Waking up in Delhi is entirely different to waking up anywhere else in the world. There are the sounds, the cacophony that probably woke you in the first place: the wail of car horns in numerous tones. Toots. Honks. Blares. Arugalas. The shout of voices. Angry! Happy! Hungry! They yell in unfamiliar tongues. They speak Hindi and Urdu and Punjabi and Sindhi and Tamil and Konkani. Five times a day this chaotic symphony is heightened by the call to prayer for the city’s Muslims. The chants are broadcast through megaphones mounted on pikes and echoed by a choir of voices, all facing towards Mecca.
You shuffle to the window and part the curtains. The alley your window faces is too narrow to admit much light, and the path of the sun’s rays is blocked by a network of wires, clothes on lines, and outdoor advertising. Some of it is corporate: ‘Skittles. Taste the Rainbow.’ Some of it is not: ‘Ranjit Sing’s Dentistry and Shoe Repair.’ You taste pollution in the air.
Then there are the smells. Diesel. Sewage. Fruit. Something burning. Deep in the hotel someone is cooking breakfast – the smell of saffron and ghee and curry powder announces it. Even the bed smells of allspice.
I looked at the digital clock next to me. 8:01 am. The exact time that the door would lock behind Michael as he started his journey to the office. Of course, it was now the middle of the day in Melbourne. He would probably be at his desk chewing the end of a pen as he concentrated on a row of numbers. Or perhaps he had gone into the kitchen in search of a snack. He would take a stack of Iced Vo-Vos from the tin near the coffee-maker, and arrange them in a neat pile on a saucer before carrying them to his desk, where he would eat them in systematic bites.
That had been the one thing that had always worked between me and Michael: a mutual love of order and neatness. Instead of being irritated by my constant need to tidy, he appreciated it. He watched me with open adoration as I Windexed the television, and he bought me cups of instant coffee to give me energy as I attacked our cutlery with a toothbrush and a bottle of silver polish.
I stretched out in the double bed, still unused to waking alone. My thoughts turned to Chris. I guessed he would be in Varanasi by now. Probably just waking up. I pictured him sitting down to a breakfast of dasa or going for a morning jog in cotton pants and rubber-soled canvas shoes with nothing but sunlight covering his chest. I lay in bed for a moment, thinking about Chris and Michael. Then, enticed by the breakfast smells, I pulled on my cargo pants and padded downstairs.
The basement dining-room at the Grand Palace was doing its best to be regal. The wood tabletops were laminated to look as though they were inlaid with sparkling, tessellated tiles. The room’s many pillars were decorated with colourful Indian scenes. Every wall was painted gold, and the carpet was a royal shade of purple.
Harry was sitting alone with a cup of coffee. His hair was wet, and his eyes were trained on a copy of the Hindustan Times, a local English language newspaper. I looked at my baggy surfer Tee and decided to go back to my room and clean myself up. But as I turned he called my name. I crossed my arms over my chest.
‘Morning,’ he said as I approached the table. He had shaved. With a bare face he looked younger than I had thought he was. He had a nice mouth and two dimples that framed his lips like miniature parentheses, as if his smile was a secret aside.
‘Morning,’ I smiled and sat down. He returned his attention to the newspaper. I reached for the menu. The breakfast options were divided into two groups. Continental – which was some form of toast, or local – which was some form of curry.
I ordered an aloo gobi matar and hoped it wouldn’t be too heavy.
‘I fantasise about a leafy pile of dark green rocket.’ I told Harry. ‘At night I lie awake dreaming about biting into a dense and watery head of iceberg lettuce. I want to lay my whole head on a bed of dewy salad.’
‘Wild,’ he said. ‘I hear Playboy’s salad centrefolds are always their biggest sellers. What did you have planned for today?’
‘Maybe I’ll sort out a train to Varanasi. I’m keen to keep moving,’ I said. I had decided overnight – in between salad fantasies – to go to Varanasi and then email Chris to say I was there.
