Which is a great idea, except—
‘Only on my phone, and the battery is dead,’ I say glumly, waving it at him, ‘and I can’t find anywhere that sells a charger.’
‘Let me see it.’ He gestures for my phone.
‘It’s hopeless, no one has one, I’ve tried everywhere,’ I continue as I pass it to him, futilely.
Unexpectedly, his face brightens. ‘It’s the same as mine, look!’ he exclaims, pulling out his own phone from the pocket of his jeans and waving it at me excitedly. It’s a perfect match. ‘You can use my charger!’
‘Oh wow, really?’ What a total stroke of luck.
‘Yes, one hundred per cent! I’ll go get it, I live close to here.’
‘Are you sure? I don’t want to be any trouble,’ I begin to protest, but he bats away my objections with delighted exuberance.
‘No, of course, it’s no problem, beautiful,’ he grins. ‘Wait here, I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ and before I can protest further, he dashes off through the café, jumps on a battered old moped parked outside and disappears in a high-pitched roar and cloud of dust.
Leaving me sitting here with my coffee. I take a sip of the hot, frothy liquid – god, it’s delicious – and glance idly around me. The café is still packed and my eyes drift from person to person. I love people-watching; it’s one of my favourite pastimes, only this time there’s not much to watch as everyone is focused on their computer screens.
Call me a philistine, but I just don’t get all this social networking. For starters it’s hardly social, is it? Glancing around at everyone, I can’t help noticing that no one is speaking to each other; instead they’re all busy tweeting, IM’ing, and Facebooking. I joined Facebook when it started, but to be honest I barely use my account. I’ve never understood why people put their whole lives on there. Or why, instead of posting status updates telling people what an amazing time they’re having, they aren’t out there living that amazing time.
But then I guess it must just be me. I mean, Amy was obsessed with Facebook. She’s forever updating her page, posting photos, tagging – I freeze, mid-thought. Of course! How can I have been so stupid?
Urgently, I look around me. Most people are on their own iPads and laptops, but there are a couple of communal desktop computers . . . and someone’s leaving! I leap off my stool and jump on it with such speed the person vacating mumbles something about me ‘jumping in his grave’. I mutter my apologies and grab the mouse. Facebook is already open from the previous user and I quickly enter my login details.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. Amy might be ignoring me, but there’s no way she’ll be able to ignore her beloved Facebook. There’s a good chance she’ll have posted something about her whereabouts.
As my page loads, I’m about to flick onto Amy’s when I see I have a couple of messages. Like I said, I rarely go on here, and I quickly click on them. The first is a friend request from Vijay, the guy with the headphones whom I met on the train. I hit confirm, then open the next one. It’s a message telling me I’ve been tagged in a picture. What picture? As it opens up, I gasp out loud. It’s the photograph Amy took of me in my Elton John-style sunglasses! I feel an immediate sense of outrage. I can’t believe it; she promised! Though she’s right, I do look bloody terrible . . . I click to comment and start typing. Amy! Where the bloody hell are—
Suddenly the screen goes black.
What the . . . ?
I jab at the keyboard and am about to check the power cord when I hear a loud groan from the shaven-headed guy sitting at the desktop next to me.
‘Bloody power cut,’ he swears from behind his computer screen.
‘Excuse me?’ I frown, but he’s already gathered his things and is heading out of the café.
It’s then I realise the radio has fallen silent. Frustration bites. I can’t believe my bad luck.
The loud buzzing of a moped distracts me and I glance over to see Billy is back.
‘I have it!’ he announces as he bounds towards me, waving his charger in the air like a trophy, a triumphant smile on his face.
‘It’s no good, the power’s out,’ I smile ruefully.
His forehead creases up and he glances at his watch. ‘It’s that time already?’
I look at him for an explanation and he shrugs. ‘The generator has been switched off, it happens twice a day for two hours.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. In winter it is OK, but in the summer when it is fifty degrees and the fans stop working . . .’ He rolls his eyes. ‘It gets very hot, especially for the children and old people.’
