I studied her face. Did she think I was spoiled and didn’t appreciate what life had doled out to me? Was this what Dad had been trying to tell me, in his own way?
Mrs. Lal sipped her tea, glancing at Rohit before staring out the window, a faraway expression on her face. I realized then how disappointed she was with him. At the moment, said subject of our thoughts was tapping his foot in time to the music, totally oblivious.
“I’m sure Rohit appreciates everything you’ve done for him,” I said. “But I think he’d be happiest with his family, no matter what the lifestyle.” There, I’d said it and I hoped Mrs. Lal wouldn’t get mad at me for interfering.
She gave me a small, sad smile. “You’re a loyal friend to my Rohit. He was lonely till he met you. I know you will miss him if he stays here, but his father and I have to make some very tough decisions. It’s not easy to live in New York without a decent income. It might even mean we all have to come back to Mumbai.”
No!
Till I’d met Rohit, I’d been miserable, too. Sucking at sports, being clumsy, and being a fantasy nerd somehow sealed my fate as a lone loser. I had to make sure Rohit came back with me. He was my only friend!
Mrs. Lal leaned forward and patted my knee. “If there is anything you want to talk about, don’t hesitate.” Her eyes gazed into mine. How could she tell something was bothering me? I couldn’t even talk to Ro, so there was no way I’d take her up on the offer.
“Sure, Mrs. L. Thanks.”
Crammed onto the bench beside me was a couple with six kids. One of them stood in front of me, gaping.
“Hey!” I said, smiling.
The boy ran and hid his face in his mother’s lap where another kid was already sitting. A baby was cradled in her arms, sucking noisily at a plastic bottle filled with milk.
About half an hour into the journey, the woman next to me put her kid on the seat and took off to the bathroom. The boy who’d been staring at me came over, climbed onto my lap, and said, “I’m Chottu.”
“I’m Dylan. You want to play?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Okay, know how to arm wrestle?”
He stared at me blankly.
I made him sit beside me and grabbed his hand, our elbows firm on the seat. By way of miming, I explained the rules. Chottu grinned and nodded. We went a couple of rounds where I grunted exaggeratedly while the little shrimp pushed my arm down to the seat with both of his, giggling excitedly.
“Dylan, be careful,” said Mrs. Lal. “It’s not a good idea to play with a stranger’s kid without their permission. They can get touchy.”
The other passengers were watching, clapping and encouraging Chottu, who was having a great time. “Don’t worry, Mrs. L—” I started to say when two things happened at once.
I felt a tickling sensation on my ankle and looked down to see a large cockroach trekking up my leg. I choked back a yell of disgust. I forgot I was still holding on to Chottu’s hand and flailed my arms and legs so hard, I flung him off the seat. Chottu landed on the floor just as his mom returned.
The minute she saw him fall she screeched, putting Hedwig to shame.
“Why you touch my child?” she yelled. “You hurt him, you gora? Bad boy!”
“I’m sorry, really sorry. We were just playing and then this cockroach distracted me,” I explained as I tried to help Chottu up.
But he was bawling—probably from the shock of falling, since he looked fine—which set his mom off even more. It took fifteen minutes of cajoling by Mrs. Lal to calm down Chottu’s mom. A chocolate cake changed hands, too, before things got quiet again.
“Kids are off-limits, Dylan,” said Mrs. Lal grimly. “Don’t even look in their direction. Understood?”
“Sorry, Mrs. L.”
Rohit had watched the whole fiasco but hadn’t said a word. He shook his head and closed his eyes. He would have had my back if we were home. I decided to listen to music and dozed off.
I jerked awake to loud clapping and the sight of three very masculine-looking women invading our compartment. They wore colorful sarees, garish makeup, and lots of glass bangles that clinked on their hairy arms. Who were they? What were they?
“Paisa de Baba, paisa dey do,” the tallest woman sang in a scratchy voice.
She strode over and pinched my cheek. Then, smiling menacingly, she stuck her palm under my nose, begging for money. She reeked of sour sweat and a cloyingly sweet perfume. I almost gagged.
