Quicksand Tales

by Keggie Carew

  ‘Seventy-five?’

  ‘Dollars?’

  ‘One hundred?’

  ‘For two weeks?’

  Before we give Ajai his tip, or indeed decide on it, we suggest a deal. If he goes home three days early and we catch the train back from Udaipur to Delhi, will he, in return, pick us up from the station, take us to our guesthouse, then take us to Delhi Airport in the morning? It’s good? We ask. We think it’s very good. Ajai rocks his head from side to side. I am still not getting the side-to-side head rocking, so I don’t know whether he thinks this is good, or if there is a problem, or if it is good, but he doesn’t like to say it’s good, because he likes things the other way around, good for us, not good for him. I say surely he must want to see his family, he must want to see his wife. Yes, he wants to see wife. He rocks his head again.

  ‘We thought you’d like to go home, Ajai.’

  It seems to have thrown him. He tells us maybe he will get another job and cannot take us to the airport, which forces us to point out that, technically, until just before our flight, he was still supposed to be our driver. He thinks about it. Then agrees. Enjoy!

  In Udaipur, our room is right on the edge of the lake, where the water laps just below. No more worrying about Ajai’s accommodation, for he is speeding back to his wife and mother and bereaved sister and very highly qualified brother, who we are relieved has not rung Jonathan again. As we look across the water we feel doubly lucky – a year ago we would have been looking at eight square kilometres of muddy puddle and lots of rubbish, because for eight years, the famous mirror Lake Pichola disappeared. But in one night, forty inches of rain fell and here it is again. The Venice of the East. A sky mirror for cormorants and storks. A smoky mirror for the big fruit bats that fly from the banyan tree.

  At Udaipur train station a porter insists vehemently on carrying both bags. He is dark and thin and wiry. One bag on his head, the other across his shoulder. Short quick steps. Up over the iron bridge to platform eight. Zoom. We run after him, following his thin bare feet across his territory. His millionth crossing. There is a hierarchy of merit, and a pride in the skill of securing a bag against the competition, any weight, any size, then swiftly and strongly delivering it. It is Olympian. I suspect it would be difficult to lure this man away from Train Station World, even for half an hour – he would miss something or somebody, an opportunity, a challenge, an event, a story, a train in, a train out. He finds our seat. Stows our bags. The tip. A massive smile. Hands together in tiny bows. Another crack in my heart.

  Our train pulls into Delhi, but where is Ajai? There is no voice coming down the corridor calling Mr Jonathan, Mr Jonathan. We’ve arrived two hours late, but we are sure he will be here, somewhere. And he is. I spot his big smile and clean white shirt at the end of the platform. I’m relieved, because it’s a stinking hot day and I’m dirty and sweaty and longing to get to our guesthouse for a shower, and I’ve been thinking about it for the last five hours on the train. Ajai waves. Then turns to say something to the short plump man in the football shirt and shorts beside him. They walk towards us. Ajai has brought his elder brother, Hrithik. It is a big surprise. They are taking us to the family apartment for lunch. It is all prepared. It is not Ajai telling us this, it is Hrithik, who is sitting where I usually sit, in the front seat.

  ‘You have very good trip I think,’ Hrithik says.

  ‘Yes,’ Jonathan agrees.

  ‘And Ajai, very good driver I think.’

  ‘Yes, very good,’ agrees Jonathan.

  Ajai lives a long way from the train station and in the opposite direction from our guesthouse. Tenement blocks loom past with depressing regularity. Hrithik talks all the way, turning in his seat to face Jonathan, his neck twisting like a coil of rope. Hrithik says, ‘UK very good practice for Finance Career,’ and I zone out, in the airless heat and interminable traffic, as we drive further and further away from our hotel, my legs scrunched together under my bag, the sun drilling into my temples. Ajai’s tip shrinking by the minute.

  At last, we pull up at the end of a street. Washing lines are strung between the tenement blocks. Kids are batting cricket balls over the washing. Into the washing. Through the washing. They stop to watch as we walk past.

