Finding Arun

by Marisha Pink

TEN

  DESPITE his experience of changing planes in Mumbai, nothing could have prepared Aaron for the pandemonium that ensued when he tried to escape the clutches of Biju Patnaik Airport. The queues were long and disorderly, the crowds hot and bothered in equal measure, and the staff slow and inefficient. To make matters worse the terminal building appeared to be undergoing significant expansion works, which only served to add to the noise and dirt already being whipped around the concourse by the powerful ceiling fans. Aaron was agitated and fatigued by the whole ordeal and having already been subjected to extensive security checks in Mumbai, he simply couldn’t fathom what remained for officials to inspect.

  He was severely dehydrated and desperately needed a drink, but a quick glance around the concourse revealed no trace of a water fountain. His face dripped with sweat as the bodies packed tightly around him further compounded the heat already trapped by the thick tracksuit bottoms that he had stupidly worn for comfort. He was certain that his body was beginning to emit an unpleasant odour, but it was nothing compared to the pungent fragrances emanating from those closest to him, the smell a telltale sign of the lack of antiperspirant use. The queue inched forward and Aaron shuffled along hopefully, but after only a few paces things had ground to a halt again. He sighed loudly with exasperation, causing a few passengers to cast disapproving looks in his direction, but Aaron no longer cared. He had been travelling for almost twenty-four hours and all he could think about was getting out into the city, not least because he still faced a train journey before he would finally arrive in Puri.

  When he eventually stepped out into the morning heat of Bhubaneswar a few hours later, there was barely time to take in the surroundings before taxi and rickshaw drivers trapped him in a tight, impenetrable circle. The men shouted over each other, gesticulating wildly as they vied for his attention and his business, all equally desperate to secure his custom in their questionable-looking vehicles. They called out ridiculous-sounding fares to unfamiliar places, trying to second-guess where Aaron was headed, and though their rivalry seemed amicable enough, it was difficult to gauge whom to trust. In their holey shirts and faded slacks, brown skin blistering in the early morning heat, it was evident that each driver’s enthusiasm was merely the start of a long day of hustling unsuspecting arrivals in order to make ends meet. One overzealous driver even tried to wrestle the backpack directly from Aaron’s shoulders and, though it unnerved him at first, ultimately he had to laugh at the chaos apparently inherent in every Indian activity.

  After a little bartering and pitting the men against one another, Aaron was able to agree a reasonable fare with a stumpy, honest-looking driver, who quickly relieved him of his bags and shuffled off towards the car before Aaron could change his mind. Aaron had to move fast to avoid losing sight of the small man in the crowds and, grateful to escape the mayhem, he began to push his way past the throng of now disinterested drivers. By the time he reached the battered silver saloon car, the driver had already thrown his bags into the rear compartment and started up the engine. Aaron slipped deftly into the back and, despite almost burning his forearms on the scorching leather seats, the cooling blasts from the air-conditioning came as a welcome relief.

  ‘First time coming in India?’ asked the driver brightly, expertly guiding the taxi through the crowd to join the long line of cars waiting to exit the airport compound.

  ‘Yes, yes it is.’

  ‘Where coming from you?’

  ‘From London, England.’

  ‘Ho, ho, London,’ exclaimed the driver, slapping the steering wheel enthusiastically. ‘When I see you first, I think so you are coming from India! Then after only I am seeing your bags and I think you are coming from outside.’

  His intonation and broken English reminded Aaron of Kalpana’s letters.

  ‘I do come from India, my mother lives in Puri,’ he responded, a little more defensively than he had intended to.

  At that moment it dawned on him that technically it was not his first time in India at all and he wondered distractedly whether the first time counted if he himself couldn’t recall it.

  ‘You are speaking Oriya?’

  ‘Speaking what?’

  ‘Oriya. It is our language, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, I see. No, not speaking Oriya,’ answered Aaron, suddenly feeling slightly ashamed.

  ‘Speaking Hindi only?’

  ‘No, not speaking Hindi either.’

  ‘You are taking a train for reaching in Puri?’

  ‘Yes, I’m taking the train to Puri.’

  ‘Is a long way going in Puri. How much it is costing you the ticket?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Aaron replied brusquely, exhausted by the incessant questioning.