‘Gosh, yes,’ I nod, trying to imagine being in fifty degrees without even a fan, but not succeeding. ‘So what will you do now?’ I gesture towards the espresso machine, now standing defunct. ‘You can’t make coffee . . . and if the Internet connection is down . . .’
Around us, I notice the tables are quickly vacating.
‘I close the café and show my new friend around town,’ he says and, holding out his arm to link with mine, he flashes me the biggest smile. ‘Come, let me show you the real Pushkar.’
Chapter 27
Imagine visiting a stately home and going on the official tour. Shuffling around with all the other tourists, taking pictures of all the same things, visiting only the rooms that are open to the public, listening to the authorised history . . .
Now imagine being able to go behind the scenes with someone who was actually born and lives there. Exploring all the secret passages and places, discovering things that other tourists never get to see, getting to hear the real lowdown – an enthralling mix of insider knowledge, fascinating personal experiences and hilarious anecdotes . . .
That’s what it’s like being with Billy.
For the next couple of hours, he takes it upon himself to be my personal tour guide and throws himself into the role with more enthusiasm and delight than I’ve ever experienced from a stranger. And yet, almost instantly, Billy feels nothing like a stranger. He feels like someone I’ve known for years and hope to know for many more.
He has an amazing ability, as a few special people do, of being able to take me completely out of myself, and for the next few hours I get to forget all about being upset and angry, about trying to find Amy and fighting with Jack, and instead get to totally immerse myself in a whole new set of experiences.
‘Legend has it that the lake appeared when the god Lord Brahma dropped a lotus flower from the sky,’ he explains, as he takes me down to the holy lake. ‘Push means lotus flower, and kar means hand.’ Pausing at the top of the steps to take in the view, he stretches out his hand before him. ‘Look how the lake is surrounded by over fifty ghats; this is where people come to bathe and offer prayers.’
I nod wordlessly. It really is beautiful here, and the air hums with the distant sounds of temple bells ringing and prayers being chanted.
‘Come, follow me.’
It’s teeming with a colourful mix of Pushkar locals, Western tourists and Hindu pilgrims, but he finds a quiet spot and, instructing me to take off my shoes so we can get closer, we sit together on the smooth stone steps, gazing out across the water.
There, with solemn reverence, he explains all about the performing of puja (prayers) at the lake. Billy, like so many Indian people I’ve met on my trip, is both deeply spiritual and respectful of age-old traditions, whilst at the same time fully embracing everything modern contemporary life has to offer.
They seem at odds, but somehow he manages to find a place for it all to coexist quite happily. Switching his mobile phone to silent and tucking it into the pocket of his skinny jeans, he enthuses about his daily ritual of offering blessings, before warning me to be careful of the bogus priests who target the tourists for money.
‘They will offer to do puja for your family and in return you will receive your Pushkar passport,’ he says, ‘but be careful as they will try to trick you into paying for a prayer for each member of your family.’<
br />
‘What’s a Pushkar passport?’ I ask curiously.
‘A piece of red thread that they tie around your wrist,’ he says, showing me his, ‘and look, I have more,’ he grins, pulling several pieces of red thread out of his pockets. ‘Here, let me tie one around your wrist too, and then they won’t bother you; they will see it and leave you alone.’
I laugh, but shake my head in refusal. ‘That’s faking it,’ I smile, ‘it wouldn’t feel right. I want to do it properly.’
‘Really?’ He looks both surprised and delighted.
‘Absolutely,’ I nod, then glancing around the lake, point towards an old man wearing robes and a large turban. He looks just how I imagine a devout priest to look. ‘What about him?’ I say, pointing towards him. ‘Will he do puja for me?’
Billy falls about laughing. ‘Oh no, Ruby,’ he exclaims, shaking his head, ‘he’s the local pot-head!’
‘He is?’ I whisper, wide-eyed. I’ve obviously still got an awful lot to learn.
After vetting several would-be priests, he finally declares someone suitable and, in exchange for a few rupees, I’m taken down to the water’s edge by a gently spoken man who recites prayers for my family, floats flowers on the water and duly presents me with my Pushkar passport.
