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- Herausgeber: Naked Eye Creative
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
My father’s last words to me? ‘You’re out of control, Jan, heading towards a red light.’ What happens when you’re in the all the wrong places, with all the wrong people, making all the wrong choices? It may look like that from the outside. But these are the real questions: who and what is right, and who gets to decide? The mid-70s. Needing to escape the ghosts of her tortured past, Jan turns to dancing in the seedy underbelly of Australia’s notorious Kings Cross in order to fund her way out. Spirited, brave, and very, very broken, she travels throughout Sumatra, Indonesia and Nepal, her strength returning day by day. Fast forward a year or so to Delhi and Jan is desperate for money, selling her blood just to get by. Reconnecting with a former associate, she is propositioned with a tempting offer and faces what turns out to be a life altering decision. But returning home is not an option, so the dice is rolled but little did Jan know, these dice were loaded. Transporting contraband through the shifting sands of Pakistan and northern India’s deserts; to the lush rainforests of Madagascar and the devastated, poverty-stricken cities in Bangladesh, Jan becomes a key player in some major, age-old political conflicts raging through these blood-soaked lands. Determined to take control and find her independence, Jan finds love; not once, but twice - at the same time - and the battle for her heart and life begins. Things seemingly take an upward turn for Jan: holidays on houseboats in Kashmir, opulent dinners and penthouse suites in five star hotels, designer clothes and so much cash! But these men, whilst offering her the world, are placing Jan in very real danger; and when all goes to hell, as it inevitably does, she is alone again and learns the hard way that no one is coming to save her. From the author of Milk-Blood, Unbreaking the Girl is a visually stunning tale of travel, action and more than a little romance. The ultimate story of one very strong woman and the men who loved her, Unbreaking the Girl has an ending that will leave you holding your breath. ‘I have my reasons for why my life is the way it is, and when push comes to shove, you do what you have to do, for no one else will! I know now my sins are my own to bear and I’ll be the judge of them from here on out as I alone must live with them. As for the sins imposed on me by others? Well, only death will resolve that shit.’ – Jan, Unbreaking the Girl, by Adrian Simon
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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About Unbreaking the Girl
What happens when you’re in the all the wrong places, with all the wrong people, making all the wrong choices? It may look like that from the outside. But these are the real questions: who and what is right, and who gets to decide?
The mid-70’s. Needing to escape the ghosts of her tortured past, Jan turns to dancing in the seedy underbelly of Australia’s notorious Kings Cross in order to fund her way out. Spirited, brave, and very, very broken, she travels throughout Sumatra, Indonesia and Nepal, her strength returning day by day. Fast forward a year or so to Delhi and Jan is desperate for money, selling her blood just to get by. Reconnecting with a former associate, she is propositioned with a tempting offer and faces what turns out to be a life altering decision. But returning home is not an option, so the dice is rolled but little did Jan know, these dice were loaded.
Transporting contraband through the shifting sands of Pakistan and northern India’s deserts; to the lush rainforests of Madagascar and the devastated, poverty-stricken cities in Bangladesh, Jan becomes a key player in some major, age-old political conflicts raging through these blood-soaked lands.
Determined to take control and find her independence, Jan finds love; not once, but twice - at the same time - and the battle for her heart and life begins. Things seemingly take an upward turn for Jan: holidays on houseboats in Kashmir, opulent dinners and penthouse suites in five star hotels, designer clothes and so much cash! But these men, whilst offering her the world, are placing Jan in very real danger; and when all goes to hell, as it inevitably does, she is alone again and learns the hard way that no one is coming to save her.
From the author of Milk-Blood, Unbreaking the Girl is a visually stunning tale of travel, action and more than a little romance. The ultimate story of one very strong woman and the men who loved her, Unbreaking the Girl has an ending that will leave you holding your breath.
To my mother, and Share
Contents
Author’s Note
Off the back of writing my memoir, Milk-Blood: A Father’s Choice, the Family’s Price, I unearthed some pretty wild stories - and not just mine and my father’s. With the generous permission of my mother, I have been able to use anecdotes collected from the exotic travels of her youth, as a basis for what you are about to read. This gave me the opportunity to stretch my legs as a writer into the realm of fiction; to cut my imagination loose.
The challenge of writing through a woman’s eyes which I inevitably faced, was met with the finesse of my editor, Melissa Roach, who complemented with a female touch where required. We shaped a real gem.
Whilst based on actual events, this is a work of fiction.
For more, please check out www.adriansimonauthor.com
Prologue
Everybody is mad about something. Me? I never had the chance to hope, let alone dream. Hope, ha! A twisted illusion; sometimes the more you looked for it, the less likely you were to find it. Fact is, I didn’t even know what I was hoping for, let alone what my dreams were.
After everything, after all of it, the best I can come up with is this: is there anything purer than a child’s desire to love and be loved? For one who was deprived themselves, who learnt no way to express it once grown, there is nothing more torturous. My father’s eyes revealed the cracks to a fractured soul, a deep grief his backhand slap was quick to share.
His last words to me? You’re out of control, Jan, heading towards a red light. His stern face added to the insult, saying I lived by a misguided sense of right and wrong.
I have my reasons for why my life is the way it is, and when push comes to shove, you do what you have to do, for no one else will! I know now my sins are my own to bear and I’ll be the judge of them from here on out as I alone must live with them. As for the sins imposed on me by others? Well, only death will resolve that shit.
Chapter 1
Delhi 1975 – Two years after leaving Australia.
I shifted in my seat trying to get comfortable. Well, as comfortable as one can expect when your blood is crudely being sucked from your veins in a make-shift hospital; if you can even call it that. More like a tent with some ancient medical apparatus. Fortunately for me, my blood type is rare and therefore in demand throughout Asia. There’d been many times I hadn’t eaten for days, funds running seriously low, and tapping my arm for a cash top up was the best available option to stave off starvation. If I were lucky, they’d throw in a free sandwich. Two for one!
