Forty Eight Hours, a short story from India.

Forty Eight Hours, a short story from India.

In March 2004 I was 25 years old. With not a care in the world, no particular place to be and zero commitments to speak of, I packed up a rucksack and headed off to India. The future lay sparkling and I thought it would last forever.

——

“Samosa… pakora… vegetable cutlet! Samosa… pakora… vegetable cutlet! Samosa… pakora… vegetable cutlet!” The vendor paused outside our carriage door with a hopeful smile, a wide tray of the aforementioned snacks hanging from his scrawny neck. ‘‘No thank you’’ said Lisa and with a subservient nod he was gone. Though we both knew he’d be back before too long.

Dropping my book onto the blanket, I shifted myself up into a sitting position and peered out the window at the countryside rushing by. “Forty seven!” announced Lisa cheerfully from her bed. ‘‘Huh?’’ I responded. ‘‘Hours!’’ she laughed, ‘‘one down, forty-seven to go”. ‘‘Ah yes’’ I grimaced and it suddenly hit me that we’d made a monumental mistake. Forty-eight hours on a train! What were we thinking?

I turned back to my book with a sigh, bracing myself for the challenge ahead. I’d been put through some tricky tests during my time in India and it looked like this one was going to be the final reckoning. In fact, our route from Fort Kochi up to Delhi would take us through two thirds of the country, a staggering 1666 miles!

Forty Eight Hours, a short story from India.

Our last night in Benaulim was a whole heap of fun. Phil, Lisa, Allan and I had one beer too many at our local restaurant and ended up doing what we’d resolved never to do. Namely pay a visit to Domnick’s, the town’s sole nightclub. I say club, but in truth it was a rickety wooden shack with a tiny bar and a dance floor of golden sand.

We got really drunk that night on cheap beers and spirits. Thus I found myself actually dancing (a rare occurrence) to the likes of Y.M.C.A, I Will Survive, D.I.S.C.O and all the other crap I’d normally run a mile from. Besides us, there were perhaps a handful of western tourists and a group of local boys who were clearly diehard regulars. One of them, dressed in a smart buttoned blue shirt, was so thrilled by our presence he went nuts. 

I remember him dancing so close to me we were literally eyeball to eyeball! The kid knocked out some seriously funky dance moves right into my disbelieving face, his arms and legs flailing in all directions. It’s an image I’ll never forget, though my defining memory is of Allan, who was laughing so hard I feared he might pass out.

Forty Eight Hours, a short story from India.

“Samosa… pakora… vegetable cutlet! Samosa… pakora… vegetable cutlet! Samosa… pakora… vegetable cutlet!” He was back outside our door, so I gave him an empathetic nod. Once again he took the rebuttal in good humour, sauntering off down the train with his aromatic goods. ‘‘Thirty two hours’’ said Lisa, nibbling on a cookie. ‘‘Shall we play eye spy?’’

It was tough leaving Benaulim behind, its sleepy atmosphere having made for the most relaxing leg of my Indian travels. Happily, we’d also chosen wisely for our next destination. It was a draining fourteen hours down to the state of Kerala and then a further three to Kochi, a major port on the south west coast.

Allan and I decided to rent an apartment in the city’s charming Fort Kochi neighbourhood. It was a big old building with enough room for Lisa and Phil, who’d be arriving separately over the coming days. Until then, there was plenty to be getting on with and we slipped easily into local life. Indeed our days were idyllic, with regular beach walks and delicious seafood dinners. Moreover, we never missed an opportunity for an evening walk, chiefly to see the Chinese fishing boats and their nets dotted across the promenade. 

Fort Kochi.

Photo courtesy of thebetterindia.

When Lisa joined the party, the three of us spent a day touring Kerala’s rural backwaters in a wooden boat. Our captain was a chatty local called Saab who, with great effort, heaved us along a series of emerald green canals using a cumbersome bamboo pole. “Is easy!’’ he lied, with a breathless laugh.

Eventually, having passed a few villages and several grand houseboats, the narrow waterways broke out into a wide, blue-grey lake where we jumped out for a refreshing swim. Clambering back onboard, our guides welcomed us with a tasty lunch of vegetable curries served on a giant banana leaf. “Enjoy!” ordered Saab and with exchanged smiles we dutifully obliged.

