CHAPTER SEVEN
The Hindi word for is train railgaari.
On Kishore’s last day of work before he was to leave for his ten-day break, Mr McAllister called him into his office.
As Kishore entered the room he saw Linda was already seated opposite his boss who was behind his desk. Despite everything they had been through, she was able to keep an invisible professional boundary between her personal and work life, her stern business face showed no emotion. After all, she was Kishore's senior, the only person higher in the firm than Linda was Mr McAllister himself. Kishore’s heart beat a little faster, was something wrong?
"Sit down, son, sit down," his boss said. Kishore shut the office door and dubiously took a seat next to Linda. He had become used to sitting in this office over the last few weeks, going over the details he needed to discuss with Mr Cromwell, once he arrived in India.
Mr McAllister lowered himself into his plush leather office chair behind his desk.
"Well Kishore, tell me, are you all ready for your trip? Everything organised?"
Kishore nodded and opened his mouth to reply but before he could answer his boss continued.
"As this is your last day Kishore, I wanted you to be the first to know."
Kishore looked from Mr McAllister to Linda. The first to know? The first to know what?
Mr McAllister picked up a pen from his desk and glanced at Linda, everybody seemed to be looking at each other but no one was talking.
Mr McAllister placed the pen down on his desk, then picked it up again, "Kishore, as you know, the reason I couldn't make the trip myself this time is because Rosie, my dear wife, is not so well."
Kishore sat straighter in his seat and looked again over at Linda who was still poker faced, expressionless.
"Rosie and I are not getting any younger, so I have decided to start reducing the days I spend here at the office so we can enjoy some more time together," he chuckled a bit. "We have even thought, perhaps, once she is feeling herself again, we might buy one of those campervans and go on a bit of a tour around New Zealand."
Mr McAllister then cleared his throat, stood, and began pacing in the space behind his desk.
Kishore's and Linda’s eyes followed him, like a tennis match, side to side, side to side.
"Kishore, I have begun the preparations for Linda to take over the reins when I am away."
Kishore smiled and turned to congratulate Linda. He enthusiastically shook her hand and said "Oh, Linda, that is good news."
Before Kishore could say any more his boss spoke again.
"Kishore, you have become a valuable part of this company. I am very pleased with your work. I would like to offer you the role of Linda’s current position. If you accept, you will be taking over as second-in-command once I officially retire."
Kishore was not as professional as Linda; he could not sit expressionless. He stood and enthusiastically pumped Mr McAllister’s hand then Linda’s again. Her professional demeanor finally cracked. Her face broke out into a broad smile.
* * * *
The big day arrived. We woke to the sound of heavy rain, and I was afraid the plane wouldn't be allowed to fly. Finally, once we were ready, we got underway. Dad drove and Mum sat in her usual spot in the passenger seat while Kishore and I were in the back. I was anxious and fretted as I watched the rain through the car window. My husband softly touched my cheek, "Don't worry Julie, you know Auckland has four seasons in one day, it will be sunny soon." He’d lived in the city long enough to be aware that this was a catchphrase of its residents, but today I was not convinced.
I inhaled deeply. I had always loved the smell of the dampness of the raindrops on the asphalt road but today I was too wound up to enjoy it. As Dad drove towards Auckland Airport the rain sounded like a drummer's solo performance on the car roof.
* * * *
Much to my relief, once we boarded the plane, the rain eased and we safely took off. Many hours later, after another short stop-over in Singapore, we finally arrived at Indira Gandhi Airport, New Delhi, just nine months after our previous visit.
As this was essentially our honeymoon, we had a tight schedule ahead of us as we planned to go to Agra, Jaipur, then Delhi – a route known as the ‘golden triangle’, which is popular for tourists. Although we were in Delhi now, we were not going to visit Kishore's family. We were heading straight to the train station and would see them and Mr Cromwell after visiting Agra and Jaipur.
After collecting our luggage we headed outside. A wave of hot air rushed at me, as if I’d just stepped into a sauna. It was like swallowing a mouthful of hot steam. October in Delhi is what I would consider to be autumn - the monsoon season was nearing its end but winter had not quite begun; it was very humid, temperatures being in the mid-thirties.
