by Holly Smale
There appear to be no rules at all.
No regulations. No actual lines on the road. It’s like the polar opposite of Japan: as if somebody took one country and flipped it over.
From what I can tell from my cowering position on the back seat, everybody just ploughs forward as hard as they can and the biggest vehicle wins: as proven by the five-thousand-kilo lorry hurtling towards us on our side of the road.
I whimper and put my hands over my eyes.
There is one death and four road injuries every minute in India: in one year, half a million people will be involved in an accident, a hundred thousand of those fatally.
These are statistically, literally, factually the most dangerous, deadly roads in the world.
At times like this I really wish I didn’t know quite so much.
“Are you OK?” Deepika asks, glancing at me from over the top of her sunglasses.
My hands are clutched in sweaty fists, my stomach feels three times smaller than usual and I can feel terrified sweat prickling down my back, even with the air-conditioning blasting out.
So I think it’s safe to assume the answer to that question is NO LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT …
“Mm-hmm,” I say, squeaking as a scooter with a ten-foot metal spike tied to the back dives around us, missing my window and face by two centimetres.
“We’ll be fine,” she says reassuringly. “This driver knows exactly what he’s doing.”
As if in response, he beeps six times at a lorry loaded with mattresses and yells something aggressive in Indian through the window.
“Mm-hmmm!” I manage.
Then I try to focus on the scenery instead.
As we leave the outskirts of Delhi and head for the countryside, the buildings are becoming increasingly sporadic and ramshackle: slanted and pale, with mismatched floors stuck to the sides and tops like dolls’ house extensions.
Corrugated iron and cardboard are propped everywhere, bright-coloured clothes hang from lines across the front of houses, and people sit on little boxes and benches, eating their lunches.
And as these buildings start to thin out, fields start to appear: long and flat, gold and brown. Rubbish and rubble pile up in heaps at the side of the road.
Camels wander in long lines, smoke drifts.
An enormous truck blasts its horn, telling us to get out of the way immediately or it will crush us to death and this whole plan will have been my fatal undoing.
My ears have gone completely numb.
You know what?
I think maybe I’ll do my sightseeing when we get to our destination.
“E to the power of K equals half M V squared,” I whisper quickly, closing my eyes again. “V equals I R. F equals M V squared over R. P V equals n RT. S equals D over T.”
Speed equals distance over time.
That last one is important: the faster we go, the quicker this is all over.
“Physics formulas,” Deepika says approvingly. “That’s a new one. We’re going to have to go a little faster, I’m afraid, or we’re going to miss it. Keep doing your homework and I’ll let you know when we get there.”
So I slump even further down and put my fingers in my ears.
And I revise as hard as I can.
he good news is: I’m alive.
The even better news is that by the time the car finally stops and I fall out of the back-seat door, sweating profusely and breathing through my mouth, I’ve done all my physics revision for the next two weeks.
And a tiny bit of biology.
Plus a few particularly difficult maths problems and a little of Jasper’s A-level history project about the Cold War, just for the fun of it.
It was a very productive three and a half hours.
And also by far the most terrifying of my entire life.
“See?” Deepika says as I collapse on the kerb with wobbly legs and wait for my adrenalin levels to return to normal again. “All in one piece.”
She obviously can’t see the contents of my stomach or head. Or the bad dreams about five-thousand-kilo trucks I’ll be having for the next five years.
“I’m afraid we’ve got to get moving,” she says smoothly, bending down to help me up. “I don’t want to sound heartless, but we have –” she looks at her watch again – “twenty-three minutes before this shoot starts.”
Blimey. Even Yuka wasn’t this punctual.
My hands are still shaking, my head is still spinning, but I am a professional I am a professional I am a professional …
“Of course,” I say, standing up with a slight totter and smoothing my decidedly sweaty and sticky black Lycra clothes out. “Please lead the way.”
We walk down a tiny back street.
It’s a lot quieter here: ornate, mismatched, slightly dishevelled, but with noble and intricate buildings in pinks and pale greens and oranges that lean against each other on a dusty, pale grey road.
It looks ancient but incredibly charming.
OK, India: I think we got off on the wrong foot.
Let’s start again.
“So where exactly are we?” I ask as I’m led through tiny, winding streets: the air warm and thick with the smell of flowers and incense and spices and – I’m just going to say it – cow poop. “What is this place?”
“This is Mathura,” Deepika says, gliding half a step in front of me. “It’s the birthplace of Krishna and one of India’s seven holy cities.”
“Krishna? As in, the eighth incarnation of the Hindu god Vishnu, usually portrayed as a blue-skinned child with a flute?”
Deepika glances over her shoulder at me.
“I did a project on him for religious education in Year Three,” I explain quickly. “We had to pick a deity to write about.”
Actually, that sounds kind of disrespectful, doesn’t it? Your deeply held beliefs neatly summarised and written down in my folder? TICK.
“That’s the one.” She takes a smooth turn into an even smaller back alley and we have to wedge our way past an enormous cow, placidly blocking the path. “In that case, you must know what day it is today.”
I really, really don’t. Curse you, Year Three project.
