‘Yes, like in the movies,’ I nod, swallowing hard. I daren’t even think about what I’m letting myself in for. I just need to concentrate on finding Amy.
‘Okey-dokey,’ he grins, crunching the gears loudly and accelerating hard so the engine sounds as though it’s about to explode.
Then again, I’m not going to be much good at finding Amy if I’m dead, am I?
Thrown around on the back seat, I cling onto the side handle like my mum does whenever my dad is driving, something which causes no end of amusement for me and Amy. I wouldn’t mind, but they live in a tiny village in the Yorkshire Dales, where no one ever goes over thirty miles an hour and still she grips onto that handle shrieking, ‘Slow down Roger, slow down!’ I swear, you’d think Dad was Michael Schumacher, not the careful owner of a fifteen-year-old Peugeot.
As the tuk-tuk driver suddenly swerves violently to avoid a bicycle-rickshaw, I have a sudden image of Mum in this tuk-tuk. Actually, I’m not sure her nerves would stand it. Even with her smelling salts, which she carries everywhere with her in her handbag, I think she’d pass out.
Which is probably not a bad idea, I wince, as, with a twisting, crunching sound of metal, we lose a wing mirror to an oncoming bus.
Oh. My. God.
I’ve never been one for believing in miracles, but as we skid to a halt outside Rising Bliss twenty minutes later, I’ve completely changed my mind. Miracles do happen! Look! Lord behold! I’m still alive!
Pushing a fistful of rupees into my driver’s hands, I abandon my suitcase on the front steps and run into reception. Well, I say ‘run’, but it’s more a case of ‘trip and stumble’, as I’m wearing a pair of woven leather sandals I bought on one of my many shopping expeditions; although they look lovely, there’s a bit of a design fault as they keep falling off my feet . . .
Narrowly missing twisting my ankle, I stagger across the tiled floor. A haven of calm and tranquillity greets me. The scent of burning incense perfumes the air. Soft, chiming music is playing. Frangipani flowers are floating in a gently trickling fountain.
And then there’s me: a big sweaty stress ball hurtling through it all.
‘Miss Ruby!’ As I reach the front desk, Biju looks up and beams at me widely. ‘Back again so soon!’
‘Have you seen Amy?’ I gasp, trying to catch my breath.
His face clouds. ‘I’m very sorry, I’m afraid you’ve missed her,’ he says gravely, his head jiggling from side to side. ‘She’s gone back to London with her sister.’
‘I’m her sister!’
‘I know,’ he beams, his smile popping back onto his face.
I can feel my frustration about to bubble over, like boiling milk in a pan. ‘Look, this is very important,’ I insist, feeling stressed.
Beetling his eyebrows together, Biju calmly observes me. ‘You seem very anxious, this is not good,’ he tuts, shaking his head with disapproval.
Oh god, this is hopeless. I need to try a different tack. ‘Where’s Shine?’ I ask, taking a deep breath to try and calm myself down.
‘Ah . . . now I understand . . .’ he says, nodding deeply. ‘You want to do yoga.’ Closing his eyes, he clamps a finger on one nostril and starts inhaling deeply.
‘No. Biju. You’ve got it wrong—’
‘Ommmmmmmmmm . . .’
I stare at him incredulously. This cannot be happening.
‘Ommmmmmmmm . . .’ In the middle of omming, he snaps open one eye and observes me. ‘You are not joining me in chanting,’ he says, looking offended and directing my gaze sideways at the little shrine on the side of his desk. It’s a statue of Buddha, decorated with a garland of marigolds and two sticks of burning incense.
I feel a flush of embarrassment. Oh crikey, I don’t want to be disrespectful. ‘Oh yes, of course,’ I nod dutifully.
‘In the Hindu belief, Om is the sound that was made when the whole universe was created,’ he continues solemnly. ‘Chanting has a very powerful effect on the person chanting and the rest of the world. It connects us to our deepest sense of being.’
‘Wow . . . yes, I know,’ I nod, remembering the one yoga class I attended. ‘It’s just that I’m trying to find Amy,’ I begin again tentatively.
‘Ommmmmmmmm . . .’
