Destination India (10 page)

The driver wobbled his head once more.

The group of men had dropped their sacks and started slowly inching their way closer to the car.

Oh my God, what am I going to do? OK, breathe. You’re locked in. It is the middle of the day. You have ID and money on you.
I was running through my escape options when I heard the spluttering noise of a clapped-out motorbike. A red bike pulled up just next to the driver’s window. The teen driver acted as if he’d been expecting the mysterious biker and wound down his window.

What was going on?!

A pudgy arm stretched through the half-open window and passed over a package that the driver took and nodded his thanks. Oh bloody hell, he was a drug dealer. He was
planting drugs in the car … and on me?! The motorbike spluttered off up the street and my driver put the car in gear and followed him.

‘Can you let me out? I want to walk,’ I said banging on the door. He didn’t turn round but instead passed the package over his head to me as he swerved past a couple of scrawny chickens pecking the ground.

‘What is it? I don’t want it.’ I folded my arms but he kept shaking the package at me to take it off him. Nervous about us crashing, seeing as he was steering with only one hand and only one eye on the road, I reluctantly took the small box. I was too scared to look at it. Was I an accomplice if I willingly took it off the drug dealer? Now he had my fingerprints all over the box. Oh shit, this was bad.

With one eye closed and the other half open I nervously peered down and then started to laugh.

In my trembling hands I saw not a box of narcotics but instead a box of Tetley teabags! Rashid must have told the driver to swing by here to pick some up for me after I mentioned I wanted a brew. I let out a deep sigh that I didn’t realise I’d been holding and giggled to myself at the ridiculousness of it all. What a bloody drama queen.

I thought back to what Trisha had told me about her trips to India. ‘It’s a place that makes your heart swell with both happiness and humbleness at the kindness of complete strangers,’ she’d explained, smiling before following that statement with, ‘But it also infuriates you, tests you to your limits and develops your patience levels. It really is a country of two halves, but that’s what keeps it so enchanting and never boring,’ she’d chuckled.

I leant forward in my seat. ‘Thank you,’ I said softly.

The teenage driver just bobbed his head in a forwards and sideways motion. Probably for the best he didn’t have a clue how paranoid I’d just been.

Wretched (adj.) Characterised by or attended with misery and sorrow

Thankfully the drugs/tea drama had taken my mind off what I was actually going to say when I saw Nihal. Should I go in all guns blazing, demanding he quit? Should I try the good cop approach of encouraging him to talk whilst I sympathetically listened to his problems? I didn’t have long to decide as we had pulled to a stop down a tightly packed street full of small, brightly painted houses. The young, silent driver opened my door and nodded at me to follow him down the maze of rabbit-warren alleyways that he was striding down purposefully, leaving me to ungracefully trot behind him to keep up.

Children smiled and waved as we went past; some ran up to get a better look at this sweaty western woman practically glistening in the bright sunlight whilst others hung back staring out of the corners of their eyes. The kids looked so well cared for here, their hair and eyes bright and their clothes clean and colourful, not like those poor children begging for coins on the streets. I could hear pans being bashed together, smells of spices carried on the warm air and the sound of women laughing rang out as small groups huddled around wide blue basins that they were washing clothes in and gossiping over.

I picked up my pace, determined not to lose my driver who waved to the children and nodded politely at the women who blushed and giggled. He eventually stopped and pushed open a creaky wooden door that led to a tiny backyard cluttered with growing vegetables and pieces of scrap metal. He pointed at a turquoise-blue door just up the stone steps in front of me.

‘Nihal.’ It was the first thing he’d uttered since I’d met him and I was taken aback at how young and soft his voice was.

‘Oh, OK.’ I dipped my head to say thanks and gingerly stepped forward to rap at the door, hoping this would give me the answers that I needed. A few seconds later a short and squat Indian woman wearing a navy blue sari flung open the door and eyed me suspiciously. She had a long, thin plait snaking down her curved back. Greys peppered her crown and a bright red bindi took centre stage on her wrinkled, frowning forehead.

‘Oh hi, my name’s Louise. I mean Georgia. Georgia Green. Rashid sent me. I’m looking for Nihal?’ I said politely.

The middle-aged woman looked me up and down quickly and tutted before calling out to the driver, not moving her light brown eyes off me. She had one long white hair standing proudly from a large mole on her chin and what looked like flour dusted on her sallow cheeks. I felt like I was being judged by a bouncer at a trendy nightclub in Manchester, high on the power trip of deciding who they did and didn’t let in. I gave her a toothy smile, which may or may not have helped my cause. I think the mole hair waved back in the breeze.

The driver who had hung back at the wooden door shouted something. The old woman grunted, looked me up and down again and slowly shut the door in my face. Your name’s not down; you’re not coming in.

What the …?

I swung round to the driver hoping he would understand from my outstretched arms that I had no idea what had just happened. He just bobbed his head in an unhelpful yes/no motion. Oh Jeezus. I was feeling hot and unsettled. Irritating flies were buzzing round me and I just wanted this trip to be over already. I couldn’t decide whether to stomp all the way back to the car or rap hard on the door, demanding to be seen, when the decision was made for me.