Despite your A+ grade, you’ve totally let me down.
Sadly I’ve got way too much pride to ask so I nod earnestly as if I do and hope somebody drops a more specific hint later.
With an abrupt twist, Deepika draws to a stop, knocks on a small green door and pushes it open.
It’s a packed restaurant, full of intense spicy smells, of bright clothes, of loud noise, of warm smiles. “Namaste!” somebody shouts, followed by a chorus of “Aapka swagat hai!” “Kya chal rahaa hai?”“Aap kaise hain?”
“No time,” Deepika says firmly, politely pushing through the room and glancing at her watch. “Sorry, guys. Later.”
“Awwww,” a young man says cheerfully, as I smile shyly at everyone. “Deeps, you’re no fun now you’re important.”
Deepika flicks an unimpressed hand at him.
Then she speeds up: leading me into a tiny, turquoise-painted and peeling room in the back into which they’ve somehow managed to stuff six people.
“You must be Harriet!” a woman says, taking my satchel off me. “Just in time!”
“You cut that a bit fine, Deepika,” another lady says, holding a foundation pallet up against my face. “We thought you were going to miss it.”
“This is going to be the fastest styling ever.”
I blink at them, then at Peter Trout: leaning against a wall in a totally different but really very similar denim jacket to the one I saw him in last, holding a plain can of drink.
He nods at me, then leaves the room.
I’m starting to wonder if he really took in any of my Fizzy Drink project: it’s very hot, and sugar and caffeine can actually dehydrate you further.
“Right,” Deepika says, glancing at the clock on the wall and gently pushing me into a chair, “we have thirteen minutes. Let’s go.
”
’m not a very big fan of surprises.
As a small child, I did my homework four times: once to work out what I was going to say, another time to decide how to spell it, and a third time in pencil to make sure I didn’t accidentally end up halfway through a word at the end of a line, thereby ruining everything.
And only then did I go over it in pen.
When I already knew how the whole thing would go and how it was going to end.
If you plan it out, you’re always prepared.
Nothing can destabilise you.
So as I sit in the chair in that tiny turquoise room and watch the women scurry frantically around me, I’ve already projected a fair idea of what’s going to happen next.
It’s laid out neatly in pencil in my head.
First, I’ll get dressed in a beautiful silk sari: purples and peaches, or maybe reds and oranges to go with my hair.
Then I’ll be led outside where I’ll stand in front of some impressive, three-thousand-year-old building with my cheeks sucked firmly in and my shoulders back.
So far, so perfectly ready.
Which is why when they pull out a pair of pale denim shorts and a plain vest something in my head wobbles slightly.
And when they paint on almost no make-up – just enough to cover my spots and make my eyes more visible – and ruffle my hair up so it’s wavy and scruffy, my brain rocks a bit more.
What’s going on?
“Hurry hurry hurry,” Deepika mutters as I’m given a pair of comfy white trainers. “Guys, come on.”
She’s not very cat-like any more.
Or if she is, her tail is definitely starting to twitch.
The stylist brandishing a hairbrush but not actually using it takes a few steps back and surveys me with her head cocked to one side. “Done,” she says happily. “Luckily you’re only a tiny bit shorter than …”
She clears her throat.
They’re obviously on strict instruction to pretend I’m not second choice.
“Finally,” Deepika sighs. “How long does it take to put a bit of mascara on?” Then she grabs my hand and starts pulling me out of the room again.
The restaurant is now empty.
A small TV is still blaring in the background, but there’s nobody else around: not a waiter, not a smiling face, not a single cheerful comment.
Just a few bowls of dhal lying half eaten and abandoned on tables and a couple of prowling cats.
I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m starting to worry I’ve been brought here for the end of the world.
Skipping between the empty seats, Deepika drags me outside. We jog back through the tiny streets: running round cows and hopping over cracked pavements.
“Anish, Harriet,” Deepika says quickly to a man standing on the corner with an enormous camera and a clear plastic raincoat over his head. “Harriet, Anish.”
The photographer grins, reaches out from under the coat and grabs my hand. “Namaste.”
“Namaste,” I say uncertainly, glancing into the bright blue sky. “Is it about to rain? Because it looks pretty hot to m—”
An enormous shout suddenly fills the air.
“Bees! Unnis! Attharah!”
Still beaming, Anish pulls me towards the end of the path. “Satrah!” The yelling is getting louder. “Solah! Pandrah!”
“Good luck, Harriet!” Deepika shouts after us.
“What’s going on?” I don’t speak Indian, but I don’t need to: a countdown sounds like a countdown in any language. “What’s about to happen?”
“Chaudah! Tayrah! Baarah!”
The shouting is so loud it’s almost painful: ripping through the sky like thunder.
“Gyaarah! Das!”
“You’ll see!” Anish shouts. “Just go with it!”
And – with a huge grin of excitement – he tugs me into a wide road filled with the biggest crowd I have ever seen in my life. Tens of thousands of people: shoved tightly together without a single space between them.
Yelling, cheering, holding their hands in the air, beaming from ear to ear.