I slapped her hand away. The smile vanished. She called out in Hindi to her companions, who were busy harassing other passengers. They immediately made their way over to me, eyeing me like a tasty tidbit. My pulse raced.
“What … do you want?” I asked, trying not to squeak.
“Money,” one replied, in a guttural voice. “Or you will have too much bad luck.”
“Thanks, but I have plenty of that without your help,” I said.
Mrs. Lal took out a ten-rupee note and shoved it into the hands of the nearest woman. “Take this,” she said sternly, “and please leave us alone.” She added something in Hindi but her tone said it all.
Rohit had pulled out his earbuds and was leaning forward, glaring at the trio. Mrs. Lal put a hand on his knee and he sat back, glancing at me, his eyebrows raised. I nodded imperceptibly to let him know I was okay. I was glad he finally cared.
The tall woman scratched the two-day stubble on her square jaw, clapped rudely in Mrs. Lal’s face, and walked away. Most of the other passengers took out various denominations of rupees and pushed them into the women’s callused hands.
I was seething with anger and, if I was honest, fear, too. “Super-aggressive beggars! Why do you encourage them?” I said.
“Shhhh,” said Rohit, rolling his eyes. “They’re eunuchs called hijdas here.”
I scrubbed the spot where the eunuch had touched me. “Go on,” I said.
“No one argues with hijdas,” Rohit explained. “Easier to give them what they want.”
“Why?”
“Because they’ll abuse and curse you. Most people in India are superstitious. To be cursed by a hijda is bad luck. And if they bless you … you have a run of good luck.”
I thought of Mom then, and the laughing Buddha keychain she took with her everywhere—a gift from her college roomie from Nepal. She would have everyone hunting for it on the rare occasions she misplaced it. In some ways, people were pretty similar the world over. Sometimes it was best to go with the flow.
“Wait!” I called out to a departing hijda.
She turned. I took out a fifty-rupee note and gave it to her. “I need luck. Lots of it.”
She smiled and plucked the note out of my fingers. Then she placed a hand on my head and murmured something, her eyes closed.
“All will be well,” she said. Then she winked at me and sashayed toward the next compartment. The passengers squeezed back, giving her a wide berth.
“That was a lot of money, Dylan,” said Mrs. Lal. “Why?”
“While in India …” I said, hoping she wouldn’t question me too closely.
“All right. But don’t encourage any more beggars or word will spread and we’ll have a stampede here.”
“Just this once,” I replied, hoping I’d been blessed with enough luck to stop whatever was happening with my parents a million miles away.
With a lot left over to bring my friend back home with me.
THE PRESSURE ON MY BLADDER WAS GETTING WORSE even though I’d barely taken a couple of sips of water all morning. “I need to go to the bathroom,” I muttered, nudging Rohit with my foot. He’d put away his iPod a while ago and was gazing at the dusty landscape whizzing past.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said with a frown. “You have to hold on.”
“I’m in pain, Ro!”
Rohit shrugged. “Trust me on this one. You don’t want to go.”
“I’m not sure if you’re stopping me just to make me suffer or if it’s really that bad.”
He tried to swat me and I ducked. Mrs. Lal told us to behave and continued to flip through a magazine. The midday heat made everyone in the compartment drowsy and the noise level had fallen from a deafening roar to a quiet murmur. I was roasting. I wouldn’t be able to handle the heat and my bursting bladder much longer. It would be touch and go.
“This heat’s killing me, Ma,” said Rohit, voicing my thoughts. “Going to Deolali in the peak of summer is a terrible idea.”
“We’re almost there,” Mrs. Lal said calmly. “If anyone has to complain about the heat it should be Dylan and I don’t see him whining. Why don’t you try to be more like him?”
I hated it when Dad compared me to my athletic cousin (who was really into soccer), telling me to be more like him. From Rohit’s scowl I knew she’d hit the wrong nerve, too.
The train clattered on to the steady refrain in my head.
I gotta go pee.
I gotta go pee.
I gotta go pee.
