Turning on his side, he propped himself on an elbow and looked at Ami. She was still asleep, her hair falling over her face, her mouth slightly opened. Again, the tender feeling washed over him; the desire to protect her, to save her from distress.
But how could he?
Dev rolled onto his back. Swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching his arms overhead. He looked out the window. Sunshine. A good day for driving.
He sauntered into the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the shower, hoping Ami wouldn’t mind. It was way too soon to trust that she would want him there when she woke up, that she wouldn’t mind sharing her room, her bathroom, the clean white space she was able to purchase with her American credit card. Those worries crowded his mind, but still he found himself singing when he stood under the spray of warm water, lathering his skin with a bar of soap and scrubbing his short hair with his fingernails.
It was a rare event in his life, to wake next to another person-—a person who wasn’t a blood relative, at any rate. And it was even more unusual to not be worried about the ramifications. Sure, he’d have to get past the desk clerk without arousing too much suspicion, but even then, it wasn’t a hotel he frequented with his guests. If it came to it, he could steer clear of the place for six months, save face.
Drying off with one of the hotel’s towels, Dev tried to imagine what Ami’s morning routine was. She never showed up at the Ambassador wearing makeup or an elaborate hairdo. Her clothes were simple—no jewelry, even. So was she efficient like a man? Were American women like that—simple in their toilette? He’d always imagined them taking forever, coating their skins with the expensive kinds of creams the rich could afford. But Ami never smelled of skin cream or costly perfume. She smelled-—he’d discovered-—like sweat and alcohol and a bit of curry.
Dev dressed in his clothes from the night before, noticing his shirt had incurred a few serious wrinkles from being tossed onto the floor. He’d have to change into his last clean clothes—he made a mental note to have his laundry done in Jaipur. Smoothing his hair in the mirror, Dev peeked back into the room. Ami still lay sprawled across the bed, her arms thrown above her head.
He dared himself to lean over her, kiss her on the forehead. Her eyes fluttered open.
“Dev?”
For one terrible moment he thought she didn’t understand why he was there.
“How long have you been up?” She raised herself up on one elbow, the sheet slipping down to reveal her bra.
He tried not to look. “Not long. I’m going for some breakfast. You rest if you like.”
She nodded. “Should I go with you?”
He looked at his hands. “Maybe it is best this way.”
She shrugged.
“What are you liking? Samosa? Hot chai?”
“I’ll have whatever you have.” She smiled at him, a warm, happy smile.
image from www.anindianmuslim.com
At the faded Narain Niwas Palace Hotel, Ami dropped her bag on the hard single bed and let herself slump into a rickety chair. She was tired from the day of tourist activities, strolling the market gazing at velvet quilts, dropping into countless jewelry shops.
“Just this one,” Dev told her. “We are visiting my very good friend. You are only looking, no buy.”
“Dev, are we already back to that? No-buy-only-looking?” She punched him playfully on the shoulder. “Just admit it. You want me to go blow a wad of cash on some fancy earrings that I don’t really need just so you can get a commission.”
He couldn’t help but grin. “Okay, okay. No shopping, no problem.”
She sighed and dropped her head against the back of the car seat. She was sitting up front next to him, refusing to be chauffeured. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind taking a look. I want to bring something home with me, some sort of souvenir, and jewelry is about the only thing I can fit in my suitcase.”
He glanced at her to see if she was being serious. She was examining the dirt under her nails, no trace of irony on her face. “Okay. Jaipur is jewelry capital of India. Best place to find nice rings for you.”
“I thought Jaipur was the Pink City.”
“Yes. Also jewelry capital.”
“Does every city have its own artistic specialty?”
“Very good, Ami.” He tapped her thigh. “Now you can be driver, too. Yes, every city is having specialty.” He said it like speshee-ality.
“So, say I want to find an unusual stone to remind me of India. What do you suggest?” She asked.
“I am wrong one to ask, but we are going my good-friend’s shop. He is telling you which stone is best.”
