Page 24 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

(Not) Praying by the Rules

The sun is only just starting to lighten the sky as our rickshaw pulls up in front of an enormous pinkish brown compound.

I step onto the road, dragging my suitcase behind me.

A hundred or so very steep steps lead up from the entrance gate to the main complex.

My luggage immediately feels ten times heavier just looking at them.

‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay with that?’ Utkarsh pokes his head out of the side of the rickshaw.

‘Absolutely.’ I almost tear my shoulder out of its socket trying to demonstrate my okayness. Somehow, I manage not to wince.

‘At least let me give you my phone number.’ I hand over my mobile and he punches in his contact details. ‘Maybe you could text me later. Just to let me know everything is okay.’

He hands back my phone and our fingers brush. My skin prickles and I withdraw my hand.

‘I’ll make sure to remember. And Utkarsh?’

He sits a little forward.

‘Thank you. I would never have found this place or my parents without you.’

‘No need to thank me. I had to make amends for my behaviour in Delhi. Plus, I’ve enjoyed your company. You are an inexpert traveller, but I have very much enjoyed seeing India through fresh eyes. Goodbye, Eva.’

He gives me a wave and a smile, and the rickshaw putters off. I feel a little sad to be on my own again and to be farewelling Utkarsh, but the end is in sight. As soon as I get to the top of these wretched stairs, I’ll be reunited with my parents and planning my trip home.

Chanting fills the air and I follow the sound upward. That’s one advantage of religious retreats—it’s never too early to pay a visit.

I make it up the stairs, my suitcase thudding and scraping behind me, and arrive at a paved square with paths leading off in every direction.

The square is surrounded by modest double-storey buildings and a small stone obelisk sits at the centre.

An inscription on one side cautions pilgrims to ‘Be good. Do good’.

I hope my mother spent some time meditating on that one.

I look around. There’s a shrine, which seems to be the source of all the chanting, as well as an audiovisual studio, a library, a bookshop and some administrative buildings.

I am trying to decide which door to go through or path to take when an elderly monk approaches me, palms pressed together in a gesture of serenity and welcome.

His head is shaved and he is swathed in orange cloth of various shades.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ His English is perfect, with an upper-class boarding school lilt.

‘I’m looking for my parents. I believe they are here on a yoga retreat. Doug and Debbie Reddy?’

He takes a moment to answer. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I detect a tic developing at one side of his mouth.

‘I’m afraid Madam Debbie and Mr Doug had to leave.’ Yes, it’s definitely a tic. ‘They broke the rules.’

My cheeks blush a furious red as I remember the ashram’s celibacy clause. No wonder the poor man is twitching. My mother has managed to break the spirit of a spiritual advisor.

The monk looks over my shoulder toward the obelisk, as if seeking divine help. I brace myself for the worst.

‘Madam Debbie was caught drinking alcohol. From a water bottle. During meditation.’

My body relaxes. Drinking at an ashram is obviously a serious infraction, but I definitely prefer it to the alternative.

‘I am so sorry.’ I try not to sound too relieved. ‘My mother does not respond well to rules. I hope she didn’t cause you too much trouble.’

‘She was certainly challenging. But we very much enjoyed having your parents here with us, even though their stay was short. Your mother was …’ Whatever the Sanskrit version of Zen is, the monk is desperately searching for it, ‘a lively presence. And Doug is very good on the tabla. But sadly, Madam Debbie is not suited to the disciplines of spiritual life.’

Or to sobriety , I think.

I’m again reminded of the urgency of the situation. My mother has gone completely off the rails and my dad no longer has the wherewithal to rein her in. We are in code red territory.

‘Do you know where they are now?’

‘Madam Debbie told me they hadn’t “locked in” their travel plans yet.’ The way he says ‘locked in’, I know it is a direct quote. ‘But your mother knew you would come to the ashram looking for her and she promised she would be in touch with you very soon.’

I try to smile my thanks but it’s hard to convey gratitude when all you want to do is scream.

‘You are welcome to stay here for a while.’ He gestures to the shrine, where the chanting continues its low-level hum.

I politely decline his invitation. I need more than prayers.

The monk bows slightly and walks away. I imagine he has a lot of cleansing meditating to do.