The door was flung open once more.

Thankfully the old hairy woman had gone and in her place stood Nihal wearing a baggy, stained T-shirt and tatty shorts. He looked utterly desperate, drawn out and exhausted.

‘Hey, you’re on my tour, aren’t you?’ he asked, his inky eyes wide in shock seeing my flustered face on his doorstep. ‘There isn’t a trip planned for today. What are you doing here?’ He seemed to trip over his words in surprise and self-consciously moved a skinny arm over his chest to hide the worst of the stains. The disinterested and rude Nihal I’d met yesterday had been replaced with a vulnerable shell of a man.

‘Rashid sent me,’ I said bluntly, looking him up and down, mirroring what the old woman had done to me.

No wonder there wasn’t anything planned for today as this guy looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. I wondered when he had last had a proper night’s sleep.

‘I think you and I need to have a little chat,’ I said, more softly this time, peering round behind him into the house.

‘I don’t understand.’ He jolted his head back. ‘What do you mean Rashid sent you here?’

‘My name is Georgia Green; I’m the CEO of Lonely Hearts Travels.’ Slowly it seemed to dawn on him why I was awkwardly hovering on his doorstep. ‘Do you
remember me from the Skype interview we did a few months ago?’ Nihal’s face was a picture as he put two and two together. ‘I hoped we could talk about a few things.’

Something crossed his tired eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was worry, fear or a mixture of them both. He bit his lower lip and slowly nodded. ‘Of course, of course. Please come in.’ He called something in Hindi behind me to my driver who nodded and walked out towards where he had left the battered car.

‘Oh, no … he’s supposed to take me to my hotel later,’ I fretted, not wanting to be left alone to figure out my own way back.

‘It’s OK, I told him to come back here later. I’m not sure how long we might be so I didn’t want him to wait,’ Nihal explained and held the door open for me. ‘Please, come in.’

As I crossed over the stone step into his home, my nose was flooded with smells of spiced curry leaves, saffron and coriander. A large silver pot was bubbling on a small, unwatched stove in the room on the right. Calling it the kitchen would be an overstatement. The roughly painted room held the stove, a single wonky cupboard and a large sink precariously leaning against the back brick wall.

I followed Nihal as he headed deeper into the house, being careful to duck when he told me to. ‘Please, take a seat. I’m sorry; we weren’t expecting visitors today,’ he said blushing slightly as he waved an arm across the small cosy room opposite.

‘Thanks. I think your house is charming.’ I smiled, wanting to ease this embarrassed and exposed air that was clouding him as he straightened up a small cushion.

I walked around soft squidgy beanbags that were scattered on faded, patterned rugs; in the centre was an ornate, low table covered in teacups next to a gleaming teapot and tiny jars filled with goodness knows what as a
centre piece. All that bravado I’d felt earlier imagining I was coming here for a fight had puddled out of me now seeing him in such a state in his own home.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked rubbing his hands together nervously.

‘Yes, that would be lovely, thanks.’ I smiled softly.

He nodded and called out something in Hindi through the doorway. Within seconds the old woman who had previously opened the door to me wandered into the lounge. She still had her eyes tracked on me but didn’t seem as surprised to see me sitting on her sofa.

She said something back to Nihal in a croaky voice, which made him blush, and then swatted away his hands from the tea service, tutting loudly, and began to carefully pour out hot milky water, mixing it with handfuls of herbs and cinnamon sticks from the small pots.

‘Wow, this seems quite complicated,’ I said to her, wanting to fill the silence. ‘I’m used to just dunking a teabag in a mug of hot water.’ I indicated the box of Tetley teabags that were poking out of my bag and let out a shrill laugh that didn’t sound like my own.

She ignored me and carried on stirring the spiced water.

‘That’s my mother. She doesn’t speak any English,’ Nihal politely explained. I nodded and stayed silent as his mum filled up two cups and left them side by side on the coffee table before scuttling out, giving me one last glance as she did before leaving us alone in the dimly lit room.

‘Please take this; it’s chai tea. An Indian speciality,’ he offered, passing me a steaming cup and finally sitting down himself. He cleared his throat. ‘So, Georgia, how can, erm, how can I be of service?’ I noticed his hands trembling slightly as he passed me my tea.

I put the hot drink on the coffee table and sat up straighter. ‘Well, firstly, I don’t want the other guests to find
out who I am. To them my name’s Louise and that is how it will remain for the rest of the trip. Their experience of this tour needs to be one hundred per cent positive, and having my identity exposed –’ I blushed slightly as my mind was flooded with embarrassment after the karaoke incident last night ‘– could affect how they view our service and enjoy the trip.’

Nihal took a long sip of his tea and then leant forward. ‘So you really
are
the boss of Lonely Hearts Travels?’

‘Yup.’ I nodded.

