by Zoe May
‘Err, no, not really,’ I mutter, staring at the road before us, as though, if I’m paying attention, that will somehow keep us safe.
As my driver focuses on me, he meanders out of his lane so that he’s straddling two lanes, one of which is for cars heading in the opposite direction. It’s empty for a moment, but a van appears in the distance and starts coming towards us at high speed, head on.
‘Oh my God! That van!’ I shriek, pointing at the oncoming vehicle.
My driver flicks his attention back to the road and swerves out of the van’s path in the nick of time.
‘So you don’t like Guru Hridaya?’ he asks, casually, looking back up at me, as though nothing’s happened.
He’s completely unfazed by our near-death experience.
‘I don’t know… Umm… Can you… look at the road, please?’ I implore him, twisting my neck to watch the van speeding off into the distance.
I turn back to my driver who fortunately is now looking at the road. I glance at the Shiva ornament on his dashboard with pleading eyes as my heart pounds. Did the driver’s prayer spare us a collision? I find myself torn between imploring Shiva to keep us safe and wanting to get the driver to stop and let me out of the cab so that I can hopefully get a lift with someone who actually pays attention to the road. Spirituality is all well and good, but a prayer’s not going to prevent your car from crumpling in a head-on crash.
Adrenalin is still surging through my veins. My palms are sweating as I stare at the road, willing my driver to stay in his lane from now on.
‘Hridaya Ashram is a good place. Very spiritual, very good for body and soul,’ my driver tells me, gazing back up at me.
‘Uh huh. Yep, yoga… Great,’ I reply, staring at the road ahead and hoping he’ll do the same.
The car begins to wobble once more, and I realize he’s still looking at me.
‘Please can you focus on the road. Please,’ I beg.
‘Okay!’ he laughs, doing the head wobble as he looks back towards the road.
My heart slams in my chest. So much for India being a mystical otherworldly place, the home of meditation and yoga and enlightenment. I feel more stressed now then I’ve felt for months in London. In fact, I can barely remember ever feeling so stressed.
‘Lots of great classes at Hridaya. Yoga, Tai Chi, art,’ he says. ‘And other things,’ he adds pointedly, his eyes twinkling, almost mischievously.
‘Yes, lots of great classes,’ I reply. ‘Please, please, look at the road,’ I add desperately, my interest in preserving my life outweighing my desire to engage in conversation.
My driver seems to finally grasp how stressed I am and stops talking, turning his attention to the road instead. We lapse into silence and even though I’m keeping my eyes peeled on the motorway, I begin to relax a little. I think about the mischievous look in the driver’s eyes when he said the ashram does classes in ‘other things’. What did he mean by that? I went on the ashram’s website a few days ago and checked out the activities on offer. There was the standard list of yoga, meditation and massage. But there were also quite a few weird offerings like tribal dance workshops, past life regression, and gong sound baths. I guess that’s what he was referring to, and yet, the way he said it sounded almost naughty.
‘So, you like yoga?’ My driver asks as he pulls off the motorway.
He’s clearly got bored of silence. I glance at a sign that indicates we’re approaching a city, which we have to pass by on our journey towards the ashram.
‘Err, it’s alright, I reply, hoping he accepts my answer and we revert back into silence.
We start passing through narrower urban streets, which are far more chaotic than the motorway, full of zig-zagging rickshaws, motorbikes, cars, buses and vans, all weaving past one another. I can’t make out lines in the road or any semblance of order. My driver speeds through the traffic, nipping at sharp angles between other motorists with reckless abandon. He’s driving crazily but I don’t know what to say. He’s not talking anymore so it’s not like I can tell him to keep quiet and focus on the road. He is focusing on the road, but he’s still driving maniacally. The weird thing is, he’s not the only one. A guy on a motorbike speeds along nearby, while his girlfriend sits on the back, her arms slung lazily around his waist. He turns his head to kiss her, while speeding forwards and neither of them seem at all tense. A man in another nearby car honks his horn incessantly while cutting up every single person on the road.
