity, to have someone offering me support and kindness forced the floodgates open and the tears came unbidden.

  Aunty Pattie paid the driver quickly, and thanking him she ushered me inside. She handed me some tissues and put her arms around me.

  “It’s okay now, you’re here and you’re safe. I’m going to put the kettle on. You can go and have a nice cooling shower and then you can sit down and tell me everything.” She smiled at me, and for the first time I stopped blubbing and looked at her.

  There was something of my dad in her, that much was very apparent. She had such a gentle, calm manner and a soft, cool voice like falling summer rain, taking the heat from my emotional trauma.

  Peeling off my clothes I climbed into the cool shower, feeling the water rinse away the sticky, dusty film on my skin. Allowing the water to massage my scalp, I closed my eyes and let me body relax, feeling the relief of being clean and safe at last.

  Digging out a relatively clean pair of shorts and a t-shir
t, I padded back though to the kitchen where Aunty Pattie had laid out tea and biscuits on the little table.

  Looking into my eyes, she gently encouraged me to tell her everything. I started to tell her about what had happened at the bus station and why I had arrived in such a state, to which she explained that the friend she had sent to collect me had mistakenly gone to another bus station and consequently our paths had failed to cross.

  I only meant to tell her about this. I had not intended to tell her about Saul. She was Dad’s sister and I hadn’t told my parents because I didn’t want them to have the stress, and didn’t think they would understand. I couldn’t tell her because she might tell them, and also I didn’t know her – she was little more than a stranger to me. But something about her, perhaps it was her kind eyes or her soothing voice, or her reassuring smiles and warm encouragement, made me sit there and, as the light began to fade into evening, tell her everything.

  We talked long into the small hours, only stopping while she prepared a simple meal for the two of us. She sat and listened to all the pain and anguish I had been through, and held my hand, dried my tears, and put her arms around me. She even went to the trouble of writing some notes about Saul’s case, telling me that she knew some high court judges in Goa and might be able to speak to someone. She asked why I hadn’t called her sooner, and said she felt sad that I had been in India all those months when I could have turned to her for help. It felt so good to have someone really listen, and after the ordeal I had been through today my emotions were open and raw and in need of some healing kindness.

  I was shattered after talking about things that were so sensitive and painful, and after I felt I had told her all I could, I thought I would tell her about my visit to the house, which lifted the mood considerably. She was pleased I had seen the house that my grandparents had lived in for most of their lives, and met Tadoo.