Ticket to India (7 page)

Tomorrow we will take the train to Faizabad. We're leaving later than we'd like, though, because of
Navaratri
, the Hindu festival symbolizing the triumph of good over evil. Want to know the other name for
Navaratri
? It's Durga Puja. Remember I mentioned that Durga is another name for Maya? How weird is that? Since the festival starts in the morning, the trains are full. The only availability was on the overnight sleeper. We're staying at a hotel in Faizabad, then taking a car to Aminpur. If things go according to plan, we'll find the chest and return to Delhi the day after tomorrow.

As she turned to put her journal on the side table, Maya spotted the book Tariq
Sahib
had given her grandmother. She picked it up and began flipping through the pages. “Listen to this,” she said. “It's the poem Tariq
Sahib
mentioned, by Ghalib.”

“We don't have time for poetry,” grumbled Zara, digging through her backpack.

“No, no, go ahead and read some of it,” said
Nani­amma
.

So Maya cleared her throat and began.

“Father and son are at each other's throat;

Brother fights brother. Unity

And Federation are undermined.

Despite all these ominous signs

Why has not doomsday come?

Why does not the Last Trumpet sound?

Who holds the reins of the final catastrophe?”

The hoary old man of lucent ken

Pointed toward Kashi and gently smiled.

“The Architect,” he said, “is fond of this edifice

Because of which there is colour in life; He

would not like it to perish and fall.”

“What does it mean?” asked Maya.

Naniamma
paused from folding a sari. “Ghalib lived during the time when the Moghuls lost power to the British,” she said. “What do
you
think he's saying?”

Zara stood, a thoughtful look on her face. She had been listening despite her grumbling. “The British used divide and conquer to pit everyone against each other,” she said. “So when Ghalib saw how bad the fighting was, he wondered why the end hadn't come.”

Naniamma
nodded, looking pleased. “But ‘the architect' wouldn't let it fall apart.”

“The architect is God, isn't it?” asked Zara.

“Yes,” said
Naniamma
.

“And because of him, the architect, there is color in life,” she added.

“Correct,” replied
Naniamma
. “Now, let's get to bed. It's going to be a busy day tomorrow.”

Maya put away the book. It seemed to her that the poem prophesized the pain and conflict Partition would one day bring. With that thought she fell into a deep sleep.

•  •  •

Maya was cold. Groggily, she opened her eyes and saw that the bathroom light was on and the door was wide open.
Something's not right
. She sat up suddenly
and glanced around the room. On the floor lay
Nani­amma
's crumpled form.

Her breath seizing in her throat, Maya slid out of bed.
“Naniamma!”
she cried, crouching beside her.

There was no response. Maya grabbed her grandmother's icy hands and pressed her cheek against her chest. There was a faint heartbeat, like a small bird fluttering in a cage. “Zara,” she yelled toward the other bed, “wake up . . . something's wrong!”

8

Desperate Decisions

“W
HERE ARE YOUR PARENTS?”
asked Dr. Kumar, a frown causing the red
bindi
on her forehead to scrunch up.

The sisters stared at the doctor, a willowy woman in a white coat, wondering what to say. Maya looked at
Naniamma
, who lay asleep, a tiny form huddled under the white sheets of the hospital bed.

“They aren't here . . . ,” began Zara, her voice hoarse. “We were traveling with our grandmother and just arrived in Delhi.”

“Oh,” said Dr. Kumar, comprehension settling over her fine, dark features as she reviewed the medical charts. “Well, it looks like your grandmother had a stroke.”

“A stroke?” squawked Zara, as Maya's pulse raced. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Well, her blood pressure was highly elevated when she came in. Does she have a heart condition?”

“Yes,” whispered Maya. “She forgot her medicine at home.”

“Uncontrolled blood pressure can disrupt blood supply to the brain,” explained Dr. Kumar, her face sympathetic. “But luckily it was a minor stroke and we caught it in time. So although she's weak and needs time to recover, she's stable and there doesn't seem to be permanent damage.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Zara, reaching over to grip Maya's hand.

“Where are you coming from, then?” asked Dr. Kumar, snapping the file shut.

“From Karachi,” mumbled Zara.

“Pakistan?” Dr. Kumar raised her her eyebrows.

“Uh, yes,” replied Zara.