Go with the flow, I tell myself, trying to breathe evenly. If you smile at India, India smiles back. I remind myself of Priya’s words as my driver continues to cut through the traffic like a five-year-old playing Grand Theft Auto after too many sweets. I plaster a smile onto my face, hoping India appreciates it. Please India, smile at me, I silently urge the country, my fear clearly making me deranged. Maybe I should say a prayer to Shiva? But what do Hindu prayers sound like? How do they start? Hi Shiva? Dear Shiva? What’s up Shiva?
I close my eyes and begin to mentally draft a prayer.
Hi Shiva. Hope all’s well…
A thud interrupts my thoughts. We’ve crashed. We’ve actually crashed. I’m not in pain. My heart’s still beating. I look around to see that our car has gone right into a metal railing at the side of the road. The railing has bent badly out of shape. I stare, in disbelief, taking it all in. Cars honk irritably at us for obstructing the road. I can’t believe it. We actually crashed! So much for smiling at India and praying to Shiva!
My driver gets out of the car to assess the damage. I edge towards the window and peer out. A large dent has now appeared in the bonnet, the metal scratched and warped.
‘Oh no!’ I gasp.
My driver kneels down and inspects his tire, pressing it with his thumbs. He nods to himself and stands up. He brushes some dust off his dented bonnet and does a head wobble.
‘All is well!’ he announces, as he gets back into the car and twists his key in the ignition.
I nod weakly as he swerves back into the road.
Chapter Seven
‘And this is your room!’ The host of my ashram guesthouse says with aplomb, gesturing towards a ladder leading up to a treehouse. A literal treehouse. A small house, in a tree.
‘What?’ I utter, laughing uneasily.
She smiles back at me brightly, her gaze unflinching. She introduced herself as Meera when we met, telling me she’s local and has lived in the ashram since she was a teenager. She seems friendly and she looks stunning in a dark red sequined sari with her jet-back shiny hair trailing in a long plait over her shoulder. Her hair reminds me of Priya’s on the rare occasions when Priya doesn’t wear hers pinned back for work. It’s also long, jet black and enviably thick.
‘But, it’s…’ I look up.
The ladder looks flimsy. The treehouse itself is constructed from what appears to be tightly bound bamboo stalks. It looks perilous, balanced among branches. I’m torn between appearing culturally insensitive and wanting a bed, on solid earth.
‘I, err…’ I mutter, wondering how the treehouse could possibly support my weight, let alone my suitcase too.
‘I…’
‘Is there a problem?’ Meera asks, a little impatiently.
I’m pretty sure she already thinks I’m a bit strange since my first question upon checking in was whether there was a man called Paul staying at her guesthouse. She insisted she couldn’t divulge guests’ details but after I begged her to confirm either way, she eventually admitted that no, there’s no one called Paul staying at the guesthouse at the moment. I knew the chances were slim, after all, there are several dozen guesthouses in the ashram, but it was worth checking just in case. I read online that most of the ashram guests congregate in the ashram’s main hall for dinner, so I’ll just go there later in the hope that I run into him.
‘No, I just thought I’d have a room in a house… you know, with walls and stuff,’ I venture, glancing away from the tree towards the main guesthouse, which is compris
ed of dwellings made of bricks and mortar.
Meera shrugs. ‘You booked late, this is all we have left. The guesthouse is busy at this time of year,’ she explains.
‘But… I have a big suitcase. The treehouse doesn’t look that strong,’ I point out, unable to believe that I’m being presented with a treehouse to stay in.
After having travelled across the world, I’m now having to rest my weary bones in a treehouse. It feels like a cruel joke.
‘It is very safe, I can assure you,’ Meera insists, with a jaunty head wobble.
‘But… But… What if it rains?’ I ask weakly.
Meera laughs. ‘The treehouse is perfectly comfortable!’ she says. ‘It is sheltered with palm leaves.’
Leaves?! I gawp.
‘It won’t rain anyway. We’re out of monsoon season,’ Meera assures me, but I can’t quite bring myself to believe her and have faith that I’m not going to get soaked.
After all, I didn’t think my boyfriend would leave me, did I? And yet, he did. I didn’t think I’d be involved in a car crash straight after arriving in India, and I was. If I expect it not to rain, it probably will.