Barely a year into my travels, I had reached Thailand and I’d practically sold everything in my rucksack. I’d had to start thinking about other options. Staring down the barrel of not knowing where your next meal would come from, sleeping on the ground for months on end, you tend to move past some ethical boundaries. You meet people who show you things, take you places, like the cockfights. I crossed this little dilemma when I couldn’t even afford a bottle of clean water. Tap water stank, even a sniff would give me a bout of dysentery.
In Chiang Mai, a travel companion introduced me to cockfighting in a bar aptly named Last Resort. He convinced me the roosters were eaten afterwards so there was no real problem. Turns out I won a fair bit that afternoon, enough to fund me for another couple of months, and that sort of win pushed away any remnants of dilemmas about right and wrong. I have to admit, I loved the thrill of the win in a cockfight.
The familiar sting as the needle left my vein. If given the luxury of choice, bloodletting was my preferred source of income over gambling, and no doubt this time I’d stagger out with just enough juice in my body to keep me vertical, as every other time. A few hours of dizziness are a small sacrifice in search of the middle road and to keep my adventure going. This time I had to re-evaluate my theory as they drained me of one bag too many. Dizzy was an understatement.
*
Pulling back the tent flap, I was belted by the sounds of the street, car horns reverberating through my head. The sunlight blinding, I bumped into a stream of people like a dodgem car. Don’t fall over, Jan, just stand here for a sec. I was as unsteady as a drunken sailor.
An old Mercedes in mint condition slowly drove past then stopped and slowly reversed back alongside me. The back-seat window rolled down, a dark man wearing black-as-night sunglasses asked me if I was OK. He wasn’t Indian, his English was too clean. Pretending not to hear him, I dug into my bag for my own sunglasses and slipped them on. My eyes adjusted. The man hopped out of the car.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Thanks, yes, fine.’ Turning to walk away.
He grabbed my shoulder. ‘Jan?’
Fuck, this is all I need right now. I could barely speak let alone deal with this.
‘It’s Dion, we met at the… in Sydney. Must be a few years back now.’
He had my attention. I raised my sunglasses to take a closer look, my vision still blurry.
‘I understand how this must look. It’s OK though.’
I wasn’t convinced.
‘I’m glad to see you again. May I ask, can I buy you some lunch?’ He pointed to a populated restaurant a few shops down, followed by a smile no woman could forget.
My mind was bending, but there was no denying this was Dion. For a while there, he and his — well, entourage — were regulars at the club I’d danced in, the Whisky A Go-Go in Kings Cross, Sydney’s infamous red light district. I’d assumed they were amongst the American soldiers out on R&R we were paid to entertain. I hadn’t made any connection between him and the sub-continent.
With that dark olive skin and even darker eyes, all the girls had a crush on him, me included, though it could have been due to his more-than-generous tips.
‘Up to you, but from the look of you I’d say you need a decent meal,’ he said calmly.
‘Of all the gin joints in all the world — ’ I smiled reluctantly. It was good to see a familiar face.
He nodded to his driver who rolled the car forward to park out front.
Dion pulled out my chair as a waiter placed two menus on the table. I scanned the menu for any English. No such luck, all in Hindu. I looked up, catching Dion’s eye. He knew I was struggling, his face softened.
‘You know, I haven’t a clue what any of this is,’ I said through a nervous chuckle. His looks really were disarming. ‘Can you please order something vegetarian for me?’
The waiter leaned in to take Dion’s order and he spoke to him in an English Hindu blend. That slight French accent! The waiter gave a short bow and scurried off. This food better come soon, or I’ll need to be scraped off the floor.
Sizing him up I asked, ‘What are you doing here, Dion?’
‘I was checking in on the medical facility you came out of. I helped set it up. And low and behold, I saw that hair. I’d recognize it anywhere. I couldn’t believe it.’
‘Well, that makes two of us.’
The waiter reappeared to pour the chai tea. I thanked him.
‘It has grown out of control since the club days,’ I laughed, taking a sip. ‘I take it you live in Delhi?’
‘No, just here for work. My work often brings me here.’ His eyes fixed a little deeper into mine.
‘What work is that?’ I asked, innocently enough.
He had been such a topic of gossip at the club. No one knew what he did but he certainly seemed well-respected by all the big names in town, which usually added up to no good. And here I was, sitting face to face with him in a random teahouse in a random country. All more than a bit weird, but nevertheless I was intrigued. There was an undisputable easiness between us, though he was clearly in an entirely different league to me.
‘Oh, this and that. Let’s just say I’m in the business of helping people who can’t help themselves.’ Well, that sure as hell is saying something and nothing at the same time. ‘Tell me about you, Jan. How you came to be here.’
‘Well, obviously I didn’t want to dance forever, that really was a means to an end. I guess this is the end.’
My club memories made me slightly embarrassed and self-conscious. When Tommy, the Whisky owner, introduced us I could hardly speak. I was only seventeen at the time and very shy.
“The end, Jan? I’d like to think it’s the beginning of something.’
*
When the food arrived, I changed the topic to my desire to spend time on a houseboat in Kashmir. It had been a dream of mine ever since Robyn, a seasoned English backpacker I danced with for a few months, described her own experiences on one. Surprisingly he knew all about the area, enthusiastically describing Jammu and Srinagar in detail.
Dion said he admired my youth and the bravado I had, travelling alone. My mood lightened as the food digested, my mind and body felt semi-human again. We continued talking and laughing for what seemed like hours. He was a smooth operator, no doubt, and perhaps I was blinded by his charm and exceptional good looks, but it didn’t occur to me to distrust his intentions.
Dion was staying at the most expensive hotel in Delhi while I was crashing at a doss house with other travellers. It wasn’t the Ritz, but was clean and comfortable enough, with meals, mosquito nets and at least half the ceiling fans working. He asked if I would like a suite at his hotel. Before he finished the sentence, I cut him off.
‘No,’ I said. It came out stronger than I had intended. Did he think I was a working girl? Was this what all this was about?
