Ticket to India (8 page)

Train from Delhi to Faizabad

Here are some facts about Indian railroads:

1. In 1844, the first proposal to construct a railroad in India was presented to the East India Company in London.

2. The total distance covered by the 14,300 trains of Indian Railways equals three and a half times the distance to the moon.

3. If the tracks of Indian Railways were to be laid out, they would circle the earth almost 1.5 times.

4. With over 1.6 million employees, Indian Railways is the world's 9th-largest employer.

5. The trains carry more than 25 million passengers every day, more than the entire population of Australia.

6. The station with the longest name is Venkatanarasimharajuvaripeta.

7. Indian Railways has a mascot—Bholu, the guard elephant.

Along with tea, the British brought the railway to India. It was a pretty smart
thing to do since they could use it to connect the huge country and rule it more efficiently. Seventy years ago, my grandmother and her family were on a train like this one, headed to Pakistan. That trip didn't have a happy ending. Hopefully ours will.

Maya stared down at the last line with a frown, wondering if she should explain to her teacher that she and Zara had taken off on their own. Before she could even think how to put that into words, she was distracted as the elderly woman reached up to the top bunk. As the little kids crowded around her, she brought down a huge stacked, metal lunch box. The younger woman spread out a piece of cloth on top of a suitcase, then unlatched the three tiers of metal dishes and laid them out. Spicy fragrances spilled out into the compartment as the children jostled to get closer. The woman handed each a
roti
, whole-wheat flatbread, filled with a scoop of potatoes and peas. She turned to the sisters and pointed from them to the food with a warm smile. Maya eyed the bright green peas. She was not a fan of their squishy green centers, but the thought of her grandmother's comment of them being peas in a pod made her feel a bit more
warmly toward the smooshy green vegetable.

“No, thank you,” said Zara in her accented Urdu, smiling.

The warnings from the backpackers flared in Maya's mind and she politely shook her head too. They could not afford to get sick, no matter how good it looked. As the family enjoyed their meal, Maya sat watching the landscape beyond the window. All traces of the city had disappeared and it seemed as if they'd entered a different world. A stretch of lush farmland rolled along beside them, where women in bright skirts and shining bangles picked baskets of pale cauliflower. Past a field of corn, a group of children splashed in a pond, giving their docile blue-black water buffalo a good scrubbing. Maya returned their wave, watching them laugh and splash. Exhaustion tugging at her eyelids, she rested her head on Zara's shoulder. When she didn't get shoved away as she expected, she let her eyes drift shut, lulled by the sway of the train.

•  •  •

“Excusing me, miss.” A gruff voice broke through her sleep.

Maya's eyelids flew open and she saw a stooped man in a dark blue jacket and cap standing at the door.

“Your ticket, please,” he requested.

“Zara, wake up,” Maya said groggily, shaking her sleeping sister, who woke up and handed over their tickets to the collector. He gazed down at them with a frown.

He's probably wondering why we're not in the right compartment,
thought Maya.
Maybe he'll show us how to get to first class.
A bed and a lock in a private room sounded heavenly right now. They probably had another eight hours before they reached Faizabad and they could get a proper nap.

“Where are you going?” he asked, peering at her over his horn-rimmed glasses.

“Faizabad,” replied Zara. “I know we're in the wrong compartment,” she added.

The man blinked. “No, miss. You are on the
wrong train
.”

10

Misdirection

A
LL TRACES OF SLEEP
vanished in a flash as Maya stared at the attendant with wide eyes. Her sister gasped. “What do you mean,
wrong
train?”

“This is the Rajasthan Express to Jaipur.”

Fear constricted Maya's insides. “Jaipur?” she squeaked.

“Is that on the way to Faizabad?” interrupted Zara, scrambling to stand up.

“No.” He shook his head. “Faizabad is to the east. We are journeying south.”

“Oh, no,” said Zara, clutching her hands together as Maya rose beside her.

“I told you,” said Maya, as angry indignation rose within her, alongside the fear. “I told you we should check the board again.”

“Okay, okay, calm down,” said Zara, looking panicked herself.

Maya snorted and turned to the conductor. “Sir, we need to go to Faizabad. . . . What do we do?”

“You must be off-loading at the next station,” he said. “From there you will be needing to change tickets.”

“Is the next stop coming up?” asked Zara, running a hand through her usually perfect bob, which was sticking out in places.

“Yes, arriving shortly,” he replied as Maya glanced down at her watch, heart racing. It was 9:05. They'd been going the wrong way for two hours.

The conductor looked around the compartment quizzically, staring at the dozing family, then back at them. “Where are your companions? Mother, father? Aunty?”

“Oh,” muttered Zara. “They're meeting us at the train station.”