  He couldn’t understand the driver’s apparent fascination with his life; taxi drivers in London were rarely interested in anything that he had to say. The small driver either failed to notice or chose to ignore the irritation in Aaron’s voice, and continued on with his inquisition undeterred. Aaron did his best to respond succinctly, yet politely, until the disturbing antics beyond his window completely drew his attention away.

  The taxi had lurched forward into the heavy morning traffic and was now stopping and starting abruptly, forced to allow other vehicles to merge onto the road from all directions. Impatient drivers sounded long horn blasts and leant out of their windows, perilously close to the passing traffic, in a bid to gain right of way. Battered old cars mingled with shiny new ones, and whole families swept by on motorcycles, blissfully indifferent to the chaos that Aaron was so acutely aware of. The driver weaved in and out of the traffic as though on autopilot, focused more on his line of questioning than on the road itself, and Aaron felt a growing sense of unease, convinced that the man’s prolonged glances at him through the rear-view mirror would eventually result in a collision. He scrambled around in search of a seat belt, but there was none to be found and, helpless, he settled for wedging himself between the back of the driver’s seat and his own, tightly gripping the inside of the door for added security.

  When they reached the railway station, Aaron let out a grateful sigh of relief and quickly clambered out of the car, thankful to have arrived unscathed. His heart had been thumping furiously throughout the entire crazy ride and having counted no less than seven near-collisions in the space of only ten minutes, he had eventually resorted to closing his eyes in order to make it through the journey. While the tiny driver ceremoniously removed his bags from the rear compartment, Aaron stood on the kerb, struggling to breathe in the thick, musty air as the sun beat down on him fiercely from above. He was certain that the temperature had climbed several degrees since he had exited the airport and his lips tasted salty from the rivers of sweat that had dripped down his face.

  The driver closed the rear compartment and looked up at Aaron expectantly, shielding his eyes from the brightness of the sun with his hand. Aaron dealt out the one hundred rupees that they had agreed upon, but the driver’s palm remained outstretched as he smiled conspiratorially, cocking his head to one side.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You are having something small for me please, sir?’

  Aaron stared down at the driver blankly.

  ‘I just paid you. One hundred rupees, like we agreed.’

  ‘Yes sir, but you are having some tip maybe for me?’

  Aaron wanted to laugh in the driver’s face, but despite his cheekiness, Aaron had to admire the boldness of his approach. He placed a few small denomination notes into the driver’s hand and after thanking and blessing him, the small man hopped back into the car and drove away, leaving Aaron alone again.

  Bhubaneswar railway station was small and bustling, its yellow façade shining in the sunlight when Aaron passed through the arches into the ticket foyer. All about him was a whirlwind of activity, but when he queued to enquire about the next train to Puri, he felt the pace around him begin to slow, all eyes fixing curiously upon him. The strangers openly
stared, unashamedly drinking him in and loudly discussing their observances in a dialect that was completely alien to him. Younger women sat in tight clusters, whispering and giggling while they stole shy glances in his direction, and the men appeared to be sizing him up, unsure whether or not he posed a threat to them.

  Aaron found himself staring straight back, equally enthralled by their unfamiliar choice of clothing and suddenly aware of his distinctly western dress. The women wore beautiful, deeply coloured, richly patterned cloths, draped gracefully over their lithe bodies, and their necks and arms were adorned with sparkling jewellery that clinked together, creating a sweet jingling sound, when they moved. A few men wore loose-fitting shirts and jeans, but most wore lightweight tunics, trousers, and even the odd skirt, in pale colours far better suited to the heat than Aaron’s own heavy clothing. In his fatigue and haste to escape the airport, he had not truly looked at the people of Orissa. He had deliberately avoided eye contact so as not to have to engage in unnecessary conversations, but now he was transfixed. The people were unlike any that he had previously encountered and strangely he found himself able to imagine his mother with more clarity than he had ever been able to achieve before.

  ‘Hello, thank you, where going?’ bellowed the cashier, waking him from his trance.

