by Irene Black
He tried to imagine his bride stepping out into a raw Richmond January morning, the cold air catching her lungs, trying to comprehend the bleakness of glazed shop fronts and fortress houses. Would she adapt, as he had, and shed her many-colored coat? Or would she feel trapped, like a butterfly in a glasshouse?
Enough, he told himself, shrugging off his doubts and returning to his list of candidates. They all seem much of a muchness. Nothing here about their characters or what they look like. Not even the attached photographs on some of them help much. Photographs can be so misleading.
What do I want her to look like? He closed his eyes and let his imagination run riot. Now let me see. She will be tiny, like a fragile, porcelain doll. She will have skin like golden turmeric. She will wear garlands of jasmine twined in her heavy black hair, which will flow down her back like rich palmyra syrup. Her eyes—large, widely set. Her lips—full and luscious. Wherever she is there will be the scent of sandalwood and roses.
Ashok sighed. He was a Maharaja with the pick of his kingdom to choose from.
He chided himself for such idle thoughts. What does it matter if her teeth stick out a little, and her body is, well, less than perfection, so long as her character suits?
He started to reflect on the personality of his imaginary bride.
She must have a sense of humor and be open-minded. She must be very practical—it wouldn’t do to have two dreamers in the family—that would not bode well for the children. She must not talk incessantly. I could not tolerate a chatterbox. Oh yes—and her voice must be smooth, like a slow tune on a tenor sax. I couldn’t be doing with a woman who had a voice like… He struggled to find a suitable image and chuckled when he found one. …like a band at an Indian wedding. She should be well read, and it should be possible to discuss matters of the world with her.
Ashok started to doze. He let the papers fall from the hammock. But as he drifted into sleep, it was not an Eastern princess with turmeric skin who filled his dreams. It was the green-eyed girl with tumbling auburn locks, who had sat next to him on the flight; the girl who had asked him for his telephone number.
Where on earth had her seen her before?
* * * *
Hannah watched as the Gopal Band set off out of the hotel grounds, a riot of dissonant sounds echoing in its wake. After it on the horse rode the timid young bridegroom in his cream silk wedding suit and red turban, his youngest sister astride behind him, her hands firmly grasped around his waist. A hundred or more male wedding guests accompanied them.
“Now we go,” Rasika explained and gently took Hannah’s arm.
Again Hannah fought off a thrill of sensuality. She reached back and tugged the band from her hair, feeling the silky strands caress her shoulders. Rasika steered her to join the back of the parade with the other women. They know their place, Hannah reflected.
The noisy cavalcade crossed the main road, halting the never-ending stream of assorted vehicles. Drivers of trucks and unlit buses hooted and waved. They turned into a side alley. Darkness. Then came a portable generator and light returned, porters with enormous electric lamps lighting the way. The Gopal Band’s monster drew to a halt every fifty meters or so—an impromptu street dancing display by the men, which got wilder and louder as the procession neared its destination, fortified, no doubt by occasional swigs of something in a bottle that Hannah glimpsed being furtively handed around. The women, prohibited by dignity and tradition from joining in such cavorting, pointed and laughed at the antics of their men folk.
Eventually, after many more twists and turns, several more dancing stops, and a great deal of excitement, they reached the marriage hall.
Everyone, including the horse, piled into a starry corridor of white party lights, under the gaze of a video camera. It opened up into a meeting hall wildly decorated with streamers and multi-colored lamps. The bride’s guests were already assembled, some standing in groups talking, others seated on long rows of plastic chairs. Some rushed up to the arriving party to take photographs. Bridegroom, pillion passenger, and horse posed patiently until the photographers were satisfied. Only then was the horse dismissed and the bridegroom led onto the stage at the front to be joined by his tiny bride, enshrouded in red silk and weighed down with gold jewelry.
More photographs. Groups, taking it in turn to pose alongside them, besieged the young couple on the stage. A party of men, then women, the bride’s sisters, the bridegroom’s aunts. And so it went on. The only common link appeared to be Hannah, who, despite protesting good-humoredly, was dragged onto the stage again and again to be part of each picture. Without doubt she was receiving far more attention than the bride and bridegroom, who sat in silence, eyes downcast, looking thoroughly miserable. Hannah was angry with herself for leaving her own camera in the hotel safe. An opportunity missed.
She wondered about the pair. Perhaps they’ve only just met. Poor girl. Will they remember me in years to come, or will they look at their wedding photographs and puzzle about the identity of the white Amazon who appears in each one? They look so traumatized. Arranged marriage, she reflected, a strange, incomprehensible mystery. And yet…
Her grandmother’s words came into her mind, briefly blotting out the uproar of the band. She’d been telling Hannah about her late husband, Grandfather Rosen. His parents had come to England from Romania at the turn of the century. They met for the first time on their wedding day, she had said. It was the usual thing in those little East European shtetls. And even today, marriages are sometimes arranged among the very orthodox. Once again, the Rosen ancestors seemed to be telling her that India was not so remote.
