Around India in 80 Trains (29 page)

Across from me sat Karthik, an engineering student from Delhi who had spent a long weekend in Shimla with his classmates.

‘Ma’am the sun is not good for you, already you are little dark in colour.’

I pulled my arm in to shut him up, but he liked to talk.

‘Ma’am are you seeing all these numbers on the tunnels? Every single one is numbered. Previously there were being 103, but now only 102 are used.’

On the approach to another tunnel, he slid up to my side, flinching when he touched my thigh, and pointed out of the window.

‘See, there was one British engineer named Barog.’

‘What was his first name?’

‘Barog.’

‘But he must have had a first name.’

‘Barog only.’

‘Go on.’

Karthik had a strange concept of emphasis. His voice rose towards the middle of a sentence where he would pause for effect, in the hope of keeping his listener guessing.

‘His role was to … dig the longest tunnel. From one end he started digging, and then … from the other end he also started digging. But the two sides did not meet.’ He flicked his wrist as though changing a light bulb. ‘Then your government fined him … one rupee for wasting their money.’

‘So what happened? Did he build the rest of the tunnel?’

‘
Chee
, poor chap. Killed himself.’

One variation of the tale claimed that the body of Colonel Barog was buried in front of the tunnel, but between the government and the railway authorities, nothing had been done to preserve his grave and it was anyone’s guess as to where the poor man lay.

Karthik pointed out the window.

‘See these cuttings in the rock? When it is monsoon there are … many waterfalls coming down. It’s
rer-ly beaudiful
. Truly I tell you, this is one of the most
beaudiful
places.’

He held out a packet that had covered his palms with oil. It appeared to contain fried bread covered in batter, then deep-fried again. I shook my head and he balled it up and flipped it out of the window.

Soon the novelty of the rickety train was beginning to wear off, when it came to a halt. A group of hormonal males hopped out and began stretching for the benefit of a carriage of giggly girls, while others strolled off for a handful of pakoras, showing little concern that we might suddenly leave. Passepartout also got out and was treading towards a stone wall displaying a sign in white paint.

THE ALLAH OF ISLAM IS THE SAME
AS THE GOD OF CHRISTIANS AND THE ISHWAR OF HINDUS

He took a photograph then picked his way back across the tracks.

‘Yup, they’re all bullshit.’

Everything was running like clockwork. The toy train had returned to Kalka leaving us plenty of time to take train 46, the Kalka-Barmer Chandigarh Express back to Chandigarh. Tomorrow the Rock Garden was first on the agenda. While Chandigarh was being redesigned and divided into neat sectors, a young man named Nek Chand, now 86 years old, had collected the refuse and filled a secret space with sculptures made from broken bangles, pottery and recycled waste. After lunch we would head to Amritsar, then continue on the Tata Jammu Express up to Jammu, with one last push to Udhampur, the end of the railway line. At this rate we would be back on track and ready to tackle the second half of the country within the appointed timeframe. To celebrate we found a bar in Sector 26.

A table of twentysomethings was taking advantage of Happy Hour and watching the highlights of an IPL cricket match over a basket of chicken lollipops and a selection of cocktails that were more like props from a 1980s music video. Planting an orchard into a collins glass, amid an array of paper umbrellas, the barman was transfixed by the television. Another had been wiping the same glass for five minutes, his eyes glued to the overhead screen. A waiter holding a basket of garlic bread, poised to end up on the floor, twisted his neck round at the noise, while a cleaner mopped the same patch of wooden floor, his mouth wide open. The source of the distraction was The Little Master. Passepartout glanced up at the screen and I attempted an abridged explanation of cricket.

‘Who is that?’ he asked.

‘Ah, that’s Sachin Tendulkar. He’s just incredible.’

His eyed flicked back and forth, following the loop of the ball from the crease into the crowds and the eruption of cheers.

‘That’s the one they worship like a god.’

So close. Cricket had seemed a safe topic of conversation and yet I had failed to see the hole in the fence.

‘What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see the sport for what it is? Or admire the artistry of natural talent?’

‘It’s the whole “us versus them” concept again.’

‘But it has nothing to do with religion! Indians don’t cheer for him because he’s Hindu, or Harbhajan Singh because he’s Sikh, or Zaheer Khan because he’s Muslim. They support them for being successful Indians who are good at a sport they love. When will you ever stop this?’

‘When you learn to think. You just listen to what your parents have told you since you were a child and follow blindly.’

‘You know absolutely nothing about two people you have never met, or, for that matter, what I think.’

He went silent, then said carefully, ‘I know what imaginary friends are.’

Before I could react he grabbed his bag, flung his chair back and stormed out of the bar, leaving me with the bill and a waiter who hovered gingerly near the table. He wobbled his head.

‘Peanuts, ma’am?’

Outside, Passepartout was nowhere to be seen. It was almost midnight, and the cluster of autos had disappeared from under the trees. Our hotel was only two blocks away, but walking along the edge of the unlit road would soon have me smeared across the bumper of one of the many lorries that wailed by, demon masks hung up in warning. A cycle rickshaw appeared in the car park, its carrier stacked with plastic containers of water. The driver was going home for the night but I begged him to drop me off. He moved them up so I could squeeze in and struggled to pedal, hauling his body from one side to the other. Refusing to accept money, he accompanied me to the hotel, making sure the gate was unlocked.