“Nau! Aath!” they scream at the top of their voices. “Saat! Che! Paanch!”
“I don’t understand,” I shout, grabbing Anish’s arm as he pulls the transparent raincoat tightly over both his head and the camera. (“Chaar! Teen!”) “What do you want me to do?”
“Enjoy it!” he yells back.
“Do! Ek! SHUNYAAAAAAA!”
With a piercing scream of excitement, there’s an enormous bang.
And the air is filled with colour.
was wrong.
No amount of pencil or draft outlines could ever have prepared me for this.
Hundreds of neon powder explosions are exploding in every possible direction: vivid reds, neon blues, fluorescent yellows, luminous pinks. They puff into the air in brilliant clouds and rain down: covering everyone in colours.
With shouts of joy, people grab handfuls of orange and purple paint and throw them at each other: smearing them jubilantly across noses and foreheads, rubbing them into necks and along arms.
Shining spurts of brightly coloured water shoot overhead; greens and pinks shower from above us; indigo and cobalt smoke drifts to my left; lavender and magenta waft from the right.
There are pale blues and baby pinks, limes and mints, burgundies and navies.
Golds and yellows and silvers.
Jasper was right: I can see so many more colours than I ever thought existed.
And I know it’s not physically or scientifically possible, but I think I just found the end of the rainbow.
“Harriet!” Anish shouts, still pointing the enormous camera at me from under his now very appropriate raincoat. “Do something!”
Quickly, I try and pull myself together.
I’m here to model: not stare at the rainbow-coloured sky and wonder how I could possibly have forgotten about Holi, the ancient Hindu Festival of Colour.
Except I realise that I’ve got nothing to model with. Where’s my product? What fizzy drink am I supposed to be trying to sell? How am I supposed to know what to channel – or who – without being told or shown?
Why has nobody briefed me?
I slip into the first position I can think of: chin up, neck extended, body turned slightly to the side. Focusing, I put my hand on my hip and lower my eyes at the camera.
I try desperately to pose as the crowd jostles around me, singing and shouting.
“No!” Anish yells, holding a hand up to his mouth.
I can barely hear him over the crowd. “No?”
“No! This isn’t fashion, Harriet! We don’t want posing! No pouting! No attitude! Just relax and have fun!”
I swallow anxiously. No posing? No pouting? No attitude?
Relax and have fun?
Are they kidding me? They want me to throw everything I’ve learnt over the last fifteen months straight out of the window?
As the crowd screams in delight around me, I do my best to loosen my shoulders, spin towards the camera again and try to give it my most enigmatic expression.
“No!” Anish yells again.
I turn head on and try to smile widely.
“No!”
A stranger covered in pinks and yellows with green hair throws his arm abruptly around me. “WE CELEBRATE LOVE AND LIFE TODAY!” he yells in my ear. “NOW WE ARE ALL THE COLOURS!”
I blink as another technicoloured explosion of powder goes off next to me.
“Dekho!” somebody else screams happily.
“This is for you!” a girl yells with a grin, grabbing a handful of paint and smearing it on my cheek. “I give you the gift of yellow!”
“And blue!” a young boy yells, lobbing at me.
“Orange!” It gets smeared across my forehead.
“Green and red!” They go in my hair.
I’m being swiftly covered in thick, colourful powder and paint; I’ve never been messier or less in control in my entire life; ne
ver been more out of my comfort zone or less like a model.
I’ve never been brighter.
Blinking, I start to laugh.
“Yes, Harriet!” Anish yells as pinks and yellows explode into the air like flowers. “Enjoy it! Just let go!”
Let go. Let go. Let go, Harriet.
I don’t know how … I can’t afford … What’s going to happen if I … What about my plans, my lists and outlines, the box in my …
Sugar cookies to it.
With a shout, I throw my head back and fling my arms out wide. I open my eyes and gaze up at all the colours, shooting over my head like fireworks.
Let go, Harriet.
And finally, I do.
don’t know how long we shoot for.
With colours exploding in every direction and music pumping, I laugh and dance, spin and throw paints around: singing incoherently with strangers and hugging people at random until Anish grabs my arm.
“We’ve got to go!” he yells in my ear. “That was brilliant!”
Honestly, I’d forgotten he was even there: all concept of a camera or a modelling job or the fact that I’ve been flown thousands of miles for thousands of pounds totally melted away.
I wasn’t trying, and it was the best shoot I’ve ever done.
“That was amazing!” I yell, following him out of the crowd, breathing heavily and – judging by the bright orange and green strands of hair stuck to my face – looking kind of like an overgrown Oompa Loompa.
“Sorry we didn’t have time to brief you,” he smiles over his shoulder, removing the raincoat. “We needed to hurry or …”
He gestures at the crowd behind us.
There are still enthusiastic puffs of bright smoke and powder, but the paints are starting to sludge together into browns and khakis and everyone is beginning to look a bit straggly and unkempt.
As much fun as they’re all still having, the photogenic window of opportunity was clearly narrow.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I say politely, wiping a yellow hand across my forehead and watching as it comes away bright pink, “what has any of this got to do with fizzy drinks?”