Hannah snapped out of her thoughts. The band’s playing was wilder than ever now. Repetitive, atonal, uncoordinated, eardrum splitting. But it was also uninhibited, celebratory, exciting, and mesmerizing.
Time to eat. The guests rushed to the back of the hall where plates of food were distributed. Rasika came for Hannah.
“You will please come upstairs with my family.”
Upstairs, peace and quiet hit like an anesthetic.
Family members introduced themselves while Hannah tucked into the vegetarian feast of rice, dal, endless different vegetable dishes, sweet milk desserts, sticky cakes, and fruit. Rasika told her that many of the guests who were staying at the Pandava had made the long journey from the groom’s family home in Rajasthan. Nobody needed to tell her that these were people of considerable wealth, status, and education.
Rasika introduced her to a young man with a large moustache.
“This is my cousin. A psychoanalyst.”
Hannah nodded a greeting. “I’m surprised you need psychoanalysts here. You Indians seem so well balanced.”
He laughed. “Well, in fact, I’m working in US. I’ve only come over for the wedding.”
“America? Actually, I did a short course in psychotherapy over there a while ago—nothing professional. Just wanted to get clued up because of some work I was doing at the time.”
“And what work might that be?”
“Oh, just studying faces in a rehab center, that’s all. I’m a photographer.” She wasn’t about to divulge her insurance scam investigations.
“Interesting. And how d’you like Chennai?”
“I’ve only just arrived. Had a little walk near the hotel this afternoon, but that’s all.”
“I know. I’m in the next room to yours. I was in the garden and saw you return. Did your friend catch up with you?”
“Friend?” Her heart began to pound.
“Slim guy in shades.”
Hannah stared at the man.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“That guy who came out of your room.”
“I don’t know anyone,” Hannah said. “I’m traveling alone.”
“Oh, that’s odd,” the psychoanalyst said. “But sure he came out of your room. You didn’t find anything missing?”
“No. Well…just a brochure. But I think that must have been the chambermaid.”<
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“Then he probably mistook your room for his own.”
“Yes. I’m sure that’s what it was. So, where do you live in America?”
Hannah’s outer calm belied the rapid contingency plans forming in her mind. Must stay here as long as possible.
“California,” the psychoanalyst said. “Santa Monica. That’s part of LA. You know it?”
Hannah nodded. “Friend of mine lives in LA. Great place. D’you have any famous patients?” she asked, as she made silent decisions. Don’t be impulsive. Don’t go back to the Pandava. He may be waiting. Stupid to try and tackle him alone. Let him find me in Bangalore. Everything I need is with me in the neck-pouch—money, credit cards, travelers’ checks, tickets, passport.
“Sure. Can’t divulge their names though, sorry!” He laughed.
“Course not. Wouldn’t expect you to. Do you miss India?” Forget clothes and rucksack. Buy new ones in Bangalore.
“Well, to be honest with you, I have great life in US. My kids are totally American. It’s my home now. But I do miss…”
Hannah tried hard to show interest, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Go straight to the airport from here and spend what remains of the night there.
The psychoanalyst was still talking. Should she ask this cousin of Rasika to help her? Could she trust him? The Bannerman experience made her recoil at the thought of confiding in anyone connected with a US Psychiatric Institution. Irrational, but she couldn’t help her feelings. Once again, she was on her own. Years of exposure to sensitive situations had made her resourceful. For that she was grateful.
Then another thought struck her. How the blazes do I get to the airport? Celebrations will last till the early hours. Never be able to find a taxi then. Have to leave now. What time is it? Bloody hell! Already past one a.m.
Hannah spotted Rasika across the room.
“Excuse me,” she said to the psychoanalyst. “I have to speak to someone.”
She sought out Rasika.
“I’m really sorry,” she told her, “but I’ve got to go.”
“So soon? The festivities will continue until morning.”
“I know. But there’s something I’ve got to take care of before I leave Chennai tomorrow.”
“I understand.”
“Could you call a taxi for me?”
“A taxi? Oh, that would be difficult. But perhaps we can rouse an auto. I will see what can be done.”
An autorickshaw. Unlikely to want to go all the way to the airport. Still, she reasoned, if I offer him enough…
It was a full half hour before a servant tapped her on the shoulder.
“Madam, car is here.”
So they did manage to find a taxi after all. Hannah looked for Rasika to say goodbye, but the girl was nowhere to be seen among the mass of people.
The car was parked outside the marriage hall in the dark, unlit street.
A battered, rusting Ambassador. The front seat next to the driver was taken up by a pile of junk—boxes, papers, and a mountain of old rags. The back benchseat was navigable, despite the stuffing that was shed over it. Hannah climbed into it. Next to her was a large box, from which a foul stink seemed to emanate. Hannah could make out a rounded, football-sized shape protruding from the top.