  Up five flights of open stairs, and behind the door of Ajai’s apartment stands Ajai’s mother in a turquoise sari, and Ajai’s beautiful wife in a yellow sari. They greet us with shy bows, we shake hands, and they say things we don’t understand. Then Hrithik says something and Ajai’s wife and mother disappear.

  We sit in a small green windowless room which is stiflingly hot, and we listen to Ajai’s brother’s UK plans, which are plentiful, and punctuated by trips to his bedroom to fetch items of clothing which he tries to give to Jonathan.

  His jeans.

  ‘No, no, thank you,’ Jonathan says. ‘Look. I am very tall. I cannot fit, please . . .’

  A football shirt.

  ‘No, please! I have no room. I have many shirts. Very kind, but I cannot take.’

  His shorts! Hrithik holds them up, Please take. I give you. The waist must be forty inches wide.

  Jonathan laughs uncomfortably, ‘No, please, you keep.’

  Another pair of jeans, the legs end just below Jonathan’s knees. Jonathan laughs even more uncomfortably. Hrithik wants very much to give Mr Jonathan his trousers. Or his shirt. He fetches more shirts. Nothing will thwart this clothing giveaway. He even offers his shoes.

  ‘You are my uncle,’ Hrithik says. ‘I have no uncle. Very good uncle, I think.’

  Where, oh where have Ajai’s wife and mother gone? I ask Ajai. He smiles. They are preparing the food. It is getting hotter and hotter. One hour, two hours. As Hrithik raids his wardrobe there is still no sign of lunch. I slump back, stickily, into the couch, which I now see folds out into their mother’s bed. Hrithik is talking about his Curriculum Vitae. Ajai is still smiling. Jonathan tells Hrithik that it is very hard in England and sometimes people are not so friendly, that many banks are relocating to India. The future is in India, Jonathan says. But Hrithik is very focus, very pre-plan. And then Ajai’s wife and mother come in carrying dishes, and I am so glad to see them, and they place different dishes all over the table, but once they have put the dishes down, Hrithik says something and they disappear. My hand almost lurches out to snatch at their saris and drag them back.

  ‘Are your mother and wife not eating with us, Ajai?’ I ask desperately.

  ‘No, no. Already eaten,’ Hrithik says, wagging his finger.

  ‘Oh, we would love to sit with them. Can they join us?’ I look at Ajai beseechingly.

  ‘No, no,’ Hrithik rocks his head from side to side, wagging his finger even more vigorously, laughing as if I were crazy.

  And so we four are seated as Hrithik decrees, and eat the food Ajai’s mother and wife have prepared for us, and they do not reappear until we have finished, when they come back to clear the plates. I rise to help but Hrithik wags his finger again. And only when they have washed the dishes – it must be after four in the afternoon – they return again, and Ajai’s lovely wife in her beautiful scarf sits silently, and the mother sits with her hands on her lap, nodding proudly at the ceaseless flow of ambitions from her elder son. Dear Ajai smiles his big happy smile, and Ajai’s wife gives me a mosaic cup to hold pencils. We have nothing to give so we take photos of everyone, Hrithik sitting on the high-backed chair in the centre, like a throne, his family standing around him. Hrithik declares Jonathan is his uncle, again, and very family bonding, whatever that means, and finally, finally dear Ajai drives us home.

  ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ we groan, flumping on the bed. ‘Oh!’ we moan desperately. ‘Oh, oh!’ we drum our fists into the pillow. We are laughing and wailing. But we both agree it was not funny. The irony is not lost on us. For the comfortable to be so discomforted.

  Next morning we are outside, waiting with our bags for Ajai, as agreed. Our plane leaves in four hours. He will be here any minute, and he is. The white
Nissan Sunny turns into the street. And we both groan simultaneously. Hrithik is in the front seat. The envelope bulging with Ajai’s tip is sticking out of Jonathan’s top pocket, and all I can think is how I’d like to slim it down. And so our last moments in India sink under the weight of our bags on our laps and beneath the sound of Hrithik’s plans of getting a UK job in finance area, and how Mr Jonathan is uncle to him, and his family will do anything for us, like brother to brother. While outside men at the traffic lights intercept us with trick sleeves which fall down to reveal arm-length rows of self-help books in plastic display pouches: Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, The Feeling Good Handbook, Winning. And though Ajai is driving it is not like it was with the three of us, telephone kiosk, emancipation, rock climbing, salary, marmalade, padlock, bargain, pass the salt, fizzy pop, making jokes, laughing, singing along in the billowing dust to Ajai’s Indian pop music.