I tried to think of something to distract me. Jalebis, samosas, and biryani. The latest photos I’d taken. Winning the competition and proving Dad wrong. Nothing worked. Visions of peeing my pants filled my head. I glanced at my neighbor with the kids, trying to decide if I should ask for a diaper. Desperate situations called for desperate measures. Unfortunately, since the fiasco with Chottu, his mother glared at me suspiciously every time I looked in her direction.
The train started to slow. Relieved, I looked out the window. The sun was high overhead and the station slid into view. Igatpuri—a rural town before Deolali, Mrs. Lal announced—was nestled among green fields and looked like a postcard. In the distance a girl wearing a bright-yellow skirt and top walked gracefully, a pot balanced on her head. It was such a beautiful scene, I had to take a picture. I snapped a couple of frames while my bladder throbbed painfully.
As the train wheezed to a stop, vendors swarmed up. A filthy hand holding a leaf cup filled with little golden balls and chutney parked itself under my nose. They smelled incredible.
“Aloo vadas,” explained Mrs. Lal, noting my questioning look. “Boiled potatoes mixed with spices, cilantro, and fried in a chickpea batter.”
My stomach growled, my bladder ached, and my throat was parched. I clamped my legs shut and froze in place, not daring to move a muscle. Should I just go to the bathroom and get it over with? A few moments of toilet terror and I’d be a free man—able to breathe, eat, and drink. I decided to give it a few more minutes before making a decision.
Mrs. Lal was still talking. “I’d rather we don’t eat anything from here. I don’t want you to get Delhi belly. Then you will have to use the washroom for number two and it will not be pleasant!”
“What’s Delhi belly?” I asked.
“Diarrhea,” Rohit piped in.
But we’re not in Delhi, I wanted to protest. Instead I nodded as the train started up with a deep shudder. “Gently please, gently,” I muttered under my breath as I clamped my legs tighter, trying not to sob. Rohit seemed to be suffering, too, but he made no attempt to use the train bathroom, either. He looked like someone whose fingernails were being ripped out, one at a time.
As the train pulled away from Igatpuri, I saw a little boy peeing against a wall, sunlight glinting on the arc of water as we sped past. That was it. I cursed him silently and stood up.
“I have to go,” I announced to no one in particular. “Now.”
“All right, Dylan,” said Mrs. Lal with a deep sigh as she handed me a wad of tissues. “Try not to touch anything. Do you want Rohit to go with you?”
I took one look at Rohit’s mutinous expression and shook my head. Then, stepping over bags, parcels, and sleeping kids scattered through the swaying compartment, I made my way to the bathroom. Even as I approached, the stench stopped me dead in my tracks. I sucked it up and took two more steps. Yellow liquid trickled out from under the door. I moved back in the nick of time. Hobbling like Gimli trailing behind Aragorn and Legolas as they searched for the hobbits, I made it back to my seat and didn’t move at all after that. I seriously contemplated stuffing the wad of tissues into my underwear but even for that I’d need privacy.
I softly chanted What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger the rest of the way.
Thankfully the next stop was Deolali. We gathered our stuff and headed toward the door. I was practically tiptoeing. Sheer willpower was the only thing that stood between me and peeing my pants.
Deolali was a bustling city compared with Igatpuri but didn’t come close to Mumbai when it came to sheer population. Wires crisscrossed the low buildings, as if someone had thrown a huge net from the skies, trapping everyone under it.
The waiting hall and ticket counter looked shabby and badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. People in military-green uniforms waited for the train to stop, while porters watched the compartments go past, their shrewd eyes gauging which passengers had the least luggage and the most money to pay for their services. They were dressed in red kurta-pajamas (what I’d thought were pj’s before Rohit enlightened me) with a copper tag bearing a number around their arms.
As soon as we stepped off the train we were surrounded by the gang in red—we qualified for the less-luggage, more-money category. One of them started to tug my backpack off my shoulder.
“HELP!” I yelled. Aggressive beggars on the train and now thieves in the guise of porters. “This man’s trying to steal my backpack. LET GO!”
The man tugged harder. “Come, gora baba!”
“Ruko!” Rohit called out authoritatively. “Koi nahi chahiye.” He pushed his glasses up his sweaty nose and waved him off.
The man backed away, scowling.