‘Understandable.’ His hands up. ‘I don’t mean to impose. It’s smart not to trust a stranger.’ Dion recognized he had overstepped a mark. ‘Please forgive my forwardness. I can see how you must have taken that. Please, I didn’t mean to imply you’re a… No, Jan. I’m sorry, that is not what I meant at all.’ He looked genuinely panicked.
‘Let me try again. Would you like to see some sights with me? My car is at the ready and I’d love to show you some of my favourite places.’ I must have still looked rather stunned. He gave me a smile that took my breath away, and caution was completely thrown to the wind.
‘I would very much like to share an Indian marvel at dusk with you.’ Hands together, as if in prayer.
‘OK, Dion, sightseeing is why I’m here. Let’s do it.’
I hadn’t got to where I was by taking the paved road, and frankly, life had thrown me so many bloody curve balls I had no real problem with recklessness.
‘Excellent. Off to Agra then, a magic destination, roughly a hundred and fifty miles from here.’
Jesus, I thought he meant local sights.
‘If we leave now we will be there in no time at all.’
Yeah right, we’re talking Indian time here. As comfortable as Dion made me feel both here and back in Sydney, what on earth possessed me to take a ride with him? If, for whatever reason, I required a sudden exit, it would be a long way back to the doss house. Oh well, in for a penny in for a pound. Have to take some risks. Isn’t that what you do when you travel?
*
The roads outside all the major cities in India are atrocious, although the Indians are generally grateful to have any at all. This particular road was typical, covered with gaping pot-holes, crazy drivers, motorbikes hauling entire families, and then there were the meandering sacred cows holding up traffic; who, by the way, always had right-of-way over humans.
Dion was proving a great conversationalist, sharing his knowledge of the passing sights and terrains. He told me a little about himself, delving into his education at Oxford and his less-than-modest home in Madagascar. Dion claimed to be of African royal blood on his father’s side, a prince, and from his manners he could have been telling the truth or be a master con-artist; the jury was out on that one.
Learning of Dion’s privileged upbringing, there wasn’t a chance in hell I was about to drop into the equation that I never finished school. This would have only led to more questions, and those answers were in the vault. Then again, he knew I had been an exotic dancer before legal age.
Agra is the site of the Taj Mahal, the magnificent memorial built by the emperor Shan Johan after the death of his favourite wife in 1629. I was in awe, one of the Seven Wonders of the New World right in front of me. There weren’t enough words to describe its wonder and majestic beauty, especially at night; the illumination from a full moon was breath-taking. We walked around the grounds and then sat in silence marvelling at the architecture, a perfect setting for lovers. Thankful I agreed to come, I even mentioned to Dion that, if he were lucky, I’d let him bring me back during the day.
Time was getting on and we had a long journey home. We eventually arrived back in Delhi long after dark. Dion dropped me off at the doss house. He kissed the back of my hand whilst appraising me at the same time, absolutely the gentleman.
‘I am leaving tomorrow evening, Jan. Will you give me the pleasure of taking you sightseeing during the day?’ He was talking my language.
‘I think you know the answer to that.’ I was still holding his hand. This man was something else; I knew I had to see him again. Romance had not featured in my travels so far, hell, it hadn’t featured in my life at all, and I figured I was due some.
‘Pick you up at 8.’ I practically had to pry myself away.
Stepping through the front door I turned to have a sneaky look back. My heart fluttered, he was waiting for me to enter the house. Chivalry was not dead with this one.
*
I was up at the crack of dawn for my daily meditation. Mind and body are clearest first thing. It’s the best time of day for meditating, something I’d picked up from a friend, Old Ben, in Sumatra.
I gave myself plenty of time to bathe and ready myself for my outing with Dion. The streets outside were already bustling. Another mystery trip, I didn’t want to seem overly zealous, but my enthusiasm pretty much ended as soon as we were back on the treacherous and impossible roads. You’d have thought I’d be used to them by now. Travelling down from Nepal by bus had been frightening enough. I’d lost count of how many times I expected to plunge off a cliff in a ball of flames.
High on my Indian to-do list was to visit the Ganges River. The Ganges is an extremely spiritual river to the Indians. They bathe in it, clean their clothes, swim and use it as a toilet; they even burn their dead and scatter their loved one’s ashes in it. Dion had planned a romantic sail down one of its tributaries, except it turned out anything but. I was mortified. The river was flooded, teaming with bloated dead animals and debris. I was dry retching from the combined stenches.
Little did I know, the worst was still to come. Floating past the boat was a half-burnt, contorted dead man, resembling some sort of blackened, mutated balloon. I ran to the side of the boat and threw up. How romantic, Jan! Seeing death and poverty all over Asia was to be expected, for some reason this hit me like a bat, the extreme opposites of this world overwhelmed and saddened me.
We sailed straight back to shore, not a word was said. I’d seen dead bodies on the roads and countless lepers, but this was different. These images would bore into my memory forever; some things just stick!
Arriving back in Delhi, Dion asked if I wanted anything to eat. I thought he was kidding; my face was just returning from a dark shade of green. Instead we took a long walk around Old Delhi’s enchanting Chandni Chawk Markets. Our time was running out; he was leaving the city shortly after our walk.
‘So, have you decided to head up to the houseboats in Srinagar?’ Dion asked.
‘Definitely. I’m not missing that.’
‘How are you planning to travel to Jammu?’
I’d been contemplating that exact question myself. ‘Seems the only half-safe route is to catch a never-ending series of trains and buses.’ Shrugging my shoulders. Wasn’t this typical of India?
‘I will give you a phone number of an associate of mine, Max. He’s the best pilot around. He’s always up around that area. He’s in logistics with me, ferrying goods around. I’m sure he’d have no problems taking a little extra cargo if you two can meet up somewhere along the line. Could save you a lot of time and money.’
He had my ear, despite my absolute dread of planes.
‘A little warning in advance, he can be a cranky bastard at the best of times. But if it were possible, he’d be my one and only pilot.’ Confidence in his voice, this was becoming a very attractive option. Dion continued, ‘No strings attached, Jan, but would you like to stay in my suite? I had to book it for the whole night because of my late departure. It’s all paid for. It’d be a shame to waste it. Check out isn’t until two tomorrow afternoon.’
