by kc dyer
I can hide in there until he gets bored.
Unfortunately, there’s once again a lineup at the unisex WC, and the toilet with the disabled symbol on the door boasts a large, handwritten “Out of Order” sign that appears to be Scotch-taped in place.
Dom squeezes past the people in the toilet queue and reaches out to me.
“Here—I wanted to make sure you didn’t go hungry.” He pushes a small packet into my hand.
I pull both hands back, letting the packet fall to the floor.
“I can look after myself, thank you.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I flash back to the train station in Mumbai, of course, and Priti’s small hands, helping me up. I push the image of her kind face away and turn back toward my seat.
Behind me, I can hear Dominic’s voice say something quietly, and then a much louder “Thank you, sah!” Ignoring all this, I walk back to my seat, hoping he will take the hint.
He does not.
“Look,” I hiss, not wanting to disturb the baby, who is finally sleeping again. “It’s perfectly clear you want to win this thing at any cost. I get that. But I do too. So you go on, putting yourself first. I’ll make my own way. And we’ll see who wins in the end.”
His eyes widen, and for a minute he looks really hurt, before his face clouds over again.
“Me?” he splutters. “I’m not the one who’s giving people handouts and labeling my photos “hashtag refugees.” It might make you feel better, but that sort of white-savior thinking helps no one. I know this is a race. But this trip is also a chance to learn something—for both of us. We should be listening and watching. You need to check your privilege, not coast on it all the way back to New York.”
“My privilege?” I can feel my face burning. “What privilege? I’m broke, my uncle’s broke, and your evil boss is going to take what little we do have away. And if he doesn’t, you will. How is that privileged?”
Too late, I realize I’ve forgotten to keep my voice down, and the baby begins to cry.
“You should leave,” I say, pitching my voice lower. “We’re done here.”
Dominic bends toward the mother, and I hear him apologize. Without another word to me, he turns and walks off down the aisle.
I apologize to the young mother also, and to my own seatmate. As Dominic vanishes through the door at the end of the car, she rises to make room for me, and steps into the aisle.
Still fuming, I take my own seat.
I’ve never in my life been accused of benefitting from my race, which is what I think he’s implying. Stuck in my seat as the train gathers speed, I can feel the fury bursting out of me.
“Privilege? How can he even say that? He doesn’t know my life,” I blurt to Stitching Lady, who has switched threads to a gentle shade of buttercup yellow.
She smiles at me. “You are on a journey together, you and your friend?”
I have to clench my teeth at this, in order not to frighten the baby.
“He is not my friend,” I hiss. “He’s—he’s . . .”
And I don’t know if it’s her grandmotherly vibe, or the fact that I’ve been alone too long, but before I know it, I’ve told her everything. The trip, my uncles, the bookshop, Frank Venal, and every single thing about Dominic. His betrayal of my family. His ongoing quest to beat me at every turn, including having a zillion more followers on social media. How unfair his accusations are. I tell her about my life in New York, the rainbow of friends and neighbors I have, the diverse choices I make when I read. All the times I have taken a stand against injustice, marched for change. How I only wanted to help Sumaya and her fellow travelers, and how hurt I was to not even get a chance to really say goodbye to her.
Everything.
In retrospect, I have to admit it’s possible I went a teeny bit overboard. But I was provoked, okay?
By the time I finish, Stitching Lady has embroidered the entire bodice of a dress in tiny, delicate flowers. When I flop back into my seat, exhausted at this outpouring of emotion, she carefully folds her needle into a paper packet that she stows in her handbag.
“You say this man is not your friend. But it is our friends who tell us the difficult things. The things about ourselves that we may not want to hear. Our enemies do not try to help us in this way. This boy Dominic, he is African, yes?”
“Samoan,” I blurt. “But only half. His dad was white.”
Stitching Lady stifles a yawn. “All the same. He worries for his family too. He is a man, and he may see things differently, but he is speaking his truth to you. That’s worth something, yes?”
And with this pronouncement, she rolls up her project and promptly falls asleep.
* * *
—
The train wheezes to a stop twice more before I’m all the way cooled down. When the conductor passes by after lunch, he confirms that while the train will arrive later than scheduled, three hours isn’t that bad in the greater scheme of things. We had been due in around three, so our expected arrival should be half past six, or not much later, he insists.
When the old lady adjusts herself sideways in her seat, I slide by and go off to find Dominic. I’m not sure I agree with Stitching Lady’s point, but I shouldn’t have dropped the food he brought me on the floor. And he’s right about the hashtag thing.
There are only six sleeper compartments on this train, which I know from trying, and failing, to book one. They are all in the first car, behind the engine, so I decide to head up there and apologize. No one answers my knock at the first three doors, but the fourth door is ajar, so I open it wider with one hand while tapping lightly with the other.
Inside, a table is set up with two glasses and a plate. The plate holds a crumple of foil wrap and a few crumbs, nothing more. A door to a tiny closet door is open, blocking my entrance. At the sound of my knock, a voice says: “Oh good, you’re back. Did they have any more of the dal?”