Upstairs the room was empty, but within 10 minutes Passepartout was hammering at the door. I let him in and he threw his bag down.

‘Why are you such an angry person?’ I asked.

‘I’m passionate. You’re not passionate about anything, are you?’

‘I am about things that actually matter on a daily basis. Ultimately, you can’t prove that there is no God, and I can’t prove that there is. There’s a lot more in life to worry about so why waste so much time arguing?’

‘You’re an intelligent person, I’m trying to get you to use your brain and THINK!’

‘I do and I’m quite happy with my conclusion. Just because it’s not the same as yours, doesn’t mean you can shit on someone else’s beliefs.’

‘You have the arrogance to call yourself a Hindu and yet you know NOTHING about the religion!’

‘Or rather,
you
know nothing about Hindu culture. There is no one right or wrong.’

‘Your dad gave you a picture of Superman.’

‘What?’

‘Neither of them is real.’

‘Do you know why I carry that picture?’

‘Because you think it has special powers.’

‘No, I don’t. I don’t know anything about Shirdi Sai Baba. And frankly, I have no interest. But my dad gave me that photo right before I left home, and when I see it, all I remember is that he hopes that I’m safe. He could have given me a pencil or a piece of paper and it would mean the same. And that goes for the tiny Ganesha my mum gave me.’

‘That’s my point! They are all as worthless as each other. Why do you have to waste money buying trinkets and photos of fake people?!’

‘You’re just jealous.’

He snorted. ‘Of what?’

‘Jealous of my family, because they care.’

‘Fuck off, bitch.’

I froze.

He was sitting with his back to me, facing the wall. I leant forward on my bed.

‘Say that again.’

‘No.’

‘Go on, say it to my face.’

He turned to look at me over his shoulder, then stood up. He walked around to my bed, put one knee on the side and leant in, bringing his face inches from mine.

‘Fuck off, bitch.’

‘Get out.’ I leapt up, pointing at the door. ‘Go on, get out.’ I walked over to the door and reached for the handle, but an arm swiped me out of the way. I jumped onto the bed with both hands on my hips. My ears burned and I was annoyed that my fingers were trembling. He climbed onto the bed and a pair of thin, watery blue eyes met mine. He said nothing but stared at me until I hopped off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I sat down on the toilet and the lid slid to one side, knocking me awkwardly against the wall.

I could hear crying, crying that swelled into sobs, sobs that echoed in the pipes running up the middle of the building—bleating, bellowing sobs that I realised were coming from my chest. A cockroach ran up the wall and onto my shoulder. I could see its feelers waving out of the corner of my eye. Another scurried out of the plughole and across my foot. In India there was always an alternative option. It was time to leave.

13 | City of Gins

Barfi was not my first choice for breakfast—a bacon sarnie was—but at 8:30 on a Sunday morning there was little else on offer. A Sikh family of six stared at me sitting alone at the table in the sweet shop, nursing a steel tumbler of tea and a lump of almond barfi, pretending that this had always been my plan. Half an hour earlier I had crept around the room stuffing T-shirts and squashing books into my rucksack in an attempt to sneak out as Passepartout slept. He woke just as I pulled on the straps, and tried to slam the door behind me, but it was too late. I was already gone. As I skittered past reception, I caught sight of a photograph of Shirdi Sai Baba on the wall, his palm raised in farewell.

My rucksack was still heavy, but the weight on my shoulders had gone. There were now two options. Go back to Chennai, torch my rucksack, slide back into skinny jeans and treat the remainder of the time as a holiday, or finish the journey on my own. I assessed the rail pass withering on the table. It looked exhausted. A tea stain from a jolt on the Mangalore Express had blurred the ink on the first two pages, a TTE in Pune had ripped off the right corner and the back was covered in dried dal from Dwarka. Like its owner, it was in need of some tender, loving care.

As a single girl travelling alone, it was madness to consider finishing the trip. Propping the map up against the booth opposite, I stepped back to look at the route. A purple blob marked Chennai and a line of marker pen trimmed the bottom edge of the country down to Kanyakumari, then clung to the western coast all the way up to Ahmedabad. It looped underneath Gujarat, then wiggled across Rajasthan up to the small yellow patch that was Punjab, where it suddenly stopped. The distance of three thumbprints would have taken me to Udhampur.

I felt like I was playing in a live game of Snakes and Ladders. Just as the goal was in sight, a roll of the dice had taken me to the penultimate square where a snake awaited to take me back to base. A pink line divided the map—the North-South Corridor Highway—worming its way from Udhampur, past Delhi, Hyderabad and Bangalore, ending in Kanyakumari. It was in this downward direction that I was about to slide in defeat. It was fitting that the original version of Snakes and Ladders was an Indian game called Moksha Patam, designed to emphasise the role of karma upon the journey of life. Perhaps I had once been a mosquito, or a Congress party official, and was now paying my dues. But worrying about past and future lives was a waste of the present. Another roll of the dice and I would get back on the board. And with a few well-placed ladders, I could pull myself up again. Feeling better, I finished up my tea and marched off to Sector 17 to nose around the bookshops and buy myself a DVD of
3 Idiots
with subtitles.