I gazed at the road beyond, and saw the crazy confusion that is Delhi traffic - cars, bicycles, motorbikes, and the green and yellow colour of auto-rickshaws, as Kishore led me to a group of waiting taxi drivers. A dense, musty, pungent aroma hit my nostrils, a mixture of pollution, incense, and spices - a smell that seemed to be ingrained into India's atmosphere. Despite this, or maybe because of this, I instantly felt like I fitted in, that I was home, the feeling was very strong. I had survived Delhi once and I was impelled into thinking I was an old hand at dealing with the chaos, that I was a part of India.
An invisible hand almost pushed me in front of Kishore, urging me to deal with the taxi drivers myself, but as I looked at the waiting men, like hyenas ready to pounce on a buffalo's carcass, I quickly changed my mind.
Once in Kishore's choice of cab our journey began, the overwhelming sights of Delhi continued to open up in front of me. The familiar scenes and sounds came flooding back; the people, the dust, the smog, and the traffic. An adrenaline buzz of excitement rippled through me, I was like a junkie on heroin. I was glad I was back and instantly wanted more.
Kishore easily switched from English to his native tongue, Hindi, as he asked the driver about all the local news. The driver expertly multitasked: tooting his horn, swerving around the other cars, speeding through the traffic, and enlightening Kishore with all the happenings as we made our way to Delhi train station, where we had pre-booked second-class seats on a train called the Shatabdi Express, which would take us to Agra.
We stood in the early morning mist on the platform of the station feeling very excited. The humidity hung in the air but I still felt the need to wrap my jacket tighter around me, more for comfort than cold. After depositing our luggage with a porter, we bought a warm cup of tea from a stall while we waited for our train to arrive. Airports, bus and train stations anywhere in the world enveloped an air of excitement and anticipation that emanated from eager travelers about to take a journey. This train station was no different.
Sipping our tea, I observed the eye-opening scenes in front of me. The people on the crowded platform were mingling here and there, some in a rush, others meandering. Well-dressed Indian women in a mixture of English and Indian clothes stood out from the rest of the crowd. Kishore put his lips close to my ear and whispered "Delhite’s," as he nodded his head in their direction. "I will bet you anything they are Delhi society women, off for a day out."
A rumbling underneath us announced the train’s impending approach. As soon as it came to a halt, I saw the name Shatabdi Express embossed in black on the light blue paintwork of the train. A great rush of people wanting to be the first to climb aboard surged forward. Men holding suitcases and bags pushed their way onto the train. Weary looking women held on to their saris with one hand and their children with the other as they made their way through the crowd. The Delhite women with their shoulders back and heads held high strode towards the first class carriage. Striding confidently through the mass, making their way through the menagerie of bodies, men in red shirts boldly appeared. These train porters, known as Coolies, like ants, effortlessly carried loads much heavier than themselves by relieving passengers of their bags, suitcases, or trunks. They also helped people find their correct seats.
We finally found and boarded our second-class, air-conditioned carriage; my first impression was that it was so clean! I glanced down the aisle and noticed all of the seats were the same light blue colour as the outside of the train. We found the numbered seat that belonged to Mr and Mrs Kishore Patel. Sinking into the soft, vinyl chair Kishore laughed. "Julie, it is as comfortable as your Dad’s la-Z-boy armchair back home… the one we’re not supposed to sit on!" Our fresh looking carriage could have been first class, it was most pleasant and comfortable.
The train slowly moved out of the station and our journey had begun. As it gained speed I was comforted by the familiar sound of wheels on tracks - chick-a-chick-a-chick-a-chick-a-chick-a-chick. Kishore and I glanced at each other and grinned like children, it was music to our ears. The rocking motion I loved so much lulled me, I turned my head to observe our carriage. It was about three quarters full with a mix of what seemed to be tourists and locals. Just across the aisle, to the left of us, was a young Indian couple who were snuggling very close together and holding hands. The girl was very beautiful, and had an extremely swollen belly; obviously glowing in what must have been the late stages of pregnancy. I elbowed Kishore and mouthed "Look," and discreetly pointed in their direction. He tactfully glanced at them and snickered, whispering "It must be their last chance for some alone time before the baby comes." Perhaps India's strict society was slowly beginning to relax and change.