They pulled up along side a government-approved jewelry store that also claimed to be a school for future jewelers and gemologists. Dev, of course, waited with the Ambassador and Ami found herself traipsing past the doorman on her own.
It was as if the entire staff in the air-conditioned and wall-to-wall carpeted showroom had been waiting for her to arrive. She was greeted with Namaste and a china cup of milky chai, then escorted to a low table where an assortment of sapphire and ruby rings were displayed.
“Very nice for you,” the proprietor announced, slipping a sizable star sapphire over her ring finger. “You must call me Deepak, Madam. I am finding most beautiful ring for you.”
“Actually, Deepak,” she said, taking a sip of chai with her gem-laden hand, “I was more in the market for something less… flashy. Also,” she leaned toward him conspiratorially, “I have a very tight budget.”
He didn’t even flinch. “Maybe you like some nice earrings?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she shook her head, eyeing the racks of immodest amethyst and jasper clusters. “Maybe something simple.”
He nodded, all business, and crossed the room toward another case, returning with a velvet display box. “Pendants,” he told her. “Perfect for you.” He held up a glittering square-cut emerald on a gold chain.
Ami nearly rolled her eyes, and quickly turned toward the box to make her own selection. It didn’t really matter—she was only planning to buy something small to please Dev. She’d come to understand that the drivers depended on commissions for their livelihood. She picked up a round pendant in a silver bezel. “What’s this?”
The salesman examined the hazy blue-grey stone. “Very nice,” he nodded, his voice smooth as cream. “Star of India.” He lifted it from her palm and held it against her throat.
Ami watched the stone in the mirror set in front of her. She liked the moody color, the round shape, the unusual, strident markings. “How much?”
He pulled a calculator from the breast pocket of his suit coat and tapped in some numbers with the tip of a pen. “For you, American dollars $45.” Not even a price in rupees. It was that sort of place. “You like some more chai? I bring for you.”
“No. No more chai. This is too expensive, and I have to be going.” Ami rose from her seat, forcing herself not to cast a last longing glance at the pendant.
“Okay. Best price, thirty dollars only.”
She sunk back onto the padded bench. “It doesn’t even have a chain. How am I supposed to wear it?”
In a flash, Deepak produced a tray of silver chains, some elaborate and some simple. He fished out a braided chord slightly longer than a choker. “This is perfect length for you. Please try.” He threaded the chain through the hook and hung the pendant from Ami’s neck.
She did her best not to look impressed. Two weeks away from hair dryers, lip gloss and high heels, and suddenly a little glitz went a long way. “It’s okay,” she said flatly. “I’ll give you thirty dollars if you include the chain.”
“Madam, chain is five dollars more only. You can use the credit card.” He offered a smooth smile.
Ami fished a couple crumpled bills from her wallet—her small stash of American cash just in case. She was careful not to pull out more than was necessary. A twenty and a ten. “This is all I have. American money, thirty dollars.”
The man, deadpan, slid his hand over the bills and stood up. “I am wrapping the pendant for you, Madam.” He crossed the room to the cash register and rang up the sale, returning with a small cloth bag into which he slipped the necklace. “Please enjoy my country,” he said, guiding her half way to the door.
Another woman caught his attention. She had just entered the showroom with the bewildered air and fancy clothes of a wealthy traveler dropped off by an ambitious driver. “You must call me Deepak, Madam. I am finding most beautiful ring for you.” And was off, gliding quietly toward the jewelry cases.
In her room, Ami took the pendant from its case and tried it on, checking her reflection in the streaked mirror. Her hair was messy and tangled, her skin dull and broken out along her jaw. She was wearing a dingy t-shirt and jeans in need of a wash. Something had to be done.
Callie Baxter was on the roof drinking from a small bottle of Antiquity. Her driver, Mohan Chowdery, had been invaluable in securing booze for her here and there, sneaking it to her when her mother was off at the loo. It was her mother—Elizabeth Baxter—who drove Callie to drink.