The closet door closes, and I find myself staring in shock at the startled face of Sumaya.
chapter thirty-eight
IMAGE: Yellow Rik
IG: Romy_K [Howrah, India, April 15]
#KolkataBound #AChangeofPlan
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The door swings closed behind me, and, on shock-induced autopilot, I shuffle to one side as Dominic brushes past. He’s carrying a small tinfoil package in one hand and a spoon in the other.
“I thought I told you not to let anyone in,” he whispers to her, but she shrugs.
“It’s only Romy.”
“This time. But if the conductor sees you, he could put you off the train. You know that, Sumaya. We’ve talked about it.”
Feeling incapable of speech, I look from her face, which bears the slightly sullen expression teenagers from time immemorial wear whenever under scrutiny, to his, which looks mostly worried. Maybe a little defensive, actually, the longer I stare at him.
“What—are you doing here?” I whisper to her. “Are all the others here too?”
Sumaya shakes her head, and her lower lip protrudes a fraction.
“I’m going to find my auntie,” she says. “Dominic is helping me.”
I whirl to look at him. “What the hell are you thinking?”
“Look, you need to keep your voice down,” he says quietly. “Why are you even here? I thought you were done with me.”
“I—came to apologize,” I mutter. “I mean, about the food thing, and anyway—never mind what I’m doing here! That’s no longer the issue.”
The berth is not exactly roomy, and by the time I’m finished speaking, I realize I’ve got one of my fingers pointed right in his face.
“I think maybe we need to sit down,” says Dominic. “Let me double-check the lock.” He hands the package and spoon over to Sumaya, whose face lights up, animosity forgotten. I sit down beside her as she peels t
he foil off the top and starts in on the contents.
Dominic slides into the bench seat across from us, and while Sumaya happily eats her snack, he starts to talk.
* * *
—
The story is not long. It boils down to Dominic helping Sumaya climb through a washroom window behind the customs office at the docks in Mumbai, while the captain was busy shepherding the rest of the refugees into the custody of immigration authorities. Sumaya’s goal has always been to find her auntie, who escaped Somalia when she was tiny, and whom she believes is making her living as a hairdresser in Hong Kong.
While Dominic is clearly worried about getting caught, “I’m helping to get her to Hong Kong,” he says defiantly.
“Don’t be angry at Dom,” interjects Sumaya, having expertly cleaned out her bowl with one finger. “It’s on me. I talked him into it on the little boat ride over to the docks. Even the duffel bag was my idea.”
“He is a grown man,” I say sharply, and regret it instantly, when she cringes away from me.
“I only mean—none of this is your fault,” I mutter. “You’re just a kid.”
“Which is why this is happening,” says Dominic. “It’s April fifteenth already. I’ve got almost no chance of making it back to New York on time. Since everything else on this fucking wild goose chase has been a fail, maybe one good thing can come out of it.”
“Don’t swear,” blurts Sumaya, and then turns to me. “Are you going to tell the conductor?”
The moment of silence that follows her question feels like an eternity. An eternity where Old Romy and New Romy wrestle for supremacy—each with her own valid arguments and a strong will to live. Organization versus spontaneity. Status quo versus the great unknown. Fright versus right. There can be only one winner.
Old Romy takes a shuddering, final breath, and dies on the floor.
“Of course I’m not,” I say, at last. “But let’s go over the rest of your plan.”
* * *
—
By the time the train finally crawls into Howrah, we have the narrowest bones of a plan in place, and I’m back in my seat. Most of the travelers swing themselves off the creaking cars before they even grind to a halt at the station. Stitching Lady, whose name turns out to be Mrs. Gupta, wishes me well on my journey, as she collects up her travel bag.
“You have undertaken a great deal,” she says. “I hope you find a way to enjoy it while it is happening.”
This gives me pause. “How do I do that?” I blurt. “Every time I blink my eyes, something new is in front of me.”
She chuckles, a low rumble deep in her chest. “This is true. But what you must do is settle on one thing. One thing you can see. One point of beauty, and focus on that.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say, and thinking of Sumaya, manage a smile.
“I will make an offering to Ganapati for you, Ramona,” she replies, patting my shoulder kindly. “I pray that he may remove all obstacles in your path.”
And with that, she is gone.
I stuff my daypack into my much emptier suitcase and hurry out onto the station platform to look for a tall man carrying a large duffel bag.
* * *
—
Since this isn’t a border crossing—at least not yet—things actually unfold pretty smoothly. Once we’re out of the station, Sumaya climbs out of her hiding place and the three of us go in search of a good internet connection. Howrah turns out to be a fairly industrialized city, with the railway station just across the bridge from Kolkata.
In the time it takes me to reserve passage on a ship crossing the South China Sea from Haldia to Hong Kong, Dominic and Sumaya have found a taxi driver willing to take us across the river to Kolkata. We have a worrisome amount of distance to cover, but I can’t see any alternative. Phileas Fogg took a steamer from Calcutta, so I book one for us too and hope for the best.