As he fixes me with his gaze, I give up and close my mouth . . . then open it again . . . ‘Ommmmmmmmm . . .’
Together we chant; Biju’s low tones resonating around reception, mine sounding like a shriller, nervier descant. On and on and on and on . . . I close my eyes and try to focus on the great Om, but it’s impossible. I can’t stop thinking about Amy, about what’s happening, about where she is.
Shooting an apologetic glance at Buddha, I sneak a peek at my watch.
‘Now, do you feel better?’
I snap back to see Biju beaming at me.
‘Um . . . yes, much better,’ I smile nervously.
‘Splendid!’ Reaching into the little bowl of fennel seeds and sugar that is used as a mouth freshener, he takes a handful and begins to chew them energetically.
‘But there’s just one other thing,’ I say, only more cautiously this time as I don’t want to trigger any more of Biju’s helpful suggestions. ‘I’m . . . er . . . still looking for Amy,’ I remind him.
‘Ah yes, Amy,’ he nods, beaming happily.
‘Apparently she’s with Shine,’ I prompt.
‘This is good.’ He nods, and smiles even more broadly.
So he knows! I wait expectantly for him to say something more, except he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there beaming at me.
Honestly, is there anything more frustrating when you’re in a right old panic about something, than someone just standing there calmly, not doing or saying anything?
‘She told me they’re eloping,’ I blurt finally in desperation.
Biju looks at me in confusion. ‘Eloping?’ he repeats, frowning. ‘What is this . . . eloping?’
‘Running away to get married!’ I cry in frustration.
Biju’s head stops jiggling and he stares at me, frozen, like a rabbit in headlights. ‘But this cannot be true,’ he explodes after a moment’s pause.
‘Yes, it is! It’s true!’ Now I’m the one jiggling my head up and down emphatically. ‘They’ve run away together!’
‘No! Shine told me he was going to visit his relatives . . .’ He throws his hands in the air. ‘This is what he said to me. This is why he asked to take some time off from teaching yoga. He needed to go away for a few days, maybe longer . . .’
‘So they’re not here?’ I demand.
The whites of Biju’s eyes grow saucer wide. ‘I would never lie to you,’ he cries, shaking his head and beating his chest as if it’s a drum. ‘I only speak the truth! Ever since I was a little boy, this is a lesson that I learned from my father.’
He looks so tortured, I feel a stab of guilt. ‘I believe you,’ I reassure him quickly.
‘You do?’ He looks relieved.
‘Absolutely,’ I nod, ‘but it’s very important that I find her . . .’ I break off, my mind racing. ‘Do you have an address for Shine’s relatives? Or maybe a telephone number?’
But now Biju is all of a fluster and beads of perspiration are starting to run down his face. Stricken with panic, he’s still wordlessly shaking his head.
Suddenly I have an idea. ‘I know! Can I look in her room?’
Pulling out a neatly folded handkerchief from his top pocket, he starts blotting his brow like he’s mopping up spilled milk. ‘Yes, yes of course,’ he nods, finally finding his voice, ‘please, follow me.’
I follow him as he hurries from behind the desk, his short legs propelling him with surprising speed down the corridor, his large bunch of keys hanging from his waist, jangling loudly. Until reaching Amy’s old room he unlocks the door and, flinging it open, dramatically presses his body up against it, like a knife-thrower’s assistant, so that I can get past.
The room is empty, but for a bed and a small wa
rdrobe.
‘See! She is not here,’ he declares, as if I think he’s been hiding her.
It’s also suspiciously tidy. There’s no overflowing bin, unmade bed or wet towels on the floor. ‘Are you sure this is Amy’s room?’ I ask dubiously. At home Mum has been known to threaten to ring the fire brigade to gain access to Amy’s bedroom.
‘One hundred per cent,’ he exclaims, blotting his face with his handkerchief. ‘It has already been cleaned for the next guests.’
Oh well, that explains things.
‘Right . . . yes, of course . . .’ I nod, but inside I feel a pang of disappointment. I’m not sure what I was hoping to find, but there are no clues here to her whereabouts. ‘OK, well thanks Biju, I really appreciate your help.’
‘I am so sorry, Miss Ruby. If there is anything more I can do . . .’