‘Ah, OK.’ He scratched the dark stubble that peppered his sallow cheeks, looking like he didn’t know what to say next.

I cleared my throat, desperate to fill this awkward silence. ‘Nihal, when we hired you, we heard only glowing reviews about your service as a tour guide.’ He blushed and bashfully dipped his eyes to the stone floor. ‘So it came as quite a surprise when recently we’ve been receiving a few negative reviews of your tours, including one in particular …’ I paused to rummage in my bag and pull out the creased copy of
that
review and passed it to him. ‘I came here to find out what was going on as I want, no, I
need
to put things right.’

I could see his Adam’s apple visibly bob up and down as he took deep breaths, scanning through the colourful way his tour had been described by this anonymous blogger. I watched him read and clasped my hands together, not really sure where to put myself. He eventually laid the paper on his lap and slowly looked up at me.

‘I am so sorry.’

I was just about to question him further when he began to cry. His chest started trembling with big, heavy gulps of tears. Shit.

‘Nihal. Nihal, what’s happened?’ I leant across my cushion, unsure of whether it was acceptable or professional
of me to reach out and comfort him, but from the way he was sobbing so forcefully he just seemed like a lost little child. I thought back to those ravaged street children and suddenly wanted to scoop him up into a big hug and tell him everything would be OK. This was such a contrast to the surly, vacant man I had met yesterday.

‘I … I …’ He gulped at air as tears streamed down his unshaven cheeks and plopped onto the printout of the review.

‘Nihal?’

‘I thought I was doing such a good job to hide what has been going on. I thought no one would notice …’

My stomach lurched that something truly awful had happened to him; why hadn’t Rashid warned me about this? I was about to say something when I heard a female voice call through the house, echoing off the exposed stone walls. Nihal roughly dried his eyes and straightened up at the sound. Within seconds a teenage girl raced into the lounge. She had long, thin, black plaits dangling past her shoulders and tied with fluffy hair bobbles at the bottom. She was wearing baggy, patterned trousers and a white T-shirt that had a large pink and purple flower in the centre.

‘Oh.’ She stopped as she saw me.

‘Hello,’ I said softly, unsure if she would even understand me.

‘Hi,’ she replied eyeing me cautiously just like Nihal’s mother had done. Nihal turned to face her and as she took one look at his tear-stained face she burst into a fit of laughter.

‘Oh God, what’s happened now?’ She rolled her large eyes skywards, flecks of glittery eyeshadow rested on her young cheeks. ‘Wait – who are you?’ she asked me bluntly.

‘My name’s Georgia. I’m just visiting Nihal, and you are?’

Nihal just blew his nose noisily, obviously not interested in doing the introductions.

‘I’m Priya, the sister of this sad sack.’ Priya nodded her head towards her brother.

‘I’m not some sad sack,’ Nihal half protested before slumping back onto his beanbag; his sobs had now calmed down to intermittent snuffles.

‘Priya, do you know what’s happened?’ I asked slowly as she plopped onto the cushion opposite and helped herself to a cup of chai tea before tucking her slim legs underneath her. Nihal grumbled that we were trying to have a serious business meeting and that she needed to leave us alone; at this she burst into laughter again.

‘Oh come off it! You, the businessman? You couldn’t even sell cocoa to a chocoholic ever since Ameera left you.’

‘Don’t talk about her like that,’ Nihal responded gruffly.

‘Wait, who’s Ameera?’

‘She’s –’ Nihal started to speak.

Priya jumped in before he could finish. ‘He’s moping around, getting under my mum’s feet and annoying me, all because of Ameera. That’s the name of his
now
ex-girlfriend.’ She lay back on a cushion and shut her eyes. ‘Ridiculous if you ask me.’

‘Wait, Nihal, have things with work been going wrong all because of a girl?’ I asked.

Nihal ignored my question and glared at his young sister. ‘Just because no boy has ever shown an interest in
you.
Keep out of things that you don’t understand.’

Priya stuck her tongue out.

‘Wait, Nihal. So you’re telling me all these bad reviews are because you’ve been dumped?’ I asked incredulously.

Priya piped up. ‘Yeah, ironic isn’t it? Broken-hearted backpackers being led around India by a broken-hearted tour guide.’ She giggled. ‘You couldn’t make that up.’

Nihal looked like he wanted to throw a cushion at her but was caught by my shocked face and realised that a brother-and-sister play-fight was probably not the most professional way to conduct himself in front of his boss.

‘That’s the only reason?’ I repeated.

Nihal nodded sadly.

Thank God for that!
I wanted to laugh with Priya at the ridiculousness of it all. I thought back to that review now sopping wet under the weight of his tears.

‘I thought for one moment that something more serious had happened.’

‘It
is
serious,’ he half barked then dipped his head. ‘I’m sorry. I mean, I love working with the tour groups and I take pride in making sure all the guests have a great time and leave happier than when they arrived, but it’s just recently, since Ameera and I broke up, it’s been very hard to feel motivated enough to provide this kind of service.’