In the beginning it had seemed a good idea to take the trip with dear old mum. Since her first trip as a college student, Callie had wanted to return to the subcontinent, and finding herself freshly dumped and between jobs, she accepted Elizabeth’s offer of a mother-daughter trip to the Kumba Mela. An adventure is how Elizabeth described it to her friends. What she didn’t mention was that she was footing the bill.
Of course, despite having a meal ticket, the reality of the trip was vastly different than anything Callie had imagined. None of the backpacker hotels, no rides on crowded busses or over night trains, no street food, no bicycle rickshaws. Elizabeth had taken one good whiff of Delhi and had pronounced it completely unsanitary, burying her face in a scarf and turning a frightful shade of green until Callie agreed to hire a driver and see the country from the relative safety of a mini van.
Which is how the two women met Mohan.
Callie liked him. He was close to her age, friendly, and limited enough in his English to not realize that Elizabeth was completely unreasonable.
It had taken the older woman a good week to adjust to India, and by the time the mini van was heading out of Rajasthan her complaints were limited, for the most part, to health ailments which required frequent stops at small town pharmacies. Callie dreaded the daily ordeal, but Mohan went along with it as if it were completely normal.
“Mohan, I have terrible congestion,” Elizabeth would call form the back seat of the mini van. “Can you find me a doctor?”
And Mohan would manage, in the middle of the desert, to locate a drug store the size of an outhouse with a pharmacist who attempted to remedy Elizabeth based on a complex series of signs and gestures. Mohan would do his best to interpret, and eventually a foil-pack of pink pills or red lozenges would slide across the make-shift counter. Then it was back on the road, Elizabeth drugged and sleeping off what ever sort of antihistamine she’d consumed.
“I’m going to lay down and take a nap,” Elizabeth told her daughter when they returned to their room in the Narain Niwas Palace Hotel. “You should take one, too.”
Callie followed her mother to their room and lay down on the double bed. She would never get used to sleeping next to her mother, not even if they were to spend a year on the road. But there were other things that would drive her crazy long before the bed thing did.
“This room is positively horrid,” Elizabeth commented brightly. She seemed to take pleasure in pointing out India’s shortcomings. “I hope they can manage a decent job with the washing—I sent out laundry out.”
“You did?” Callie had a bandana over her eyes, blocking out the bit of light that managed to get past the thick drapes.
“Your bras were filthy. I sent them along with the rest,” Liz continued. She pulled one of the drapes to the side, smacking the dust out of it with a flat hand. “What a terrible view! Just another building. No wonder they don’t want us looking out.”
Callie sat up on the bed. “Did you say you sent my bras with the laundry?”
“Yes. They were vile. I know you told me not to poke through your bag, but the laundry man was at the door when I set our bags in the room, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity.”
“Mum, don’t you realize this is India?” Callie heard the whine in her voice, but couldn’t stop it. “That’s all those sex-deprived men need, to spend half a day with women’s lingerie. I’m sure my bra’s been passed all over Jaipur by now.” She flung her self back horizontal.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Elizabeth scolded. She stood in front of the mirror, holding a pair of earrings to her earlobes. “Do you really like these, Cal? I can’t decide.”
“You liked them in the store. I thought that’s why we had to spend forever in that place while they kissed your arse and poured tea down our throats.”
“You’re right. They’re quite nice. Jasper. Won’t the girls back home be jealous?”
Callie rolled her eyes. Their whole trip had been one long shopping spree with the occasional temple or palace thrown in for good measure. Long gone were Elizabeth’s dreams of a pilgrimage to the holy Ganges. It seemed that middle age had replaced her wanderlust with shopping lust. If nothing else, the trip had confirmed that fact.
Once her mother had dozed off, Callie slipped on her jacket, feeling the bottle snug in the pocket, and snuck up to the roof. Mohan had managed to procure the booze while the Baxter women were in the jewelry shop. In Callie’s mind, it was the least he could do, since he’d dumped her in that god-awful place.