I stood looking up into his clear eyes. There was an earnestness and gentleness in them that I had not witnessed before. I felt a sense of security wash over me; he was offering some overdue comfort. But the voice inside my head niggled away. What the fuck am I doing? Is this guy going to kill me or am I just paranoid?
He must have read my thoughts.
‘Please Jan, I won’t be there. The suite is yours and yours alone, I promise.’ Backed with another warm and genuine smile.
‘There is something about you, Dion. I can’t quite put my finger on it yet,’ Knowing there was a hot bath and a soft bed was all it took for me to take this leap of faith. ‘But OK, thank you. I will.’
‘I’m pleased. Order whatever from room service. All is taken care of.’ Reaching inside his jacket he pulled out a pen and wrote down four phone numbers, his home address in Madagascar and the name and details of a very good friend of his in Srinagar. Handing it to me, he added, ‘Jopin will organize a houseboat for you.’ Pointing to the name at the top.
‘No, Dion, that’s too much. I can manage from there, thank you, though.’
‘Just call him, Jan. It would take weeks, if not months, to organize this yourself. Please accept my offer. This is a great opportunity for you.’
After collecting my bags from the doss house, he asked, ‘Any chance you could be in Bombay in a few weeks’ time?’
‘Bombay? Um, hadn’t thought about it. Why?’
‘A few openings have come up in some business operations I have running and if you’re interested in making some extra money, I might be able to offer you some work,’ he delicately suggested.
This was interesting. I’d love to keep travelling with a full body of blood, but what did he have in mind? I thought about it for a short while. This guy wasn’t known for his regular church-going back at the Whisky.
‘What kind of jobs?’ I asked warily.
‘Let’s talk in depth about it all later. Plenty of time for details then. Just keep in touch,’ he said.
*
A team of porters greeted us before we entered the foyer, and from the way they fussed over him, I wondered if maybe he was telling the truth about being a prince. Dion took me up to the suite to collect his luggage and settle me in. The opulence was overwhelming, but I couldn’t focus on my surrounds. I stood by as he assembled his cases, hoping he meant what he’d said and this wasn’t some ploy to get me into his bed. Turning to me, he took my hand and again, kissed it softly.
‘OK, Jan, we will be seeing each other in Bombay in around four weeks,’ raising his eyebrow with a confirming nod.
I returned his nod.
The timing was perfect. Maybe too perfect. A little red flag was waving in the back of my brain. Tomorrow I was to make the trek to Srinagar, ‘heaven on earth’, something that barely over 24 hours ago I would have thought ridiculous. My instincts were telling me to roll with it. Maybe we had crossed paths again for this reason. Dion kissed my cheek and took his leave, shutting the door behind him.
I didn’t know what to think, what to do. Hunger kicked in. I hadn’t eaten anything substantial in what felt like months. I could’ve eaten everything on that room service menu. I ordered a BLT with French fries, a slice of cheesecake, all topped off with a strawberry milkshake. Fatten myself up while I had the chance.
The huge room was tastefully furnished with antiques and housed an ornate king sized four-poster bed, overlooking the city. I had to pinch myself, nothing good ever miraculously appeared at my feet. My senses were always on high alert. I’m not suspicious by nature, I’m suspicious from experience. But maybe this time I was wrong. Maybe good things can just happen.
I enquired at the front desk about my travel plans. A train to Amritsar was leaving at eleven the next morning. A connecting bus would then take me to Jammu. The night manager sorted the bookings as I looked around the foyer, feeling pretty pleased with myself.
I slept like a rock that night and woke early for my morning ritual of meditation; ordered breakfast then took a long and lingering bath, not knowing when I would have another good soak. It was still early and, having a few hours to kill, I thought I’d head out for a stroll. Walking through the hotel entrance, the receptionist and one of the bellboys dashed over to warn me of the hazards of walking the streets alone.
The day before, I had noticed there were hardly any white people around the markets and on the streets. Their concerns made me hesitate. Maybe it wasn’t such a clever idea, so I erred on the side of caution and stayed in. Gave me an excuse to lap up all this luxury.
I’d never stayed somewhere this fancy. I’d heard it was customary to take the hotel bath robe and really soft towels, so in the backpack they went. A hotel bellboy carried my luggage and escorted me down to the lobby. I sat on a beautifully carved wooden lounge with luxurious over-stuffed cushions, pretending to be someone who is someone while watching the other guests come and go.
Chapter 2
Delhi railway station is manic to say the least. How the Indian transport system functions is beyond me and, by the look of things, beyond the locals too. Hordes of people virtually piled on top of each other, desperate to get their position on the train, come hell or high water. My bewildered expression caught the eye of an ancient-looking Indian man. With his waist-long dreadlocks and draping brown robe, he pushed through the masses towards me.
‘Are you alright, Mamsarb?’ he said in English.
Thank god.
Lost and one of the only foreigners around, I was an easy target for thieves. This man was not a thief but from a common religious sect. I had seen many of them on my travels; they had a reputation for being helpful to anyone in need, usually for a price.
‘I’m not sure. I have to catch a train from platform four to Amritsar at eleven o’clock. I’m not sure where it is.’
‘Oh, that is the same train as I am taking!’ Delighted. ‘It is over the other side. Follow me, Mamsarb.’
I followed closely, holding onto his sash as we weaved in and out, pushing and shoving through the vast crowds to eventually arrive at platform four.
‘Thank you so much,’ I said softly with a short bow.
I handed him a handful of rupees and he bowed in return.
‘Call me Rami, Mamsarb. Easier for you to pronounce than my very, very long name. Is that acceptable with you?’
‘Of course. My name is Jan.’
Rami began telling me about Amritsar, known as the ‘holy pool of nectar’. It was one of the major cities in the state of Punjab and was one of the oldest and most fascinating in India. On the flip side, Rami warned me, it was very volatile – the effects of many wars over the centuries remained, and it wasn’t safe to travel alone.