It had been such a fantastic day and I was in fine spirits that evening. Hence I felt totally unprepared for the news Allan gave me back at the apartment after dinner. ‘‘I’m heading home’’ he announced with a regretful smile, before launching into an explanation that involved a number of problems with an apartment he’d been renting out in Edinburgh. The situation was now in need of his presence and, he admitted, it felt like the trip was coming to a natural conclusion anyway.

While I told him that I understood, internally I was gutted. The news had come so suddenly that I was in a bit of a daze the next morning when he left after breakfast. With a brief hug and one last wave for the camera, Allan turned, headed down the lane and disappeared from sight.

Forty Eight Hours, a short story from India.

“Samosa… pakora… vegetable cutlet! Samosa… pakora… vegetable cutlet! Samosa… pakora… vegetable cutlet!” Highly disoriented and confused, I bolted upright, smacking my head on the metal springs of the top bunk. “Bollocks!’’ I cursed and it actually took me a moment to get my bearings.

‘‘Lisa, you awake?’’ There was a long pause followed by the rustling of a blanket. “Yeah, what time is it?” she asked, as cutlet man, barely visible in the darkness, gave up on us and moved on. ‘‘Three a.m.’’ I managed, through yawn-speak, before cursing again and burying my head under the blanket. ‘‘Twenty seven hours’’, came her muffled voice.

“They’re so beautiful!” cooed Lisa, peering out at the seemingly endless row of decorated elephants. A procession of swinging trunks, glittery headdresses and towering parasols. ‘‘Must be a bugger to get them all ready” noted Phil, fiddling with his camera. He’d arrived the day before in a blaze of glory, singing the theme tune to Top Cat. And, I couldn’t help but notice, sporting a leg wound sustained during a moped accident back in Goa.

“Well, I crashed the bloody thing” he explained, with a philosophical shrug.

We were at Kerala’s annual Elephant Festival on a sizzling hot day, the ever-swelling crowds gobbling up what little oxygen there was. In a somewhat pointless attempt to protect myself, I’d fashioned a headdress from a scarf bought at a local market. Yes, I looked like a lunatic. But hey, it kind of did the job. 

Luckily the searing heat didn’t spoil what proved to be another wonderful experience. The locals chanted and clapped, while the elephants performed a graceful march to the sound of thumping drums. In the evening there were fireworks and live music, not to mention the eventful process of trying to get home.

It took us an age to flag down an available rickshaw, and even then we had to share it with another group. Consequently, the vehicle was so horribly overloaded Lisa, Phil and I found ourselves hanging off the sides. We found it hilarious at the time, but looking back it’s a wonder nobody fell out and got seriously injured.

Forty Eight Hours, a short story from India.

Charmed by the beauty and character of Kerala’s elephants, Lisa and I were keen to see more. So we headed out to a nearby sanctuary for some up close and personal time. Set in a verdant river village, Kodanad Elephant Sanctuary was home to twelve elephants, including a pair of adorable babies. It was touching to observe the bond between animal and caretaker. And of course the absolute privilege of getting to wash and feed them.

In the minivan back to Fort Kochi, it struck me how much kinder the second half of my India trip had been to me. And how the creeping claustrophobia of Jaipur now seemed as far away and trivial as a bad dream.

——

‘‘How’s your vegetable cutlet?’’ asked Lisa, taking an uncertain bite of her own. ‘‘I don’t hate it’’ I replied, gazing out the window, but not really looking. I was in a bad mood, with a case of cabin fever that no amount of pacing up and down the train could cure. “Fifteen hours!’’ she said. Reaching over to the little table between our beds, I opened the box of Scrabble we’d brought and began idly sifting through the letters. ‘‘Good idea, let’s go!” enthused Lisa.

‘‘Alright” I said, determined to break out of my malaise. ‘‘First person to spell cutlet is the winner!”

When the Kathakali performance finished Phil and I shot out of our seats and scurried out of the theatre as fast as our legs could carry us. ‘‘Oh dear, I really hope we didn’t offend anyone in there!” I was still laughing hard, my ribs sore, tears pouring down my face.

‘‘Dear god!’’ puffed Phil, wiping his own eyes with a snigger.

A traditional southern Indian dance, the Kathakali show we’d just seen incorporated colourful masks, gaudy costumes and highly dramatised, mimed facial expressions. We hadn’t meant to be insensitive, but Phil and I had found the whole thing so silly we’d begun chuckling to ourselves. To this day I don’t know how it spiralled so far out of control. But we’d at least had the sense to get ourselves out of there before someone ejected us.