There were some redeemable parts of the day—they’d visited a bizarre observatory that resembled a playground more than a science project. But the place—Jantar Mantar, appealed to Callie’s sense of whimsy far more then the City Palace Complex with its endless displays of elephant liters and tapestries. They’d gone to the Palace of the Winds, too—a one-sided palace, or façade, built centuries ago to allow the Royal women to view day-today city life while remaining hidden from view. From the top of the structure, Callie had looked out over Jaipur, taking in its pink stone buildings and busy streets.
In fact, she surmised, tipping the bottle to her lips and grimacing at the taste, if it weren’t for the shopping and parental needling, she’d like Jaipur. It felt right to her. Not as intense as the desert cities. A little more cosmopolitan, but nothing like Delhi or Bombay. If it were up to her, she might stay there for a week or two, read books in her hotel room, eat out every night and drink beer with the large-bellied Indian men who crowded the tourist restaurants.
It was getting chilly, and turning dark when Mohan appeared on the roof, looking around. He spotted Callie, his face lit up, and he waved. “Very special evening, Miss,” he said. “We are going Raj Mandir Cinema.”
“To the Cinema? You mean movies?”
“Yes. Best cinema in Rajasthan. I have tickets for you.”
“Did you tell Mum?”
“Yes, I am telling Madam, but she is wanting some rest. She is telling me to take you without her.”
Callie nodded. She was used to Elizabeth begging out of the evening plans, and more often than not Mohan was her faithful companion.
“One more thing,” Mohan added, still grinning with the thought of the cinema. “I am meeting my good friend here. He is also driver. So my friend and his American lady are also going to cinema.”
“With us?”
Mohan nodded, watching Callie’s face to see if she approved.
“Brilliant,” she said, with only the faintest touch of irony. “Let me change my clothes and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
The driver, always equally confused and amused by the young English woman, decided to take that as a good sign.
image from www.travelblog.org
Luke warm water drizzled over Ami’s skin, and she shivered a little. It wasn’t the hot, pelting, mind-clearing shower she’d hoped for. In fact, she dreamed of those showers at night and fantasized of them while riding long hours in the Ambassador. Hot showers, ice water, and spaghetti marinara. How quickly cravings rose to the surface.
She wanted, more than anything else, though, a sense of clarity. The day had left her feeling uneasy. Before the jewelry store, before anything else, Dev had shaken her gently awake in front of the Air India office. “Must make change to ticket,” he said. “You are planning a late return now?”
Of course he was right. She’d agreed to—actually instigated—the extended road trip, and that morning in Mount Abu Dev had telephoned the office in Delhi explaining the plan. After a few minutes of intense, brow furrowing Hindi, Dev had passed the phone to Ami.
“Yes, Madam,” came the cheerful voice of Dev’s boss. “I hear you are liking my country. Very good.”
“Hum,” she agreed.
“You are wanting one more weeks travels. I am processing this new fee on your same credit card.”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“Very good. So we must agree on the fee.” He named a number. For the hell of it, Ami countered with fifty dollars less. Then the deal was done. “So tell me,” the man began conspiratorially. “Is Devesh treating you well?”
Ami felt the back of her neck grow hot. “Yes, he’s been perfect,” she replied.
So Dev’s end was settled, and all that remained was to change Ami’s airline ticket for a later departure date.
The Air India office, when she pushed open the glass door, was a perfect replica of every American office Ami had ever seen. Sterile, bland, hushed but for the hum of computers and fluorescent lights. A woman in a shellacked bouffant and excessive lipstick gestured grandly toward a chair.
“And how can I help you?” she asked in a clipped, private school accent.
That part was easy, too. Setting the departure date back one week. Signing over a fifty-dollar traveler’s check. Shaking hands with the woman, glancing down at her perfect manicure, the stiff white cuff of her blouse, the tasteful gold “Air India” lapel pin.
“I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay,” she said as Ami departed, and promptly picked up her telephone receiver. She didn’t call India her country. She seemed completely removed from all of Jaipur swirling around the office, just beyond the plate-glass windows and dull murmur of music.
