MADE IN NIRVANA
Chapter 1
Shanti, Madam, shanti
TWENTY YEARS LATER - 22 June 1978
When the Thai Airways flight landed in New Delhi at three o’clock in the morning, Maria and Franca were the first to the door, ready to get off, tired, but excited. They were anticipating their farewell greeting for the hostesses in silk saris: a slight bow with palms pressed together. They had planned it during the flight, seeing them perform this graceful movement every two minutes. As the plane door opened they were hit by a gust of hot moist air that took their breath away. Surprised by the sweltering heat Maria forgot her grand gesture, greeted the hostesses with a concerned nod of the head and descended the first few steps, holding on to the boiling hot handrail. From behind she heard Franca say: "I'm going back home on the next plane!"
She laughed, despite it being a choice between laughing and breathing, and wiped the dripping sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm. She closed her lips and started to inhale, sucking air through her teeth. If Indian people survived it meant that, in theory there was enough oxygen. She had taken a few steps, sinking on soft tar that appeared to be at the point of melting, when her problems, the ones she had brought from Italy, seemed much smaller than when she had boarded the plane.
"Try to breathe slowly through your teeth," she said, turning slightly toward Franca who was walking behind her. She laughed again, seeing her companion's eyes wide open. "This way, a bit of air comes in!"
Franca nodded, without a word. As soon as they walked through the airport doors the temperature changed dramatically thanks to the air conditioning and Maria turned around to wait for her friend: "It works, doesn’t it? Breathing through your teeth."
"I knew this technique, actually, I just hadn’t remembered to use it," she said, matter-of-factly.
At the luggage belt, Maria recognized a group of young Italian men who had travelled on the same plane, waiting for their bags. They seemed at ease, laughing and joking, which made her think this wasn’t their first time in India. Leaning toward Franca, she said softly: "Look at those four. They seem completely at home! Shouldn’t we tag along to find a hotel somewhere?"
Franca grimaced; she was fiercely independent but, taking advantage of a brief moment of hesitation she saw in her face, Maria approached one of the boys and asked him if they knew of a hotel or a guesthouse for the night.
"We always go to the same place," replied the boy, surprised by the sudden approach.
"Can we come too?" asked Maria. "It’s our first time in India and we don’t know where to go." She saw Franca looking the other way, pretending not to know her, but she ignored it. "Maybe we can find a room there, too."
"Sure! Why not?" said the boy in a friendly manner.
Once they recovered their backpacks, they followed the four Italians. As soon as they were through the revolving doors the stifling heat hit them again. They walked to the taxi rank, where sturdy black cars with yellow roofs were waiting in line, the guys in front, Maria following closely behind and Franca keeping slightly further back. Maria observed with interest while they haggled on the rate, in their elementary English enriched by a strong Italian accent. The taxi driver held his own well, explaining that the price of petrol had increased and he had a family to support. The Indian accent turned out to be quite funny and, at the same time, easy to understand. After a long discussion they agreed on the price, the four young men put their bags in the trunk and got into the taxi.
"What about us?" asked Maria. "Where do we sit, on the roof?"
The taxi driver took the backpack from her hands and threw it on the roof rack, proceeding to do the same with Franca’s. Worried about the precarious position of their luggage, Maria explained, in her rusty English, that he had to secure it, otherwise it could fall off. As he refused to listen, waving his hand to tell her not to worry, she felt compelled to insist, and followed him closely as he walked toward the driver's door. When she got hold of his arm, the man finally stopped; looking calmly at her, he said with a smile: "Shanti, Madam! Shanti!" and motioned for her to take a seat in the car.
She threw a worried look at Franca who, on the opposite side of the car, shrugged her shoulders. "Bah, everything will be fine! Shanti, Maria, shanti!" she teased, imitating the driver’s accent.
Resigned, Maria looked at the three boys sitting on the back seat. "And where should I sit?" she asked.
"Here!" said the nearest one, slapping his thighs. She glanced at Franca, who was sat in the front seat, squeezed in with an Italian and their Indian chauffeur, tight and cosy.
"Oh, all right! Shanti, then," she said, trying to find a comfortable position on the boy’s knees. "But now can someone tell me what it means?"
"Peace"
"Calm down!"
"Relax!"
And so she had learned her first expression in Hindi: 'Calm down Maria!'
She was very uncomfortable, her back was crooked and her head squashed against the roof. Hot and sticky air blew through the open window, lifting her hair and cooling the sweat that dripped down her neck. As the smell of fuel from the airport faded away, different odours wafted in, all new and none of them pleasant, a strange mix of rancid and sweet, intense and nauseating. She covered her nose and mouth with her hand, trying to breathe as little as possible. Lamp posts lit the road at regular intervals revealing hundreds of beds, all more or less in a row and, although it was night time, none of the occupants seemed to be asleep; most of them were chatting, many were smoking. Women in saris squatted on the ground, pumping smelly kerosene stoves on which they prepared food or tea. Maria guessed people took their beds outdoors because it was too hot in the house. It didn't cross her mind that for those people, the road was their home.
The taxi turned down a dark street and continued its speeding ride in the pitch black. Just when the pain in her back was becoming unbearable, the taxi driver began to slow down. With a flick of his thumb a cigarette butt flew out the window, and the black car stopped just outside a house.
She laughed, despite it being a choice between laughing and breathing, and wiped the dripping sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm. She closed her lips and started to inhale, sucking air through her teeth. If Indian people survived it meant that, in theory there was enough oxygen. She had taken a few steps, sinking on soft tar that appeared to be at the point of melting, when her problems, the ones she had brought from Italy, seemed much smaller than when she had boarded the plane.
"Try to breathe slowly through your teeth," she said, turning slightly toward Franca who was walking behind her. She laughed again, seeing her companion's eyes wide open. "This way, a bit of air comes in!"
Franca nodded, without a word. As soon as they walked through the airport doors the temperature changed dramatically thanks to the air conditioning and Maria turned around to wait for her friend: "It works, doesn’t it? Breathing through your teeth."
"I knew this technique, actually, I just hadn’t remembered to use it," she said, matter-of-factly.
At the luggage belt, Maria recognized a group of young Italian men who had travelled on the same plane, waiting for their bags. They seemed at ease, laughing and joking, which made her think this wasn’t their first time in India. Leaning toward Franca, she said softly: "Look at those four. They seem completely at home! Shouldn’t we tag along to find a hotel somewhere?"
Franca grimaced; she was fiercely independent but, taking advantage of a brief moment of hesitation she saw in her face, Maria approached one of the boys and asked him if they knew of a hotel or a guesthouse for the night.
"We always go to the same place," replied the boy, surprised by the sudden approach.
"Can we come too?" asked Maria. "It’s our first time in India and we don’t know where to go." She saw Franca looking the other way, pretending not to know her, but she ignored it. "Maybe we can find a room there, too."
"Sure! Why not?" said the boy in a friendly manner.
Once they recovered their backpacks, they followed the four Italians. As soon as they were through the revolving doors the stifling heat hit them again. They walked to the taxi rank, where sturdy black cars with yellow roofs were waiting in line, the guys in front, Maria following closely behind and Franca keeping slightly further back. Maria observed with interest while they haggled on the rate, in their elementary English enriched by a strong Italian accent. The taxi driver held his own well, explaining that the price of petrol had increased and he had a family to support. The Indian accent turned out to be quite funny and, at the same time, easy to understand. After a long discussion they agreed on the price, the four young men put their bags in the trunk and got into the taxi.
"What about us?" asked Maria. "Where do we sit, on the roof?"
The taxi driver took the backpack from her hands and threw it on the roof rack, proceeding to do the same with Franca’s. Worried about the precarious position of their luggage, Maria explained, in her rusty English, that he had to secure it, otherwise it could fall off. As he refused to listen, waving his hand to tell her not to worry, she felt compelled to insist, and followed him closely as he walked toward the driver's door. When she got hold of his arm, the man finally stopped; looking calmly at her, he said with a smile: "Shanti, Madam! Shanti!" and motioned for her to take a seat in the car.
She threw a worried look at Franca who, on the opposite side of the car, shrugged her shoulders. "Bah, everything will be fine! Shanti, Maria, shanti!" she teased, imitating the driver’s accent.
Resigned, Maria looked at the three boys sitting on the back seat. "And where should I sit?" she asked.
"Here!" said the nearest one, slapping his thighs. She glanced at Franca, who was sat in the front seat, squeezed in with an Italian and their Indian chauffeur, tight and cosy.
"Oh, all right! Shanti, then," she said, trying to find a comfortable position on the boy’s knees. "But now can someone tell me what it means?"
"Peace"
"Calm down!"
"Relax!"
And so she had learned her first expression in Hindi: 'Calm down Maria!'
She was very uncomfortable, her back was crooked and her head squashed against the roof. Hot and sticky air blew through the open window, lifting her hair and cooling the sweat that dripped down her neck. As the smell of fuel from the airport faded away, different odours wafted in, all new and none of them pleasant, a strange mix of rancid and sweet, intense and nauseating. She covered her nose and mouth with her hand, trying to breathe as little as possible. Lamp posts lit the road at regular intervals revealing hundreds of beds, all more or less in a row and, although it was night time, none of the occupants seemed to be asleep; most of them were chatting, many were smoking. Women in saris squatted on the ground, pumping smelly kerosene stoves on which they prepared food or tea. Maria guessed people took their beds outdoors because it was too hot in the house. It didn't cross her mind that for those people, the road was their home.
The taxi turned down a dark street and continued its speeding ride in the pitch black. Just when the pain in her back was becoming unbearable, the taxi driver began to slow down. With a flick of his thumb a cigarette butt flew out the window, and the black car stopped just outside a house.
⸹⸹⸹
The figure of a young man appeared through the large, illuminated window of the door. He was wearing white pyjama trousers and a long white shirt that came down to his knees, and seemed to be waiting for them. He smiled when he saw the first Italian boy get out the taxi, recognizing him immediately. He bowed with hands clasped in front of his chest as, one by one, they all descended from the cab.