It’s a moving experience. I’m not religious; the nearest I’ve got to it is a brief brush with Sunday school as a child, taking Mrs Flannegan to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve and a turbulent flight to New York when I clung onto the stranger next to me and recited the Lord’s Prayer. But there’s something here that draws me in.
Next, we visit a temple. But not the one in the town at which all the other tourists are congregating with their guidebooks and cameras. Instead, Billy takes me on a trek up to a small, isolated hilltop temple, perched high above the town, which offers incredible views and is well worth the climb up hundreds of steep steps that we take to get there.
Afterwards we make our way back into town. Tired and hungry, Billy takes me to his friend’s rooftop restaurant overlooking the lake and we order lots of delicious vegetarian food. Local custom enforces a strict no meat, no eggs, no alcohol diet, but there are all kinds of imaginative things on the menu and, after my lesson with Rocky, I’m feeling a lot more confident about trying different dishes.
‘So, tell me, where did you learn to dance?’ I ask, sampling a plate of sizzling aubergine.
‘From my mother . . . and watching a lot of movies,’ he grins, taking a sip of his freshly blended lassi. ‘Now I teach Bollywood dancing to children at school.’
‘Wow, really?’ I smile.
‘Yes, every week,’ he nods, ‘and for weddings too.’
‘As well as running the café?’
‘I’m a busy man,’ he laughs, reclining back in his chair and letting out a sigh. ‘Amazing view, hey?’
I follow his gaze across the whitewashed rooftops and out across the lake.
‘Yes,’ I murmur, drinking it all in, ‘it’s amazing.’
‘I bring my son up here to fly kites. He loves it.’
‘You have a son?’ I say in surprise.
‘Yes, he’s three years old, and I have a daughter who’s just a baby.’
I look at him in wonder: he doesn’t look old enough to have children, though I guess he is. I mean, if we’re talking from a biological point of view, I’m old enough to have a teenager – something that my mother is always fond of telling me, for some reason known only to her. ‘I had no idea you were married.’
‘I’m not,’ he replies, shaking his head.
‘Oh, I see,’ I fluster, suddenly feeling foolish that I’d jumped to conclusions. I should have known Billy wouldn’t necessarily follow the traditional route of an arranged marriage. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I just assumed . . . not that it matters, of course, I mean, lots of people live with their partners and have children; in fact I know tons of couples who aren’t married—’
‘We don’t live together. My girlfriend ran away and left me with the children,’ he says matter-of-factly.
‘Left you?’ However, I wasn’t expecting this.
‘She said she was too young, she didn’t want to be tied down,’ he says, his ever-present smile slipping. ‘She lives in Mumbai, where we met. She didn’t like it here.’ He breaks off, and looks out across the middle distance. ‘How can she not like it here? It’s beautiful.’
‘Oh Billy, I’m so sorry,’ I say, giving his arm a squeeze.
‘It’s OK,’ he nods. ‘My mum helps me with the children while I am at work.’
I feel indignant for him. ‘Well, your ex is a fool,’ I say supportively.
‘It’s not her fault,’ he shrugs. ‘She’s young.’
This, from a man who can’t be more than in his early twenties. I feel a sense of admiration for how he’s handling all this; it can’t be easy.
‘I still believe in love,’ he adds after a pause.
‘You do?’
‘Of course,’ he says and flashes me his trademark smile. ‘There are so many, many things to love . . . I love this view, I love my family, I love that we are spending these wonderful hours together . . .’
As he throws me a wink, I can’t help smiling. There’s something about Billy, his irrepressible good humour is infectious.
‘Yes, it’s true, she stole my heart and broke it. But, you know, every time your heart is broken it gets stronger.’
I suddenly feel ashamed. Sam leaving me suddenly seems trivial compared to what happened to Billy, and he’s not bitter or jaded – on the contrary.