“In Faizabad?” he asked, giving her an odd look.

“Uh, yes,” she said, straightening her back as Maya cringed at the lie.

“Miss,” he said, eyes troubled, “after you are changing tickets, stay in the waiting room until the train arrives.”

Zara nodded, shifting uncomfortably.

“But you need to be paying me for this portion of the travel,” he said, pulling out a receipt booklet. Zara dug through her wallet for the fare and handed it to him. “Remember the waiting room,” he repeated, then shuffled on.

“Come on,” said Zara, giving Maya a reassuring but strained smile. “It'll be okay. We just got a little off track, that's all.”

Maya bit her tongue. There was no point in arguing with Zara; it usually got her nowhere. Quickly gathering their things, the girls stepped over a sleeping little girl and exited the compartment, nodding to the grandmother, who gazed after them with curiosity.

“We'll wait by the doors,” said Zara. “That way we can be the first to get off.”

Maya ignored her and grabbed a spot beside a window overlooking a dark expanse stretching out beside them. There were no electric lights, just the pale illumination from the full moon above, displaying slumbering villages and fields. As she took in a deep, calming gulp of cool air, redolent with diesel and cut
grass, she spotted a burst of lightning in the distance, indicating that clouds, bulging with monsoon rain, were not far off.

“Look,” said Zara in a small voice. “I'm sorry, okay? This is totally my fault.”

Maya looked at her sister in surprise. She didn't recall her ever apologizing, even when she was dead wrong. “It's okay,” she replied, deciding to be magnanimous. They had a long journey ahead of them and it would be painful if they weren't talking to each other. “Let's just figure out how to get back on track to Faizabad.”

Zara nodded, relieved. They stood touching shoulders as the train flew along a curve, approaching a metal bridge straddling a sinuous river. A city dotted with lights glimmered in the distance. As the train thundered across the bridge, something else caught Maya's eye, rising from the bank—a glowing beacon, its unmistakable dome shining like burnished silver in the moonlight.

“Look,” she whispered, nudging Zara.

“It's . . . it's that building . . . the really famous one . . . Taj something,” said Zara, distracted for a moment from the crisis at hand.

The girls stared in wonder as the building faded in
the distance and a whistle shrilled above, announcing their arrival. The sisters jumped from the train and made a beeline for the ticket booth. With just six platforms, Agra Cantt was a much more manageable station, but the crowds, even at night, were sizable. Zara gripped Maya's hand as they pushed past passengers, porters, hawkers, and a small boy in a frayed Mickey Mouse T-shirt sweeping the floor in front of the waiting room.

The kind ticket collector's words rang in Maya's ear as they passed:
Stay in the waiting room until your train arrives.

Making a mental note to return to the waiting room, she allowed Zara to steer her toward the long line in front of the ticket window.

“Give me my passport,” said Zara as they reached the front of the line. “I'll need identification to purchase the tickets.”

As Maya extracted her sister's passport from the inside pocket of the backpack, a few hundred-dollar bills dislodged and fell.

“Be careful,” whispered Zara, scooping them up. She grabbed the passport and turned to the counter, leaving Maya to nervously gaze at the passengers in line behind them.

“Our train leaves in two hours,” said Zara a few
minutes later, looking relieved. “I had to use up most of the Indian money, but we have dollars left.”

“That's great,” said Maya, clutching the backpack.

“Yeah, we'll be in Faizabad by nine tomorrow,” said Zara.

Maya followed Zara back toward the waiting room, but the smell of frying bread and simmering curry made them slow. Tucked away to the right was a line of food vendors, where a cheery-faced woman had just placed a bowl of boiled eggs on her counter beside a stack of
parathas
.

“I think the last time we ate was at Karim's,” said Zara, eyeing a vendor spoon rice into bowls and top it with a peppery chicken stew.

Maya's mouth watered. “I'm starving.”

“Okay, let's get something to eat,” said Zara.

“Wait,” said Maya. “Nothing raw or lukewarm.”

They purchased half a dozen sealed packages of cookies, bottles of water, and bananas. A real meal would have to wait for the hotel. As they turned toward the waiting room, the boy in the Mickey Mouse T-shirt appeared beside them, a thoughtful look on his lean, smudged face. With matted curly hair, a dimpled chin, and scarred knees, he couldn't have been older than nine.

He looks hungry.
Probably one of the dozens of homeless kids roaming the station, she thought, looking for a way to earn a few rupees. She handed him a packet of cookies and patted him on the shoulder with a smile. He looked surprised.

“We should go to the bathroom,” said Zara.

“I don't need to,” said Maya, imagining the restrooms and wrinkling her nose.

“Okay,” said Zara, holding up a finger and waving it as if she were a disobedient puppy. “Stay here and don't move.”