The driver handed the backpacks to their respective owners and gave a particularly big smile to Maria as he gave her hers: "Here is your backpack, Madam," he said, tilting his head to one side, as if to say 'You see it's all in order? I told you.’
"That's good! Thank you!" she said with relief. Contained within was everything she needed for those three months, including irreplaceable medicine for any ailment from malaria to the most deadly diarrhoea. Shanti shanti! Easier said than done! She was definitely happier now that she had been reunited with her belongings. They walked in single file into the reception, taxi driver included.
An elderly man, dressed exactly like the younger one, greeted the newcomers as they came through the door, bowing with his palms pressed. The young Italians bowed in the same way, as did Franca. Maria felt embarrassingly self-conscious, she didn’t find it natural to bow; besides, until she knew whether they had a room for the night she couldn’t relax. She approached the older man, grabbed his rough, gnarled hand and shook it warmly. The old man looked at her in amazement. Everybody burst into loud laughter and eventually the old man laughed too, showing two upper teeth, three below and a completely red mouth inside! Blushing, Maria justified herself: "In Italy we introduce ourselves this way!" and then she laughed too, feeling even more stupid than if she had bowed. She peered at the old man’s red mouth and noticed that the young man’s mouth was just as red. What were they chewing… blood?
"They're chewing a leaf called 'betel'," the Italian boy who had hosted her on his knees explained earnestly, seeing her stunned expression.
"How weird! Are you sure it’s not blood?" she asked.
"I'm sure," he replied, laughing. "It's a leaf that keeps them awake. It’s a stimulant, a bit like coffee!"
"Thank God for that!"
She noticed that, once again, Franca pretended not to know her. The hotel had a room for them, but it cost more than expected. Delhi was expensive, said the boys, this place was one of the cheapest. The driver pocketed his commission for having brought them over and drove off. The younger of the two men, steadily sucking his 'betel', took a large bunch of keys and led the six Italians, with their luggage, up the stairs.
He stopped on the first floor landing and opened a door, the room for Maria and Franca. "Your room with bathroom," he said primly. He handed the key to Franca and continued up the stairs with the boys. How wonderful, a bedroom with a bathroom. At last! Maria sighed. She pressed the switch and a bare bulb gave out a white and trembling light, feebly illuminating the room with two beds… and nothing else. She rested her big red backpack, camera case, straw bag and duty-free carrier bag on the floor. What a relief to finally stop after such a long journey! More than twenty four hours had passed since she had left home. Franca went to the bathroom and turned on a dim light.
"Come and have a look!" she exclaimed.
The spartan version of a toilet: a hole in the floor accompanied a low tap, eight inches from the ground, with a red plastic jug close by, and a shower that hung from the ceiling, to make up the ‘bathroom’. The walls and floor were bare grey concrete.
"Is this supposed to be the bathroom? It’s dirty! Quite disgusting! I don’t know if I want to wash myself in here," Maria said with dismay, "and no toilet paper!"
Franca laughed: "We are in India, Maria. You better to get used to it."
In the 'bedroom' the moths, who had been rudely awoken, started to fly around, slamming blindly against the bulb, while mosquitoes began to buzz in concentric circles, getting closer to the girls’ heads, exploring the new odour. The room was permeated by the smell of an old, damp place that hadn't been aired for too long. There was a ceiling fan; Franca pressed a switch and got it started. Unfortunately, it barely moved and the warm moisture became more and more oppressive. Maria opened the window hoping to get a little air in, but despite being the coolest hours of the night, outside it was just as hot and humid. A dog began to bark and another answered from afar. Soon more dogs joined in the chorus, barking, yapping and howling from all directions. The combination of these unpleasant noises tore through the dark night and disturbed her mind, already on the verge of exhaustion. The mattresses were hard, dirty and had bumps everywhere, there were no sheets or even a pillow.
"How many stars does this hotel have?" Maria joked.
"None," laughed her friend. "In fact, minus one, and it’s not even cheap!"
The mosquitoes seemed to prefer Franca and buzzed around her insistently. "They're eating me alive," she said irritably, following them with her eyes, trying to catch them and crush them between her hands. "We'll have to turn the light off or close the window."
"I have some mosquito coils in my backpack," said Maria.
"Great, get them out, otherwise we'll never be able to sleep. Close the window and I’ll kill as many as I can." Stripped down to her underwear, she began to hunt them, threatening and hitting them with her jeans whenever she saw new ones: "You bastards, damn mosquitoes… Take that! Die! Look how fat this one is, got you! Say your last goodbyes… and another one!" Maria laughed as she emptied her backpack, the coils were buried somewhere deep within.
Meanwhile Franca was unleashing her inner assassin, with her jeans as a lethal weapon and letting a stream of thoughts flow freely: "If reincarnation really exists, you'll get another shot damn mosquito, but for now, you're done. Then, finally we may be able to get some sleep! Down and out!" With the window closed, it was unbearably hot and she was sweating profusely from all the exercise she was doing. At last Maria found the coils and lit a couple. They let out a strong smell, but it was a heartening stench, knowing they were going to decimate the mosquitoes.
There was a noise outside their room. Was that a knock at the door? The girls looked at each other. There was another sound; yes it was a knock, a little louder this time. At four-thirty in the morning?
"Who is it?" asked Maria, her ear next to the door.
"Hotel man, Madam," said a voice from the other side. "Can I speak to you? One moment only!"
"It’s the hotel man, he wants to speak to us," she reported.
"What does he want?" asked Franca, irritated. The man knocked again.
"What do you want? It's four-thirty in the morning," asked Maria, speaking through the door.
"It’s very important, Madam. One minute only!" insisted the voice.
"He says it's very important. Come on, put your jeans on and let's see what he wants! He’s not going away by the sound of it," she said. While holding her hand on the doorknob she noticed a hole lower down, where once there had been a lock. "Look at this," she prompted Franca who, sweaty and out of sorts, was putting her jeans on. She opened the door a few inches, blocking it with her foot. The young man smiled with his red mouth, his left cheek swollen with a trusty ball of 'betel'.
"You have duty-free, Madam?" he asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "You want to sell? I have money!"
Speechless, Maria turned to Franca.
"Tell him to come tomorrow morning! Is he crazy? It's the middle of the night!" her companion rebelled.
"Come back tomorrow. Not now!" Maria faithfully reported.
"Tomorrow is no good, Madam, police!" he insisted, showing her a nice big bunch of ten rupee notes. "Now is good time. Only two minutes, Madam. Look, I have money."
With her hand on the doorknob, Maria turned to Franca: "He says that tomorrow there will be police and that it only takes two minutes. He's waving hundreds of rupees under my nose. Come on Franca, let's do it now, so we get rid of those heavy bottles."
"What a pain-in-the-arse!" complained Franca, struggling to pull up her fly. Maria took her foot off the door and the man came in, looking around.
"It is very hot in here," he said. Yes, they knew it was very hot; they had sweat coming out of every pore! "You have whisky, gin, vodka?"
He sat gingerly on the bed and the bargaining began between him and Franca, who had already decided on the price, based on what 'everybody' had told her. Apparently, four hundred rupees a bottle, three times what they had paid for it, was the going price. The man wanted to pay less, she didn’t budge from her price; things were dragging on. Maria suggested she accept three hundred and fifty, but Franca reproached her saying that, with her attitude 'she'd ruin the market' and to leave it to her.
They ended up agreeing on three hundred and seventy-five rupees, the man seemingly disappointed, Franca sweaty and irritated. He left, happily cuddling the two bottles of whisky in his arms. It was almost five o’clock in the morning. The girls peeled off the jeans that clung to their sweaty legs and stood in their underwear.
No sooner had Franca disappeared into the bathroom, she let out a scream.
"What’s wrong?" Maria ran to join her, alarmed. A black cockroach was scuttling across the floor.
"It came out of the hole!" panted Franca, shocked and disgusted, in her underwear and untied trainers, "and I wasn't expecting it! I was going to have a pee, my legs spread, and this thing jumped out of the hole!"
Maria would have laughed if the cockroach hadn’t been so ugly and she hadn’t been so scared. "What do we do? Shall we kill him?" she asked, unsure.
"Who's going to catch it? Look how it runs!" Franca said with a shaky voice.
"Let’s send him back into the hole, then, so we don’t sully our hands with blood," suggested Maria.
"All right! Bring me a shoe," commanded her friend, without losing sight of her one-inch enemy with black and glossy armour.
Happy not to have to chase it, Maria ran to get one of her shoes and handed it to her friend.
Franca had a strategy of attack, banging her shoe on the ground, both from the right and the left, directing the speeding black beast toward the hole, always keeping at a good distance. She was a funny sight, in her underwear and trainers! Finally she succeeded and the odious insect disappeared back where it came from.
They took turns to pee, with the other keeping watch, ready to sound the alarm in case the horrible beast came out again.
Too tired to shower, they washed their hands with shampoo brought from home under the tap near the floor. Why on earth was the tap so low?
Given that it was almost daybreak, they turned the light out and opened the window to change the heavy mosquito-coil air. From outside came sounds of the night ending and the new day beginning. The noise of barking and howling dogs was now accompanied by honking of scooters and cars, by voices of people waking up and the loud clatter of road works. Maria leaned out the window to breathe a little air; far from being cool, it was nevertheless not as stifling as the air in the room.
The light of the rising dawn tinged with pink the figures sleeping below, on pieces of cardboard, in doorways and on the pavement.
She had the peculiar feeling there was something alive close by and looked up; a long, black swaying thing was dangling over her head! She stepped hurriedly back into the room: "Come and see Franca! What's that?"
Intrigued, her friend came over; she leaned out the window and looked up. She watched it for a while and then, turning to Maria, her eyes gleaming with excitement, said: "It’s a monkey’s tail!"
"A monkey?" Maria was tired of surprises, she just wanted to sleep. "That’s the last thing we need! We can’t leave the window open."
Franca closed the window, lay on her bed and put a scarf over her eyes. "Good night," she said, and promptly fell asleep.