“Don’t worry, Dylan,” said Mrs. Lal in a soothing voice. “They are not trying to steal your belongings; they just want to earn a living.”
“And since you looked like a helpless white foreigner …” said Rohit with a shrug.
I punched Rohit on his shoulder a little harder than necessary and he winced.
“If I weren’t in a bit of a delicate situation, I would have carried your bag and mine,” I snapped.
“Same for me, dude,” he said.
“That’s enough, Rohit, Dylan,” Mrs. Lal said. “Let’s get a scootie. I’m sure we all need to get to a clean toilet, fast.”
“Like yesterday,” I said.
“You want to try using the one at the station?” Mrs. Lal asked. “It might be better than the one on the train.”
The doubt in her voice made me hesitate. I shook my head. I’d made it this far, so I might as well go to the one at the flat.
Deolali was hot and humid. We stepped out of the station to an onslaught of scootie drivers. They tugged and pulled us toward their respective vehicles. Their enthusiasm was overwhelming and frankly exhausting as I clutched my backpack close, hoping that in all this tugging and pulling, the dam wouldn’t burst.
“Stay together, boys,” Rohit’s mom squeaked as she wrestled a bearlike driver who was dragging her to his scootie by the strap of her purse.
“Where you go?” the driver growled. “Come, I take you.”
“No, me,” roared another. “I take you. Very cheap fare.”
Rohit scowled as they crowded around us with sweaty faces and bad breath. Suddenly the crowd parted and a buff guy in a blue turban strolled up to us.
“Namaste, Behenji,” said the man in a calm voice. “Where would you like to go? It will be my deepest honor to take you to your destination.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Lal, mopping her face with a handkerchief and giving him a tentative smile. “Gurudwara Road, Deolali Camp.”
I knew I should probably memorize the address but I figured that as long as I stuck with one of the Lals, I didn’t need to.
“Of course. Please to follow this humble driver.”
The other drivers swore at him but moved out of the way. Our burly rescuer shot a volley of rude words at them. An answering volley came at him from all directions. He ignored them.
We followed Muscles to his vehicle, which was this awesome three-wheeled yellow scooter covered with a soft black top. It looked like a fat bee on skates. The driver sat up front and there was room for us to squeeze in at the back. A picture of a six-armed woman wearing animal skins was painted on the side. This man sure had an interesting-looking girlfriend. As I walked around the back to the other side, I noticed three chilies and a lemon hanging next to the tailpipe. Weird place to keep a snack. This guy definitely had odd tastes. Painted on the back was HORN OK PLEASE. When I looked around, almost every scootie had the same message painted on the rear. I had no idea what that meant, but I guess it explained why people honked all the time.
“Shouldn’t we put the luggage in the trunk … er, dicky?” I asked, looking at mother and son to see if they were impressed with my fabulous and accurate memory.
“Get in,” said Rohit. “There’s no dicky in a scootie. Just keep the bag on your lap or wedge it between your feet.”
“Okay,” I said. I wouldn’t have minded balancing the bag on my head if it meant we could get to a clean bathroom faster.
Rohit got in from one side and his mother from the other, sandwiching me in the middle. Rohit jammed his bag between his feet and so did Mrs. Lal. Muscles offered to keep the cooler in front and Mrs. Lal passed it to him. Then Ro and Mrs. L clasped the horizontal bar attached to the back of the driver’s seat, bracing themselves.
“Aren’t you both forgetting something?” I said, looking smugly from one to the other. I could understand Rohit being careless about rules, but Mrs. Lal? That just wasn’t on.
“What?” Rohit replied over the din of Muscles gunning the engine.
“Seat belts,” I roared, groping behind my seat.
“There aren’t any,” yelled Rohit. He grabbed my hand and put it onto the bar. “Why do you think we put you in the middle? Hang on!”
The three-wheeler shot off from the curb and into the midst of the traffic. My bladder gave a warning throb. I clenched my legs and jaw tight as we zigzagged through the narrow lanes, my knuckles white from holding on for dear life. The driver made a sharp turn, flew over a speed bump, and hurtled onto the main road.
Mission Mumbai Page 8