Phil and I were still calming down when we got back to the apartment. It was late and yet the three of us sat in the kitchen drinking wine and chatting. It was then, completely out of nowhere, that the realisation hit me like a cold slap to the face.

Lisa and Phil were in the midst of some deep discussion but I was completely detached, unable to focus on anything but the details of what had to be done next. Unsure as to whether the sensation might be a temporary one, I decided to sleep on it and see if I might feel differently in the morning.

However, from the moment I awoke there was an instant understanding that only one course of action lay ahead. ‘‘Can you pass me the milk?’’ asked Lisa. The two of us were rustling up a makeshift breakfast, Phil still fast asleep. As we sat there eating I mulled over the different ways in which I could break the news. Finally, taking a leaf out of Allan’s book, I opted for bluntness.

‘‘Lisa…’’ I ventured, bowl of cornflakes in hand, “I’ve had enough, it’s time for me to go home”.

“Samosa… pakora… vegetable cutlet! Samosa… pakora… vegetable cutlet! ‘‘Sod off!’’ I replied from under the blanket. But he obviously didn’t understand, because I could hear him standing there sniffing and shuffling his feet. When at last he was gone I emerged from my bed and gave Lisa a shake.

“Four hours!’’ I grinned, but my heartening news fell on deaf ears.

‘‘I’m so done with this’’ she croaked.

We were certainly on the same page. Not just this stupidly long train journey, but the trip in general. I was tired of living out of a bag, jaded by the draining heat and the endless negotiations over hotel rooms and taxis. I’d begun daydreaming of a Sunday Roast at my parents’ cottage in rural Scotland. Of Yorkshire pudding, white sauce and cauliflower. I thought of the rolling green fields around Sweethope and pictured myself taking Inde for a walk up the hill. I could almost feel the cool afternoon breeze on my face and a book under my arm as we made our way.

When, hallelujah, we hobbled off at New Delhi Train Station, Lisa and I were a pair of gibbering wrecks. Having booked into our guesthouse on Paharganj, we eagerly headed out for pizza and beers followed by a visit to the cinema for good measure.

We ended up catching Along Came Polly, a romantic-comedy-by-numbers starring Ben Stiller and Jennifer Aniston. Not their finest work by a long shot, but a much-needed night at the movies nonetheless. It just felt SO good to be off that train. A mammoth tub of popcorn balanced on my lap and the knowledge that a new chapter of my life lay ahead.

Forty Eight Hours, a short story from India.

‘‘Airport?’’ asked the taxi driver, eyeing my luggage with a greedy leer. ‘‘Yup!’’ I confirmed, though he was already scooping up my backpack and heading for the boot. I don’t remember much about that final drive, which I spent staring out the window in a disengaged haze.

Careering down the motorway at a typically breakneck speed, I thought of Devda the ear cleaner and his little box. I recalled the horror of that awful room in Agra and the breathless beauty of The Taj Mahal. I pictured myself atop Lalou in the desert, the sound of Mr. Magoo’s bowling laugher echoing around me. Furthermore, there were images of James Bond and Bombay cocktails as my eyes dropped and I succumbed to sleep. 

In my restless slumber there were snapshots of the so-called Pink City. And for just a moment I was back on that damn train again tied to the bed, a masked man laughing manically as he force-fed me from a bowl of vegetable cutlets. At some point The Cashew Kid whispered some inaudible secret into my ear before the sound of the taxi’s shuddering brakes jolted me back to the real world. 

Stepping out into the stuffy afternoon, I retrieved my luggage from the boot and made a beeline for the departures hall. Sucking in lungfuls of delicious air con, I checked in, handed my bag over and decided on one last Indian meal before going through security. It was a buffet-type deal with rice, curry, naan and a tempting selection of fried snacks. Loading up my plate with a variety of delights, I dropped my tray down at the register as the cashier looked over everything, calculating the bill in his head.

“That’s 300 Rupees please’’ he said with a smile. 

“Would you like a free vegetable cutlet?”

‘Forty Eight Hours’ is the twelfth and final part of my short story series Incidents In India.

I’ve been living, working and traveling all over the world since 2001. So why not check out my huge library of travel reports from over 30 countries.