Maria pushed her bed against the door; there were too many signs indicating the room had been broken into, and hung her jacket above the handle to block the old keyhole. She lay down on the dirty mattress at last; it was like lying on a hot radiator. She closed her eyes, too tired to think rationally, and wondered where Ugo was. Was he with another woman? She didn’t care just now. What was she doing in this crazy place, anyway? Why had she decided to come to India? It had seemed a romantic adventure while they were in Venice, but now it no longer felt like such a good idea. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and fell asleep.
It was almost three in the afternoon when, with difficulty, she woke up. The heat and stuffiness of the room were unbearable while, from the outside, she could hear a cacophony of noises. Walking slowly, unsure of her balance, Maria went to the window and opened it. A gust of fiery air hit her face, flooding the room, filling it with scorching heat and blinding light, accompanied by a loud racket, a mixture of horns, banging and motors. With trembling legs, she stumbled back to her bed and threw herself on it. She was so hungry she could barely stand up and felt as though there was a hole in her stomach. Franca stirred; she moved the scarf from her forehead and opened one eye. She closed it immediately, offended by the strong light.
"Good morning! How are you?" Maria asked. "I'm bloody hot and so hungry my legs are shaking!"
"I'm sweating like a pig," said Franca from under the scarf. "I'm starving, I could eat an ox. I can’t wait to go out. We're in India, Maria!" she said triumphantly, taking the blindfold off and lifting herself on one elbow. She looked at her with puffy tired eyes, but full of enthusiasm: "What time is it? Let's go and eat. Come on, get up! After breakfast we'll go to the Tourist Camp!"
"Where are we going? You don’t expect me to repack all my things and move from here, I hope!" Maria asked, alarmed. But Franca explained that the Tourist Camp was much better, cheaper, you got to meet a lot of people and 'everybody' had told her that it was the place to stay. She was determined, and Maria didn’t have the strength to argue; she resigned herself, suddenly feeling even more tired!
The shower gave only a slow trickle of warm water, but with patience she was able to wash. She finished rinsing her hair by filling the red plastic jug and pouring it over her head, far more effective! Feeling somewhat refreshed, she started to repack her things, putting jeans right at the bottom and placing t-shirts and summer skirts on top. Meanwhile Franca was chatting away, making plans in a loud voice from under the dribble of water. Maria was listening with one ear only. It was apparent that her friend had a lot of ideas already formed, unlike her; therefore it was much easier to rely on her wave of enthusiasm and programming. One of Franca's priorities was to buy and smoke some dope in a big chillum. She couldn't wait. "It's already two days since I last smoked anything and I'm ready to make up for all the lost time," she said from the bathroom. "I bet there is some amazing stuff here! We are in the land of Shiva Shankar! The country of my favourite pastime!"
The driver handed the backpacks to their respective owners and gave a particularly big smile to Maria as he gave her hers: "Here is your backpack, Madam," he said, tilting his head to one side, as if to say 'You see it's all in order? I told you.’
"That's good! Thank you!" she said with relief. Contained within was everything she needed for those three months, including irreplaceable medicine for any ailment from malaria to the most deadly diarrhoea. Shanti shanti! Easier said than done! She was definitely happier now that she had been reunited with her belongings. They walked in single file into the reception, taxi driver included.
An elderly man, dressed exactly like the younger one, greeted the newcomers as they came through the door, bowing with his palms pressed. The young Italians bowed in the same way, as did Franca. Maria felt embarrassingly self-conscious, she didn’t find it natural to bow; besides, until she knew whether they had a room for the night she couldn’t relax. She approached the older man, grabbed his rough, gnarled hand and shook it warmly. The old man looked at her in amazement. Everybody burst into loud laughter and eventually the old man laughed too, showing two upper teeth, three below and a completely red mouth inside! Blushing, Maria justified herself: "In Italy we introduce ourselves this way!" and then she laughed too, feeling even more stupid than if she had bowed. She peered at the old man’s red mouth and noticed that the young man’s mouth was just as red. What were they chewing… blood?
"They're chewing a leaf called 'betel'," the Italian boy who had hosted her on his knees explained earnestly, seeing her stunned expression.
"How weird! Are you sure it’s not blood?" she asked.
"I'm sure," he replied, laughing. "It's a leaf that keeps them awake. It’s a stimulant, a bit like coffee!"
"Thank God for that!"
She noticed that, once again, Franca pretended not to know her. The hotel had a room for them, but it cost more than expected. Delhi was expensive, said the boys, this place was one of the cheapest. The driver pocketed his commission for having brought them over and drove off. The younger of the two men, steadily sucking his 'betel', took a large bunch of keys and led the six Italians, with their luggage, up the stairs.
He stopped on the first floor landing and opened a door, the room for Maria and Franca. "Your room with bathroom," he said primly. He handed the key to Franca and continued up the stairs with the boys. How wonderful, a bedroom with a bathroom. At last! Maria sighed. She pressed the switch and a bare bulb gave out a white and trembling light, feebly illuminating the room with two beds… and nothing else. She rested her big red backpack, camera case, straw bag and duty-free carrier bag on the floor. What a relief to finally stop after such a long journey! More than twenty four hours had passed since she had left home. Franca went to the bathroom and turned on a dim light.
"Come and have a look!" she exclaimed.
The spartan version of a toilet: a hole in the floor accompanied a low tap, eight inches from the ground, with a red plastic jug close by, and a shower that hung from the ceiling, to make up the ‘bathroom’. The walls and floor were bare grey concrete.
"Is this supposed to be the bathroom? It’s dirty! Quite disgusting! I don’t know if I want to wash myself in here," Maria said with dismay, "and no toilet paper!"
Franca laughed: "We are in India, Maria. You better to get used to it."
In the 'bedroom' the moths, who had been rudely awoken, started to fly around, slamming blindly against the bulb, while mosquitoes began to buzz in concentric circles, getting closer to the girls’ heads, exploring the new odour. The room was permeated by the smell of an old, damp place that hadn't been aired for too long. There was a ceiling fan; Franca pressed a switch and got it started. Unfortunately, it barely moved and the warm moisture became more and more oppressive. Maria opened the window hoping to get a little air in, but despite being the coolest hours of the night, outside it was just as hot and humid. A dog began to bark and another answered from afar. Soon more dogs joined in the chorus, barking, yapping and howling from all directions. The combination of these unpleasant noises tore through the dark night and disturbed her mind, already on the verge of exhaustion. The mattresses were hard, dirty and had bumps everywhere, there were no sheets or even a pillow.
"How many stars does this hotel have?" Maria joked.
"None," laughed her friend. "In fact, minus one, and it’s not even cheap!"
The mosquitoes seemed to prefer Franca and buzzed around her insistently. "They're eating me alive," she said irritably, following them with her eyes, trying to catch them and crush them between her hands. "We'll have to turn the light off or close the window."
"I have some mosquito coils in my backpack," said Maria.
"Great, get them out, otherwise we'll never be able to sleep. Close the window and I’ll kill as many as I can." Stripped down to her underwear, she began to hunt them, threatening and hitting them with her jeans whenever she saw new ones: "You bastards, damn mosquitoes… Take that! Die! Look how fat this one is, got you! Say your last goodbyes… and another one!" Maria laughed as she emptied her backpack, the coils were buried somewhere deep within.
Meanwhile Franca was unleashing her inner assassin, with her jeans as a lethal weapon and letting a stream of thoughts flow freely: "If reincarnation really exists, you'll get another shot damn mosquito, but for now, you're done. Then, finally we may be able to get some sleep! Down and out!" With the window closed, it was unbearably hot and she was sweating profusely from all the exercise she was doing. At last Maria found the coils and lit a couple. They let out a strong smell, but it was a heartening stench, knowing they were going to decimate the mosquitoes.
There was a noise outside their room. Was that a knock at the door? The girls looked at each other. There was another sound; yes it was a knock, a little louder this time. At four-thirty in the morning?
"Who is it?" asked Maria, her ear next to the door.
"Hotel man, Madam," said a voice from the other side. "Can I speak to you? One moment only!"
"It’s the hotel man, he wants to speak to us," she reported.
"What does he want?" asked Franca, irritated. The man knocked again.
"What do you want? It's four-thirty in the morning," asked Maria, speaking through the door.
"It’s very important, Madam. One minute only!" insisted the voice.
"He says it's very important. Come on, put your jeans on and let's see what he wants! He’s not going away by the sound of it," she said. While holding her hand on the doorknob she noticed a hole lower down, where once there had been a lock. "Look at this," she prompted Franca who, sweaty and out of sorts, was putting her jeans on. She opened the door a few inches, blocking it with her foot. The young man smiled with his red mouth, his left cheek swollen with a trusty ball of 'betel'.
"You have duty-free, Madam?" he asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "You want to sell? I have money!"
Speechless, Maria turned to Franca.
"Tell him to come tomorrow morning! Is he crazy? It's the middle of the night!" her companion rebelled.
"Come back tomorrow. Not now!" Maria faithfully reported.
"Tomorrow is no good, Madam, police!" he insisted, showing her a nice big bunch of ten rupee notes. "Now is good time. Only two minutes, Madam. Look, I have money."
With her hand on the doorknob, Maria turned to Franca: "He says that tomorrow there will be police and that it only takes two minutes. He's waving hundreds of rupees under my nose. Come on Franca, let's do it now, so we get rid of those heavy bottles."
"What a pain-in-the-arse!" complained Franca, struggling to pull up her fly. Maria took her foot off the door and the man came in, looking around.
"It is very hot in here," he said. Yes, they knew it was very hot; they had sweat coming out of every pore! "You have whisky, gin, vodka?"
He sat gingerly on the bed and the bargaining began between him and Franca, who had already decided on the price, based on what 'everybody' had told her. Apparently, four hundred rupees a bottle, three times what they had paid for it, was the going price. The man wanted to pay less, she didn’t budge from her price; things were dragging on. Maria suggested she accept three hundred and fifty, but Franca reproached her saying that, with her attitude 'she'd ruin the market' and to leave it to her.
They ended up agreeing on three hundred and seventy-five rupees, the man seemingly disappointed, Franca sweaty and irritated. He left, happily cuddling the two bottles of whisky in his arms. It was almost five o’clock in the morning. The girls peeled off the jeans that clung to their sweaty legs and stood in their underwear.
