Follow the Elephant (18 page)

Ahead of them on the trail, Shanti, Gran and Savita in their saris looked like bright birds themselves. They had stopped to see the wild orchids Shanti found growing on the forest floor.

The trail led steeply down to a narrow path along the ravine. The boys ran ahead, flinging their arms wide on either side, pretending to fly. Ben felt he
could
almost fly to Mount Everest. From the top of the world he’d be able to look out over India, Nepal and Tibet, maybe even China.

“We’re here,” Rajiv called as he and Ben reached a viewing stand above the ravine. Down below, huge boulders had tumbled down the mountain. Between them, foaming and sparkling, flowed the beginnings of the Ganges River.

“The source,” Gran said, out of breath as she reached the viewing deck.

“This is where our beloved Ganga begins its journey across India,” Uday explained.

“Remember the carvings we saw at Mahabalipuram, Ben?” Gran said.

“Yes, the gods and animals and humans coming out of the river,” Ben said. He remembered Rani showing him the carving of Ganesh.

Gran smiled at Shanti. “Yes, and it feels as if you and I have returned to the source of our friendship.”

Shanti looked at the two boys who were clambering over the trail above the viewing spot. “Yes, my dear, and now we have the great pleasure of watching as our grandchildren become friends.” Gran wrapped her arm around Shanti’s narrow shoulders.

Ben took photographs of the water coming out of the rocks and one of Rajiv poking his head out behind a rock, grinning, his hair standing straight up. He took another picture of Shanti with Gran’s arm around her shoulders.

Savita and Uday turned to go back down the trail, and Rajiv took his grandmother’s arm to walk with her. Ben and Gran stayed a few moments, not speaking as they looked down on the newborn river. This river would gain in size and speed for its long journey across the wide Indian subcontinent. It would cross the central plain, nourishing rice paddies and fields of vegetables to feed a billion people. It would flow through Varanasi where floating marigolds and candles drifted beside the ashes of the dead. The river would continue across to the Bay of Bengal, where Ben had swum in the warm water with a beautiful girl named Rani.

Ben thought about everything he’d seen in India. He thought about the people they’d met: their first taxi drivers, serious Madhu and toothless Padam; little Harish and his mother that first day in the registry office; Anoop, their boatman in Varanasi; Dr. Vivek and his wife in Bangalore; and most of all Ben thought about Rani and Prem and their mother — especially Rani.

Here at the source of this river, they’d found Shanti and their journey had ended. Ben looked at his grandmother. She had brought him to India. No one else he knew had a grandmother like her. She turned to look at him and he smiled.

Gran smiled back. “Love you, Ben.”

“Love you.”

“Time for us to go home,” Gran said.

SHANTI AND RAJIV HAD
insisted on travelling with them on the early morning train. Just before they arrived in Delhi they shared the box lunch Shanti and her daughter had packed.

At the Delhi railway station, they squeezed into a taxi to the airport. It was strange to be in Delhi’s hectic traffic after their quiet time in Rishikesh. At the airport, Ben walked through the crowd beside the others, then paused as he heard once again the call of the muezzin. He remembered puzzling about the strange sound his first morning in India. He’d learned a lot about India since that day.

As he hurried to catch up with the others who were nearing the entrance to the terminal, a hand gripped his shoulder. “Ben sahib!”

Ben turned quickly and was astounded to see Padam with Madhu’s shiny bald head close behind.

“Ben sahib! Norah memsahib! Good golly! What amazing luck we are having here!” Padam said in his high voice, his wide grin showing his pink gums.

“I don’t believe it!” Gran said.

“Great to see you!” Ben said, putting out his hand.

“All the days we have been searching for you,” Madhu said, shaking hands vigorously. “Your journey, has it been successful?”

“Oh, yes,” Gran said. “We’ve found Shanti! We found her in Rishikesh.” She introduced Shanti and Rajiv.

They crowded together, all talking at once, Padam jumping up and down with excitement. Shanti and Rajiv had heard about the taxi drivers from Delhi and were pleased to meet them.

“Tell us your news. How has it been in Delhi?” Gran asked. “We are well,” said Madhu, “and our taxi business is as good as ever.”

“But it is most sad-sad as we are having no more charming Canadian passengers, only Americans and Germans!” Padam said. “Good golly! Now good fortune is ours and we are meeting once again.” He looked as though he’d burst.

“Of course we have been thinking and talking of you many times. You are in our hearts forever,” Madhu said.

“And you in ours. Your country too,” Gran answered.

It was time to check in for the flight, and after group photographs it was a solemn moment as they said goodbye with final
namastes
to the two drivers who had become their friends. Then Shanti and Gran put their arms around each other for a long farewell. Ben checked that he had Rajiv’s email address and promised to send photographs.

Ben took his grandmother’s hand and led her to the departure gate, where they turned to wave goodbye. Their Indian friends were waving, but to Ben they already seemed far away.

On board the plane, Ben stretched out in the seat by the window. He looked at his grandmother, dressed in her green and gold sari, staring out the window, not even bothering to wipe the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

“You’ll never lose touch with Shanti again, Gran,” he said.

