Page 19 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

The bell on the door jangles as I edge inside the office. A plump, bald man looks up from a desk piled high with paperwork. He pushes the remains of his lunch to one side and waves me toward the chair opposite him. A sickle-shaped splodge of gravy stains his front shirt pocket.

‘Come. Come. Take a seat. How can I help you, madam?’

I sit down and look around for Utkarsh. He is leaning against the far wall, studying a series of ancient posters promoting exciting Indian holiday destinations.

‘I need to find a hotel for the night. I think mine has burnt down.’

‘A fire, you say? That happens a lot in Delhi. I think you chose a bad hotel. Some of these places, the wiring is terrible. Very dangerous. You are lucky this fine gentleman brought you to see me.’ The man mops his forehead with a towel.

He is sweating profusely. But then again, so am I.

It is just unfortunate that his perspiration blends so poorly with the smell of his leftover lunch.

Utkarsh shifts uncomfortably as the travel agent riffles through the pile of brochures in front of him.

‘Now this hotel is of excellent quality.’ He pushes a photo in front of me.

‘Just five hundred American dollars. A very good rate. The owner is my friend. A very successful fellow.’ The travel agent smiles, displaying a row of red-stained teeth.

He is trying to look trustworthy and friendly, but he can’t seem to arrange his facial features into the right pattern.

He reminds me of a childless politician trying to appear warm and engaged at a beautiful baby competition. I don’t trust him.

‘I can’t afford five hundred dollars. I’m not here to sightsee. I’m here on a family matter.’

‘So late in the day you will find nothing cheaper. My friend is very kind. I am sure he will offer you the special rate of four hundred and eighty.’

‘But I don’t have that much money. I don’t know how long I will be here. There must be somewhere cheaper I can stay.’ I have money in the bank, but it needs to last me well past India and through a possibly lengthy period of separation and unemployment. I am in no position to travel five stars.

The man shakes his head, feigning concern.

‘I am afraid not at this short notice. And your driver will not take you anywhere that is unsafe. You must pay me four hundred and eighty dollars immediately. There is no choice.’

My whole body tenses. I don’t know what is happening exactly but every instinct tells me I need to get away from this place. Except I have no idea where I am and the only person who can extricate me from the situation is most likely a co-conspirator.

The travel agent hauls his bulk to sit on the front of his desk and crosses his arms. He no longer attempts to smile as he assumes the posture and demeanour of a standover man.

I begin to tremble; a tiny quiver of my hands at first. Then my legs. Finally, my whole body begins to shake. It would have been better if I had been killed back at the airport. At least then there would have been a better chance of someone finding my body.

The travel agent glares at me, silent and intimidating. Outside, horns, radios and construction noise compete for attention. I grip the sides of my chair, trying to keep my body still.

I need a miracle.

Then Utkarsh breaks the silence. He is looking at his phone.

‘I have good news, madam. The hotel has opened again.’

A hotel that was a pile of ash and rubble just minutes ago is now apparently open and accepting guests. I don’t challenge the logic. Who am I to question divine intervention?

Utkarsh gestures for me to get up. ‘Come. Come now, madam. You must hurry.’

I bolt for the door and throw myself into the taxi, Utkarsh close on my heels. Inside the shop, the travel agent is shouting at us in angry Hindi. I don’t need a Rosetta stone to get the gist of what he is saying.

‘I thought the place had burnt down?’ I ask as Utkarsh coaxes the engine to life.

‘When I said it had burnt down, I meant there was a fire and they were repairing it. It is fixed now.’

I let the lie go through to the keeper.

A bumpy fifteen minutes later, we arrive at my modest hotel, which shows no signs of recent incineration.

It also bears very little resemblance to the online photographs that convinced me to make the booking.

I locate my reservation information and double check the name of the hotel and the address.

I am at the right place. But where there should be a grand entrance and fawning concierge, there is a single glass door and a buzzer.

Either the pictures have gone through some intensive photoshopping, or they are of a completely different and much classier hotel.

I don’t care. As long as there is a bed in my room, I can forgive the creative marketing.

Utkarsh takes my suitcase and helps me out of the vehicle.

‘How much do I owe you?’ I ask as I rummage through my bag for my wallet.

‘No, madam. I can’t take your money. I must apologise.’ He fixes his eyes on the ground. ‘I am driving my nephew’s taxi tonight. He is sick. I wanted to help him. Maybe you noticed I am not familiar with the car or all the bumps in the road.’

I don’t say anything. It seems rude to agree with him.

‘My nephew told me that part of the job was to bring tourists to that shop. I knew it was not a good place. I should never have taken you there. I am sorry.’

I should be angry but I’m too relieved to be within metres and minutes of a shower and a good night’s sleep. For the first time, I notice my trainee driver is very handsome, with liquid eyes and a little salt in his thick, dark hair.

‘You did the right thing in the end. That’s all that matters. And Utkarsh?’

He looks up.

‘My name is Eva. I’m not sure it was a pleasure to meet you, but I do appreciate what you did for me. I hope you don’t get into trouble for helping me tonight.’

‘Don’t be concerned. I can handle my nephew. In fact, he should be worried about what I have to say to him. But Eva …’ He hesitates, weighing his words. ‘You should be more careful. You are too trusting. In Delhi, you must question everything.’

I think of my parents. How were they managing in this city? If I fell for a scam on my way from the airport, how are two elderly and muddled pensioners getting along? I have to find them before anything terrible happens. But first I need to rest.

I watch Utkarsh drive away then I check into the hotel and drag my suitcase up three flights of stairs.