‘So, make yourself at home!’ Meera comments, plastering an overenthusiastic smile onto her face.
She turns and hurries away before I have a chance to raise any more objections.
Make myself at home? I look around me. I’m in the middle of the guesthouse garden. In the distance is a copse of palm trees with hammocks slung between them. And to the side of the garden is a row of outdoor toilets. Meera showed them to me after checking me in. Maybe she thought the awful outdoor loos would make the treehouse feel more palatable in comparison. If so, the tactic didn’t quite work. I can’t believe I’ve travelled all this way to perch up in a tree like a sparrow. Meera’s clearly not going to offer me a better place to stay. I believe her when she says she doesn’t have any other rooms, I did only book a few days ago, but I didn’t realize that when I booked a ‘private suite’ that said suite would in fact be up a tree.
I sigh dramatically. I really need to whinge about this to someone. I’m dying to message Priya but of course, my phone doesn’t work over here.
‘Wait!’ I call after Meera.
She turns, her smile still slightly fixed. ‘Yes?’
‘Erm…’ I glance at the ground. ‘Do you, ummm… What’s the WiFi password?’ I ask.
‘WiFi?!’ Meera laughs. ‘You’re in an ashram!’
I stare at her blankly.
‘WiFi!’ she tuts, smiling to herself, before turning and heading back to the guesthouse.
No WiFi?! I mean, seriously? And what does she mean about being in an ashram, what if I wanted to look up meditation chants or yoga positions or something? I could easily have been planning to use WiFi for spiritual stuff.
I sigh, turning back to my treehouse. I look between my suitcase and the bamboo structure above me, wondering how the hell I’m going to get my stuff up there. I can’t exactly lug my suitcase up the flimsy ladder. I guess this place is aimed at backpackers and not suitcasers like myself. So much for proudly parading my new Ted Baker luggage.
I pull my suitcase towards the ladder and tentatively step onto the first rung. The ladder is made of bamboo stalks too, bound together with reeds. I try to pull my suitcase up after me as I climb up onto the next rung, but it’s too awkward. The ladder looks like it’s straining and I don’t trust my own balance. I’m going to have to unpack my case and take my stuff up bit by bit.
Sighing, I step back onto the ground and unzip my suitcase. Fortunately, I’m as anal about packing as I am about home furnishings, and I’ve compartmentalized different sections of my wardrobe into separate bags. I reach for the bag at the top, containing nightwear and another, containing dresses. I clamp the bags under my arms and begin ascending the precarious-looking ladder once more.
I take each rung steadily, worrying that the bamboo might snap, although it does seem surprisingly strong. The higher up I get, the more confident I begin to feel about the ladder’s sturdiness. I can’t help thinking about my staircase back home though, lined with a fluffy hand-tufted ivory carpet. Did Paul harbor secret longings for a bamboo ladder all along? Was our carpet too comfortable, too traditional, too boring? Did he crave something wilder? I ponder such questions as I reach the entrance of my treehouse. It doesn’t even have a door, just a curtain made from tarpaulin.
I pull the curtain back, tentatively, almost hopefully. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find behind it. My treehouse is hardly going to contain a plush suite with a king-sized bed, mini bar and jacuzzi, but even so, the sight of nothing but a mosquito net dangling from the centre of the roof over a thin mattress on the floor, still comes as a shock.
I look around, searching the rest of the tree house, but it really does contain nothing other than a mosquito net and a mattress with a blanket and pillow on top. My heart sinks. I dump my bags onto the floor and crawl nervously inside, expecting the floor to collapse under my weight. The last thing I need today is to fall through a treehouse. Although, like the ladder, the floor feels surprisingly firm. I consider standing up, but the treehouse is so small that I wouldn’t be able to. I slide my bags along the floor towards one of the walls. I’d imagined unpacking once I got to India, putting my stuff in drawers, maybe even a wardrobe, leaving my book on a bedside table, but those things feel like luxuries right now. I take a closer look at my bed and pull the mosquito net back. The mattress is incredibly flimsy. It’s one inch thick, if that. I give it a poke. It’s rubbery, like a yoga mat. I reach for the folded blanket and roll its material between my fingers. It’s thin and flimsy too. I feel like crying. The reality of my situation hits home. I’m sitting in a treehouse far away from home, I don’t have a proper room, I don’t have a proper bed, and I don’t have a boyfriend, let alone an engagement. This treehouse, this crazy expedition, this whole situation, my whole flipping life, feels like a complete joke. What am I doing here? And what is so bad about me that my boyfriend would trade in our nice comfortable life for something so completely and utterly different?