  At the airport we hug Ajai. Goodbye, goodbye, Ajai. Long life and happiness. Jonathan gives him the envelope. We bow with our hands together. We make our promises. Swap our email addresses. We shake Hrithik’s hand.

  *

  So, how was it? Trevor texts when we get back. Where to begin? It was dusty, buttery, painted, mutilated, price-tagged, red-forted, elephanted, holy, maddening, exhausting, grimy, glorious, shrined, spiced, chock-a-block, billowing, saffroned, turquoised, baffling, burning, perplexing, infuriating, squatted, petalled, full of gods – who eat money – and 800 million freshly laid shits a day. And it isn’t finished yet. Because already there is an email waiting in my inbox. From Hrithik.

  Dear Mr Jonathan/Ms K

  Season Greeting to you. Hope you will be very fine and taking rest after long visit from India.

  I am Hrithik, elder brother of your driver Ajai from India who came to receive you at railway station and after that you went with us at our home and also at the time of dropping you at airport I was with Ajai. I believe that you do recognise me now during your recent visit to India with your wife.

  I need your help. I just got a mail confirmation from UK National Lottery winning notification from UK. They have contacted me and conveyed please collect your winning funds from their office. They have given me a complete address, contact number with contact person name. Here I need your help, I want that someone visit this place on my behalf as my representative to verify. Then please convey to me so I plan my visit to UK soon to get this money.

  I am also attaching two certificates received from them about winning confirmation. So I can deposit require funds for getting Tax Clearance.

  Warm Regards,

  Hrithik Singh

  I open the attachment. If the sketchy upside-down union jacks don’t give it away, or the row of cartoon royal crowns, or the dodgy grammar and odd capitalisation, the word STERLINGS certainly does.

  I reply.

  Dear Hrithik

  Your lottery win looks like a fraud. Be careful. Do not give your bank details. Do NOT pay ANY money. If you did not buy a UK National lottery ticket you cannot have won. Only people with UK address can play the UK National lottery. Most scams are based outside the UK. Sorry to disappoint you.

  I forward him some websites to check out. He replies.

  Dear Mr Jonathan/Ms K

  Thank you for effort you made for me to aware such scam. I appreciated you sincere efforts. I am attaching you my resume for re-shape accordingly to UK companies for applying for job.

  Be in touch,

  Well Regards

  Hrithik Singh

  I open the attachment. Five dense pages of small type comes up on the screen. Every tick of Hrithik’s life, his Hobbies, his Objectives, his Outlooks. I print the pages out, put them on Jonathan’s desk. Ten minutes later, another email arrives.

  Dear Mr Jonathan/Ms K

  One more good news I am getting married in June with Portsmouth girl named Sarah Clark working in Fashion House.

  Jonathan you are only contact of mine in UK so I may allow to ask as your younger brother to visit this girl house with your wife for me to check does she really fit for me for my life plan. Hope you will do this for as my uncle do if he had in my life.

  Please not tell anything to Ajai for this I wanted to give a big surprise.

  Warm Regards

  Hrithik Singh

  ‘He wants us to go to Portsmouth and inspect her!’ I say.

  ‘I’m not his bloody uncle.’

  ‘You are now.’

  ‘Who is this girl, anyway?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  A postcard of a tiger arrives from Ajai.

  hello madam, how are you and how are my uncle.

  i see tiger in rajisthan. and i got one boy babby is name is Ravi, he is very well. my family very miss to you. now my english are very good so thanu very much. after few days is chrtmas and new year. so enjoy.

  Ajai india

  Then another email from Hrithik.