I schlep my suitcase back down the stairs, cursing and bumping and wondering what on earth I am going to do.

I should be ushering my parents back to Sydney.

Instead, I am alone at the foothills of the Himalayas without any kind of plan.

I make it to the main road and lean against the wall.

With a crying jag imminent, I can think of only one course of action.

I text Utkarsh.

I’m not sure my message makes any sense with its tales of monks and contraband and out-of-control mothers, but he responds straight away.

Stay where you are. I’ll be right there .

Twenty minutes later, I am at a café overlooking the Ganges and I am feeling much, much better.

Utkarsh is a calming presence and Rishikesh is far more agreeable than Delhi.

It’s still hot, but the temperature is a few degrees cooler.

The air tastes fresh and the river looks clean.

A kayak and a couple of rafts paddle by.

It all feels so wholesome. A few metres away, an impressively sinewy gentleman is performing a headstand on a hand towel.

He is as unmoving as a statue. I wouldn’t say I’m relaxed, exactly, but I am significantly more composed than I was before my white knight swooped in to rescue me.

Utkarsh orders without looking at the menu, rattling off a list of dishes. I nod my approval, pretending I am someone who eats paratha and sambar regularly and will absolutely not keel over due to a previously undiagnosed food allergy.

The meal arrives quickly and while it is a massive departure from my usual morning fare of eggs and toast, it is also far more delicious.

‘This is really good,’ I say, scooping a healthy serving of spiced potatoes onto my plate.

‘I’m glad you approve, Eva. I am also sorry that you haven’t found your parents.’

‘I was so sure I would intercept them today. I mean, they’re well into their seventies—how fast can they move, for heaven’s sake? But I should have known better than to underestimate my mother.’

I bite into my second paratha. This breakfast is quite the revelation. I give it my full attention and don’t speak again until the waiter returns to clear away our plates.

‘Who knows where they will end up next?’ I pour us each a cup of tea. ‘I guess I’ll just stay put until my mother contacts me, whenever that might be. At least I know how to catch a train now. Although I don’t know how I’m going to stay out of trouble without you. You’ve been my guardian angel.’

Utkarsh sips his tea thoughtfully. I stare at his mouth longer than necessary. And blush immediately on the off chance he noticed. What am I thinking? The man is a part-time taxi driver of uncertain prospects. And I am … I don’t know what I am. But I’m certainly not single.

He sets his cup back on its saucer and leans back on his chair, bringing his hands behind his head in a languid stretch. He really does have very nice arms.

‘I have been thinking, Eva. Would you like some company on your journey? I was only at my cousin’s place for a few minutes before I remembered why I haven’t visited him for such a long time.

He has far too many children and there’s not a shred of manners or discipline among them.

And my brother will need at least another week to cool down, so I have nowhere I need to be.

Why don’t I join you? I suspect you could use my help. ’

I couldn’t have been any more surprised if he’d delivered his proposal by way of interpretive dance. I scrutinise his face, looking for a sign that he is teasing me. But he seems sincere.

Do I dare?

I try to convince myself I have no agenda beyond finding my parents. Travelling with Utkarsh will make everything so much easier. Nicer, cheaper hotels. Compliant taxi drivers. Better planned travel itineraries. Plus, I won’t fall prey to any more scams.

It is the obvious solution.

And obviously a very bad idea.

‘You know what?’ I lean forward in my seat. ‘I would really enjoy the company. It would be good to have a friend along for the ride.’ As I carefully emphasise the word that is supposed to define our relationship, I know I am lying. And I’m not just lying to Utkarsh—I am also lying to myself.

I’m thinking of backing out when my phone vibrates with an incoming text. It’s my mother.

After all those stuffy rules at the ashram, your dad and I have decided to visit that magnificent monument to love, the Taj Mahal. You really should see it while you are here. Is Jonathan with you? I’m guessing not. You’ll have to get a Lady Di photo on the bench seat.

I know better than to reply, especially to the potshot at my marriage. It looks like I’m on my way to Agra. With my new ‘friend’ in tow.

From: Me

To: Rachael Ezzy; Katie Taylor

Greetings from Rishikesh, Uttarakhand. Long story, but my parents have slipped through the net. Again. I’m starting to get really worried. My mother seems to be spiralling. Her behaviour is getting more and more bizarre. She is completely mad. But you already know that.