No sooner had Franca disappeared into the bathroom, she let out a scream.
"What’s wrong?" Maria ran to join her, alarmed. A black cockroach was scuttling across the floor.
"It came out of the hole!" panted Franca, shocked and disgusted, in her underwear and untied trainers, "and I wasn't expecting it! I was going to have a pee, my legs spread, and this thing jumped out of the hole!"
Maria would have laughed if the cockroach hadn’t been so ugly and she hadn’t been so scared. "What do we do? Shall we kill him?" she asked, unsure.
"Who's going to catch it? Look how it runs!" Franca said with a shaky voice.
"Let’s send him back into the hole, then, so we don’t sully our hands with blood," suggested Maria.
"All right! Bring me a shoe," commanded her friend, without losing sight of her one-inch enemy with black and glossy armour.
Happy not to have to chase it, Maria ran to get one of her shoes and handed it to her friend.
Franca had a strategy of attack, banging her shoe on the ground, both from the right and the left, directing the speeding black beast toward the hole, always keeping at a good distance. She was a funny sight, in her underwear and trainers! Finally she succeeded and the odious insect disappeared back where it came from.
They took turns to pee, with the other keeping watch, ready to sound the alarm in case the horrible beast came out again.
Too tired to shower, they washed their hands with shampoo brought from home under the tap near the floor. Why on earth was the tap so low?
Given that it was almost daybreak, they turned the light out and opened the window to change the heavy mosquito-coil air. From outside came sounds of the night ending and the new day beginning. The noise of barking and howling dogs was now accompanied by honking of scooters and cars, by voices of people waking up and the loud clatter of road works. Maria leaned out the window to breathe a little air; far from being cool, it was nevertheless not as stifling as the air in the room.
The light of the rising dawn tinged with pink the figures sleeping below, on pieces of cardboard, in doorways and on the pavement.
She had the peculiar feeling there was something alive close by and looked up; a long, black swaying thing was dangling over her head! She stepped hurriedly back into the room: "Come and see Franca! What's that?"
Intrigued, her friend came over; she leaned out the window and looked up. She watched it for a while and then, turning to Maria, her eyes gleaming with excitement, said: "It’s a monkey’s tail!"
"A monkey?" Maria was tired of surprises, she just wanted to sleep. "That’s the last thing we need! We can’t leave the window open."
Franca closed the window, lay on her bed and put a scarf over her eyes. "Good night," she said, and promptly fell asleep.
Maria pushed her bed against the door; there were too many signs indicating the room had been broken into, and hung her jacket above the handle to block the old keyhole. She lay down on the dirty mattress at last; it was like lying on a hot radiator. She closed her eyes, too tired to think rationally, and wondered where Ugo was. Was he with another woman? She didn’t care just now. What was she doing in this crazy place, anyway? Why had she decided to come to India? It had seemed a romantic adventure while they were in Venice, but now it no longer felt like such a good idea. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and fell asleep.
It was almost three in the afternoon when, with difficulty, she woke up. The heat and stuffiness of the room were unbearable while, from the outside, she could hear a cacophony of noises. Walking slowly, unsure of her balance, Maria went to the window and opened it. A gust of fiery air hit her face, flooding the room, filling it with scorching heat and blinding light, accompanied by a loud racket, a mixture of horns, banging and motors. With trembling legs, she stumbled back to her bed and threw herself on it. She was so hungry she could barely stand up and felt as though there was a hole in her stomach. Franca stirred; she moved the scarf from her forehead and opened one eye. She closed it immediately, offended by the strong light.
"Good morning! How are you?" Maria asked. "I'm bloody hot and so hungry my legs are shaking!"
"I'm sweating like a pig," said Franca from under the scarf. "I'm starving, I could eat an ox. I can’t wait to go out. We're in India, Maria!" she said triumphantly, taking the blindfold off and lifting herself on one elbow. She looked at her with puffy tired eyes, but full of enthusiasm: "What time is it? Let's go and eat. Come on, get up! After breakfast we'll go to the Tourist Camp!"
"Where are we going? You don’t expect me to repack all my things and move from here, I hope!" Maria asked, alarmed. But Franca explained that the Tourist Camp was much better, cheaper, you got to meet a lot of people and 'everybody' had told her that it was the place to stay. She was determined, and Maria didn’t have the strength to argue; she resigned herself, suddenly feeling even more tired!
The shower gave only a slow trickle of warm water, but with patience she was able to wash. She finished rinsing her hair by filling the red plastic jug and pouring it over her head, far more effective! Feeling somewhat refreshed, she started to repack her things, putting jeans right at the bottom and placing t-shirts and summer skirts on top. Meanwhile Franca was chatting away, making plans in a loud voice from under the dribble of water. Maria was listening with one ear only. It was apparent that her friend had a lot of ideas already formed, unlike her; therefore it was much easier to rely on her wave of enthusiasm and programming. One of Franca's priorities was to buy and smoke some dope in a big chillum. She couldn't wait. "It's already two days since I last smoked anything and I'm ready to make up for all the lost time," she said from the bathroom. "I bet there is some amazing stuff here! We are in the land of Shiva Shankar! The country of my favourite pastime!"
⸹⸹⸹
They went down the steep stairs in search of breakfast, their ears ringing and their legs shaking from hunger. "I must have lost at least half a kilo since we left!" Maria mused. "I can't wait to get a cappuccino and three croissants!"
Her friend looked surprised, but didn't say anything. A stone's throw from their 'hotel' they found a place that served food. The 'restaurant', furnished with simple Formica tables and old chairs, was full of people, mainly men; everyone was talking loudly and suddenly paused to stare at them. Amid giggles and comments, they soon resumed their lunch, eating with their hands, deftly and casually stirring and turning a handful of white rice in the palm of their right hand, making it nice and round, dipping it in a little aluminium dish and shoving it in their mouths.
To Maria's dismay they had never heard of either cappuccino or croissants; they didn't even have bread, butter or jam. Franca declared that she would always eat the Indian way because it was cheap and she only had three hundred and fifty U.S. dollars; and anyway, there wasn't anything else! She ordered bhaji, samosas, chapatis and pakhora. And to drink? Chai, of course! She showed a familiarity with the Indian cuisine that surprised Maria, who instead hadn't the faintest idea. "Who told you what to eat in India? It's not as if there are Indian restaurants in Italy," she asked.
Franca explained that she had talked with friends who had returned from India, asking them about everything, every minute detail. She had been thinking about her first breakfast for weeks, she said.
The waiter, wearing a white vest and shorts, himself with a red mouth and sucking 'betel', wiped the table with a brownish cloth, which had once been white. It was hanging by a corner on his waistband and with it he cleaned everything; it was dirtier than Maria thought possible.
Eventually, he brought them two bowls filled with vegetables cooked in a red sauce: the bhaji, explained Franca pointing at them with her finger, and saucers filled with triangular samosas, fried pakhora and hot chapatis. He came back after a while with two steaming glasses of chai and left them to experience their first genuine Indian breakfast. Spicy. Very spicy! Hopeless! Franca tore pieces of chapatis, dipped them in bhaji, as she saw others do, stuffed them in her mouth and licked her fingers. Maria instead, her mouth burning, felt like crying. She had never been so hungry in her life and couldn't eat the food in front of her.
"Mmm, spicy!" Franca said, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. The bhaji was a nightmare, impossible to swallow and Maria dismissed it as 'out of question'. The samosas were just as hot, but at least she recognized potatoes inside. Despite that, she had to give up after the first bite. The pakhora was a bit better, thankfully, so she could eat it, accompanied by small bites of chapati, a flat dry bread that got stuck in her throat; and the chai was too sweet! Eventually, they paid two rupees each. Franca was dripping sweat from her forehead because of the chilli and Maria was still ravenous, but they got up, to go and collect their luggage for the move. Franca greeted the waiter with folded hands and Maria imitated her clumsily. They all did it and shaking hands was not an option, so...!
As soon as they left the 'restaurant' they were at the mercy of the sunshine; the afternoon heat was something they had never experienced before. While in Italy the sun was hot, here it was scorching. Within a few seconds brains overheated and throbbed inside skulls giving the unpleasant feeling of wanting to burst. Running, they covered the few metres that separated them from the shade of a house, where they began to walk again at a normal pace.
After preparing their backpacks they went downstairs to pay for the room. The man at reception wanted them to pay for two nights. "After midday you pay for next day, Madam," he said, as a matter of course. So, since it was past noon, they had to pay for another day.
"But we arrived at four o' clock in the morning! And now it's four in the afternoon!" objected Maria. An animated discussion began in which the two logics confronted each other. Given the ludicrous position taken by the employee, the girls claimed that, since only twelve hours had gone by, they had to pay for only half a day. It was a very original point of view, they knew, but at least they had their own ridiculous starting point to bargain with the absurdity of the man behind the counter. They started to enjoy themselves, too; it was like playing a game of ping pong, and they were two against one. The man didn't want to know, but when they began to list loudly their complaints: the hole in the door, the dirty mattresses, the lack of water from the shower, the cockroach from the hole, the mosquitoes, the moths, the monkey and its tail, and the duty-free hassle at half past four in the morning, the clerk accepted defeat. He lowered his voice and, despondently, waving his hand, said: "As you like Madam!"
Really? Wow! Victory! They paid the forty rupees for the night and departed, loaded with their luggage. Maria had her big red backpack, her camera pack with three key lenses: wide angle, telephoto and zoom, plus a straw bag, with her essential things. Franca was carrying a smaller and much more discreet backpack, of a greyish blue colour, and a shoulder bag. Maria would have liked a backpack like that, too.
Under the sun the heat was incredible. Thousands of people walked shoulder to shoulder. Among them, cars, bicycles, covered three-wheeled mopeds, rickshaws driven by thin men, bony cows, all pushed and shoved in the afternoon's hot steam. Over and within this chaos was again that all-pervading sweet and rancid stench they had noticed when they first arrived. It entered through the pores and attacked the senses, a mixture of urine, fresh flowers, animal dung, incense, spices and who knew what else... With the heat of the day it had become more intense and it was offensive, almost unbearable. Among the bulging crowd moving so closely together in the relentless rhythm of life, there reigned an atmosphere of calm endurance, of peacefully sharing the existing space, each person going about their own business, with no sense of superiority or entitlement from anyone.