“Yeah, yeah . . . I know,” muttered Maya, standing with the bag slung over her shoulder. As she peeled a banana, she felt a sharp tug on her backpack. Surprised, she turned, losing her balance at another insistent yank. Before she could regain her footing, a third, more forceful jerk dropped her to the ground. She looked up to see a boy racing toward the main exit, dragging her backpack behind him.

Stunned, she lay speechless. “Thief,” she finally croaked, leaping up. “Zara!” she yelled, pounding on the door of the bathroom.

“What?” came an irritated reply.

“The backpack . . . a kid stole the backpack!”

“What!”
she screamed. “Hold on . . .”

The boy, the one in the Mickey Mouse T-shirt, Maya noticed, was quickly disappearing into the crowd.

We can't wait,
thought Maya. Naniamma
's memory map is in there . . . the key to the house, our passports. . . .
She ran, weaving through the crowd, pausing to jump over a sleeping man.
Where is he?
She scanned the crowd desperately. Without thinking twice, she ran, shouting “Thief!” at the top of her lungs, but no one paid them much attention; it was as if they were invisible. The boy had nearly made it to the main gate and was about to slip through when Maya shouted again, frantically looking for a khaki uniform.

“Police . . . help!”

The boy looked back, eyes fearful as a man in a safari suit paused in midstride. Before the boy could slither past, he grabbed his T-shirt.

Relief filled Maya, weakening her bones. “He took my bag,” she gasped, running toward them.

Just as she reached them, the boy dropped the bag and fell to his knees. As the man tried to hold on, the boy twisted, maneuvering his shirt over his head and arms. In a blink of an eye he slipped out, leaving the man holding his shirt, a look of surprise on his face. Backpack hanging off his bare back, the boy ran
toward Maya. As she lunged for him, he pivoted left, running toward the last platform.

Maya scrambled after him but before she could make sense of which direction he was going, he leapt off the platform and onto the tracks. A deafening whistle reverberated through the air, announcing that a train was approaching. Blinded by the desire to get back the bag, Maya jumped onto the tracks, falling to her knees on jagged gravel. With a muffled curse, she got up and ran across the tracks, feeling the ground quake from the approach of metal wheels.

“Maya!” she heard Zara scream from the platform.

Maya glanced back and saw her sister waving frantically, trying to reach her.
The bag . . . I need to get the bag. . . .
She picked up speed and ran, gaining ground as the boy sprinted toward a line of hedges at the top of a hill bordering the station. With the train thundering behind them, the boy scrambled up the slope, skidding on the loose rocks. Maya reached out an arm and dove forward, fingertips hooking onto the backpack's straps. The boy fell back and lay in the dust, staring up with wide, frightened eyes.

Tearing the bag away, Maya stood panting, not sure what to do next. It was unlike her to do something so rash. She looked back to where the train hid
the platform. Her sister was somewhere behind it.

“I'm sorry,” whispered the boy, scrambling toward the bushes.

“Yeah, right,” growled Maya, anger simmering to the surface. She debated whether to haul him to the police, but as she stared into his frightened eyes, she deflated.
He's just a kid
. With a sigh she turned to head back, just as a rustle sounded deep within the bushes.

The boy stiffened. “Go,” he whispered.

“Huh?” muttered Maya.

“Please, go,” said the boy, his voice tight. “They're coming. . . .”

Maya backed up, apprehensive at the fear on the boy's face. She was about to turn and run, when three young men emerged from the tangle of bushes and cut off her path. Dressed in jeans and colorful shirts, they struck a menacing pose.

“What do we have here, squirt?” asked the tallest one in a deep, raspy voice, a jagged scar pinching the skin along the right side of his face.

The boy averted his gaze, staring down at his torn slippers.

The chubby one in a yellow tunic, a gold ring glinting in his ear, whacked him on the head. “Answer Babu, you little runt,” he ordered in Hindi.

The little boy whimpered, doubling over. “Please, Ladu, sir . . .”

“Hey, stop that!” Maya cried in English, stepping forward.

Babu jerked his head toward her in surprise. “Are you an American?” he asked, frowning.

Maya bit her tongue as the third boy, thin as a wire and with protruding teeth, stared at her.
Don't say anything else,
she told herself, and glanced back toward the station.
Where's Zara?
Before she could move, the one in yellow, Ladu, grabbed the little boy's ear and twisted. “Looks like girlie here isn't going to talk, so I'm going to ask you one more time: Why were you chasing her?”

“She's got money in there,” squeaked the boy, tears glistening in his eyes. “Hundreds of dollars—­
American
dollars.”

The trio stared at Maya, eyes calculating. Babu smiled, twisting his scarred face. “Ladu, Pinto, get her.”