‘Um, Mr. Kadam, why did you include a compass and a lighter in the bag, not to mention some of these other items?’
He smiled and shrugged, zipping up the compartments and placing the bag on the front seat. ‘You never know what things might come in handy along the journey. I just wanted to make sure that you are fully prepared, Miss Kelsey. You also have a Hindi/English dictionary. I have given the driver instructions, but he doesn’t speak much English. I must take my leave of you now.’ He smiled and squeezed my shoulder.
I suddenly felt vulnerable. Continuing the journey without Mr. Kadam left me anxious. It felt like the first day of high school all over again – if high school was one of the biggest countries in the world and everyone spoke a different language. Well, I’m on my own now. Time to act like a grown-up. I tried to reassure myself, but fear of the unknown was chomping away inside me and chewing a hole through my stomach.
I asked pleadingly, ‘Are you sure you can’t change your plans and travel with us?’
‘Alas, I cannot attend you on your journey.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t fret, Miss Kelsey. You are more than able to care for the tiger, and I have meticulously arranged every detail of your trip. Nothing will go wrong.’
I gave him a weak smile, and he took my hand, enfolded it in both of his for a moment, and said, ‘Trust me, Miss Kelsey. All will be well with you.’ With a twinkle in his eye and a wink, he left.
I looked at Ren. ‘Well, kid, I guess it’s just you and me.’
Impatient to start and finish the trip, the driver called back through the cab of the truck, ‘We go?’
‘Yes, we go,’ I responded with a sigh.
When I climbed in, the driver stepped on the gas and never, ever took his foot off the pedal. He raced out of the airport and in less than two minutes was winding quickly through traffic at frightening speeds. I clutched my door and the dash in front of me. He wasn’t the only insane driver though. Everybody on the road seemed to think 130 kilometers per hour, or, according to my travel guide, 80 mph in a crowded city, with hundreds of pedestrians, was not quite fast enough. Hordes of people dressed in bright, vibrant colors moved in every direction past my window.
Vehicles of every description filled the streets – buses, compact cars, and some kind of tiny, boxy car with no doors and three wheels sped by. The boxy ones must have been the local taxis because there were hundreds of them. There were also countless motorcycles, bicycles, and pedestrians. I even saw animals pulling carts full of people and produce.
I guessed that we were supposed to be driving on the left side of the road, but there seemed to be no distinct pattern or even white stripes to mark the lanes. There were very few lights, signs, or signals. Cars just turned left or right whenever there was an opening and sometimes even when there wasn’t. Once, a car drove right at us on a collision course and then turned away at the last possible second. The driver kept laughing at me every time I gasped in fear.
I gradually became desensitized enough to start to take in the sights that were speeding by, and, with interest, I saw countless multicolored markets and vendors selling an eclectic variety of wares. Merchants sold string-puppets, jewelry, rugs, souvenirs, spices, nuts, and all manner of fruits and vegetables out of small buildings or street carts.
Everyone seemed to be selling something. Billboards showed adver-tisements for tarot cards, palm reading, exotic tattooing, piercing, and henna body-painting shops. The entire city was a hurried, wild, vibrant, and touristy panorama with people of all descriptions and classes. It looked like there was not one square inch of the city that was unoccupied.
After a harrowing drive through the busy city, we finally made it to the highway. At last, I was able to relax my grip a bit – not because the driver was moving slower, in fact, he had sped up – but because the traffic had dropped off considerably. I tried to follow where we were going on a map, but the lack of road signs made it difficult. One thing I did notice though was that the driver missed an important turn onto another freeway that would lead us up to the tiger reserve.
‘That way; go left!’ I pointed.
He shrugged and waved his hand at me dismissing my suggestions. I grabbed my dictionary and tried frantically to look up the word left or wrong way. I finally found the words kharaˉb?ˉ raˉha, which meant wrong road or incorrect path. He gestured to the road ahead with his index finger and said, ‘Fast drive road.’ I gave up and let him do what he wanted. It was his country after all. I figured he knew more about the roads than I did.
After driving for about three hours, we stopped at a tiny town called Ramkola. Calling it a town would be overemphasizing the size of the place because it boasted only a market, a gas station, and five houses. It bordered a jungle, which was where I finally found a sign.
The driver got out of the truck and started to fill the tank with gas. He pointed to the market across the street and said, ‘Eat. Good food.’
I grabbed the backpack and went to the rear of the truck to check on Ren. He was sprawled out on the floor of the cage. He opened his eyes and yawned when I approached but stayed in his inert position.
I walked to the market and opened the peeling squeaky door. A little bell rang announcing my presence.
An Indian woman dressed in a traditional sari emerged from a back room and smiled at me. ‘Namaste. You like food? Eat something?’
‘Oh! You speak English? Yes, I would love some lunch.’
‘You sit there. I make.’
Even though it was lunch for me, it was probably dinner for them because the sun was low in the sky. She motioned me over to a little table with two chairs that was set next to the window, and then she disappeared. The store was a small, rectangular room that housed various grocery products, souvenirs depicting the wildlife sanctuary nearby, and practical things such as matches and tools.
Indian music played softly in the background. I recognized the sounds of a sitar and heard the tinkling of bells but couldn’t identify the other instruments. I glanced through the door where the woman had passed and heard the clatter of pans in her kitchen. It looked like the store was the front of a larger building and the family lived in a house attached to the back.
In surprisingly fast time, the woman returned, balancing four bowls of food. A young girl followed in behind her bringing even more bowls of food. It smelled exotic and spicy. She said, ‘Please to eat and enjoy.’
The woman disappeared into the back, while the young girl started to straighten shelves in the store as I ate. They hadn’t brought me any silverware, so I spooned up some of each dish with my fingers, remem-bering to use my right hand following Indian tradition. Lucky Mr. Kadam had mentioned that on the plane.
I recognized the basmati rice, naan bread, and tandoori chicken, but the other three dishes I’d never seen before. I looked over at the girl, inclined my head, and asked, ‘Do you speak English?’
She nodded and approached me. Motioning with her fingers, she said, ‘Little bit English.’
I pointed to a triangular pastry filled with spicy vegetables. ‘What is this called?’
‘This samosa.’
‘What about this one and this?’
She indicated one and then the other: ‘Rasmalai and baigan bhartha.’ She smiled shyly and bustled off to work on the shelves again.