‘There’s a bus tonight to Agra,’ said Harry.
‘I’m not going to Agra I’m going to Varanasi.’
‘You have to go to Agra.’
‘What’s the penalty if I don’t? Jail time? Community service?’
‘It’s the Taj Mahal,’ he said. ‘You can’t come to India and not see the Taj.’
I hadn’t come here to fight hordes of tourists for a glimpse of palaces and shrines. I had come here to find Chris.
‘Agra’s on the way to Varanasi anyway,’ he said.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I lied.
Harry finished his coffee and folded his newspaper. ‘I have to go downtown for work,’ he said. ‘One of our clients has an office here and my bosses want me to give them some face-time.’
I realised then that he was wearing an ironed shirt. A tie sat on the table next to his coffee, coiled up like a snake.
‘You should go to the Baha’i Lotus temple,’ he told me. ‘It’s supposed to be very beautiful and,’ he paused for emphasis, ‘calming. I should be done by six. Shall we meet later for dinner? While I’m in the office I’ll research travel options.’
‘Okay.’
Ranjeev accompanied the waiter who bought me a coffee and said he could arrange for a driver to take me to the Lotus temple.
Delhi’s Lotus Temple is exactly what it sounds like – it’s a Baha’i house of worship designed to look exactly like a lotus flower. The effect is remarkable. The building is made from milky white marble, its pointed petals giving the impression of a younger, more feminine cousin to Sydney’s Opera House.
I removed my shoes and approached reverently. I ran my hand over a marble wall. It was flawless and cool. A feeling of peacefulness rippled through me.
All around me people were praying and meditating. Cass had tried to get me to meditate, and had once succeeded in recruiting me to a yoga class on the promise of coffee afterwards.
‘It’s soothing and it will strengthen your core. Exercise and therapy all in one!’ she’d said.
My open-mindedness had taken a hit when the instructor arrived sporting hemp fisherman pants and a mop of dreadlocks as thick as octopus legs.
‘I don’t trust anyone who commits to a hairstyle that doesn’t allow washing,’ I whispered to my sister.
‘Shh!’ she hissed, and bent forward into downward dog.
My mind quickly wandered during the class. I spent the time writing mental shopping lists and preparing for Monday morning at work.
Now I decided the Lotus Temple would be as good a place as any to have another attempt at meditation. I sat and watched pilgrims come and go. I tried to capture the points of the temple’s petals in my travel diary, when that didn’t work, I wrote instead.
Day 10. Am pleased to not be lost or in hospital (anymore). Missed Chris again but am surprised by Delhi. The city is loud and confronting, but full of friendly people and ancient buildings. Burns on leg seem to be healing. No signs of sepsis. Harry has been very helpful. With luck will see Chris in Varanasi.
I hope this stress doesn’t give me an ulcer.
I tried to still my thoughts. I breathed. The air was clearer here but my mind was racing. What was I doing? Why was I wasting my time in Delhi? I should be working, saving, planning, cleaning, studying, trying to find Chris.
I had always planned to be engaged by twenty-seven. That would leave two years to get married, before my husband and I set about the task of becoming pregnant by the time I turned thirty. None of my imaginings of myself at twenty-seven had involved sitting in a field in India grinding anti-malaria pills between my molars.
That’s why I had to find Chris.
I sat and watched pilgrims until the sun went down, then I took a rickshaw back to our hotel.
Harry was downstairs with a pile of legal documents.
‘We can get a bus to Agra first thing,’ he said. ‘Then there’s a sleeper train that will take you to Varanasi.’
‘A sleeper train?’
‘They’re great. You get your own bed and can order breakfast.’ He was still wearing his work clothes but he had loosened his tie.
I kind of liked the idea. I pictured romantic images from the film Murder on the Orient Express: wood-panelled compartments upholstered in leather, dinner brought in on trays with white linen napkins. I hoped it would be just like the film, only without the murdering part.
Then I realised this was India, and the opposite would probably be true: absolutely no romance and a high chance of death.