“Well, you need to call your parents right away and have them come to Delhi,” she said. “Arrangements need to be made for your grandmother's care—she may have to stay in the hospital a few more days, then she'll need help flying home. I think it's best if you call them from my office so your grandmother can have some peace and quiet. Also, I'd like to talk to them as well.”

Maya watched the doctor's long black braid sway with her brisk pace as she followed her down the hall. Images from the last three hours flashed through her mind: Zara crying, shouting into the telephone . . . hotel staff rushing to the room . . . the ambulance ride through Delhi at three in the morning . . . her grandmother disappearing into an examining room while the sisters waited nervously on hard waiting room chairs.

“Hello,” Zara whispered into her bright pink cell phone.

“Zara, is that you?” shrieked Sofia
Khala
. Maya, sitting beside her sister, heard every muffled word. “Are you okay? We've been
frantic
with worry.” Before Zara could respond, Maya heard her aunt shouting. “Someone, go get Dalia, it's Zara,” bellowed Sofia
Khala
.

“Zara?” came their mother's voice from another line. “What were you girls thinking, running off like that?”

“I was just . . . ,” said Zara, but her mother cut her off.

“Give the phone to your grandmother. I need to talk to her,” said their mother.

“Mom,” said Zara. “
Naniamma
is sick.”

A pause followed. “What do you mean, she's sick?”

“She had a stroke. . . . A
minor
stroke.”

“What?”
she gasped. “When did that happen?”

“Last night, at the hotel,” explained Zara. “We're at a hospital now.”

“How is she?” cried her mother.

“Doing much better,” said Zara in a rush. “The doctor says she's in stable condition, and she's asleep.”

“Well, you stay put,” said her mother. “I'm coming there on the next flight, do you understand?”

“Yes,” replied Zara.

“Is the doctor there?” asked her mother.

“Yes, I'm in her office,” said Zara.

“Give her the phone.”

Zara handed the phone to Dr. Kumar, who sat on the other side of the smooth wooden desk, “She's not awake yet. . . . I've given her a mild sedative to help her sleep. . . . She cannot be moved for a few days; she is too weak and needs to recover. . . . Yes, I urge you or someone in your family to come at once.”

•  •  •

“Water,” came a feeble request.

Maya's eyes snapped open. The sisters had fallen
asleep in the lumpy chairs beside the hospital bed, and now it was late in the afternoon.

“Water.”

Still groggy, Maya jumped up to grab a glass from the side table and poured water from a jug. “Here you go,
Naniamma
,” she said, relieved that she was awake.

“Thanks,
jaan
,” said
Naniamma
. After a long gulp, she lay back with a sigh. “What happened? Where are we?” she asked, peering over the sheets.

“You had a stroke, a ministroke,” explained Zara, rushing over, eyes bleary. “Your blood pressure shot up and you collapsed because you weren't taking your medication.”

“We're at a hospital,” added Maya.

“But we have to go,” said
Naniamma
, confused. “We have a train to catch.”

“
Naniamma
 . . . ,” said Zara, trying to find the words. “You can't go—you're too sick.”

“But I've come this far,” said
Naniamma
, blinking rapidly, groggy from the drugs. “I must go—” She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She tried to take a step. Zara and Maya caught her right as her knees buckled under her. As gently as they could, they guided her back into bed.

“Why is this happening?” whispered
Naniamma
as
the sisters settled her under the blanket. “It took over forty years but I came . . . to find the chest . . . get Malik's ring . . . see my mother's face again. . . .”

Malik . . .
Nanabba
. Maya remembered his body wrapped in sheets, waiting to be buried with the promised engagement ring. Warring emotions raced through her: deep sadness coupled with red hot anger. It wasn't fair. They'd come so far.

“It's over before it even began,” whispered
Nani­amma
as tears ran down the sides of her face.

“Naniamma,”
whispered Zara. “It will be okay. . . .”

“No . . . ,” came her defeated response. “Despite all the hope and planning . . . it's over. . . .”

“No!” cried Zara, two angry spots of color on her cheeks. “Don't say that.”