The women, dressed in colourful green, red, yellow, orange saris, walked like queens, straight and elegant in their movements and posture. Their neatly combed hair was partly covered by the end of their sari, which adorned their gentle, graceful faces. The little girls with tight and shiny pigtails were gracious and well behaved. The men all wore white pyjama trousers and long white shirts; some donned a colourful turban but most of them used brilliantine and didn't have a hair out of place. The smaller children were beautiful, their dark eyes ringed with lines of black kohl, which made them look even bigger and intense. They smiled easily and naturally, showing beautiful white teeth.
Suddenly a rickshaw braked sharply, stopping two millimetres from Franca's legs. She jumped in shock: "Are you out of your mind?" she yelled.
The man looked straight at them: "You want rickshaw, Madam?"
"No!" cried Franca. "Go away, stupid man! You almost killed me! Let's not take this one Maria, he's an idiot. You can tell from the way he drives!"
"This one or another is the same Franca, and I am melting beneath this sun!" she drooled.
The man, unperturbed by Franca's cries, said proudly: "I have the best rickshaw in Delhi!" Maria smiled amused and, while Franca calmed down, she began bargaining with the best rickshaw in Delhi. How much to go to the Tourist Camp? Why did they want to go there? He knew of a good hotel. No thanks, they wanted the Tourist Camp; did he know where it was? Yes, he did. How much then? Twelve rupees. No, that was too much. Despite not having the slightest idea of the distance, Maria knew that one had to haggle; she offered ten rupees. No, Madam, two people, a lot of baggage. Eleven rupees. Alright, eleven rupees then. The man motioned with his hand for them to sit down and suddenly seemed tired. The girls perched on the narrow seat lined with red plastic. Maria settled her backpack over her feet, the camera pack and the straw bag on her knees, while Franca, who was still recovering, got on sulkily without a word and adjusted her backpack with ease on her feet.
To their great relief, they found themselves sitting above the crowd, still a part of it, but at the same time separate from the mass of humanity on foot, with their own space where no one pushed or squeezed, and from there they could breathe better. The man wrapped a raw cotton scarf around his head, mounted on the bicycle pedal and pushed it forcefully down, beginning to ride slowly, looking for a way out of the crowd and into the chaos of the street; seeing the possibility of a slot, he accelerated suddenly. The girls held on tight to the seat while the man began to ride in the busy traffic flow. From their elevated position they could see something of the old city, the coloured roofs of the market stalls and a lot of heads that moved up and down, all close together, shoulder to shoulder, negotiating the next step. A light breeze made the experience enjoyable.
From under his shirt, which was wet with sweat in a matter of minutes, Maria could make out the bones of the pedalling man's back. His muscular skinny legs showed large veins throbbing from the stress and heat. As he pedalled with difficulty, she felt a sharp pang of discomfort, ashamed to be carried like that. Instinctively, she tried to lift her body from the seat, sitting less heavily to lighten the weight: "I feel terrible sitting here with our big luggage, being carried like this. Look at him! He's all skin and bones. It makes me feel so sad!"
Franca shrugged her shoulders. She kept one hand on her backpack that wobbled in rhythm with the rickshaw, and looked around. "It's a job. He's lucky to have a job, considering how stupid he is," she said.
Then, pointing her chin toward another rickshaw which was going in the opposite direction, she added: "Look at them! They don't seem to feel guilty, even though they weigh at least two hundred kilos between the three of them." She was indicating a family of father, mother and son, all big and fat. Their 'driver' pedalled hard. Seeing the look on Maria's face, Franca added in a more serious tone: "Stop looking at him like that and enjoy our first rickshaw ride. We're in India, remember, and this is how people travel. It's normal."
"Not for me!"
"No, but for them it is. That's the difference."
Maria nodded and shifted her gaze from their man's back to the sky in the distance. What at first looked like a black triangular cloud speeding through the sky revealed itself to be a busy, compacted flock of birds. Even they were moving by the thousands, just like the people. The rickshaw was going through a grey area where traders sat on the road side, on a blanket placed on the ground to mark their 'shop', selling used typewriters, second-hand pots and old objects of all kinds. There were bicycle menders, motorcycle mechanics and repair-all experts; with only a few essential tools and their imagination they repaired everything. Past that area began a colourful market selling fruits, vegetables, flour, rice, spices. Piles of coloured powder used for dyeing, intense patches of cheerful red, pink, yellow, blue, green were exhibited in the form of large cones on large round plates. Immediately after the market, her eyes rested on a small area of green grass, while on the left she could make out a park with statues and monuments. The rickshaw had picked up speed and a light breeze crept under her hair and lifted it, cooling her clammy neck. They were coming to a less populated area of Delhi, to a huge field used to dye fabrics. It was a real outdoors factory, with large metal bins on the far side of the road, where the fabrics were dyed. All around the fenced perimeter, hundreds and hundreds of yards of red cloth were hung out to dry; it was such an amazing sight, all that bright red silhouetted against the deep blue sky. A few minutes later the rickshaw slowed down and stopped in front of an iron gate. Their man put his foot on the ground and, using the scarf that had covered his head, wiped the sweat from his face.
"Tourist Camp?" asked Maria. The man nodded and got off his bicycle; stretching his back and arms, he wiped them with the same piece of cloth and pointed to a discreet sign saying 'Tourist Camp'. Franca got off quickly with her backpack, while Maria was slower with her bulky baggage. "You go ahead; I'll catch up straight away," she said. "I'll pay him, I have the money on hand." While Franca walked to the gate, Maria took out her purse and, checking that Franca wasn't looking, handed him a twenty rupee note. The man started to look for a lump on the cloth belt tied at the waist, where he kept his earnings, and made a brief pause before opening it. Maria made a gesture to stop him.
"It's okay," she said; she didn't want any change.
The man clasped his hands and bowed. "Thank you, Madam!" he said, looking calmly into her eyes, dignified. Maria nodded, returning his direct gaze. She walked toward the gate under the weight of her backpack and her large bags, feeling a little lighter inside. That overwhelming feeling she had felt when she climbed on the rickshaw was dissipating, being exhaled with a deep breath, and she felt freer to move forward. The man waved at her and was off again, pedalling slowly, looking around for customers. Looking once more in her direction, he touched his forehead and smiled.
The reception was just inside the gate. Sitting behind the desk was a man with an olive-green turban and a white beard, neatly contained by a net tied behind his neck. He was holding Franca's passport and copying her details into a large book open before him. He looked up when he heard Maria come in and smiled at her. His eyes were hazel green with golden flecks; he was handsome despite his advanced age, without any wrinkles on his smooth skin. And she had believed that all Indians had dark eyes. She realized how little she knew about these people. He smiled again when she handed him her passport and said: "Hello! Welcome!" Maria was almost moved, feeling that she had come to the right place.
"Italian," he said, writing her details on the line below Franca's. Was it the first time they were in India?
"Yes, first time in India, second day!" replied Franca in Italian, "and we're still alive, despite the heat, the mosquitoes and the rickshaws!"
Maria laughed, knowing that the receptionist hadn't understood anything. He smiled and explained that India was a big place; they had to take care of themselves. He shifted his gaze from Maria to Franca and warned: "Keep away from drugs. Drugs are not permitted in the Tourist Camp."
Imitating the paternal gaze with which the man had spoken, Franca looked at Maria and parroted: "Do not take drugs. Drugs are forbidden at the Tourist Camp!" and tried to hide a wry smile.
"Who? Me?" Maria burst out in surprise, pointing her finger at herself. "He's talking to you, darling! He's not stupid! He took one look at you and got you sussed."
Franca laughed, amused, and made them laugh, too. "No problem," she said, bowing with pressed palms to the receptionist, who smiled with the air of one who had seen plenty of young people and had already understood which type she belonged to.
They picked up their luggage for the final time and followed the man's instructions to the dormitory; it was cheaper than a private room, only six rupees a night per person. The heat was even more stifling. How much more could one stand, Maria thought, searching for a little bit of shade. It felt like being in an oven at fifty degrees and, under the sun, she wasn't far off the mark. Dark and swollen clouds were approaching fast, low on the horizon; the air was oppressive. Following a path made of stone and flanked by young trees, they crossed the bungalow area that extended on both sides, consisting of small rooms separated from each other by a concrete wall. The wall with the door didn't go as far as the ceiling, but stopped just below the roof, leaving a wide gap. One of the bungalows had the door open and Maria peered inside to see what it was like. The furniture consisted of two iron beds and a fan, nothing else; on the bed there was a thin cotton mattress, but no sheets or pillow. 'Basic' was the word that described them perfectly. Despite being so bare, they conveyed a certain intimacy, a kind of cosiness, and Maria regretted not staying there.
When they reached the dorm, they saw with pleasure that they were the only guests, at least for the moment. Of the six beds in a row, they chose the two furthest from the door, leaning their backpacks against them. Maria hid the bag with the camera under the bed and they went out to explore.
The toilet and shower block was close by. There too, the toilet was a hole in the floor, no toilet paper, and there was a red plastic jug under the low tap, just like at the hotel. The shower block had four doors, which later they would explore. A long-haired man came out from one of the showers and bowed his wet head in a silent greeting. Franca took the opportunity to ask him where they could find any toilet paper. He paused, visibly surprised by the question, hugging his towel and shampoo and, without the shadow of a smile, replied:
"You do not use toilet paper in India, only water!" He spoke with a strong northern European accent and seemed to reproach them for asking something so out of place. Oh… really? They didn't use toilet paper! And how did one clean one's bottom, then? With water. With water… but, how, exactly? This was a matter of huge importance and some urgency!