“Chennai Domestic airport, please.” The driver, whose tiny frame was so dwarfed by the tattered seat of the big car that only the top of his roughly-wrapped turban was visible over the seat-back, nodded silently and set off.
For a while, the taxi wound through the narrow alleyways. Sometimes it hardly had room to pass, and she thought it would hit the buildings either side. Finally they reached a wide road. The taxi followed this for several miles. It was still quite busy. Hannah looked out of the window and saw that they were driving along the coast. The sea, its infinite blackness punctuated here and there by the lights of a fishing craft, was to their left. The town center receded, stores and offices giving way to sporadic outcrops of huts, ill defined against the dark, moonless sky.
Hannah felt uneasy. There had been no sea near the airport when she had arrived in the morning. She spoke to the driver.
“Excuse me. You’re sure this is the way to the airport?”
The driver did not respond. Now he turned right, away from the sea, down another small, bumpy, unmade road, into total blackness. There were no habitations here to provide even a glimmer of candlelight.
Hannah screamed at the driver. “Airport! Take me to the airport! This is not the way! Where are you taking me?”
No response. The car plunged on. What was going on? Was this her enemy from England? Or what if he wasn’t working alone? Perhaps this man had been ordered to take her somewhere. She felt for the door. Better to risk broken limbs by leaping into the unknown than to face the terrors that awaited her at the end of this journey. The door handle was broken. She couldn’t open it. The stinking box blocked the other door. She tried not to think about what might be inside it. But was it really coming from the box? This was the same, familiar rotten stench, wasn’t it?
Her head spun. She struggled to get a hold of herself.
She screamed again. “Who the hell are you? What d’you want with me?”
No response.
“You’re a madman!” she shouted. “Why have you followed me from England?”
No response.
She stopped thinking, and instinct took over. Suddenly her hands were around the driver’s scraggy neck, shaking and shaking until, no longer able to control the vehicle, he jammed his foot onto the brake. The car skidded for several seconds before it slammed into a bush and stopped. Only then did Hannah release her grip. The driver lurched forward against the windscreen, moaning.
Hannah threw herself over onto the front passenger seat, kicking the driver’s body as she did so. She tore open the car door and launched herself into the stifling, moon-deprived void. Sightlessly, she staggered back down the road. Every few seconds, she stumbled into potholes.
Footsteps behind her. Footsteps gaining on her. Hannah risked a glance back.
Damn it! The man had a torch. Nothing for it but to speed up, despite the hidden obstacles. She ran, faster and faster, but the light slowly crept up on her.
She fell. She lay spread-eagled on the gravel, aware only of the man’s approaching footsteps and the need to disappear before she could be picked out by the torchlight. With a mighty effort, she rolled herself sideways off the road. She felt herself drop down into a muddy ditch and lay still. The stink of her hiding-place filled her nostrils. A slimy, crawling thing slid across her legs. She dared not move, dared not breathe.
She heard her pursuer draw level. He stopped. She buried her face deeply in the mud and silently cursed her auburn hair, which would betray her like a beacon when the torchlight found her. Even without seeing, she knew that the light was slowly moving across her body.
The silence was absolute in the night-muffled air. Then, unbelievably, Hannah heard the footsteps carry on down the road.
Now what? Should she continue to play dead in case he returned? Not a good idea, she decided. Goodness knows what he might do to her if he found her. On the other hand, what if he heard her move? She remembered the car. What were the chances of starting it? Was it worth a try? Her filthy refuge was loathe to give her up and sucked her down with a sickening plop when she tried to raise herself. After several more attempts, she staggered to her feet. She made her way back up the road as quickly as she dared, until she reached the vehicle. The headlights were still on, and the key was in the ignition. Gingerly, she climbed into the driver’s seat and felt for the controls. She glanced out of the window, and her heart nearly stopped. In the distance, heading towards her, was a tiny beam of light. He was returning.
Come on, baby! She said a silent prayer as she grabbed the gear lever on the steering wheel and rammed it into neutral. She turned the key. The car sprang into action, only to shudder to a halt within seconds. Now she was sobbing. “Please!” she begged, as she tr
ied again. This time it took longer to start, but it held. Jamming her foot on the clutch, she forced the protesting vehicle into reverse and shot backwards across the road.
“Come on!” she shouted, pushing the lever into first and somehow finding the strength to turn the steering wheel. The man was running and had nearly reached the car. Only two more steps and he would be able to grab the door handle and pull her out.
The car was back on the road. She had done it. “Put your foot down!” she shouted to herself. With a leap, the car shot off. Hannah wept with relief as she negotiated the narrow road. Her joy was short lived. A jolt as something jumped from the boot of the car onto the roof. A piece of cloth flapping across the windscreen. Part of the man’s clothing? The turban? If only she knew how to turn on the windscreen wipers, perhaps the material would get caught up in them and drag him down. She fumbled with one hand on the dashboard as she fought to control the heavy vehicle with the other. She tried every switch. No good. Most of them were defunct.