Maya took her grandmother's hand, watching her strained features.
Naniamma
was stubborn even in defeat, as she struggled to keep from falling into a drugged sleep. As she faded, she squeezed Maya's fingers and looked from one sister to the other. “So many promises. . . . My promise to find the chest . . . Malik's to bring me here . . . All broken . . .” ­Exhaling, ­
Naniamma
went limp, falling into the deep, dark well of the drug's effects.

Zara slowly turned to face Maya, her face streaked
with tears. “We also promised that we would help her,” she whispered.

Maya nodded, painful words caught in her throat in a hard lump.

Then her sister got that look on her face—the ­bullheaded-rhino look. She looked down at her watch, glanced at Maya, and smiled.

9

Runaway Train

“A
RE YOU
SURE
THIS
is a good idea?” Maya asked again, twisting her hands as Zara propped a hastily written note for their mother against the water jug.

“Look,” said Zara, “don't worry so much. We traveled all the way to Little Rock last year to visit Sofia
Khala
by ourselves. It was easy.”

Maya remembered. They'd changed planes in Houston without a problem.

“It'll be fine,”
urged her sister. “We need to hurry if we're going to make the train.”

Maya considered her sister's argument.
Naniamma had
made all the arrangements—train tickets, hotel,
and car service in Faizabad. All they had to do was follow the memory map to the house in Aminpur. “But what if the chest isn't there?” she asked pragmati­cally, hating to make rushed decisions.

“Look, we've come this far, we have to see this through,” said Zara impatiently. “What if it is there—can you imagine how happy
Naniamma
will be?”

Maya imagined presenting the chest to their grandmother. She would be overjoyed. And
Nanabba
, he'd get his ring. “Okay,” she exhaled. “We owe it to her to help finish what we started together.”

“Good.” Zara smiled and hurried toward the door. “We'll be back the day after tomorrow, before Mom has time to get herself totally worked up.”

Pushing aside the desire to give her grandmother a kiss, since she might wake her, Maya joined Zara just inside the doorway, scanning the hospital hallway to make sure none of the nurses or Dr. Kumar was around. Coast clear, they exited their grandmother's room and found a taxi.

•  •  •

At the hotel they packed quickly, tossing their clothes into a shared backpack. As Zara rifled through her grandmother's handbag for money—Indian rupees and hundred-dollar bills—tucking them into her
small purse along with her cell phone, Maya spotted
Naniamma
's memory map on the side table. Gently folding it in half, she slid it into the guidebook and stuck the book into the backpack along with her journal and the train tickets. Zara added their passports, the iron key to their great-grandfather's house, and the confirmation document for Maurya Hotel, hiding them all in an inside pocket.

As Maya watched her sister zip up her purse, she paused, stomach suddenly in knots. “You know Mom's going to be way beyond bubbling-volcano mad when she finds us missing, don't you? She's going to ground us for a year,” she added, trying to find a chink in her sister's resolve.

“Look,” said Zara, pausing a moment, face softening as if she finally realized Maya's fear. “We can do this—how hard can it be?”

The resistance Maya felt nearly melted, though a tiny bit remained. Her sister was right—
Naniamma
had already planned out the trip, step by step.

“Okay, then,” said Zara, taking the backpack. “Let's go.”

The girls rode the elevator down to the lobby in silence, and as they neared the exit, they ran into Cyrus, the manager, heading toward the doors, ­briefcase in
hand. His sea-green eyes brightened when he spotted them. “How is your grandmother?”

Zara slowed, not wanting to waste time or answer too many nosy questions. “She's awake, doing much better, thanks.”

“Well, if you need anything, please let us know. Ms. Gupta will be taking over my post and she can help in any way you need.” He pointed to a young woman in a gray suit and bright red lipstick greeting guests.

“Can you arrange for a taxi to take us back to the . . . hospital?” asked Zara.

“Certainly,” Cyrus said, stepping toward the line of hotel-managed taxis. “Gopi,” he called out to a driver standing near a shiny white car. “Please take Miss Zara and Miss Maya to Apollo Hospital.” As they climbed inside, Cyrus paused. “I can accompany you if you wish, for any assistance.”

Maya froze. Oh, no . . .

“Oh, but it's not necessary,” Zara blurted out.

“Have a safe journey and give my best wishes to your grandmother,” said Cyrus.

“We will,” said Zara as she pulled the door shut. As the car pulled onto the road, she turned to the driver. “Gopi, Delhi Junction Station, quickly.”

