‘Thank you very much. And may I be permitted to say the same of you.’
Christ! I was beginning to talk like him.
‘I try my best. I try my best.’
At this point an old woman entered, carrying a tray of tea and some cakes so lurid it made my teeth ache just to look at them. She placed the tray in front of me, and retreated to the doorway.
‘My wife,’ said Charles.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, with a little wave.
‘ she said, nodding and smiling.
I nodded and smiled back at her, then she left.
After this, Charles and I slowly ran out of conversation. I tried to ask about his family and his work, but I didn’t really get very much out of him. He kept giving short, awkward answers, as if my questions were either rude or boring. I knew this was my big chance to find out what it’s actually like to be an Indian, but I somehow never got very far.
When my attempt at conversation had run aground, he took over, and inflicted the usual job/marriage/home Tquestions on me. After that he bombarded me with endless inane crap about his position in the church and the success of the South India Mission. It was impossible to leave, and only when I was climbing the walls with boredom did I finally get out of his house.
Although we hadn’t really managed much of a conversation, and I’d been mostly bored out of my skull, I felt that the visit marked a significant and positive watershed. I had actually gone inside an Indian house. Gone inside, sat down and talked to a real Indian person.
Throughout my entire two-month stay, I’d been tantalized by occasional glimpses into people’s houses and had always wondered what it really looked like inside. Previously, I’d never been able to get beyond the odd glance through a window or door, but now I’d actually broken through. I had seen the real India. I had discovered how people lived.
Suddenly, everything else I had done in India seemed totally superficial. I’d just sat around in hotels and talked to other travellers. I’d been wasting my time. Igor was right -1 hadn’t actually seen . From now on, I decided, things were going to be different. I was going to stay on my own. I wasn’t going to look for other Westerners to hide behind. I was going to make an effort to talk to Indians. I’d befriend them and try to get into their houses. I would make myself into a proper traveller.
That evening I ate my first proper meal since the dog-burger. A couple of months ago I would have been unlikely to describe squidgy lentils dribbled over a lump of coagulated rice as a proper meal, but in the context, this was the most challenging thing my guts had attempted for quite some time.
After a few grumbles of objection, I felt my stomach reluctantly accept the extra workload. My food no longer seemed to float inside me, ready to hurl itself out of my mouth at a moment’s notice, but actually settled down and gave the impression that it was willing to be digested. If I could just get the passing-through time to more than ten minutes, I felt I might be able to derive enough benefit from my food to begin to get some strength back.
After having eaten as much as I could force down, I scanned the hotel dining room for someone to talk to. People came and went, but I couldn’t help feeling that everyone was ignoring me. I sat there for at least an hour, desperate for someone to talk to, but whenever I caught anyone’s eye, they looked away before I had time to say anything.
This was extremely puzzling until, on the way to bed, I caught sight of myself in a mirror. I looked like one of those comatose skeletons I’d seen on my first day in Delhi. My cheeks had caved in and were covered with long, tufty stubble, my eyes were dead, my hair was greasy, and my mouth was stuck in a sour downward curve. I looked like hell. would have run away from me.
I went to bed and stared blankly into space for a few hours.
I really had turned into one of the living dead.
Despite my ‘meal’, I slept through the entire night without any emergency trips to the toilet and woke up the next morning resolved to stuff myself with food until I looked like a human being again.
I still didn’t trust any greasy or spicy food to stay down, so I had four boiled eggs and a couple of chapatis for breakfast, then set out on my mission to make friends with the subcontinent.
I wandered around for a bit, smiling at everyone, but it didn’t seem to make anyone want to talk to me. Remembering that I looked like a Moonie, I toned down the smiles a fraction, but people still avoided me.
Feeling dispirited, I went into the busiest restaurant I could find for a bite of lunch. I sat down next to a lonely looking man, smiled at him and said hello. He picked up his tray of food and walked to a different table, looking mildly frightened.
This represented a new low. To be abandoned by other travellers was one thing, but to be shunned by Indians – that was just the pits. In desperation, back at the hotel I tried to start a conversation with the boy whose job it was to sweep the floor. He ran away.
The only thing left to do was to write a postcard.
Having finished the postcard, it dawned on me that even if no one else was willing to have a conversation with me, the hotel receptionist would have to. It was his job, for God’s sake. I was paying for a room in his hotel. If I cornered him at the reception desk, he wouldn’t be able to run away, and I’d be certain to get a small amount of conversation out of him.
Having waited for him to take his place behind the desk, I engaged in a surprise attack.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Hello, sir,’ he replied.
I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Is everything all right?’ he said.
‘Fine, thanks. Yes.’
I still couldn’t think of anything. Then a thought dawned on me.
‘It’s hot today,’ I said.
‘Yes. Very hot. Less hot than usual, of course. But hot.’
I was just about to give up when an Indian man walked in, with a cotton scarf wrapped around his head and neck, also covering half of his face. He approached the desk and asked for a room in a heavy South London accent. The minute I heard that voice, I knew who it was.
‘Ranj!’ I screamed.
He spun round and looked at me suspiciously. After a few seconds, I saw recognition dawn, and he tore the scarf from his head.
‘Dave! Is it you?’
‘Of course it’s me.’
‘What the fuck happened to you?’
‘I’ve been stuck here. I got a bit ill.’