To apologize for such a specific question, Maria told him that they had arrived in India only the day before, for the first time. The long-haired guy relaxed and smiled, perhaps remembering his first day in India. Without any reluctance to talk about how to wipe his backside, he explained that one filled the jug with tap water and then poured it slowly down one's behind. Franca and Maria exchanged a puzzled look. With understanding and some complicity, he said: "I'll show you!" Good man, he was going to give them a demonstration. He crouched down, put his towel and shampoo on the ground and started to demonstrate the complicated process. He raised his arm holding a fake jug in his right hand, making sure they were following the mimicry; then he turned around and pretended to pour it down his behind, while with his left hand, he wiped. Noooo! With his hand? He stood up, ignoring the girls' expressions, a mixture of disbelief, disgust and concern, and pointed out that only tourists used toilet paper in India and that that was disgusting. "Then you must wash your hands with soap! You will learn," he said, encouragingly. "I did. We all do!" He smiled and, bowing his head, continued on his interrupted journey, tall, thin, straight, his blond hair almost dry in a matter of those few minutes they spent together.
The word 'tourist' had extremely negative connotations for Franca, who was fully persuaded by the man's explanation. Maria was still concerned, but for now she didn't need to... and she was hungry. "Well, we will learn, as he says. That sucks though… with your hands!"
"No problem! If they do it, we'll do it, too," said Franca, walking toward an area where they could see some people.
"Hadn't your friends explained how one cleans one's bottom in India?" Maria asked her, laughing.
"No. They must have got so used to it that they forgot to mention it!"
The restaurant was a low building raised by a few steps from the floor with large windows and a veranda, furnished with low tables, chairs and benches. It was crowded, mainly with young people. They found two chairs and began to study the simple menu that, happily, contained things like white rice, omelettes, boiled eggs; normal things basically. Maria ordered an omelette and rice, while Franca chose bhaji and chapatis; they were cheaper and it was genuine Indian food. While they waited, they observed the sky full of huge, heavy grey clouds that promised an awful lot of rain. The air was alive with electricity, the heat and humidity had reached an unpleasant level and there was a palpable tension, an unpleasant nervousness, in all people; it was difficult to think clearly or breathe fully. As the black clouds came menacingly closer, many people moved inside the restaurant. A few drops of rain started to fall, followed by more, stronger and stronger, heavier and heavier. Suddenly, lightning struck very close, followed a few seconds later by frightening thunder and then... the heavens opened with a big bang. The rain began to fall so strong, so furious, it hurt! Maria and Franca ran inside the restaurant and arrived just in time, but those people who were still outside found they were soaking within seconds.
While all the foreigners ran indoors, something quite extraordinary happened: Intrigued and encouraged by the cries of the waiters, the cooks and orderlies came out of the kitchen. The waiters laid their trays on the counter; the attendants took off their aprons, put down their brooms and mops; the cooks removed their hats and, one after the other, went outside, in the heavy rain. Under the deluge that fell in torrents they began to dance, laugh, collect the rain in the palm of their hands and drink it with delight. They raised their arms to the sky making signs for the rain to come down even harder. Smiling happily, facing up to the sky, they closed their eyes and gave themselves to the downpour with joy and enthusiasm, as if it were the most beautiful gift in the world. Wet and drunken with merriment they continued to dance and sing, unaware of the tourists watching them, stunned, from behind the steamed up glass of the restaurant windows, waiting for their chai, their rice with sabji, bhaji, pakhora, samosas, omelettes and boiled eggs, cola, fanta and lemonade. No one complained, no one tried to spoil such a spontaneous and overwhelming party. Respect! Great respect for the monsoon that had finally begun. It continued to rain for half an hour and, little by little, the waiters, cooks and attendants returned to resume their work. They were happy, relaxed, soaking wet and laughing like excited children. When the rain stopped, hot humidity rose from the ground, the flickering vapour clearly visible in the air. There was a pleasant smell of wet earth and a wonderful feeling of calm and relief. Everybody, tourists and Indians, felt a new, close solidarity.
Maria woke up with light streaming in through the gap between the wall and the ceiling. She felt a great heaviness and was still very tired. The morning heat was becoming fierce as the sun rose in the sky. She peaked through her swollen eyelids at Franca who was fast asleep with a scarf covering her eyes. Maria found a cotton scarf and did the same. The heat and the stuffiness in the air lulled her into another deep sleep. When she woke up again she was dripping with sweat, had to pee and couldn't wait any longer. This meant she had to go to one of the dreaded toilets. Slowly, she sat up on the bed and put on her sandals. Halfway between the dormitory and the toilets there was a room with the door ajar, out of which came great bursts of laughter. She could hear the voices of a man and a woman; he said a few words and they were followed by an uproar of laughter. They spoke in English, just a few words between each laugh. Maria smiled at the sound. The woman laughed heartily, an infectious refreshing sound that came from the belly, free and strong. They were really having fun. The man had a deep voice and she could picture him smiling as he dropped a few more words. Room twenty-one.
The toilets were all occupied, so Maria took the opportunity to fill a plastic jug with water. This lack of toilet paper was a real challenge and it forced her to adapt to the local system. In her mind she went over the instructions the young man gave them the day before, in his crouching position. Somehow, she had to make do. Getting back from the complicated experience in the toilet, she walked past room twenty-one once more, slowing down before getting there, to have more time to observe. This time the sound that came out of the room was different, no more laughter but a steady flow of rhythmic sounds, of ups and downs; sometimes the voice came from deep down, other times it raised clear from that base, but the overall effect was of an engine working at full speed. The man's deep voice blended with that of the woman, which was higher but just as warm; it was a harmonic music but without any notes. Wave after wave, the uninterrupted sound went on rapidly, confident, without even a break to catch their breath; it was overwhelmingly comforting, inviting her to enter. But Maria didn't have the courage to do so, and stood there a little longer, pretending to be interested in the courtyard or looking for something under the trees, glued to that spot of land. When it became embarrassing to stop any longer, she walked away slowly, straining her ears to absorb a little more of such enjoyable vibrations. That sound kept reverberating through her body as she approached the dormitory.
Franca had woken up and was desperate for a cup of chai. The restaurant was full, but luckily there was one free table which they claimed enthusiastically. After an interminable wait the waiter stopped for them and took their order. They recognized him as one of those who had danced in the rain and smiled at him. Maria had just finished telling Franca about the outbursts of laughter and the peculiar sound she had heard, when she saw the couple from room twenty-one go past right in front of their table. She recognized them from their voices, but even if they had been silent, she would have known them. There was something familiar, as if they had already met. The woman looked at her, meeting Maria's eyes. "Hello!" she said with a friendly smile.
"Hello," answered Maria, a little surprised.
"Hi!" greeted the man, smiling and looking straight at her.
"Hi," said Maria, surprised, confused and excited. They were so handsome. The woman's black hair was loosely gathered and she looked like a flamenco dancer. She was wearing a long skirt down to her feet and her arms bore rows of bracelets. She walked with a long and lively stride and seemed to brim with life. He had green eyes, that kind of eyes that smile even when the mouth doesn't, was tall with dark blond hair and advanced in a relaxed way, as if walking on soft ground, swinging his arms without hurry.
Maria followed them with her eyes; she was glad they hadn't stopped, because just seeing them and exchanging that greeting had made such an intense impact that she needed to recover from the emotion vibrating within her chest. "That's them," she said, as soon as they were gone.
"Impressive!" agreed Franca. She too was taken by the couple who had just gone past and that, with their brief presence, had made everything around seem more vivid and intense. "Today we go to Old Delhi!" she announced, breaking a piece of chapati to dip in the spicy bhaji.
Maria, who was still thinking about the English couple, was caught by surprise. "When? Where are we going?" she asked, beginning to spread the melted butter on a slice of toast, casting her eyes on the jam and the boiled eggs, anticipating the pleasure of the first bite, and the second and the third.
"Don't you worry, you'll see!" replied Franca with confidence.
Her friend looked surprised, but didn't say anything. A stone's throw from their 'hotel' they found a place that served food. The 'restaurant', furnished with simple Formica tables and old chairs, was full of people, mainly men; everyone was talking loudly and suddenly paused to stare at them. Amid giggles and comments, they soon resumed their lunch, eating with their hands, deftly and casually stirring and turning a handful of white rice in the palm of their right hand, making it nice and round, dipping it in a little aluminium dish and shoving it in their mouths.
To Maria's dismay they had never heard of either cappuccino or croissants; they didn't even have bread, butter or jam. Franca declared that she would always eat the Indian way because it was cheap and she only had three hundred and fifty U.S. dollars; and anyway, there wasn't anything else! She ordered bhaji, samosas, chapatis and pakhora. And to drink? Chai, of course! She showed a familiarity with the Indian cuisine that surprised Maria, who instead hadn't the faintest idea. "Who told you what to eat in India? It's not as if there are Indian restaurants in Italy," she asked.
Franca explained that she had talked with friends who had returned from India, asking them about everything, every minute detail. She had been thinking about her first breakfast for weeks, she said.
The waiter, wearing a white vest and shorts, himself with a red mouth and sucking 'betel', wiped the table with a brownish cloth, which had once been white. It was hanging by a corner on his waistband and with it he cleaned everything; it was dirtier than Maria thought possible.
Eventually, he brought them two bowls filled with vegetables cooked in a red sauce: the bhaji, explained Franca pointing at them with her finger, and saucers filled with triangular samosas, fried pakhora and hot chapatis. He came back after a while with two steaming glasses of chai and left them to experience their first genuine Indian breakfast. Spicy. Very spicy! Hopeless! Franca tore pieces of chapatis, dipped them in bhaji, as she saw others do, stuffed them in her mouth and licked her fingers. Maria instead, her mouth burning, felt like crying. She had never been so hungry in her life and couldn't eat the food in front of her.
"Mmm, spicy!" Franca said, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. The bhaji was a nightmare, impossible to swallow and Maria dismissed it as 'out of question'. The samosas were just as hot, but at least she recognized potatoes inside. Despite that, she had to give up after the first bite. The pakhora was a bit better, thankfully, so she could eat it, accompanied by small bites of chapati, a flat dry bread that got stuck in her throat; and the chai was too sweet! Eventually, they paid two rupees each. Franca was dripping sweat from her forehead because of the chilli and Maria was still ravenous, but they got up, to go and collect their luggage for the move. Franca greeted the waiter with folded hands and Maria imitated her clumsily. They all did it and shaking hands was not an option, so...!