“But, miss,” said the driver, confused. “Mr. Cyrus said to go to Apollo Hospital.”

“There's been a change of plans,” said Zara. Maya cringed at her imperious tone. “I need to meet . . . my father at the train station. He is coming in from Mumbai.”

Gopi nodded, frowned, but didn't argue. He shrugged and merged back into traffic, which was snarled with commuters returning home.

Forty-five minutes later, they'd barely crawled more than a mile up the clogged road, penned in by a pack of scooters, cars, buses, rickshaws, and donkey carts.

Maya glanced down at her watch: 6:23. The sun was low on the horizon and the train left in thirty-­seven minutes. Panic bloomed in her chest. “We're not going to make it to the train station on time,” she whispered to her sister.

Zara nodded, frowning. “Can't we go any faster?” she asked Gopi, who sat fiddling with the CD, playing hip-gyrating Bollywood hits.

“Miss, this is Delhi traffic.” He shrugged. “The station is only a few minutes away—the next left, past Mahatma Gandhi Park.”

The sisters peered through the windshield, examining a long stretch of yellow brick that lay the
­foundation of Town Hall, which was trimmed with carved white stone. An expansive park stretched behind.

“We can't miss the train,” muttered Zara, jaw clenched as the car stopped yet again. To Maya's surprise, she pulled on the backpack, took out a handful of bills from her purse, and handed the rupees to Gopi. “Come on,” she said, grabbing Maya's hand. She pushed open the door and jumped out.

Maneuvering past an idling city bus belching exhaust, they leapt onto the sidewalk facing a cinema. Bollywood movie posters announced the latest hits; swashbuckling heroes, with the last name of Khan, posed in tight jeans and leather jackets or snazzy suits, sharing steamy looks with long-lashed heroines in sequins. Zara sprinted past Town Hall, pulling Maya behind her. They ran past a bronze statue of Gandhi, a perch for dozing pigeons.

Over the treetops Maya glimpsed red turrets ­rising up in an ominous violet sky. The color heralded secrecy and sometimes cruelty. Maya gulped, following her sister along the crosswalk through the main gates of Delhi Junction Station. They circumvented vendors balancing trays of candy, and shoe polishers clapping brushes to attract customers.

6:48.
Twelve minutes to find the right platform,
thought Maya, following Zara up the steps toward the entryway, where a man in a flowered polyester shirt lounged.

“Let me help you, miss,” he called to Zara, smiling beneath a lush mustache.

Naniamma
's voice rang in Maya's head.
Ignore anyone who tries to sell you something or tries to offer help.

“No, thanks,” said Zara, clearly remembering the warning too, and she strode past to enter the station. Inside, she paused as a red-uniformed porter loaded with heavy suitcases crossed their path. A portly woman in a flowing mustard-and-orange sari sailed by, herding three teenage girls, all clutching their purses. Zara tightened her grip on the backpack as they stared out over the bustling Delhi Junction concourse. The immense station sprawled out in front of them, a sea of iridescent colors, swimming with travelers, hawkers, beggars, and, she was certain, pickpockets. Maya gulped, ears bombarded with the cacophony of a thousand voices, coupled with blaring music and rumbling trains. The noise dulled the buzzing of the loudspeaker, which was informing passengers of arriving trains, changed platforms, and delays.

“Where do we go?” said Maya, clutching Zara's arm.

“Hold on,” replied Zara, peering along the concourse. “We need to find a train schedule that can direct us to the right platform.”

“Excuse us,” interrupted a tired, Australian-­accented voice behind them. Zara pulled Maya aside to let a troop of disheveled backpackers pass.

“Let's find our train, mate,” said the wiry guy in the lead, running a hand through shaggy blond locks. “The platforms change all the time and I don't want to miss it.”

“But I'm famished, man,” grumbled a stocky guy beside him, tugging at his sweat-soaked T-shirt.

“We'll look for some nosh after,” said the blond.

“Be careful this time,” piped up a deep voice from the back. “My stomach was raging for days after we ate that flaming chicken
vindaloo
at the Goa station, man.”

“Remember what the bloke at the hotel said,” reminded the blond, snorting with laughter. “Only eat things that are hot and just out of the pot. No salads, no unbottled water . . .”