Boarding the train, he mentioned he was only two carriages away and begged for me to not be a stranger. Rami flashed a huge, white, toothy smile, reassuring me of his good nature. First class wasn’t much different from fifth, the exception being that it was wildlife free. The lower classes were a travelling zoo; clucking chooks, roosters and other small animals I’d never seen before clogged the aisles, some in cages and others roaming free. Most of the passengers cooked their meals on small gas burners or arrived with pre-made meals. I paid for my tea and biscuits from the trolley.
*
It never ceased to amaze me how many men, I mean thousands of them, clung to the outside of the carriages and to the roof of the train. It must have looked like a bee swarm from above. This must be the hang-on-for-dear-life class, I mused. Beats me how they didn’t just fly off on every bend. Each stop was an experience; local markets had grown up and around the tracks, vendors taking advantage of the passengers coming through. Amidst the beauty and colour of flowers and spices were decomposing carcasses of animals and raw sewerage flowing freely. There was plenty to occupy a keen traveller’s mind and certainly more life here than on the red rattlers back in Sydney.
I was busting for the toilet and we were still a long way from Amritsar. The problem was leaving my luggage unattended. It reminded me of another train ride back in Java when I didn’t move an inch for eight hours, shit-scared and stuck to my seat by the aggressive looks from Muslim men eye-balling me and my bags. I actually wondered then if it’s possible to die from bladder overspill, the pain was that extreme.
Not this time! At the next station I would make a run for a toilet or a hole dug in the ground, if there were any at all. Most stops didn’t even have a station. They were simply places marked by vendors coming up to the windows selling their wares. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. Taking a chance on the train slowing significantly, I squeezed my legs together and awkwardly shuffled and hopped off at the only stop we’d had in miles. Christ Almighty! Record-breaking fastest toilet break ever and in just the nick of time, the bloody train was rolling away. I ran beside to catch up, thankfully a team of Indian hands yanked me back on board.
Mental note. Don’t drink so much tea on travel days.
*
Communicating with the Indian commuters was hilarious and trying to translate was part of the fun. I picked up some Hindi and in return taught them a few English swear words – as you do! My fellow travellers were very fast learners. I couldn’t stop laughing. Good thing I went to the toilet, otherwise there would have been an incident. Half the carriage was repeating shit, fuck, shit, fuck. So funny. These people who could barely scratch two coins together certainly had a sense of humour.
The majority of the commuters were pilgrims going to the Golden Temple, the most sacred for Sikhs. It was visited by more people than the Taj Mahal, they proudly told me. Having established some camaraderie with my fellow passengers, I was able to arrange with the woman next to me to mind my luggage for a small fee, half now, half later. I pulled myself away from my new travel friends to seek out the dreadlocked guru. I squeezed through the mosh of people down the aisle. Rami was holding court with the whole carriage hanging off each word. I couldn’t tell his age, could have been fifty or a hundred and fifty. He made quite the scene upon spotting me.
‘Oh Mamsarb, you have come to find me!’ He motioned to others to move aside. ‘Please, come, come! Make way for my new friend.’
I felt rather privileged. I nudged in between him and two Canadian guys, their maple-leaf badges sown proudly on the top of their backpacks. Rami picked up where he had left off, sharing wisdom and captivating his audience with effortless multi-lingual stories so all could comprehend. People were dropping rupees in his old tin cup, requesting him to bless their children whilst he rubbed holy ash on their third eye. I listened intently to his tales; some were sad, but most were hilarious. He had a masterful use of humour, conveying his deeper philosophical meanings. Rami’s laugh was infectious.
As I was leaving to go back to my carriage, he pulled me to one side and told me in perfect English, ‘Miss Jan, don’t ever forget your faith, no matter what happens in your life.’
His eyes were penetrating, my soul felt touched. Did he somehow detect my past or read my brittle soul? I could look at him only with admiration. Rami broke the moment by laughing and saying, ‘You will be alright, Miss Jan. There are interesting and maybe dangerous times ahead for you, but you will come out stronger for it.’
It shook me up at first, then his spiritual warmth seemed to flow right through me. I could have cried, it felt so beautiful, like a blessing.
‘Thank you, Rami. It has been an honour to have met you.’ I added more to his little cup.
*
Back in my seat I paid the lady for looking after my belongings and, feeling content, I settled back and enjoyed the world outside whizzing by. During the last leg of the trip the Canadian boys sought me out to have a chat. It was obvious the pair were just scraping by and they’d come to me seeking advice on how to make money. They were quite desperate, I could tell, and I had my ways, but were they willing?
‘Have you ever bet at a cockfight?’ I spoke softly.
‘Cockfight!’ they looked at each other like I was mad, as if it wasn’t a real option.
‘I’ll assume that’s a no. I’ve been to plenty. If there is one in Amritsar I’ll be going. If you want, come along.’ They were both visibly troubled as if it was over-stepping the mark or crossing some sort of ethical boundary, which of course, it was.
‘Or you could always sell your blood at hospitals, or sell your clothes. They love denim jeans and jackets,’ casting an eye over their cheap market-purchased cotton rags, ‘but I can see you’ve probably already figured that one out.’
‘Can you really make some cash at these fights?’ It seemed that their hunger pains were rapidly cancelling out any idea of absolutes.
‘I can,’ I said, confidently. ‘You only need a few hundred rupees for the fights. To start with anyway. Up to you. Look for me on the station.’
I turned my attention to the goings on outside the window, signalling that the conversation was over. I didn’t owe these guys anything and if they didn’t have the guts to cope with this, I sure as hell wasn’t going to have them leeching off me. Cockfights were serious business and they were dangerous. The boys nodded and returned to their carriage.
Attempts to pass the time meditating were futile; my brain wouldn’t settle. What the hell am I thinking, telling these guys to make money on cockfights? Why am I going to do this again? I felt bad, guilty, trying to suppress my own ethical battle. Given what I had been through, I, of all people, should know to respect every living organism and not use them as a means to my own end.