  Dear Mr Jonathan/Ms K

  How is my dearest friend Jonathan, please tell him I really missing him. I am very focus for my future. He will be happy to hear that I am going to marry in June with British National named Sarah Clark who stays in Portsmouth in her own flat. I will get marry in UK then you will be my own guest to bless us. I am self-made person in Metro City life. Please tell me how is she. I do not have Jonathan email id will you give me.

  Warmest Regards

  Hrithik Singh

  ‘Hurrifik is really missing you, Jonathan.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I am intrigued by the Sarah Clark development. Was she someone he’d met in Delhi, or was this an arranged marriage? Is this an Indian girl with an anglicised name whose parents want to marry her off and have fixed her up with Hrithik? I picture her bent over a sewing machine in a hot warehouse in Portsmouth working a hundred hours a week for a pittance, sending money back to India, waiting for a miracle to save her. Maybe we should go and visit her.

  Dear Hrithik

  What is the situation with Sarah Clark? How did you meet her?

  Dear Mr Jonathan/Ms K

  I not meet as per yet. I make her contact through yahoo messenger. If you need any information on YOGA please let me know.

  Say my hello to Jonathan I am missing him.

  Warm regards

  Hrithik Singh

  ‘He met her on the internet,’ I tell Jonathan.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. In one of those chat rooms. He hasn’t met her in real life.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘More to the point, she’s never met him!’

  ‘So why has she agreed to marry him?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. It’s not that strange in Indian culture. Maybe she’s just desperate to escape her situation. Maybe her parents are forcing her into it? Maybe it’s a financial arrangement?’

  Dear Madam

  As per the recent talk she wants to marry me in June and early plan was of she visiting to India for marry but on my request she has cancelled the programme. Now I am coming in June for marrying her.

  She is making in Fashion. Her parents have been expired 2 years before in an car accident as she told me and living in her own flat over the address: 23, Jackson House, Whiteport, Portsmouth. Her number is 0239 284 0330. Dear Madam, Request to you please check her fact she has given me if that fact is correct then I’ll decide to marry her.

  Say my hello to Jonathan I am missing him

  Warm regards

  Hrithik Singh

  ‘Her parents have been killed in a car crash, apparently,’ I tell Jonathan.

  ‘What? Both of them?’ Jonathan says.

  ‘That’s what he says.’

  It all sounds very odd. I now have a firm image of a lonely, orphan Indian girl cutting out patterns all day. Then I picture a plump bespectacled one, quite a bit older . . . I’m not sure if I believe the parents-killed-in-car-crash thing, but I am becoming more and more curious.

  Dear Hrithik

  How did you make your initial conta
ct, what is Yahoo Messenger?

  Dear Mr Jonathan/Ms K

  friendsabroad.com

  Dear Hrithik

  What financial arrangements have been discussed? Are you paying an introductory fee or giving your bank details? What else do you know about Sarah Clark?

  Dear Madam

  I was told there are special marriage office and all this functions will be costing around only 100 pounds. We have not discuss any financial arrangements. Even not known about introductory fee. I make her contact through yahoo messanger as explan. Request to you please guide me what is process of getting marry in UK.

  I looking forward seeing with my uncle as visit with a brother.

  Hrithik Singh

  ‘I’m fed up with this,’ Jonathan says.

  Dear Hrithik

  We think it is better she visits you in India before you both decide. Arranged marriage is not our custom here. The custom here is love marriage.

  Dear Mr Jonathan/Ms K

  Firstly, Infact, sorry you have understood wrong me in my communication. She proposed me for this marriage, She loves me very much i also loves her an this is not arranged marriage this will be a love marriage and will happen in the month of May in England with your custom (her photo attached for you) so you will see what all is. Request you please now checking process of getting marry in UK.

  Warm regards

  Hrithik Singh

  Well, if I’m going to call this Sarah Clark (yes, I’m intrigued enough to call her), I’d quite like to know what she looks like. I’m dying to know what she looks like. My cursor hovers over the photo attachment. I hold my breath as I click.

  1 Attachment, 350.KB

  Sarah, bsmp.

  With our (pre-broadband) slow internet speed, the 350 KB file takes a few moments to download. Then the photograph comes up on the screen . . .