Sharing a grin, the sisters scurried after them to an electronic display board. There it was: the ­Delhi-Faizabad Express, leaving from platform 6.

“We only have five minutes till it arrives,” said Zara, grabbing Maya's hand. “Come on!”

As they hurried on, a whirring sounded from the board.

“Hey,” said Maya, craning her neck back. “Can we just check the number again?”

“We know already!” cried Zara, circumventing a
chaiwallah
, a tea vendor. “Do you want to miss the train?”

Maya swallowed a retort and followed, though she wished she'd gotten a confirming look. They ran through the concourse toward a set of stairs to the second level, where pathways crisscrossed above the tracks. At the top step Maya paused, blinking in confusion. The platforms were not in numerical order. Platforms 2, 5, and 8 were to the right, toward the east wing of the station. Arrows directed passengers west toward 3, 7, and 9.

Maya glanced from one direction to the other.
Six, where's six?
People pushed past them, hauling cumbersome bundles and suitcases. She peered over the balcony and as she looked for a sign for 6, her eyes wavered. Hidden away, almost invisible, were packs of kids—tucked in the shadows, scampering across the tracks.
That looks dangerous. Where are their parents?
Then it hit her—they were street children. A ­piteous little girl sat in front of a beggar's bowl, her
arm ­missing. A sickening feeling settled in Maya's gut. She glanced back to Zara, who was talking to a man in a crisp khaki uniform. He was slurping a cup of tea and twirling a baton.
A policeman!

“You must be going the other way,” he said, pointing with his baton. “It is the second-to-last stairs.”

“Thank you,” said Zara.

Grabbing Maya's hand, she took off as the speakers crackled to life, spewing out unintelligible announcements. At the second-to-last set of stairs, a stretch of crimson metal pulled into the platform. The word “danger” popped into Maya's head as she stared at the passenger cars, swarmed by a mass of people clambering aboard.

“Come on!” cried Zara, yanking her down the steps just as the train's whistle blew, giving them scant minutes to board.

An image of a blood-soaked train compartment appeared from
Naniamma
's story and Maya hesitated, but her sister pulled her toward the first passenger car. Maya glanced down at her ticket. The concierge had booked first-class air-conditioned compartments for them since their grandmother had wanted to have a private room with beds and a lockable door. The train car that stood in front
of them read: “second class.” “This is the wrong section!” she cried.

“Don't worry about that now,” said Zara, pushing Maya ahead of her. “We just need to get on.”

Ducking past flying elbows and bulky packages, Maya grabbed the metal rail and hauled herself up the steps onto the train. She squeezed past harried passengers and went up the cramped corridor, which extended the length of the car and was lined with windows on the left. On the right were compartments fitted with wooden benches facing each other, a bunk on top. All were full, but at the third one Maya spotted a bare spot on the floor, beneath the window. The rest of the space was taken up by an elderly couple traveling with a young woman and six children. When the old woman spotted the girls, she smiled and waved them inside.

“Go, hurry,” urged Zara, pushing Maya inside.

Maya climbed over luggage and prepared to sit down, her sister squeezing in beside her. Before she sat, she lay her jean jacket on the grimy floor. She'd just secured the backpack in her lap when the whistle blew and the train pulled away from the station.

“We did it,” Zara laughed giddily, ruffling Maya's hair.

“Yeah,” replied Maya, a niggling feeling of doubt lurking in the back of her mind.

“We'll get the chest and be back in no time,” said Zara confidently.

Maya leaned back against the wall, feeling the wind whip her hair as it whooshed through the bars on the window.

Zara looked around the cramped but secure space. “Let's wait a bit till things settle down. It might be better to just get off at the next stop and make our way to the right compartment.”

“Okay,” said Maya. For once, she appreciated her sister's bullheadedness, though she would never admit it.
I'm glad we're doing this,
she thought.
Nanabba would have wanted us to.
She sighed, staring down at her ticket. A long journey lay before them, so she leaned over to retrieve her journal from their backpack.

“Hey, pass me my book, would you?” asked Zara.

“Sure,” replied Maya, double-checking their passports, money, hotel reservation, and return tickets to Delhi before finding what she needed. Under the flickering light of the compartment, she cracked open the guidebook to a map and copied it into her journal, outlining the route from Delhi to Faizabad in black.

Sunday, September 18