*
I was feeling sorry for myself and like a huge failure until the train slowly passed through a shanty town butting up to the rail tracks. Makeshift homes made from whatever people found from digging through rubbish tips, all smelling like rotting, filthy meat. I was trying not to dry retch, this type of stench always stuck in the nostrils for hours. There was no clean running water available, no toilets and no money. The poorest of the poor, hundreds of children on top of smouldering heaps, rummaging for a meal. Something, anything, to take back for their families.
There were lepers by the hundreds, heavily scarred with no limbs and melted faces with only holes for noses and mouths. Witnessing all this broke my heart every time, causing me to be philosophical about my own position. What was this life all about anyway? Why had so much happened to me, and why do all these people suffer the way they do? Same old questions. Perhaps life really is for suffering. My hardships paled in comparison to these people outside the train, but the past still hurt like I’d been lashed by a thousand whips, branding me for life. Guess it’s all relevant somehow, in some sickening way. We all have our cross to bear.
I realized then what Rami meant; I would be OK. I truly was the lucky one here. Whatever I had to do, I would. I was going to look after myself in Kashmir, vowing that in Srinagar I would visit one of the many monasteries and pray during my meditations for forgiveness and for others.
I had good intentions anyway. It made me feel better at least.
I refused Dion’s cash before he left Delhi. It crossed my comfort zone. There’s always some kind of catch to an offer like that. Apart from my mother, I’d never taken unearned cash off anybody. I worked my ass off for every dollar to fund my travelling adventures.
I might have been young, but knowing the mix of money and men, I was never going to be a possession. Fuck that, I’m not changing my ways now.
*
We finally arrived in Amritsar. My senses were again bombarded from the seemingly organised chaos of the mixed cultures and overwhelming smells. The town was celebrating an important festival, with the locals selling exotic foods, fruits and incredible silks and other materials. Just about everything you could possibly imagine was on sale around the station. Rami’s description of this dry state was spot on; ‘holy nectar’ indeed! What a place.
‘Jan, hold up!’ John, one of the two Canadian boys yelled to me over the crowds.
On the train, the guys had told me they had been down in Goa for six months. They’d sold their return tickets home to fund their extended adolescence and, I surmised, would no doubt end up junkies never to be seen or heard of again like many of these travellers did. I didn’t have to be a tarot reader to foresee their limited future. India was the place to go if you never wanted to be found. John finally made his way through to me.
‘I’m in!’ He was sheepish. ‘I managed to rummage up a hundred rupees.’
He mustn’t have eaten in days; all gaunt and skinny with a puffed out stomach. Maybe it had been weeks, if he was using heroin. Which was a high probability, by the looks of him.
I’d been trying to make my way out of the station without much success, so I had a chat with a vendor about our plans. He sent his son to get a cousin who was a taxi driver.
‘Is it safe?’ John asked with a furrowed brow.
‘What do you call safe in India?’ Not telling him how much I would be paying for our safety.
Moments later I was inundated with questions from the vendor’s cousin.
‘Mamsarb, you are a woman!’ Shock-horror all over his face.
‘You got that right, and this girl enjoys a cockfight. I will pay you very well.’
His mind was ticking over. ‘It could be very dangerous, Mamsarb.’
‘No doubt. So you must come with us.’ All spoken whilst slipping rupees into his top pocket. Negotiation over.
‘Yes Mamsarb, at your service.’ Money speaks all languages thankfully. ‘I’ll bring the car around. Wait for me out front.’
*
Walking over to the taxi, I rubbed the money belt which was snugly fitted around my waist. I took comfort in knowing that if my luggage was lost or stolen I would only have to buy new clothes. Everything that was of value to me was hidden under many layers of clothing. Throughout my travels I had learnt the hard way, many times, to dress inconspicuously and especially to conceal my hair, the likes of which most locals had seen nothing like before, and many couldn’t resist touching.
John and I made a slow exit. He was anxiously shaking. I couldn’t blame him. So was I, on the inside. The thing was, where we were headed people can smell blood a mile away. But fuck it, I was willing to take the chance. I needed the cash for Kashmir. I wasn’t going to take anything for nothing. Adrenaline flooded my brain on the ride over; part excitement, part pure fear.
‘OK Mamsarb, we are here.’ Our driver was clearly in command now, back in his own territory.
I was never without one of my trusty flick knives. I’d purchased two fine blades in a Bombay market, not that I knew how to use them properly. They did make me feel a little safer though. I remembered the head of the Epping Boys gang, Dom, showing me how to do the flick back in Sydney, but this was a far cry from those sleepy suburban streets, and from boys pretending to be men who thought they were big names in their own lunchboxes.
I could hear cheering and booing from inside the old barn. A small rusted door opened. Inside was surprisingly large and clean, resembling a boxing arena with tiered seating wrapping around the square cage in the centre. This was an up market five-star venue in comparison to the shacks I’d frequented throughout Asia. I could see the sharp blades being fastened to one of the cock’s feet. Fortunately, our driver knew the establishment owner and we were seated in prime position right in front of the birds. Most of the men were staring at us with daggers in their eyes. I thanked my lucky stars there was an exit door directly across from us, just in case we required a quick ‘let’s get the fuck out of here’ manoeuvre. I turned to check on John. He was scared stiff.
‘Just follow my lead, OK.’
‘Fuck, what am I doing?’ he muttered.
I thought he was going to lose his bowels. ‘Keep your cool, these people are predators. Just follow my instructions.’ Struggling to hide my impatience.
His head dropped.
‘Look, I’m sorry. Please, just don’t say much.’
Men were parading their beautiful fighting cocks. I took a thorough look then I held a few rupees above my head. A small, strategic bet to start with. A fat, bushy-faced Indian indicated bet on. I grabbed some money from John, making one on his behalf.
‘It’s that easy.’
His smile reassured me he’d get into the swing. The vibe in the room was electric, thrilling me. I almost forgot I was the only woman there and a white one at that. The fights were turning out my way; I was filling my pockets with win after win. This was not going unnoticed by our taxi driver and the establishment owner who also held up fists full of money after following my bets, calling me their little saphed aakarshan, White Charm. I don’t know why, but I had the cockfighting gift. For some inexplicable reason, the devil in me took control. While the suffering of the animals was never something I was OK with, the rush of winning got the better of me every time.