Settling the ticket should’ve set Ami at ease. But it didn’t. Instead, she found herself carrying a small knot in her stomach, wondering what she was doing. Who was she? Certainly not the sort of person who extends her travel plans, blows off her return to the sanity of her job, her home, her life. Certainly not the sort of person who would announce to her driver that she was riding up front, that she’d take charge of the music, that she wanted to eat lunch at some greasy road-side stop, lounging on a charpoy along with the pot-bellied truckers and hallow-cheeked peasants.
“We'll go to the Monkey Temple tomorrow,” Dev offered, sensing her distress. “Very nice place. You can make the snap.” He mimed taking a photo.
“So, will you go with me?” Ami was suddenly peevish.
“Yes, I am driving you. Of course.”
“No, I mean, will you visit the temple with me? Walk around and make the snap?” She held the invisible camera to her eye and took his picture.
Dev looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Maybe it's better if I am waiting in parking area with other drivers…” He trailed off at the dark look on her face.
Ami sat for a few moments in stony silence, her fists curled in her lap. She felt like an eighth grader, jilted after one slow dance in the gym. “I’m an idiot,” she mumbled.
Dev eased the car along to the side of the street, out of the way of traffic, but hardly hidden from view. Passers-by stared in at the odd couple; the angry white woman and the dazed brown man.
“Please,” he said quietly, covering Ami’s fist with his own warm palm. “It is difficult.”
“You know,” Ami told him, “In the U.S. we could go anywhere together. No one would think anything of it.”
“But your country is very different…” Dev faltered.
A fat tear ran down Ami’s cheek. “What am I doing here?” she asked the window, her face turned resolutely away from Dev. “What was I thinking?”
He didn’t know what she was thinking, but he hated to see her sad, hated to think he’d caused the sorrow that made her so quiet, so withdrawn. He had to remedy the situation. “Yes, I will go to the Monkey Temple with you. Only be happy.”
Ami continued looking out the window, determined to be angry at the impossibility of circumstances, but her misery wouldn’t last. Like the jilted eighth-grader reunited with the pubescent object of her affection, infectious joy bubbled up. She wiped her face, spun around and kissed Dev on the mouth.
He kissed her back, caught in the momentum of her catapulting emotion.
A woman, sari clad and on her way to market, peered into the car and glared at the embracing couple, but neither one noticed.
image of Jaipur from cache.virtualtourist.com
“I’ve taken a Valium,” Elizabeth announced to her daughter. She lay prone on the bed, her eyes shielded by a sleeping mask. “You have fun with that Mohan. Make sure he translates the movie for you.”
Since her mother couldn’t see, Callie rolled her eyes. She rummaged in her suitcase and found the pair of pants she’d bought in Udaipur. Tight velvet with brocade cuffs and a v-shaped waist band to show off the belly-button ring she’d kept hidden for most of the trip. She shimmied into them, noticing that the extra butter she’d been consuming was making its way to her hips.
“Mohan tells me you two are meeting his friend and an American lady,” Liz said. “It’ll be like a double date.”
“As if,” Callie snapped. “Anyway, his friend is another driver, so the American lady is a tourist, not a girlfriend.”
“I was just making fun,” the older woman sighed. “You’ve lost your sense of humor, Cal.”
“Have not,” the girl sniffed, fluffing her close-cropped hair with her finger tips. Sometimes she envied the Indian women with their long locks, but she was glad not to have to fuss with hair—especially while traveling. She smoothed lipstick over her mouth and examined her face, then slipped her jean jacket on.
While Elizabeth pretended to doze, Callie preened in front of the mirror, arranging a silk scarf around her neck and musing over the idea of dating Mohan. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with him—she’d known plenty of Indian boys at school in London and thought some of them were cute. It was just that in her experience, Indian boys were either obsessed with pleasing their pious families by acting like the teachers pet, or obsessed with pissing off their pious families by behaving like bad asses.
Mohan didn’t seem to fit into either category, which was a good thing, but he wasn’t extraordinarily cute, so Callie found it hard to imagine being interested in him. He was a nice guy—even fun to hang out with—but he was, after all, the driver.
image from extrapop69.blogspot.com
Dev wasn’t too sure about the cinema idea, but Mohan insisted. Even went out and bought four tickets. He said he almost never got to see the movie in Jaipur because he was always stuck driving middle aged Germans who wanted to be taken to the fancy restaurants at night. This one time, he pointed out, eyes bright with excitement, all he had to do was entertain the English girl, and she was up for anything.