Tears leak from my eyes. Hot, hurt, angry tears. They crawl down my cheeks and I let them, giving in, lowering my head. I’ve been so focused on my mission of coming to India and winning Paul back that the pain of the break-up hasn’t really hit me, but it’s hitting me now. I feel distraught, let down, confused and alone. I flick my tears away, but they’re rapidly replaced. They crawl down my cheeks in torrents. I let out a pathetic sniffle, when suddenly I feel a stinging sensation on my arm. I glance down to see a mosquito sucking my blood, its transparent body growing red as its greedy insides fill up.
‘Ahh!’ I let out a shrill scream, flicking it off. ‘You bastard. You absolute prick! Go away!’ I shriek.
I sob again, as my arm stings, beading with blood.
‘Everything okay up there?’ A man’s voice inquires.
Oh, great. It’s probably another person who works at the guesthouse or a grumpy guest who wants me to keep the noise down. Screaming at insects is probably not considered very enlightened. Sniffling, I wipe the tears from my face and crawl back across my treehouse. I pull the curtain back and look down to see a guy who must be around my age peering up at me. He shields his eyes with his hand as he squints up, a friendly smile on his face.
‘Are you okay? I thought I heard a scream,’ he says.
He has an unusual accent, a mixture of European and American, that I can’t quite place. He’s incredibly tanned. It’s hard not to notice the deep golden shade of his skin, given the loose tank top he’s wearing, with shorts and flip flops. His body’s lean and toned and the muscles in his arm bunch up as he continues to shield his striking blue eyes. His hair’s shaven, but it’s a golden blond shade.
‘Oh… A mosquito was just sucking my blood,’ I explain, laughing, even though I still feel miserable, not to mention worried that the mosquito is still in my treehouse ready to strike again.
‘Have you
got any repellent?’ The stranger asks.
‘I think so… Somewhere in my bag.’ I glance down at my suitcase.
He follows my gaze and raises an eyebrow as he takes in my massive, pink, overflowing case.
‘I’m guessing you’re not planning on keeping this down here?’ he comments.
‘No! It’s just a bit hard lugging a suitcase up here, that’s all,’ I remark.
‘Hmm… yes.’ He nods, frowning at my suitcase, clearly appreciating my predicament.
I’m about to turn around and climb back down the ladder to get a few more of my things when he looks back up at me, with those startling blue eyes.
‘I can help,’ he suggests. ‘I’ll bring up some of your stuff.’
‘Oh, okay…’ I reply, although he’s barely waited for my response and is already turning to my suitcase.
‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling grateful for the help.
‘No worries!’ he insists, flashing me a gorgeous smile.
His smile is dazzling and white, but he has the tiniest gap between his two front teeth that makes him look cute and endearing. I smile back, feeling a little shy. He’s so handsome and I must look like such a state in comparison, having just been blubbing away in my treehouse, not to mention having spent the whole night on a plane.
As he reaches down for a bag from my suitcase, I find myself checking him out again, taking in his strong back, rippled with muscles. What am I doing? I’m in India to win back my boyfriend! The last thing I should be doing is checking out a guy from my guesthouse.
He takes a few of my bags – my washbag and another bag dedicated to skirts and trousers and comes back over to the ladder. He starts climbing up.
‘So did you just arrive from England?’ he asks, clearly realizing I’m not a seasoned backpacker on a round-the-world expedition.
‘Yep! Straight from London,’ I tell him.
He climbs higher.
‘Bit of a culture shock, huh?’
I laugh. ‘Yeah, a bit.’
He hands me the bags and I place them inside my treehouse.