As soon as they left the 'restaurant' they were at the mercy of the sunshine; the afternoon heat was something they had never experienced before. While in Italy the sun was hot, here it was scorching. Within a few seconds brains overheated and throbbed inside skulls giving the unpleasant feeling of wanting to burst. Running, they covered the few metres that separated them from the shade of a house, where they began to walk again at a normal pace.
After preparing their backpacks they went downstairs to pay for the room. The man at reception wanted them to pay for two nights. "After midday you pay for next day, Madam," he said, as a matter of course. So, since it was past noon, they had to pay for another day.
"But we arrived at four o' clock in the morning! And now it's four in the afternoon!" objected Maria. An animated discussion began in which the two logics confronted each other. Given the ludicrous position taken by the employee, the girls claimed that, since only twelve hours had gone by, they had to pay for only half a day. It was a very original point of view, they knew, but at least they had their own ridiculous starting point to bargain with the absurdity of the man behind the counter. They started to enjoy themselves, too; it was like playing a game of ping pong, and they were two against one. The man didn't want to know, but when they began to list loudly their complaints: the hole in the door, the dirty mattresses, the lack of water from the shower, the cockroach from the hole, the mosquitoes, the moths, the monkey and its tail, and the duty-free hassle at half past four in the morning, the clerk accepted defeat. He lowered his voice and, despondently, waving his hand, said: "As you like Madam!"
Really? Wow! Victory! They paid the forty rupees for the night and departed, loaded with their luggage. Maria had her big red backpack, her camera pack with three key lenses: wide angle, telephoto and zoom, plus a straw bag, with her essential things. Franca was carrying a smaller and much more discreet backpack, of a greyish blue colour, and a shoulder bag. Maria would have liked a backpack like that, too.
Under the sun the heat was incredible. Thousands of people walked shoulder to shoulder. Among them, cars, bicycles, covered three-wheeled mopeds, rickshaws driven by thin men, bony cows, all pushed and shoved in the afternoon's hot steam. Over and within this chaos was again that all-pervading sweet and rancid stench they had noticed when they first arrived. It entered through the pores and attacked the senses, a mixture of urine, fresh flowers, animal dung, incense, spices and who knew what else... With the heat of the day it had become more intense and it was offensive, almost unbearable. Among the bulging crowd moving so closely together in the relentless rhythm of life, there reigned an atmosphere of calm endurance, of peacefully sharing the existing space, each person going about their own business, with no sense of superiority or entitlement from anyone.
The women, dressed in colourful green, red, yellow, orange saris, walked like queens, straight and elegant in their movements and posture. Their neatly combed hair was partly covered by the end of their sari, which adorned their gentle, graceful faces. The little girls with tight and shiny pigtails were gracious and well behaved. The men all wore white pyjama trousers and long white shirts; some donned a colourful turban but most of them used brilliantine and didn't have a hair out of place. The smaller children were beautiful, their dark eyes ringed with lines of black kohl, which made them look even bigger and intense. They smiled easily and naturally, showing beautiful white teeth.
Suddenly a rickshaw braked sharply, stopping two millimetres from Franca's legs. She jumped in shock: "Are you out of your mind?" she yelled.
The man looked straight at them: "You want rickshaw, Madam?"
"No!" cried Franca. "Go away, stupid man! You almost killed me! Let's not take this one Maria, he's an idiot. You can tell from the way he drives!"
"This one or another is the same Franca, and I am melting beneath this sun!" she drooled.
The man, unperturbed by Franca's cries, said proudly: "I have the best rickshaw in Delhi!" Maria smiled amused and, while Franca calmed down, she began bargaining with the best rickshaw in Delhi. How much to go to the Tourist Camp? Why did they want to go there? He knew of a good hotel. No thanks, they wanted the Tourist Camp; did he know where it was? Yes, he did. How much then? Twelve rupees. No, that was too much. Despite not having the slightest idea of the distance, Maria knew that one had to haggle; she offered ten rupees. No, Madam, two people, a lot of baggage. Eleven rupees. Alright, eleven rupees then. The man motioned with his hand for them to sit down and suddenly seemed tired. The girls perched on the narrow seat lined with red plastic. Maria settled her backpack over her feet, the camera pack and the straw bag on her knees, while Franca, who was still recovering, got on sulkily without a word and adjusted her backpack with ease on her feet.
To their great relief, they found themselves sitting above the crowd, still a part of it, but at the same time separate from the mass of humanity on foot, with their own space where no one pushed or squeezed, and from there they could breathe better. The man wrapped a raw cotton scarf around his head, mounted on the bicycle pedal and pushed it forcefully down, beginning to ride slowly, looking for a way out of the crowd and into the chaos of the street; seeing the possibility of a slot, he accelerated suddenly. The girls held on tight to the seat while the man began to ride in the busy traffic flow. From their elevated position they could see something of the old city, the coloured roofs of the market stalls and a lot of heads that moved up and down, all close together, shoulder to shoulder, negotiating the next step. A light breeze made the experience enjoyable.
From under his shirt, which was wet with sweat in a matter of minutes, Maria could make out the bones of the pedalling man's back. His muscular skinny legs showed large veins throbbing from the stress and heat. As he pedalled with difficulty, she felt a sharp pang of discomfort, ashamed to be carried like that. Instinctively, she tried to lift her body from the seat, sitting less heavily to lighten the weight: "I feel terrible sitting here with our big luggage, being carried like this. Look at him! He's all skin and bones. It makes me feel so sad!"
Franca shrugged her shoulders. She kept one hand on her backpack that wobbled in rhythm with the rickshaw, and looked around. "It's a job. He's lucky to have a job, considering how stupid he is," she said.
Then, pointing her chin toward another rickshaw which was going in the opposite direction, she added: "Look at them! They don't seem to feel guilty, even though they weigh at least two hundred kilos between the three of them." She was indicating a family of father, mother and son, all big and fat. Their 'driver' pedalled hard. Seeing the look on Maria's face, Franca added in a more serious tone: "Stop looking at him like that and enjoy our first rickshaw ride. We're in India, remember, and this is how people travel. It's normal."
"Not for me!"
"No, but for them it is. That's the difference."
Maria nodded and shifted her gaze from their man's back to the sky in the distance. What at first looked like a black triangular cloud speeding through the sky revealed itself to be a busy, compacted flock of birds. Even they were moving by the thousands, just like the people. The rickshaw was going through a grey area where traders sat on the road side, on a blanket placed on the ground to mark their 'shop', selling used typewriters, second-hand pots and old objects of all kinds. There were bicycle menders, motorcycle mechanics and repair-all experts; with only a few essential tools and their imagination they repaired everything. Past that area began a colourful market selling fruits, vegetables, flour, rice, spices. Piles of coloured powder used for dyeing, intense patches of cheerful red, pink, yellow, blue, green were exhibited in the form of large cones on large round plates. Immediately after the market, her eyes rested on a small area of green grass, while on the left she could make out a park with statues and monuments. The rickshaw had picked up speed and a light breeze crept under her hair and lifted it, cooling her clammy neck. They were coming to a less populated area of Delhi, to a huge field used to dye fabrics. It was a real outdoors factory, with large metal bins on the far side of the road, where the fabrics were dyed. All around the fenced perimeter, hundreds and hundreds of yards of red cloth were hung out to dry; it was such an amazing sight, all that bright red silhouetted against the deep blue sky. A few minutes later the rickshaw slowed down and stopped in front of an iron gate. Their man put his foot on the ground and, using the scarf that had covered his head, wiped the sweat from his face.
"Tourist Camp?" asked Maria. The man nodded and got off his bicycle; stretching his back and arms, he wiped them with the same piece of cloth and pointed to a discreet sign saying 'Tourist Camp'. Franca got off quickly with her backpack, while Maria was slower with her bulky baggage. "You go ahead; I'll catch up straight away," she said. "I'll pay him, I have the money on hand." While Franca walked to the gate, Maria took out her purse and, checking that Franca wasn't looking, handed him a twenty rupee note. The man started to look for a lump on the cloth belt tied at the waist, where he kept his earnings, and made a brief pause before opening it. Maria made a gesture to stop him.
"It's okay," she said; she didn't want any change.
The man clasped his hands and bowed. "Thank you, Madam!" he said, looking calmly into her eyes, dignified. Maria nodded, returning his direct gaze. She walked toward the gate under the weight of her backpack and her large bags, feeling a little lighter inside. That overwhelming feeling she had felt when she climbed on the rickshaw was dissipating, being exhaled with a deep breath, and she felt freer to move forward. The man waved at her and was off again, pedalling slowly, looking around for customers. Looking once more in her direction, he touched his forehead and smiled.
The reception was just inside the gate. Sitting behind the desk was a man with an olive-green turban and a white beard, neatly contained by a net tied behind his neck. He was holding Franca's passport and copying her details into a large book open before him. He looked up when he heard Maria come in and smiled at her. His eyes were hazel green with golden flecks; he was handsome despite his advanced age, without any wrinkles on his smooth skin. And she had believed that all Indians had dark eyes. She realized how little she knew about these people. He smiled again when she handed him her passport and said: "Hello! Welcome!" Maria was almost moved, feeling that she had come to the right place.
"Italian," he said, writing her details on the line below Franca's. Was it the first time they were in India?
"Yes, first time in India, second day!" replied Franca in Italian, "and we're still alive, despite the heat, the mosquitoes and the rickshaws!"
Maria laughed, knowing that the receptionist hadn't understood anything. He smiled and explained that India was a big place; they had to take care of themselves. He shifted his gaze from Maria to Franca and warned: "Keep away from drugs. Drugs are not permitted in the Tourist Camp."
Imitating the paternal gaze with which the man had spoken, Franca looked at Maria and parroted: "Do not take drugs. Drugs are forbidden at the Tourist Camp!" and tried to hide a wry smile.