The sound of our carriage door opening made me turn my head. A steward entered wearing a navy blue uniform with a red sash tied around his waist. He pushed a trolley, which he trundled down the aisle as he distributed snacks. With a rustling of plastic being opened, Kishore and I joined the other passengers ripping open our own packets. While popping the fried, salty snacks into our mouths we soon settled back, sinking into our seats. We spent time looking out of the window, watching the city as it flashed by, our weary eyes growing heavy with the motion of the train. We lightly dozed until we heard the carriage door opening once again, the steward had returned. This time, he handed out breakfast trays and as I received mine, I was happy to see it was broken into four sections, each holding a different food item.
I lifted the lid of the first section; using the plastic spoon provided, I tasted the warm dahl soup - creamy lentils with a hint of garlic and ginger. Another section held crunchy bread sticks in a sealed plastic bag. A cup of rich milky tea was the next item, but what was sitting in the last section was most intriguing. Taking the lid off a little clay pot I was impressed to see it held white and creamy natural yoghurt.
While munching through our breakfast, we gazed out of the window and noticed the scenery slowly changing from city buildings and bustling people to the flashing images of the large fields of the countryside. Pointing, Kishore said, "Julie, look!" Dotted amongst the parakeet-green fields I saw glimpses of beautiful brightly coloured saris. The skin of the women working on the land was the colour of rich, dark chocolate, which contrasted stunningly with the wonderful shades of their brightly coloured clothes. What a splendid sight! This leg of our journey would take us through acres and acres of farmland as the train rumbled and rolled from Delhi to Agra (in Uttar Pradesh, or U.P.)
My husband and I chatted and dozed. Looking through half opened eyes, I was drawn to a passenger seated diagonally across from me. With blonde dreadlocks, flowery pants, and toes poking through slip-on sandals, he looked like a '70's peace loving hippie. He was probably around my age. Why, I wondered, was he here in India? Modern day hippies still came to this country to 'find themselves', perhaps he was going to a yoga retreat or had been helping the poor and homeless in the slums. But why would a hippie be sitting in second class? I caught sight of the magazine he was reading, it was some sort of spiritual gazette. I could see the Chinese symbol of Ying and Yang displayed on the cover.
I knew this symbol showed the interaction, as well as the opposite, of everything in the universe: dark and light, hot and cold, and male and female. As I inadvertently stared at the magazine, I wondered whether the black and white symbol also represented Kishore and myself. Yes, I decided with an absentminded nod of my head, absolutely, it did. The mixing and blending of our lives and each other’s culture was most definitely Ying and Yang. I quickly looked away, not wanting to be caught staring at the magazine. Anyway, I thought with a smirk, if the hippie caught me looking I was sure he would not be offended, in fact, he would probably flash me the peace signal.
Soon, we heard the now familiar sound of the steward coming towards us pushing his trolley. A pudding was handed out, Kishore was delighted to see it was kheer, a milky rice dessert dotted with raisins and slithered almonds. Licking my lips and using the plastic spoon provided, I put a spoonful in my mouth - it tasted divine. I ate it all, scraping the last of the pudding from the bottom of the cup.
I sneaked another look at the young couple. She had taken off her shoes and was lying across the seat with her bare feet resting on his lap. He stared adoringly at his wife while massaging her toes, the scene was very touching.
I couldn’t stop fidgeting, crossing and uncrossing my legs, it was blatantly obvious to me I couldn’t hold on any longer. I desperately needed to go to the toilet. Kishore had been once, returning with a suspicious look on his face, but regardless of me trying to coax it out of him, he wouldn't tell me what kind of toilet I would be facing.
Gingerly rising from my seat, I performed the drunk dancing sway that came with walking on a train as I made my way down the aisle to the end of the carriage. Pulling open the door marked, 'bathroom', I entered. The room itself was clean, and from first impressions the toilet looked normal enough even though it was a squat toilet, no bowl, just a seat on the floor, the lid was down. I approached it tentatively, like a lioness circling her prey, peering at it from all sides, cautious yet determined. Finally I used the tip of my shoe to lift the lid.
Astounded, I stared at the train tracks racing below the hole – that’s all it was, just a hole in the floor of the train. I took a deep breath, sat, well, squatted, and felt a strange whoosh from the air beneath me as I did my business.