shake his hand.
“Well, you know who I am,” Jason said. “But I wasn’t supposed to be on this train. How’d you know I’d be here?”
Attar held up a finger, excited to explain. “I received a text message from my friend in Delhi, Bahadur Godara. You may know him better as B underscore godara at Inrail dot com. He, too, was one of the people you emailed before arriving in India. He met your tour bus at the sandalwood carving center this morning—it was listed as today’s first stop on the Freedom Tours website—but a Mr. D. P. Satyanarayan explained that you had left the tour. He told my friend that you were traveling by train. After that it was a simple matter of hacking into the India Rail system. There you were, Mr. Jason Talley and his wife, Rachel Moore, Pink City Express, chair car number seven. And, ahcha , here you are now.” His head bobbed as he spoke, a gesture somewhere between a nodded yes and a shaken no.
“And now that you are here,” Attar continued, “you are my very special guests. Come, I will take you to my apartment where you and your wife are free to stay as long as you wish.”
Jason laughed. “Oh, we’re not….”
“We’re not going to pass up your kind hospitality, Mr. Singh,” Rachel said, stepping in front of Jason. “My husband and I would be honored.”
“Please, call me Attar,” he said. “I hope you are hungry. My wife is a most excellent cook.”
“That’s so kind of you,” Rachel said as they crossed the concrete platform to the soot-stained brick station. “Tell me, Attar,” Rachel said, stepping ahead to look around her new husband, “would you know where a girl could get a copy of the India Railway timetables?”
***
Attar pushed in the clutch and downshifted, the engine revving as he passed a bicycle stacked high with empty burlap bags that inched up the winding, hillside road. He tapped the horn as he went by, tapped it again when he reached the open road and again for no apparent reason.
They were twenty miles out of Jaipur and, other than the bicycle, they hadn’t seen another vehicle in miles. Still, Attar kept one hand on the horn, tapping out cautionary beeps as he drove.
“Amber Palace is only eleven kilometers from the city center,” Attar had said when they had climbed into his bulbous white Ambassador after lunch, “but on such a beautiful day I would be a poor host if I did not take the scenic route.”
Jason let his arm hang out the open window, reaching now and then for the steering wheel that should be in front of him but instead was far to his right, his foot slamming down on the missing brake pedal.
“Left-handed driving,” Attar said, chuckling each time Jason flinched. “One of the lasting legacies of British rule.”
Jason leaned back in the seat catching both the cooling breeze and the warming rays of the sun and took in the scenery. The rolling hills reminded him of Corning but the desert rock formations and the patchy greenery looked like pictures he’d seen of New Mexico and Texas. When the road dipped down into a ravine or when they passed a small pond, the vegetation was lush and thick, and Jason caught glimpses of handholding couples strolling in the cool and secretive shadows. There were no maniacal auto-rickshaw drivers, no ancient donkey carts, and the pungent aroma that slapped him in the face as they left the station—a curdling blend of diesel fumes, cooking spices, piss and dirt—had dissipated, leaving the air as fresh as it was going to get. He saw his face in the shiny metal dashboard, surprised to see the smile.
The area around the train station in Jaipur had looked like the area around the train station in Delhi, with the same pack of noisy auto-rickshaws and, Jason was sure, the same pack of noisy auto-rickshaw drivers. The buildings were just as dirty, the signs just as indecipherable, and the pedestrians just as suicidal. Attar beeped his way around the congestion, steering his car onto the
“Well, you know who I am,” Jason said. “But I wasn’t supposed to be on this train. How’d you know I’d be here?”
Attar held up a finger, excited to explain. “I received a text message from my friend in Delhi, Bahadur Godara. You may know him better as B underscore godara at Inrail dot com. He, too, was one of the people you emailed before arriving in India. He met your tour bus at the sandalwood carving center this morning—it was listed as today’s first stop on the Freedom Tours website—but a Mr. D. P. Satyanarayan explained that you had left the tour. He told my friend that you were traveling by train. After that it was a simple matter of hacking into the India Rail system. There you were, Mr. Jason Talley and his wife, Rachel Moore, Pink City Express, chair car number seven. And, ahcha , here you are now.” His head bobbed as he spoke, a gesture somewhere between a nodded yes and a shaken no.
“And now that you are here,” Attar continued, “you are my very special guests. Come, I will take you to my apartment where you and your wife are free to stay as long as you wish.”
Jason laughed. “Oh, we’re not….”
“We’re not going to pass up your kind hospitality, Mr. Singh,” Rachel said, stepping in front of Jason. “My husband and I would be honored.”
“Please, call me Attar,” he said. “I hope you are hungry. My wife is a most excellent cook.”
“That’s so kind of you,” Rachel said as they crossed the concrete platform to the soot-stained brick station. “Tell me, Attar,” Rachel said, stepping ahead to look around her new husband, “would you know where a girl could get a copy of the India Railway timetables?”
***
Attar pushed in the clutch and downshifted, the engine revving as he passed a bicycle stacked high with empty burlap bags that inched up the winding, hillside road. He tapped the horn as he went by, tapped it again when he reached the open road and again for no apparent reason.
They were twenty miles out of Jaipur and, other than the bicycle, they hadn’t seen another vehicle in miles. Still, Attar kept one hand on the horn, tapping out cautionary beeps as he drove.
“Amber Palace is only eleven kilometers from the city center,” Attar had said when they had climbed into his bulbous white Ambassador after lunch, “but on such a beautiful day I would be a poor host if I did not take the scenic route.”
Jason let his arm hang out the open window, reaching now and then for the steering wheel that should be in front of him but instead was far to his right, his foot slamming down on the missing brake pedal.
“Left-handed driving,” Attar said, chuckling each time Jason flinched. “One of the lasting legacies of British rule.”
Jason leaned back in the seat catching both the cooling breeze and the warming rays of the sun and took in the scenery. The rolling hills reminded him of Corning but the desert rock formations and the patchy greenery looked like pictures he’d seen of New Mexico and Texas. When the road dipped down into a ravine or when they passed a small pond, the vegetation was lush and thick, and Jason caught glimpses of handholding couples strolling in the cool and secretive shadows. There were no maniacal auto-rickshaw drivers, no ancient donkey carts, and the pungent aroma that slapped him in the face as they left the station—a curdling blend of diesel fumes, cooking spices, piss and dirt—had dissipated, leaving the air as fresh as it was going to get. He saw his face in the shiny metal dashboard, surprised to see the smile.
The area around the train station in Jaipur had looked like the area around the train station in Delhi, with the same pack of noisy auto-rickshaws and, Jason was sure, the same pack of noisy auto-rickshaw drivers. The buildings were just as dirty, the signs just as indecipherable, and the pedestrians just as suicidal. Attar beeped his way around the congestion, steering his car onto the
Similar Books