Deflated, I turn to leave, and I am just walking out of the door when I spot something fluttering underneath the bed.
‘Hang on, what’s that?’ Bending down, I scrabble for it. It’s a scrap of paper on which is scribbled the word Raja and a number. I peer at it. It’s Amy’s handwriting. She always crosses the number seven like that.
I thrust it excitedly at Biju. ‘Do you know this number?’
He squints at it myopically, then shakes his head. ‘But don’t worry, I will ring it,’ he says decisively. Pulling his mobile phone out of the holster he has clipped onto his shorts, he dials the number with great deliberateness. We both wait on tenterhooks, my mind whirring around and around like the fan above our heads.
‘No one is answering,’ he says finally after a few minutes.
Of course not. Why did I think with Amy it would be that easy? I let out a loud groan of frustration, which startles Biju.
‘What about this Raja?’ I say desperately, ‘Is this a person? Do you know him?’
Shaking his head, he grabs his handkerchief and buries himself underneath it.
So that’s it. I’ve hit a dead end.
‘Only Rajasthan,’ he muffles, from underneath the cotton square.
‘Who?’ I can’t quite catch what he’s saying.
‘Raja could be short for Rajasthan,’ he repeats, his voice clearer as he emerges from beneath his handkerchief. ‘Raja means king, and Rajasthan is known as the land of the kings. It is a most beautiful area . . .’ He breaks off, then adds excitedly, ‘Now I remember, this is where Shine’s family is from!’
Finally. I’ve got a lead.
‘How do I get there?’ I’ve heard of Rajasthan, but I don’t know where it is on the map. I remember seeing it listed in the big guidebooks on India, but I only bought the smaller one for Southern India. Well, there didn’t seem much point buying the bigger book, did there? I was only supposed to be going to Goa for a week.
Seriously. I am so going to kill Amy.
‘Oh, that is no problem.’ Biju’s face emerges from beneath his handkerchief, damp but ebullient. ‘You can get the train to Delhi.’
‘A train?’ I feel myself perk up.
‘Yes, a train, and from there you can catch a local train or bus into Rajasthan,’ he beams, looking as thrilled as I feel.
Because not only am I one step closer to finding Amy, I’ve suddenly got an image of one of those ‘palaces on wheels’ you see in glossy brochures. I can picture it now . . . luxurious cabins harking back to the bygone era when royal maharajas would travel in sumptuous style; dining cars filled with mahogany tables and starched white tablecloths; sitting drinking a gin and tonic and watching the colours of India go by . . .
Feeling my imagination running away, I sigh dreamily. It all seems so romantic, so enchanting—
So exciting! Suddenly, my frustration and annoyance at having to chase after Amy is replaced by a surge of exhilaration. It’s going to be like The Darjeeling Limited. Only in real life! Oh my god, I loved that film! Maybe there’ll even be an Adrien Brody-type character on board too, I muse, feeling slightly giddy at the thought.
And yes, I know that’s very immature at my age, having a crush on a movie star, but it’s that Roman nose, it just sends me weak at the knees.
‘Brilliant,’ I hear myself saying. ‘How do I get to the train station?’
‘I will give you a lift in my car,’ says Biju, looking very pleased with himself. ‘If we go at once, you can catch the express. Please, come this way.’
‘Great, thanks!’
Biju’s already jangling down the corridor and I follow him through reception and outside, where he scoops up my suitcase and packs it neatly into the boot of his little blue car. Then, with a great show of chivalry, he opens the passenger door for me and, as I slide inside, he jumps in next to me, starts the engine, and with a little chug we’re off.
See! This is going to be so much easier than I thought! I’ll just find Amy, talk some sense into her, and I’ll be catching a flight back to London and my normal life before I know it.
Smiling to myself, I gaze out of the window as we set off towards the station.
What was I so worried about?
Easy-peasy.
Chapter 10
Er, I think there’s been some mistake.
Standing on the hot, dusty platform, I hold tightly onto my suitcase and look uncertainly around me. This can’t be right. There must be some mix-up. Biju took my credit card and sorted out my ticket, before cheerily waving goodbye and driving off in a cloud of dust and Bollywood music.
