Mrs. Rao was anything but feeble or frail.
I was standing near the airport pickup line with the worn suitcase Mr. Mudenda had picked out of the lost-and-found bin at the Dar es Salaam hospital. It was the same one I’d brought with me to India, a lifetime ago.
This new country I’d flown into was frigid. I felt the cold that seeped through my clothes, my skin, right into my bones, leaving me covered in a tingle of goose bumps. It was like I’d walked into an enormous outdoor fridge. Everyone around me was in T-shirts or simple blouses, chatting, checking phones, and hanging around like it was just another day. I shivered visibly.
“First time here?” asked the man behind me in line.
I looked up at the stranger and nodded, my lips too frozen to speak.
“Visiting?”
“No...um...I’m staying for a while,” I mumbled, remembering Franky’s warning in his letter. Don’t talk to strangers.
“It’s pretty cold for ya, eh?”
I nodded again.
“This is not cold. No siree. Real cold is when the river freezes and there’s snow on the ground,” he said with a wink and a kind smile. “Don’t you worry. You’ll be alright. Everyone gets used to it.”
I hugged myself closer. Freezing rivers? Snow on the ground?
Just then, a sleek black Cadillac drove up with a swoosh and stopped right in front of me, sending more of the chilly air my way. It was the biggest, blackest car I’d seen in my life. The driver’s door opened and a stout woman looked out. She glared at me. I stared back in surprise. She was Indian, obviously. She seemed as wide as she was tall, and dressed in a chic skirt suit. Is this—?
“Asha?” the woman barked in a voice deeper than a man’s.
I straightened up. “Yes,” I said in a meek voice.
“Put your bag in the back.” With that, she slammed the door shut. It took a few seconds to collect my thoughts and pick up my bag.
Though her appearance had been brief, Mrs. Rao instantly reminded me of a warthog I’d seen during a safari trip at the Serengeti. Her dark brown hair was cut bob style. On top of her head had been a pair of enormous sunglasses attached to a chain that went around her chubby neck. Her thin lips were painted blood red. Stout, with heavy-set jowls, Mrs. Rao looked as formidable as a warthog. It would take me some time to discover those tusks of hers.
I put my suitcase in the trunk and opened the passenger door. And just as quickly, I pulled my head back.
“Are you getting in or not?” Mrs. Rao said sharply. “I don’t have all day.”
The inside of the car was suffocating with expensive perfume. I took a deep breath of the fresh outside air and got in, and promptly sank into the soft leather seat.
I couldn’t believe my eyes—the plush interior, the wood paneling, the heated seats. Wasn’t this how Bollywood movie stars got around? Hanging from the rearview mirror was a crucifix necklace made of ivory. On the dashboard was a framed photo of an Indian man in a smart white jacket. I turned to look at the backseat, which seemed a mile away. A well-groomed ball of black-and-white fur with its tail tucked in lifted its head momentarily to give me a condescending growl. Mr. Raj Kapur didn’t think much of me from the start.
We drove in silence for a while.
“Thank you for picking me up, Mrs. Rao.”
Not a word from my companion.
“One of my teachers was Canadian.” I wanted to be friendly, to make a good first impression. “Do you know a Ms. Stacy from Toronto?”
Mrs. Rao grunted. Just like a warthog would.
“She used to teach at the International School of Dar es Salaam.”
“I don’t know your teachers,” Mrs. Rao said brusquely. I guessed she wasn’t much of a talker.
I looked out the window. Everything was crispy clean here. Unlike the streets of Goa, which were like a teen’s messy, dirty room, upheaved by a tornado, this place looked like the waiting room of a posh beauty clinic.
I saw no cows on the road, no litter on the streets and no beggars on the pavement. No rickety rickshaws, no honking cars, no yelling street vendors, no festooned buses with dozens of people hanging on doorways. The asphalt was smooth as if the roads had been built yesterday. Cars stayed in their lanes, and to my surprise, all the traffic lights worked—each and every one of them.
We drove for miles along a quiet, landscaped boulevard. The road looked deserted. The city seemed uninhabited. The few people I saw were waiting in lines at bus stops or at zebra crossings.
“Where is everyone?” I asked loudly in spite of myself.
Not a word from Mrs. Rao.
If it isn’t a holiday today, there must be a football match or a new film showing somewhere. Or a national emergency Mrs. Rao isn’t aware of yet. I gave a sideways glance at my sponsor. She was looking dead straight ahead, her red lips set in a thin line.
Just then, a police car dashed by, with its sirens wailing. The siren didn’t sound like the ones in Goa, but it was unmistakable. Franky’s letter was still fresh in my mind, and I instantly ducked in my seat, praying Kristadasa hadn’t found me already. The police car with lights flashing whizzed by us and disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. I slowly unscrunched myself in my seat, my heart still beating fast.
I glanced over at Mrs. Rao.
She hadn’t even blinked. She kept driving as if nothing was unusual. But this time, there was a faint smile on those thin lips of hers.