So, Dev gave in. He told Ami to meet him in the lobby at 8:30, that he had a surprise for her. And then the four of them walked the few blocks to the Raj Mandir Cinema.
The two women seemed to take to each other immediately, though from the start he wasn’t too keen on the English girl. She reminded him of Emily—-her accent, her blond hair. She was wearing makeup, which Dev didn’t really like, and when she moved her jacket swung open revealing an obscene slice of pale belly.
But Ami seemed happy with her new-found friend. The two leaned in toward each other as they walked, and Ami giggled at something Callie said. Dev and Mohan walked behind, saying little to each other, watching the girls.
“How long have you been driving this one?” Mohan asked.
“Two weeks. One more week to go,” Dev told him. “You?”
“My trip is two weeks total, and I’m half way done. On to the Kumba Mela, then back to Delhi and that’s it.”
“Mela? This one is here for the Mela?”
“It’s her mother’s idea, but if she can’t even make it to cinema, I’d like to see her around millions of pilgrims. She’ll faint dead away.” Mohan laughed, but not cruelly. Tourists amused him.
Dev just shook his head. At the theater, Mohan handed over the tickets and directed the foursome to their seats. He’d chosen well—not the nosebleed section that poorer people were stuck with, but not too far back, either.
“Refreshments? Limca?” he asked, when they were settled.
Dev watched as Callie handed her driver a small handful of bills and sent him off with a fairly substantial order. Cool drinks, popcorn, spiced mix. She treated Mohan like a servant, not like a friend. Which, Dev told himself, was how it was supposed to be, but it warmed his heart toward Ami, who was sitting beside him.
image from ocw.mit.edu
Callie didn’t completely understand the movie, but it didn’t seem to matter. It was a three-hour long mishmash of action, adventure, romance, comedy and musical. In the middle of a fight scene, all the actors would suddenly burst into Hindi-pop accompanied by synchronized dance moves. Mohan sat beside her, leaning over from time to time to explain what was taking place, but for the most part she concentrated on the costumes. The women in the movie, she noticed, were so western. They wore skin-tight jeans and navel-reveling jeans, their long hair blow-dried and swung over one shoulder.
The American woman on her other side seemed to be completely wrapped up in the film. Whenever Callie looked over, Ami was staring straight ahead, taking in the screen with a look of total absorption.
Callie slid her eyes to the left again, this time gazing toward Ami’s lap. And suddenly it made more sense. Ami’s left hand rested in her lap, clasping the right hand of her driver. And it was hardly a scary scene, unless you counted the gaudy outfit of the leading male. Callie slid her eyes back to the screen, smiling to herself. She knew someone else’s dirty little secret.
He’d remember later how they sat in the dark outside a hotel. He wouldn’t be able to recall the town or the date. He’d know that she was sitting in the front, that she reached forward and flipped the switch, lighting up the dash board deity and laughing as the pot-bellied elephant reflected the flashing red and green lights.
He’d remember that he looked over at her then, looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “What is your age?”
“I’ve already told you,” she said, adding brusquely, “It isn’t polite to ask a lady her age.”
“Well, you are knowing my age. Almost thirty.”
She shrugged. “Thirty’s nothing. Still a child.”
“Maybe this is different in India. Many people are having the grandchildren by thirty years.”
She seemed to grow cold at the direction of the conversation. Probably imagining herself a grandmother at thirty-four. Thinking how strange it was that being in a different time zone, on a different continent, made the few years she had on him significant.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice low, “Why have you not married?”
She looked out the window. “I just haven’t found the right person yet.”
The right person. He’d heard this before. Even thought he believed it, though he couldn’t place his finger on what it meant. Or why the way she said it made him want that—to be right, to be the one.
No comments:
Post a Comment