But he must have got it wrong when he told me where to go. This can’t be where I catch the express train from. There must be a different platform, a special one, like in Harry Potter or something—
‘Baaaaaaaaahhhh!’
Loud bleating behind me makes me almost jump out of my skin and I twirl around to see two scraggy, nervy goats being herded down the platform.
Despite being a small station, it’s busy and crowded with a jumble of people. Several backpackers are flopped around, waiting with their rucksacks, a group of women, dressed in brightly coloured saris, like birds of paradise, are perched on metal seats, chattering loudly; a porter balancing plastic-wrapped suitcases on his head overtakes an old man pushing a wheelbarrow filled with cages of loud, squawking chickens, whilst a group of teenage schoolboys are staring curiously at me, their gazes unblinking . . .
Self-consciously I look away – hang on, and is that a cow just hanging out over there in the middle of everything? Undisturbed, it’s chewing grass and swishing its tail and . . . oh no, don’t tell me it’s going to do what I think it’s going to do . . .
Oh yuck. Yes it is.
As a big, steaming pile of crap lands on the platform, I stare at it. I don’t remember seeing that in all those glossy brochures about enchanting train journeys across India. I watch as the wheelbarrow man marches straight past the cow without batting an eyelid. He seems completely oblivious. As is everyone, I realise, looking around me and noticing that – apart from a few other tourists staring like me – everyone else is just carrying on as normal.
Because this is India, not King’s Cross, I remind myself firmly. Come on Ruby, pull yourself together. Stop being so pathetic. OK, so it’s a bit scary travelling on your own in a strange country that you’re not used to, but it’s all going to be fine. You just need to find the right platform, that’s all.
‘Argh!’ I let out a shriek as a cockroach or something runs over my foot. Oh my god, did anyone see the size of that thing? It was massive! As big as a rat! As I turn to see it scurrying away, my blood suddenly runs cold. It was a rat!
OK, I’m pathetic! I don’t care! I’m pathetic!
Snatching up my suitcase, I head back inside to try and find Tourist Information. I know this is India, and I know it’s this amazing, incredible country, but I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I’m not some brave, adventurous, independent traveller.
I’m the girl who’s terrified of insects (including daddy-longlegs, which even my three-year-old goddaughter isn’t scared of), who gets nervous in crowds and sea
sick on boats and for whom travelling consists of the Eurostar to Paris and package holidays to Europe. I mean, it’s hardly Bear Grylls is it?
I’m distracted by the sound of brakes screeching and hissing, and I look up as a train pulls in alongside the platform. At least I assume it’s a train, but you can barely see the actual thing itself for people hanging off the sides, piled onto the roof and clinging to the bars on the windows.
And I thought the Central Line at rush hour was bad. This makes a packed commuter carriage look positively roomy, I realise, glimpsing the people crammed inside the sweltering carriages.
Spotting an information office, I quickly weave my way towards it through the surge of passengers waiting to board, and find the door ajar. Peering inside its shadowy depths, I spot a uniformed official smoking a cigarette and sitting behind a desk, studying some ginormous ledger. A small plastic white fan is whirring futilely on the filing cabinet next to him.
‘Ahem, excuse me,’ I say politely, tripping inside. Those damn sandals.
He looks up and observes me with interest. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Actually yes,’ I reply, putting on what I call my ‘best’ voice. It’s the posh one I use on my voicemail and sounds absolutely nothing like me. In fact friends have been known to hang up, thinking they’ve got the wrong number.
‘I’m trying to find the express train.’ I wave my ticket like a white flag.
Stubbing out his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray, he leans forward and stares at the ticket for a moment before opening a drawer in his desk and pulling out one of the longest fax print-outs I’ve ever seen. Page after page appears from his drawer, like a magician pulling handkerchiefs out of a top hat.
Methodically he starts going through each page, tracing each name with a nicotined finger, until finally he nods satisfactorily to himself.
‘Roobeee Miller,’ he says after a few minutes, tapping his finger on a page. I crick my neck upside down and, sure enough, buried amongst hundreds of Indian names, wedged in tightly between Sanjeev Chopra and Rupinda Malik, on a smudged fax print-out in a tiny, sweltering, smoke-filled office, in a train station in Southern India, there I am.