But here’s something new. I now have a travelling companion.

Utkarsh is joining me on my search and rescue mission.

Before you start adding one and one and getting sixty-nine, I want to be very clear: this is a wholly platonic relationship.

I am not about to reenact Romancing the Stone on the subcontinent.

There is absolutely no sexual tension between me and Utkarsh.

Sure, he is pleasant eye candy. But his greatest asset is that he understands this country.

Travelling with him will make everything so much easier.

I’m stressed enough by my missing parents without worrying when I’ll tick the next box on my ‘Indian Scams’ bingo card.

I’m not sure what exactly is in this for Utkarsh. He says it’s a good excuse to stay away from his brother’s house for another few days. Maybe he’s a bit lonely. Whatever the reason, I’m glad of the company. India is not somewhere you want to travel solo.

Eva xx

From: Rachael Ezzy

To: Me

CC: Katie Taylor

You are wandering around the subcontinent with a man you describe as handsome and very nicely put together.

Methinks you protest too much. Stop deluding yourself and admit you like the guy.

Or if he really is just a platonic travelling companion of convenience, would you mind bringing him home for me?

For what it’s worth, I reckon you should scratch that itch. After all, Jonathan did. Too soon?

R. xxox

From: Me

To: Rachael Ezzy; Katie Taylor

I am emailing you from Delhi railway station where I’m waiting for my connecting train to Agra.

I’m napping here and there, but it’s been almost 36 hours since my body connected with a mattress, so I’m bone tired.

But thanks to jet lag, I’m not sleepy, at least not when I want to be.

So, I’ve been doing some more writing. I’ve also spent a bit of time googling divorce in middle age.

(Delighted to discover Indian trains have internet!)

And guess what I’ve discovered? It seems despite my mother’s conviction that I should and could be exceptional, I am in fact very, very ordinary. I am nothing more than a statistic.

I’m not sure if I’m writing a blog or an essay series or just a handful of letters to my besties. But whatever this is, I do love having the time to do it. And I’d love some honest feedback.

E. xx

PS Way too soon, Rachael. Way, way too soon.

STUCK IN THE MIDDLE (OF INDIA)

WITH(OUT) YOU

Today’s topic of discussion for my wizened and wild comrades is marriage and divorce in middle age.

Let me start with a few statistics. The median age for divorce in Australia is 43.

7 for women and 46.7 for men. That’s pretty much the entry point to middle age.

And according to the American Psychological Association, more people over 50 are getting divorced than ever before.

In fact, of the 689,308 divorces in the US in 2021, ‘oldies’ accounted for one in every three of them.

There’s even a name for it: Gray Divorce.

(As Americans were the ones who coined the term, I’ll respect their ghastly spelling—as much as it pains me.)

Now, middle-aged divorcées aren’t so very different from their younger counterparts.

Infidelity and lack of connection are the two main reasons given for break-ups across all demographics.

In this, my usually exceptional husband is downright pedestrian.

He is a cliché. But I guess so am I. For every philandering man indulging his midlife crisis, there’s a clueless wife with an expired gym membership.

Not that I really think my poor fitness regime and weight gain are solely to blame for Jonathan’s indiscretions.

There are any number of reasons he cheated, including the fact that he is a self-absorbed twat.

But neglecting my health and struggling to find time to do anything that wasn’t house or husband related was a clear sign that all was not well in our marriage.

Now add Empty Nest Syndrome to all of that.

One of the big reasons marriages fail in later life is that people become so preoccupied with their children that they don’t notice they’re drifting apart.

Then, when the kids eventually leave home, they’re stuck staring at a stranger across the breakfast table.

And that’s exactly what Jonathan has become to me. A stranger.

And what am I to him? A doormat is the obvious answer.

But I’m going to go with a rice cooker. It’s something that has a single practical and unexciting purpose; kind of handy to have around but you don’t really need one, so it just ends up taking up space at the back of a cupboard. Or the other side of the bed.

But who cares what I am to him? (Well, me, a little bit, but I’m working on that.)

What I have to find out is: Who am I without him?

I don’t know the answer to that one just yet. But I plan to enjoy finding out.