  Aaron returned to the present and, relieved to discover that the cashier spoke English, began to negotiate his ticket purchase. Compared to the transportation escapades that he had experienced so far, Aaron was able to procure a ticket on the next train to Puri with relative ease and surprisingly little expenditure. Thanking the cashier for making the transaction so painless, he proceeded quickly to platform two as instructed, where the Dhauli Express, the train that would carry him to his birthplace, was already approaching the platform.

  Beginning to adjust to the Indian way of doing things, on arriving at platform two, Aaron was unsurprised to find it crowded with people standing, sitting and laying wherever they felt the inclination. It seemed that everyone in Bhubaneswar was at the station that morning, whether they were making a journey or not. Passengers huddled around the information boards attempting to locate their carriage numbers, whilst porters in crimson shirts skirted by, oversized luggage balanced precariously on their heads. Narrowly avoiding a collision with one such porter, Aaron jumped onto one of the second class carriages and squeezed past the disembarking passengers in search of a seat, careful to avoid clobbering them with his backpack.

  He walked relentlessly up and down the four cramped carriages, but no seats were available and with reservations not possible for his class of travel, reluctantly he was forced to stand. Towering over his fellow passengers, standing only served to draw more attention to Aaron and he noted that people were freely staring at him again in wide-eyed fascination. Yet they were unlike those that he had observed inside the station, appearing less well-to-do and more plainly clothed. Feeling a little embarrassed, he smiled nervously at those that caught his eye; a gesture that quickly seemed to work to his advantage. Before long a young gentleman had returned his smile and sidled up so closely to his neighbour that he may as well have been in her lap. He patted the space that he had cleared beside him on the bench-style seating and wordlessly encouraged Aaron to sit down.

  It was a tight fit with six of them on the bench, and in the stifling heat of the carriage the skin on their knees became bound to one another by the sticky dampness of their sweat. Yet Aaron was grateful for the opportunity to rest his legs and relieved that he would not have to stand in the stuffy carriage for the entire two-hour journey to Puri. He tucked his backpack neatly beneath the seat and nodded appreciatively at the young gentleman, who rather eerily was still grinning inanely at him. Conversely, the woman seated to his right barely acknowledged his presence, before turning her attention to the window, where it appeared that her entire family had congregated to see her off.

  They swarmed around the open window, busily chattering away and offering her gifts of bananas and sweets for the journey, much to the envy of the other passengers seated around her. Aaron settled back against the hard plastic seating and watched with interest while the family members continued to bestow gifts upon the woman. He wasn’t able to understand anything that they were saying, but a tearful, elderly-looking lady at the centre of the furore seemed particularly concerned for the woman’s welfare in a manner reminiscent of Aunt Ruby just before he had left London.

  A few moments later the train jolted to life and commenced its journey to Puri, the waves and shouts of those left behind on the platform slowly fading into the distance. Two conductors dressed smartly in navy-blue blazers appeared and asked to see their tickets, which caused a lot of commotion as passengers rifled through their many bags and pockets in order to locate their ticket stubs. All the fussing irritated Aaron, but the conductors waited calmly, leaving him amazed by their ability to remain cool, despite their heavy clothing and the heat. He had barely tucked the thin slip back into his travel wallet, before the smiling young gentleman who had procured his seat started to question him in much the same way that the taxi driver had earlier that day.

  Where did he come from and where was he going, the young man wanted to know. What did he do for a job and how much money did he make? Was he married and did he have children? The barrage of questions was relentless and their personal nature felt somewhat intrusive to Aaron, not least because their conversation had attracted a captive audience in the carriage. He did his best to answer each question as vaguely as possible, but this only served to fuel the young gentleman’s curiosity and it wasn’t long before Aaron’s patience had worn thin. He understood that they were intrigued by the presence of a foreigner, but he was too hot and exhausted to care, and quickly beginning to wish that he had stayed at home after all.

  The young man's questions were punctuated by the loud cries of neatly uniformed Indian Railways vendors sweeping through the aisles selling water, tea and a host of delicacies that Aaron was unable to identify. Fluffy white balls accompanied by dark runny sauces, aromatic bread and potato mixtures garnished with bright green herbs and a strange collection of multicoloured chutneys all went swinging by. Aaron was hungry and though his stomach’s interest was piqued by the array of unfamiliar foods, his head remained wary of the hygiene standards that might have been used during their preparation. However the passengers seated around him were less hesitant and everyone, including the woman who had enough food from her family to feed the entire train, appeared to be tucking into something.