"Who? Me?" Maria burst out in surprise, pointing her finger at herself. "He's talking to you, darling! He's not stupid! He took one look at you and got you sussed."
Franca laughed, amused, and made them laugh, too. "No problem," she said, bowing with pressed palms to the receptionist, who smiled with the air of one who had seen plenty of young people and had already understood which type she belonged to.
They picked up their luggage for the final time and followed the man's instructions to the dormitory; it was cheaper than a private room, only six rupees a night per person. The heat was even more stifling. How much more could one stand, Maria thought, searching for a little bit of shade. It felt like being in an oven at fifty degrees and, under the sun, she wasn't far off the mark. Dark and swollen clouds were approaching fast, low on the horizon; the air was oppressive. Following a path made of stone and flanked by young trees, they crossed the bungalow area that extended on both sides, consisting of small rooms separated from each other by a concrete wall. The wall with the door didn't go as far as the ceiling, but stopped just below the roof, leaving a wide gap. One of the bungalows had the door open and Maria peered inside to see what it was like. The furniture consisted of two iron beds and a fan, nothing else; on the bed there was a thin cotton mattress, but no sheets or pillow. 'Basic' was the word that described them perfectly. Despite being so bare, they conveyed a certain intimacy, a kind of cosiness, and Maria regretted not staying there.
When they reached the dorm, they saw with pleasure that they were the only guests, at least for the moment. Of the six beds in a row, they chose the two furthest from the door, leaning their backpacks against them. Maria hid the bag with the camera under the bed and they went out to explore.
The toilet and shower block was close by. There too, the toilet was a hole in the floor, no toilet paper, and there was a red plastic jug under the low tap, just like at the hotel. The shower block had four doors, which later they would explore. A long-haired man came out from one of the showers and bowed his wet head in a silent greeting. Franca took the opportunity to ask him where they could find any toilet paper. He paused, visibly surprised by the question, hugging his towel and shampoo and, without the shadow of a smile, replied:
"You do not use toilet paper in India, only water!" He spoke with a strong northern European accent and seemed to reproach them for asking something so out of place. Oh… really? They didn't use toilet paper! And how did one clean one's bottom, then? With water. With water… but, how, exactly? This was a matter of huge importance and some urgency!
To apologize for such a specific question, Maria told him that they had arrived in India only the day before, for the first time. The long-haired guy relaxed and smiled, perhaps remembering his first day in India. Without any reluctance to talk about how to wipe his backside, he explained that one filled the jug with tap water and then poured it slowly down one's behind. Franca and Maria exchanged a puzzled look. With understanding and some complicity, he said: "I'll show you!" Good man, he was going to give them a demonstration. He crouched down, put his towel and shampoo on the ground and started to demonstrate the complicated process. He raised his arm holding a fake jug in his right hand, making sure they were following the mimicry; then he turned around and pretended to pour it down his behind, while with his left hand, he wiped. Noooo! With his hand? He stood up, ignoring the girls' expressions, a mixture of disbelief, disgust and concern, and pointed out that only tourists used toilet paper in India and that that was disgusting. "Then you must wash your hands with soap! You will learn," he said, encouragingly. "I did. We all do!" He smiled and, bowing his head, continued on his interrupted journey, tall, thin, straight, his blond hair almost dry in a matter of those few minutes they spent together.
The word 'tourist' had extremely negative connotations for Franca, who was fully persuaded by the man's explanation. Maria was still concerned, but for now she didn't need to... and she was hungry. "Well, we will learn, as he says. That sucks though… with your hands!"
"No problem! If they do it, we'll do it, too," said Franca, walking toward an area where they could see some people.
"Hadn't your friends explained how one cleans one's bottom in India?" Maria asked her, laughing.
"No. They must have got so used to it that they forgot to mention it!"
The restaurant was a low building raised by a few steps from the floor with large windows and a veranda, furnished with low tables, chairs and benches. It was crowded, mainly with young people. They found two chairs and began to study the simple menu that, happily, contained things like white rice, omelettes, boiled eggs; normal things basically. Maria ordered an omelette and rice, while Franca chose bhaji and chapatis; they were cheaper and it was genuine Indian food. While they waited, they observed the sky full of huge, heavy grey clouds that promised an awful lot of rain. The air was alive with electricity, the heat and humidity had reached an unpleasant level and there was a palpable tension, an unpleasant nervousness, in all people; it was difficult to think clearly or breathe fully. As the black clouds came menacingly closer, many people moved inside the restaurant. A few drops of rain started to fall, followed by more, stronger and stronger, heavier and heavier. Suddenly, lightning struck very close, followed a few seconds later by frightening thunder and then... the heavens opened with a big bang. The rain began to fall so strong, so furious, it hurt! Maria and Franca ran inside the restaurant and arrived just in time, but those people who were still outside found they were soaking within seconds.
While all the foreigners ran indoors, something quite extraordinary happened: Intrigued and encouraged by the cries of the waiters, the cooks and orderlies came out of the kitchen. The waiters laid their trays on the counter; the attendants took off their aprons, put down their brooms and mops; the cooks removed their hats and, one after the other, went outside, in the heavy rain. Under the deluge that fell in torrents they began to dance, laugh, collect the rain in the palm of their hands and drink it with delight. They raised their arms to the sky making signs for the rain to come down even harder. Smiling happily, facing up to the sky, they closed their eyes and gave themselves to the downpour with joy and enthusiasm, as if it were the most beautiful gift in the world. Wet and drunken with merriment they continued to dance and sing, unaware of the tourists watching them, stunned, from behind the steamed up glass of the restaurant windows, waiting for their chai, their rice with sabji, bhaji, pakhora, samosas, omelettes and boiled eggs, cola, fanta and lemonade. No one complained, no one tried to spoil such a spontaneous and overwhelming party. Respect! Great respect for the monsoon that had finally begun. It continued to rain for half an hour and, little by little, the waiters, cooks and attendants returned to resume their work. They were happy, relaxed, soaking wet and laughing like excited children. When the rain stopped, hot humidity rose from the ground, the flickering vapour clearly visible in the air. There was a pleasant smell of wet earth and a wonderful feeling of calm and relief. Everybody, tourists and Indians, felt a new, close solidarity.
Maria woke up with light streaming in through the gap between the wall and the ceiling. She felt a great heaviness and was still very tired. The morning heat was becoming fierce as the sun rose in the sky. She peaked through her swollen eyelids at Franca who was fast asleep with a scarf covering her eyes. Maria found a cotton scarf and did the same. The heat and the stuffiness in the air lulled her into another deep sleep. When she woke up again she was dripping with sweat, had to pee and couldn't wait any longer. This meant she had to go to one of the dreaded toilets. Slowly, she sat up on the bed and put on her sandals. Halfway between the dormitory and the toilets there was a room with the door ajar, out of which came great bursts of laughter. She could hear the voices of a man and a woman; he said a few words and they were followed by an uproar of laughter. They spoke in English, just a few words between each laugh. Maria smiled at the sound. The woman laughed heartily, an infectious refreshing sound that came from the belly, free and strong. They were really having fun. The man had a deep voice and she could picture him smiling as he dropped a few more words. Room twenty-one.
The toilets were all occupied, so Maria took the opportunity to fill a plastic jug with water. This lack of toilet paper was a real challenge and it forced her to adapt to the local system. In her mind she went over the instructions the young man gave them the day before, in his crouching position. Somehow, she had to make do. Getting back from the complicated experience in the toilet, she walked past room twenty-one once more, slowing down before getting there, to have more time to observe. This time the sound that came out of the room was different, no more laughter but a steady flow of rhythmic sounds, of ups and downs; sometimes the voice came from deep down, other times it raised clear from that base, but the overall effect was of an engine working at full speed. The man's deep voice blended with that of the woman, which was higher but just as warm; it was a harmonic music but without any notes. Wave after wave, the uninterrupted sound went on rapidly, confident, without even a break to catch their breath; it was overwhelmingly comforting, inviting her to enter. But Maria didn't have the courage to do so, and stood there a little longer, pretending to be interested in the courtyard or looking for something under the trees, glued to that spot of land. When it became embarrassing to stop any longer, she walked away slowly, straining her ears to absorb a little more of such enjoyable vibrations. That sound kept reverberating through her body as she approached the dormitory.
Franca had woken up and was desperate for a cup of chai. The restaurant was full, but luckily there was one free table which they claimed enthusiastically. After an interminable wait the waiter stopped for them and took their order. They recognized him as one of those who had danced in the rain and smiled at him. Maria had just finished telling Franca about the outbursts of laughter and the peculiar sound she had heard, when she saw the couple from room twenty-one go past right in front of their table. She recognized them from their voices, but even if they had been silent, she would have known them. There was something familiar, as if they had already met. The woman looked at her, meeting Maria's eyes. "Hello!" she said with a friendly smile.
"Hello," answered Maria, a little surprised.
"Hi!" greeted the man, smiling and looking straight at her.
"Hi," said Maria, surprised, confused and excited. They were so handsome. The woman's black hair was loosely gathered and she looked like a flamenco dancer. She was wearing a long skirt down to her feet and her arms bore rows of bracelets. She walked with a long and lively stride and seemed to brim with life. He had green eyes, that kind of eyes that smile even when the mouth doesn't, was tall with dark blond hair and advanced in a relaxed way, as if walking on soft ground, swinging his arms without hurry.
Maria followed them with her eyes; she was glad they hadn't stopped, because just seeing them and exchanging that greeting had made such an intense impact that she needed to recover from the emotion vibrating within her chest. "That's them," she said, as soon as they were gone.
"Impressive!" agreed Franca. She too was taken by the couple who had just gone past and that, with their brief presence, had made everything around seem more vivid and intense. "Today we go to Old Delhi!" she announced, breaking a piece of chapati to dip in the spicy bhaji.
Maria, who was still thinking about the English couple, was caught by surprise. "When? Where are we going?" she asked, beginning to spread the melted butter on a slice of toast, casting her eyes on the jam and the boiled eggs, anticipating the pleasure of the first bite, and the second and the third.
"Don't you worry, you'll see!" replied Franca with confidence.
To go to the next page click here: Chapter 2