“I know that, Ben. These are tears of happiness now.” She smiled, and for the first time Ben realized she had his father’s smile. Why had he never noticed that?

As the plane lifted into the air, Ben thought of Lauren. She had that same smile too. Maybe that was another way a person’s spirit could live on. His dad would live on in the smiles and the memories of the people who’d loved him. It would be good to see Lauren again and find out how her hockey team was doing.

As the plane gained altitude, Ben looked down at the thousands of houses and streets, the maze of millions of people that had surprised him when he’d arrived in India. He knew some of those people now. Knew them and cared about them, especially about a girl who built sandcastles like the Taj Mahal.

Ben settled in his seat. “Mission accomplished, Gran.”

“Indeed, and you’ve been the best of travelling companions, Ben,” Gran said. She handed Ben a small, heavy parcel. Ben unwrapped a brass statue of a seated god, the perfect size to fit his hand. It was Ganesh with the same smile, the same pudgy belly and the same curved trunk. His own elephant boy to take home.

“This is amazing and I know right where it’s going. On the top of my computer!”

“Don’t tell me getting back to that computer is all you can think about, Ben!” Gran said, laughing.

“Don’t worry. I won’t have time to play computer games. I’ve got my digital pictures to organize and a report to write for school, and I’ll be using it to email Rani and Rajiv.”

Ben turned the statue over. Such a funny god with his large elephant head and sturdy boy’s legs. “You know, kids in India believe that Ganesh helps overcome obstacles.”

“Our trip had more than a few of those,” Gran said.

Ben grinned at his grandmother. “It was epic!” He reached in his pocket for a small package and handed it to Gran. “Thanks for taking me with you.”

Gran was speechless as she held the delicate silver elephant up by the chain.

“You could say we were with elephants all the way, couldn’t you?” Ben said.

Gran put the chain around her neck. “Thank you, Ben. I love this.”

The flight attendants brought their last Indian meal, and the two travellers settled back in their seats.

“Remember that saying in our guidebook?” Gran said. “Something like, a traveller goes to India seeking adventure. What he finds is himself.”

“I didn’t know what it meant. Did you find
yourself
, Gran?”

“I guess in a way I did. When I found Shanti, I found an answer to what had been an empty space in my heart. Shanti told me her name means peace and that’s what I’ve found.”

Ben looked out the window. They were above the clouds now. Ahead, on the horizon of an enormous dark sky, he could see only a small rim of red. The sun had set on their last day in India.

Gran turned toward him. “What about you, Ben? Did you find out anything about yourself?”

It was hard to find the words. Ben looked at Ganesh in his hand. “I guess I did. I found out there are some things in life I can’t explain.”

He paused. “And I learned that I can’t be angry about death because it’s part of life.”

“That’s a lot to learn in seventeen days.”

“Yep.”

There is a real Shanti in my life. She was my pen pal when I was in grade school, and later we lost touch with each other. I have always longed to find her but had no success in my three visits to India. All I have now is one of her letters and a small black and white photograph, but I also have wonderful memories of India, and a strong connection to my foster son, Natarajan, who lives in Bangalore. In
Follow the Elephant
I had the opportunity to rewrite history and let Ben, the troubled grandson, find Shanti.

I am grateful for the help of the boys: Zac Pollard, Noah Abramson, Mac Macdonald and Sam Fraser, who patiently undertook to teach me about computer language and PlayStations.

I want to thank my smart and supportive community of women friends who stood by me through the years I worked on this book: Shelley Hrdltischka, Roberta Rich, Louise Hager, Barbara Clague, Linda Bailey, Velma Moore, Norma Charles, Merry Wood, Margaret Prang, Margot Young, Shelley Mason, Dianne Tullson, Heather Kelleher, Carol Dale, Susan Moger, Bhakti Bonner, Madeleine Nelson, Anne Fraser, Dianne Woodman and Jeannie Corsi.

Along the way I received valuable help from Lata Sood, Shawna Mansahia, Ameen Merchant, Ellen Clague, Ann-Marie Metten, Ram Crowell, Ken Pederson, Brian Young, Kulwant Ranji and from Terry Jordan and his writing group. I want to thank Paula Jane Remlinger and the board at the Sage Hill Writing Experience for their financial support.

I owe special gratitude to my friend Tom Blom, who is now deceased. With his unique charm and sensitivity, Tom saw me through early drafts of this book.

I was extremely fortunate to have Ronald and Veronica Hatch as my editors. They share my love of India and possess editing skills based, not just on where the commas go, but on a deep understanding of Indian culture.

Many thanks to my steadfast agent Beverley Slopen, who followed this pachyderm along with me.

Beryl Young is the author of the best-selling young adult novel
Wishing Star Summer
(Raincoast, 2001) and
Charlie: A Home Child’s Life in Canada
(Key Porter, 2009). She is a member of the Federation of BC Writers, the Children’s Writers and Illustrators of BC, the Writers’ Union of Canada, and the Canadian Society of Authors, Illustrators and Performers. She has a passion for elephants and for India where she has travelled three times in an unsuccessful search for her real life pen pal. She has three children and four grandchildren and lives in Vancouver.