The taxi turns out to be a rik, the local name for the three-wheeled motorized rickshaws. This one makes the little yellow machines buzzing through the streets of Mumbai look like high technology. It’s a three-wheeled, World War II–era motorcycle, with a torn canvas roof soldered onto what looks like a buggy in the back. It’s designed to carry two passengers, but my time dodging overloaded motorbikes in the streets of Mumbai was not for nothing. Dominic and I pile our luggage on the roof, squeeze Sumaya onto our laps in the back, and go.
* * *
—
As we travel through the steaming heat, Sumaya dangles off the side, taking shots of the city on my camera phone. Dominic takes advantage of her distraction to confess in my ear that initially, back at the docks in Mumbai, he’d only planned to help her out the window.
“But once she was out—I couldn’t leave her,” he mutters.
I have a sudden memory of our awkward interactions on the train—when he took the last chapati, and later when I let his peace offering drop to the floor. At this moment, Sumaya swings back inside and lands in my lap, eager to show us the shot she’s taken of the Howrah Bridge, currently lit up in vivid purple. She weighs so little, I have to swallow hard to keep from crying.
“You did the right thing,” I whisper back to him. “Our plan is going to work.”
Kolkata—known during the British Raj as Calcutta, and changed back officially in 2001—is home to India’s oldest and largest river port. West Bengal state abuts Bangladesh, and Kolkata, its largest city, is connected to the region’s biggest seaport, Haldia, by the Hooghly River. And our new little team? We make it all the way to the dockside before things begin to go wrong.
chapter thirty-nine
IMAGE: Stray Dock Kitten
IG: Romy_K [Kolkata, India, April 15]
#PassportProblems #OnlyaGlitch
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Plan to reconnect Sumaya with her auntie in Hong Kong:
1. R departs train by myself, while D & S get off the same way they got on, using Ganesh’s old duffel bag.
2. Turns out Ganesh has been in on this with Sumaya all along, or at least since she confessed her plans to him on the Wahash Mahat. This kid might be the most persuasive individual I’ve ever met. And Ganesh? Has the world’s best poker face.
3. Once train departure is effected, find local travel agent who speaks English. Failing that, go online, book fares on fastest container ship to Hong Kong available.
4. Once tickets secured, hire taxi or rik to transport us to correct dock. If ship sailing requires overnight stay, find a place on travel agent’s recommendation, and take taxi there.
5. On boarding, check suitcases and packs, and carry duffel as hand luggage.
6. Long shot: If all the wheels fall off at any point, text Ganesh via WhatsApp. He has connections in Kolkata.
* * *
—
Kolkata is our last Verne-related checkpoint on the subcontinent. I’ve been plagued by a deep feeling of anxiety since we left the train in Howrah. The rik is so cramped, and it’s not like we don’t stand out at all.
Slightly sunburned white woman, crammed in with skinny Somalian girl and a mocha-colored, scruffily bearded young man, who is head and shoulders taller than anyone we’ve met so far. And it doesn’t help that Sumaya is wearing the clothes she came off the boat in—a cotton dress printed in vivid red, yellow, and orange stripes. The colors have faded substantially from the sun and salt water, but they still pop against her smooth dark skin. I rarely saw her wear a headscarf on the Wahash Mahat, but Dominic must have picked one up for her at one of the train stops. She’s had it on all day, but it, too, is in vivid yellow and orange—this time a floral pattern. Crammed into the rik, where Dom and I are basically sitting underneath our stowaway, it feels as though everyone we pass drops what they are doing to stare at us.
Thankfully, the drive is fairly quick. Shortly after crossing the bridge, the driver drops us outsi
de a shipping company office near the Kidderpore Docks. I hustle Sumaya into the shadows while Dom lines up to collect our tickets. We fought over this in the rik already—who will stay with Sumaya and who will line up. Dominic was adamant that he was the least obtrusive choice to stand in line, but looking over at him, standing a full head and shoulders above anyone else in line, he’s just wrong.
I create a little wall using my suitcase and Dominic’s pack around her, but Sumaya keeps popping up to look at the sights. Just as she’s about to scoop up a skinny stray kitten from the dockside, a man in a white uniform walks around the corner. He looks like he could be navy or police.
I hurriedly fasten my scarf over my hair, and turn my back, but it’s too late. Worse, it’s not a police uniform. I can clearly read the word “Customs” on the blue lanyard around his neck.
The man peers from my face to Sumaya’s and back again, all the while slowly drawing a coil notebook—which, strangely enough, reminds me of Sumaya’s stand-up notes—out of his front pocket.
“Kaagzaat,” he barks, his eyes still beetling back and forth between the two of us.
I give Sumaya a little shove back, and step in front of her, holding out my American passport. “I’m afraid I only speak English, sir,” I say, and hate myself for the quaver I hear in my voice. I clear my throat and try again. “We’re picking up our tickets for Hong Kong.”
I shove the passport into his hand. “Americans,” I say more firmly.
“Thank you very much, madam,” the policeman says, segueing easily into English. His head bobs gently side to side as he examines my passport. “This seems to be in order,” he says, and unexpectedly smiles. His skin is dark, and the flash of his teeth is disarming. I can feel my shoulders relax.
“Everything okay here?” Dominic’s voice sounds worried as he walks over.