As expected, my room doesn’t bear any resemblance to the online photographs—it is small and the furnishings are on the shabby side, but it is clean and the air conditioning works.

And after the last twenty-four hours, that is good enough for me.

I haul my laptop onto the bed and dig around for the snack pack of mixed nuts I liberated from the airline drinks cart.

I know I need to sleep, but first I want to check what is happening back home.

It is five o’clock, around ten thirty at night in Sydney. I wonder if Jonathan has read my note yet.

I click through to my email. Sure enough, there is a message waiting for me.

From: Jonathan Moore

To: Me

Eva,

This is ridiculous. You cannot just leave a note and jump on a plane to India.

You must come home right away. I have to presume you have forgotten about next week’s partners’ dinner. You know how important that is to my career. Luckily, I have secured an economy air ticket from Delhi to Sydney that leaves on Saturday. Details are attached.

I understand your concern for your parents. Your mother is not entirely stable but she is more than capable of getting herself around India and home again in one piece. If anything, I’m more worried for the Indians who have to deal with her.

I have a gym session on Sunday morning so you will need to catch a taxi from the airport unless Emily can pick you up.

Jonathan

From: Me

To: Jonathan Moore

Dear Jonathan,

I know about your affair. I’m heartbroken. I’m angry. But mostly I’m disappointed. Still, your midlife crisis is not a priority. My parents are in trouble. So, India is where I need to be right now. I’m concentrating on that problem. I’ll deal with our marriage (if we still have one) when I return.

Eva

From: Jonathan Moore

To: Me

Eva,

I don’t know where, how or why you think I’m having an affair. I guess one of your crazy friends got in your ear the other night. They never did like me. Get on that plane, come home and we can sort it out. You are not helping the situation by running away to the other side of the world.

Jonathan

From: Me

To: Jonathan Moore

Jonathan,

I saw you with your tongue halfway down some woman’s throat. Unless the Heimlich manoeuvre now involves the internal excavation of the windpipe, I think we can safely say there is no misunderstanding.

E.

From: Emily Moore

To: Me

Hi Mum,

Dad says you’ve gone to India to meet up with Nanna and Pop. That’s terrific. You really do need to get out more and do interesting things. Dad will survive without you. It might even do him some good. He doesn’t appreciate you anywhere near enough.

Can you pick me up some duty-free on your way back? I need a cleanser and moisturiser, as well as an exfoliant.

Have fun! Love to Nanna and Pop.

Em xxox

From: Me

To: Emily Moore

What brand of cosmetics?

Love Mum xxox

The thing with jet lag is that, for hours, you can scarcely keep your eyes open. Then the moment you are in the same room as a bed, it’s like you’ve mainlined a value pack tin of Nescafé.

I scroll through my unread emails. It’s mostly spam, but a few former colleagues have bravely attempted to walk that tricky line between wishing me a happy birthday and expressing regret that I won’t be at my desk on Monday. At least they tried.

I open Rachael’s email last.

From: Rachael Ezzy

To: Me

CC: Katie Taylor

India! You have got to be bloody kidding me! Go you good thing.

Rachael xxox

PS You are fabulous.

From: Me

To: Rachael Ezzy; Katie Taylor

This is not a good thing for me! Delhi is smelly and intimidating and I don’t understand how anything works.

I am safely ensconced in my hotel now. Despite the fact it’s 3 in the morning back home, I can’t sleep. I’m going to write for a bit. I had an idea for a blog around about the time I switched to red wine on the plane. It’s very personal, but isn’t that how the whole influencer thing works?

I’ll send it to you once it’s written. See what you think.

E. xx

I forage through my bag for the notes I made mid-flight. Then, for the first time in a very long time, I start to really write.

MIDAIR IN MIDDLE AGE

Hello, fellow women of indeterminate age!

And welcome to the musings of someone who is ‘Wizened & (planning to be) Wild’.

Recently, I’ve been pondering the challenges and everyday injustices that accompany female middle age.

There are a lot. I’ve also been considering the benefits of getting older as a woman.

That bit isn’t going so well. So far, I haven’t come up with anything to enter on the positive side of the ledger. I’ll keep you posted on that.

But first, let me get you up to speed with my life.

In the past 48 hours, I turned 50. I was restructured out of my job. I discovered my husband of more than 25 years was cheating on me. And my elderly parents went missing in India.

So, how’s your week going?

I’m guessing I just put your night sweats into perspective.

Right now, I’m midair, hurtling to Delhi on a mission to extract my parents from certain disaster. I’m not so much rescuing them from unscrupulous foreign actors as saving them from themselves. I’m also probably keeping the local population safe from their lunacy.

I mention all of this because I think the concept of being midair, suspended between two countries, is a handy metaphor for women in middle age. We are neither young nor old. And even though we will always be closer to one destination than the other, we don’t truly belong in either place.

Now I’m going to stretch my metaphor a little further so it’s even thinner than the matchstick legs that keep my husband’s girlfriend from toppling over.

Women in middle age become passengers in their own lives, buffeted by the crosswinds of partners, children and elderly parents.

And that’s if they are lucky. Most of us end up as family flight attendants, making sure that everyone around us is watered, fed and comfortable at the expense of our best selves.

We hope we get where we want to go. Maybe we even snatch a few hours’ sleep along the way. But we’re not the ones in control.

Well, not anymore. I’ve decided that I’m going to be the pilot of my own life. I’m going to live at full throttle. I’ll plot a course and stick to the flight plan. I am going to fly!

I just hope I work out how to land this thing.