  The myriad smells quickly intermingled with the sweaty scent of the train’s passengers, until a strong, spicy, stench perfumed the entire carriage causing Aaron to gag involuntarily. He covered his nose and mouth with his hands and willed the feeling of nausea to subside, entirely overwhelmed by the multitude of aromas. After a few minutes, the vendors passed into the next carriage and when the stench eased, Aaron found himself able to breathe openly again. The uniformed vendors were quickly replaced by unofficial vendors in tattier clothes who loudly proffered everything from cashew nuts and fruit, to toys, games and magazines. Still hungry, Aaron determined that packaged food was a safer option and a few rupees later he was greedily shoving handfuls of cashew nuts into his hungry mouth.

  The train was now hurtling along the tracks at speed, treating him to his first sights of rural Indian life. Women in brightly coloured saris could be seen working the rice paddies or sidling down terracotta dirt paths balancing water pots on their heads and babies on their backs. Farmers tended lovingly to their fields beneath the baking sun, whilst water buffalo bathed coolly in ponds using their tails to swat away feasting flies. Uniformed schoolboys raced excitedly alongside the train on their bicycles and gaggles of girls waved shyly at the people passing them by. It was a whole other world and, transfixed, Aaron felt the buzz of excitement growing in his veins. Life seemed simplistic, yet wholly satisfying for the people beyond the train. They had nothing compared to what he had back home, but as they went about
their morning rituals there was a contentment evident that was rarely found in the miserable faces of London’s busy urbanites.

  Inside the train, the procession continued with a catwalk of beggars competing for change and food scraps, in a battle to demonstrate who was the worst off. A scrawny, elderly man with both his lower limbs missing shuffled through the aisle on his hands and torso, occasionally stopping to massage his stomach for added emphasis. A blind man with a terrible voice burst into religious song and gently bumped his way along the aisle, hands outstretched to receive whatever was offered. Rag-clothed children pleaded pitifully with their eyes and mumbled incomprehensibly while they stroked the arms of fellow passengers, trying to rouse their sympathy. And then came the more unusual characters. Transgender men, cloaked in acid-coloured saris and heavily caked in make-up, stalked haughtily through the carriage clapping loudly and demanding money, followed by a wild-haired man aggressively waving a silver tray in passengers’ faces whilst yelling unintelligibly.

  Aaron didn’t know where to look or what to say. He had never experienced such an abject display of poverty and he couldn’t decide whether making a donation would help or simply encourage the string of desperate behaviours he had just witnessed. His fellow passengers appeared to be ignoring the spectacle and even the smiling young gentleman, who had so kindly made space for Aaron to sit down, was violently shooing away the beggars’ advances. It might have been his imagination, but as each beggar inched closer he got the distinct feeling that they were specifically directing their pleas at him, as though being foreign obligated him to donate the most. He couldn’t bear the dismal looks in their eyes and feeling slightly ashamed, he stared at his feet, pretending to fiddle with the straps of his backpack, until the parade passed into the next carriage.

  More questions, food vendors and beggars later, the train finally began to slow its pace on the approach to Puri. When it pulled into the station it was greeted by yet another huge crowd lining the length of the platform. Eager to be reunited, people could be seen craning their necks in search of their loved ones and jostling one another to get closer to the arriving train. Retrieving his backpack from beneath the seat, Aaron braced himself for the mass exodus and stood to join the long queue of passengers waiting to disembark the train. There was a lot of commotion coming from the stretch of platform immediately outside of the carriage window and out of the corner of his eye Aaron spied someone frantically jumping up and down, trying to gain his attention. He leant towards the window for a closer inspection, much to the annoyance of the woman beside him, who was now being greeted by a crowd twice the size of the one that had seen her off in Bhubaneswar. A small, impeccably dressed man was pointing and waving something animatedly at him from deep within the crowd, but he couldn’t make out what it was. By the time he finally stepped off the train, the small man had wrestled his way to the front of the crowd and, beaming up at him, proudly presented a small white placard bearing the words:

  MAYFAIR BEACH RESORT HOTEL

  MR RUTHERFORD, AARON