‘The heart is also a muscle,’ he continues, and changing the mood he starts comically flexing one of his large biceps, ‘and it is very important to exercise it.’ Jumping up from his chair he launches into one of his Bollywood dance moves, sticking out his chest and making a heart-shape with his fingers.
I laugh with delight as he pretends to make it beat from his chest.
‘Hey, watch out.’ He suddenly stops dancing.
‘What?’ I frown, and turn just in time to see a giant monkey swing down from the corrugated iron roof and grab my food from the table. Startled, I jump and let out a shriek.
Which makes Billy laugh even harder. ‘You are so funny, beautiful,’ he cries, shaking his head with amusement. ‘We have to be careful of the monkeys here, they steal everything!’ We both watch the monkey scampering away before, turning to me, Billy flashes me a smile. ‘But never our hearts!’
Afterwards, it’s with the biggest hug that Billy bids me goodbye. ‘I will miss you, beautiful,’ he grins, squeezing me tightly.
‘You too,’ I smile, then as we break apart he hands me something.
‘This is for you.’
It’s the charger for his phone.
‘No, I can’t,’ I protest, trying to hand it back, but he’s insistent.
‘No, please,’ he protests, before adding with a wink, ‘now you have to return to Pushkar, so you can bring it back.’
Laughing, I leave him practising his dance moves in the street, a big goofy smile on his face, and start walking back slowly through the town towards the hotel. It’s early afternoon but already the temperature is starting to drop and, thankful for my warm jacket which I’ve had tied around my waist, I put it on. Absently I make my way down the main street, letting my gaze drift past the rows of shops and cafés until, on the outskirts of town, I happen to notice the little girl again, still sitting at the side of the road with her family.
She spots me immediately, her face lighting up with recognition, and this time I go over to say hello.
‘Hi . . . hi . . .’ I smile and nod politely as her family welcomes me warmly, making room for me to sit down and join them under the tent-like canopy they’ve erected, whilst the little girl shrieks with delight. Clambering all over me, she claps her hands excitedly, almost in disbelief, as if to say hey, that waving thing really works!
‘Chai?’ offers a teenage girl, who I think is one of the sisters. She hol
ds out a small plastic cup of steaming tea and I accept their hospitality gratefully.
‘Thank you,’ I smile, taking a sip. It’s grown even colder and I’m glad of the hot sweet liquid to warm me up. Their mother, a slim, fine-boned woman in a pale green sari, is busy cooking chapattis on a small stove in the corner. Seeing me glance over, she smiles shyly – unlike her children, who dive on top of me, curious to see who this new visitor is.
This is where they must live, I realise, noticing a washing line of rainbow-coloured clothes strung across the wall behind the tent, next to which lies a pile of blankets. Earlier I saw some other families camping on the side of the road, and Billy explained they were travellers who come for a few months to sell their wares before returning to their villages in the mountains when the weather becomes too hot.
But now it’s cold and the temperature can easily drop to freezing at night. I think of my own family with our central heating and warm beds, our jumpers and duvet coats, and look at the children in their thin clothes.
‘Here,’ I motion to the little girl, impulsively taking off my warm jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders. Thrilled to be playing dress-up, she slips it on jubilantly. It completely drowns her. ‘It suits you,’ I cheer and her family laugh and clap as she dances around in it, tripping over the hem, sticking her hands in the far-too long sleeves and waggling them.
My intention had only been to say hello but I end up drinking chai tea with the parents and their teenage daughter, playing with the little girl and her two brothers – identical twins with wild mops of hair and smiles that would lift your soul. I’ve written about love at first sight but always as a romantic love, never as an instant overwhelming love you can feel for an entire family. The Taj Mahal might have opened a chink in my heart, but this family blows it wide open.
As I leave I try to buy a few strings of beads, but they push them on me as gifts and, humbled, I thank them all one by one, politely shaking each one’s hand as they line up to bid me a formal farewell. It’s only then I realise that, apart from the odd word, we haven’t spoken to each other the whole time. I don’t speak Hindi and they don’t speak English. I don’t know anything about them and they don’t know anything about me, and yet it’s not important. Sometimes it’s just not about words.