I was a lone female traveller in a treacherous part of the world. Having independence to fund my own way was vitally important to me. Maybe I had a penchant for danger. Attracted to it, perhaps. Having had so little to live for made me carefree about boundaries. Forever wanting to push them.
I was getting some pretty menacing sideways glances. I could sense that some of these gamblers were getting the shits, continually losing to me.
‘We should go now,’ I said to our driver. ‘Come on John, things are getting hot.’
Not wanting to go yet, he was buzzing. Getting off on the feel of all the cash in his pockets.
‘Just cool it, will you? Best to get out when the going is good. We haven’t made it til we’re out of here.’ I grabbed his hand. More dirty looks, definitely time to leave.
*
Outside, the thick Indian air hit us in the face with a thud. I was flooded with relief when we were safely in the taxi with the doors locked, the grinning driver hitting the gas, tyres screeching.
‘Mamsarb, I have what you asked me to purchase.’ Tossing a package back to me. An ounce of mind blowing black-as-coal, soft-as-liquorice hash, perfect for rolling joints. This would definitely do the trick for the bus ride.
‘Mmmm, yummy. You’ve outdone yourself, sir’ I was on a high already, smelling the huge block made my body tingle.
John and the taxi driver carried on together like they had never seen that amount of money before. Back at the station I paid the driver the rest of the agreed price, and then some. We couldn’t have asked for a better man to facilitate our little outing. God knows, we could have been killed and dumped on one of the many rubbish piles, one of those lost and decomposed to India.
Retrieving my bags from the trunk, I said my farewells to John. He hugged and kissed me with gratitude. I gave him a nice chunk of hash to send him on his way. This was his and his friend’s lucky day. I couldn’t believe I had slipped back to my old ways. Well, actually I could. John hugged me again. ‘Thank you.’
‘Think nothing of it. All’s well that ends well,’ I said cheekily. As I started walking off I turned, ‘If you want my advice, go get something to eat, make your way back to Bombay then fly back to Canada.’
I left him to his own devices, hoping he’d heed my words. I’d seen it all before though. These types of guys would do exactly what they wanted. In one ear and out the other and straight to the dealer, then all that money shot into their veins.
*
I hailed another taxi to take me to the bus terminal. This was interesting; turned out there was no terminal, just a makeshift office surrounded by thousands of people. Though the taxi driver spoke limited English, I managed to tell him I wanted to go to Jammu. He parked his taxi then walked up to the front of the line, causing a small scuffle, which seemed the norm in India. I wasn’t quite sure what was said but he returned with a bus ticket to Jammu, leaving in one hour. This day was just getting better. I paid for his taxi fare and the ticket with a generous tip. Even though I knew it wouldn’t last, I loved feeling so flush.
‘The bus is here waiting, Mamsarb. Number twenty.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ I said with a small bow.
The bus driver let me on board first so I could choose my seat, for the right price of course. It was nothing to me, but a tiny sum of money went a very long way for these people and he was prepared to accommodate me for it. I suppose you could say it was a bribe, but I prefer calling it a tip.
Sitting up front had its advantages. I knew the bus would be packed to the rafters inside and out and I liked to be able to see my escape should the need arise. Apparently it was not a long trip; around one hundred and fifty miles, or roughly four hours travel time. Yeah right, this is India, four hours could turn into four days!
Using the last of the day’s sunlight I rolled some joints for the journey. I then snuggled into the window, partially covering my face with my shawl but keeping one eye open. In this lawless country you could never be too careful. Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. I had just taken my life in my own hands at the cockfights, again. Having been numb for so long, I craved the danger of being the only woman in the room. Stupidity? Probably, but the fear soon faded with the weight of the rupees bulging out of my money belt. I then dozed off to the hum of the motor. I was a long way from home, and the further away I travelled, the happier I was becoming.
Chapter 3
The headlights flickered, struggling to light up the winding dirt road. Days earlier, monsoonal rains had lashed the region, mudslides gouging out huge stretches of road. Looking out into the moonless night, I imagined the bus with me in it becoming landfill.
Sitting next to me was a rather large and friendly Indian woman named Nari. She was returning home from visiting family in Delhi. Nari explained why so many dialects and different languages were spoken throughout India. She said the only decent thing the English had left behind was a binding language for her country, nearly all understood and spoke a smattering.
After a rather loud and sleepless journey, thanks to the lack of suspension and the animal farm at the back of the bus, we finally arrived in Jammu at three in the morning. I must have become caught up with all the excitement and winnings. I hadn’t planned this one out and found myself with my bags in hand, stoned, tired, and with no idea where to crash.
The bus terminal wasn’t an option. I should have stayed in Amritsar overnight. Thankfully Nari came to my rescue, kindly offering her place. I gratefully accepted. Turns out I had one of the best sleeps of my life, passing out on thick mats and a mound of cushions.
*
The next morning, I was awoken by Nari's two eldest daughters. They wanted desperately to show me around Jammu and I wasn’t complaining.
We caught a rickshaw down to Jammu’s famous Raghunath Bazaar. I was in my element buying small presents for Nari and the girls, all the while receiving a history lesson along the way. Jammu is nestled against the mountains of the Pir Panjal Range. This amazingly beautiful region is full of ancient temples, Hindu shrines, castles and forts. It was easy to fall in love with this culturally rich city, perfectly divided by its many lakes, some of which I was told were untouched by humans. That was hard to believe; humans never leave anything alone.
A sense of warmth and colour was abundant in these peoples’ lives, matched by the widest variety of natural beauty. A rickety old wooden bridge crossed the Tawi River. I thought it was going to collapse underneath us. It creaked and swayed and surely it was only a matter of time before it gave way, crumbling into the rushing waters below. My freaked out expression gave cause for the girls to laugh.
I was awestruck by the towering Himalayan mountain range in the distance, drawing my soul back towards Kathmandu. I was within reach of the top of the world again and longed to return, but I had a date on a houseboat in Srinagar, and with only four weeks up my sleeve I wasn’t sticking around long.
