‘Is that what most people do?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not telepathic. There isn’t a rule book for what you’re supposed to do, you know.’
‘I suppose not.’
I felt bad now. It was all Jeremy’s fault.
There was a story doing the rounds in our hotel about how a young tiger had escaped from Jaipur zoo by simply walking out of its cage between the bars. It had then, apparently, gone on a killing spree in a nearby village. We all thought this was a hilarious and typically Indian story until that evening, when a French guy chipped in with a new version. He claimed to have heard that the tiger had killed a Western traveller. A few people didn’t believe him, but it made the rest of us really scared.
Jaipur clearly wasn’t safe, partly because of the tiger, but mainly because Liz was drooling over all the Ruperts, so I made a big shit-eating statement about Jeremy’s perceptive analysis of the city, and how we should move on to Pushkar. Ranj was reluctant to leave Jaipur so soon, and I was briefly faced with the horrific prospect of travelling alone with Liz and Jeremy.
‘What – you’re going ? he said.
‘Yeah, it’s too touristy.’
‘But you haven’t seen it yet.’
‘We have. We’ve done the Palace of the Winds.’
‘What about the rest of it? It’s a whole city.’
‘Well, you know. We’re not into cities, really. We’ve decided they’re too hectic. And too materialist.’
‘Where are you going then?’
‘Pushkar.’
‘What’s Pushkar?’
‘You must have heard of Pushkar.’
‘No. What’s in Pushkar?’
‘Oh, it’s really mellow, apparently. There’s this lake, and… er…’
‘And what?’
‘I don’t know, really. It’s just apparently really mellow. A bit like Manali, but with a lake instead of mountains.’
‘Right, right. Sounds quite cool.’
‘And you never know – if you hang around here too long, someone’s bound to spot you. No one will find you in Pushkar. It’s just a village.’
‘Maybe you’re right. It is a bit mad here.’
‘And there’s peacocks at the hotel.’
‘So?’
‘Dunno. It just sounds cool. Oh, come with us. It’ll be a laugh.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
That evening, I got the hotel receptionist to ask him if he was Ranj Pindar.
He came with us.
It was in Pushkar that things went badly wrong between Liz and me. We were sitting reading in the courtyard of the hotel one morning (I was on a Wilbur Smith, and Liz had recently ditched the in favour of ), when she suddenly leaped out of her chair and shrieked.
‘Oh my Gooouuuurrrrd!’
‘What?’ I said, but she ignored me, sprinted to the courtyard entrance, and grabbed a girl who was just arriving with her rucksack.
‘Fee!’ cried Liz.
The girl turned round and looked at Liz, blankly.
‘Fee – is that you?’
‘I’m Fiona, yes.’
‘It’s me – Liz.’
There was a long pause while the girl scrutinized Liz, then, realization dawning, she screamed, even louder than Liz had done, ‘OH… MY… GOOUUUUAAAARRRD! LIZZY!’
‘Fee!’
‘Lizzles!’
‘Fifi!’
‘This is just… Gouard!… unbelievable! How have you… I mean how long have you…? Bloody hell! Where do we start?’
‘We… have… got… sooooo much to talk about.’
They spent about ten minutes exchanging vowels, saying each other’s names over and over again with increasingly bizarre abbreviations, and admiring each other’s jewellery, before Liz got round to introducing me.
‘This is David, my travelling companion,’ she said.
Fee extended a hand and allowed me to wobble her clammy, limp fingers.
‘Charming,’ she said, ‘and this is my girlfriend, Caroline.’
It turned out that Liz and Fiona were best friends from the Ealing Junior String Orchestra, and had only seen each other once since Liz moved house, aged eleven.
Fiona went upstairs with Caroline to ‘freshen up’, promising to come back down for a ‘good old chin-wag’ in a few ‘minny moes.’ She eventually re-emerged and glided down the stairs with the filth cleaned off her face, and her greasy hair freshly brushed and tied back. Oddly, this made her look even worse than before.
‘It’s soooo good to see you,’ she oozed, squeezing Liz’s hand.
‘And a coincidence.’
‘Amazing.’
‘Unbelievable.’
‘I think Krishna must have wanted us to get together again,’ said Fiona, ‘otherwise it couldn’t possibly have happened.’
‘And… and… where have you just come from? How long have you been here?’
‘Caz and I have just finished three months at a leper colony in Udaipur, actually.’
‘WHAT!’ I said, dropping my book on the floor.
‘Yah. It was amazing.’
I moved my chair back a few extra inches, just in case.
‘You’ve just spent three months in a leper colony!?’
‘Well – I mean, they don’t call them that any more – it’s now known as the Udaipur Leprosy Rehabilitation Centre and Hospice – but it’s the same thing.’
‘Jesus fucking Christ! What d’you do that for?’ I said.
‘Oh, it’s amazing.’
‘Yeah, I’ve always wanted to do that,’ said Liz.
‘What?’
Liz gave me an evil look. ‘I didn’t bother mentioning it because I knew you wouldn’t understand. It’s always been a dream of mine, actually.’ She turned back to Fiona and sweetened up her face again. ‘Fee, darling, what was it like? Was it amazing?’
‘Oh, absolutely. I’m a changed person.’
‘Of course.’
‘How?’ I said.
‘Just – my karma is completely different.’
I didn’t even want to know what that meant.
‘God, it sounds amazing,’ said Liz.
‘I mean, I’ve learned so much about myself… about healing… and stuff.’
‘How did you get a place there? I mean I’ve heard it’s quite competitive.’
‘I was lucky. One of mother’s friends runs a leprosy organization in London, and I was put to the head of the queue. I could put in a good word for you if you like.’
‘Oh, would you? That would be brilliant. I mean, I’m coming here again, and next time I’d like to give something back to India in return for what it’s given me.’
‘Exactly. That’s why wanted to do it. I mean I hadn’t been here before, but I knew this is what it would be like, and with my contacts in leprosy, it seemed like too good an opportunity to miss.’
‘But… isn’t it dangerous?’ I asked.
‘Don’t be silly. Leprosy is an entirely curable disease if you catch it at the early stages. And it’s not nearly as infectious as people think.’
‘But… it’s disgusting.’
‘You have to get over that. My first few days were awful, but now I feel more at home amongst lepers than I do with the able-bodied.’
‘But… did you cure people?’
‘No – our place was for people once they’ve reached the incurable stage. That’s what makes Udaipur so popular.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s fascinating. You get worse cripples there than anywhere else, and you have to wash them and assist their walking, and generally try and help them to live with their disease.’
‘ them?’
‘Yes – I got rather addicted to that.’
‘WHAT?’
‘It’s horrible at first, but once you get used to it, it’s an amazing feeling.’