*
I really enjoyed tapping back into city life, but now I was ready to chill out again. My next very important order of business was to get in touch with Dion’s contact, Max. The girls took me to a post office with what was probably the only public phone in town, and made the call for me. After much anticipation and deliberation, we were finally connected. The giggling girls handed me the antique telephone. The dial tone rang for ages before a deep voice answered brusquely, ‘Yes?’
‘Hello, Max? My name is Jan,’ I said nervously. There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘Sorry for the imposition, but Dion asked me to call.’
Oh shit, I felt like I shouldn’t have rung. I imagined a crusty, unshaven old man sitting in a decrepit plane hangar, covered in grease and puffing on a smoke, his feet up on a messy desk.
‘Yes, Dion told me to expect your call.’ He did sound grumpy. ‘Where are you now?’
I didn’t have a clue so I put one of the girls back on. She listened for a bit then rapidly replied in Hindi before handing back the phone.
‘Let’s meet at Nari’s this evening around five.’ He promptly hung up. Strange! Sounded like he knew of Nari. Coincidence? Been too many of those for me to buy it.
What a rude, evasive man, I thought, though I was relieved to have reached him at all. It was a toss-up between travelling overland or flying with Captain Grumpy. Overland could take weeks in these parts, if not months in the event of some catastrophe or another. Shit always went wrong in this country and I had no time to waste, so flying with Max it was.
*
Max arrived on the stroke of five and, to my surprise, he and Nari appeared to be close friends. How convenient. The girls definitely left that one out. He wasn’t at all what I was expecting, instead he was a mysterious looking guy in a tough, rugged sort of way. Long, unkempt hair and a small patch over his right eye. I thought, Handsome, but can someone fly with only one eye?
Nari and Max were talking and laughing in a fast blend of languages. Every so often they would look my way. I must have looked apprehensive.
‘Have her ready at 0800.’
Clearly I didn’t have a say in that.
‘How much will it cost?’ I asked, apparently into thin air.
‘Nari, have your man take her to the airstrip.’ The last thing he said. As far as he was concerned, that was that.
Small, courteous bows all round then he was gone. As his broad frame receded out onto the street, I questioned myself if it was wise to put my life in this man’s hands. What the hell? Couldn’t be any worse than the transport to date.
My curiosity was piqued. ‘Nari, what’s up with him? How do you know him?’ Intimidated? Maybe. Attracted, definitely.
‘Don’t worry, my child. Max has an exceptional reputation. He’ll take care of you. We have known each other for many years,’ said Nari, reassuringly. ‘Come now, we will all eat supper together.’
The meal was delicious. I hadn’t eaten anything this substantial since staying at the hotel. After dinner a bath was run and, being the guest, I was first in. I felt grateful as there were six other bodies to soak after me.
*
At dawn, the children jumped on me, tickling me and causing a free for all. Everyone was laughing, including Nari. I told her I had slept like a baby, to which she responded that I still was, with a wise look in her beautiful eyes. I’d often found short term travel friends were hard to leave, and saying my goodbyes to Nari and her family was no exception.
Nari’s man dropped me off at the airfield, nothing but a dirt strip with a single large building off to one side. I spotted a small plane painted in dark camouflage colours coming towards me. Had to be Max.
He jumped out and, without speaking, stowed my gear. I was impressed by his moves. He’d shaved and was actually quite the looker.
‘Good morning, Max. How much am I going to owe you for the privilege of flying with you today?’ I was suppressing a grin.
‘We’ll discuss it during the flight. Do you need a hand getting in?’ Until then, I hadn’t noticed his subtle American accent.
‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’
He stood by watching me, knowing I had no chance of climbing up into the cockpit. I placed my right leg onto the foothold, struggling to get leverage. With a crooked grin on his face he stepped over and grabbed my waist, lifted me up. He placed me gently into the co-pilot seat and buckled me in.
‘That was a smooth move,’ I nervously grinned. ‘Clearly not the first time you’ve made it.’
Max cracked a smile. I’d take it, even if it was at my expense. I couldn’t pick Max’s age, maybe mid-thirties, but what I did sense was that this was a guy who’d been around the block more than once. His face really gave nothing of his age away. Max was the sort of guy mothers would warn their daughters about. Perhaps mine would have, if I was still at home.
*
Taxiing down the dirt strip, we dodged a broken down plane. Watching the passengers on the runway waving their arms about and wildly protesting their frustration, I tried to suppress my growing apprehension. I heard a snigger from the pilot seat.
‘Is this plane safe?’ It was out before I could think but I instantly registered what a stupid thing it was to ask.
‘I wouldn’t be flying the fucking thing if it wasn’t.’ If a look could kill!
I pretended I didn’t hear over the rumble of the engines. Max then pushed forward on the yoke as we sped down the short runway. I vowed inwardly not to comment again. Didn’t last long.
I was feeling more scared and alone than I had in a long time. Who was this man and why the hell was I in his plane? The questions came thick and fast: can I trust Dion? What sort of work did he have in mind? Having known him back home, it surely can’t be above-board? But hell, what is above-board and what is below and who gets to decide? I certainly never had the luxury of that choice.
*
My last flight in India had been memorable, and it was fair to say I was scarred from it. I had an instant stomach churning flashback. I was sitting at the window seat above the left wing, casually flicking through an old Time magazine. Bang! Then another, bang! Followed by a sickening crunch. The sudden noise and plane wobble scared me half out my seat. To my absolute horror, one of the engines was on fire and spewed out plumes of smoke. The ensuing screeching was bone-curdling.
Seconds later, oil from the engine splattered like blood all over my window. I shot back in my seat. None of the other passengers seemed as troubled as me. The stewardess leant over me to shut my curtain. What the hell? Not looking me in the eye, she told me everything was normal. Not to worry. Not to worry! Bullshit not to worry. What the fuck is wrong with the engines? She then pulled out a god-awful toxic spray to cover the engine smell. Seriously?
‘What the hell are you doing, lady? The engine is on fire!’
