Page 25 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

Beauty on a Bench Seat

It is still dark when the alarm on my phone wrenches me from the deepest sleep I can remember.

I blink my eyes open, disoriented. The dull glow from nearby streetlights gives my surroundings a vague semblance of shape, if not contour and colour.

It’s enough for me to get my bearings. I pull myself up, a lumpy pillow protecting my back from the wall.

Across from my bed, I can make out the tiny kitchenette and the plain but serviceable table and chairs.

The room isn’t fancy, but it is cleaner, larger and much, much cheaper than my digs in Delhi.

Travelling with someone who understands how things work in India is making the world of difference to both my ease of progress and my mental wellbeing.

Our taxi from Agra railway station even took us directly to our hotel without any unexpected detours or demands for extra cash. Little wonder I slept so well.

I switch on the lamp beside the bed and drag my jet- and train-lagged body to the bathroom.

Like the rest of my accommodation, it is fit for purpose with a distinct eighties vibe.

I know from last night that the shower veers wildly from icy cold to volcanic, so instead of again subjecting myself to the horrors of the plumbing system, I splash water onto my face, careful to keep my mouth firmly shut.

This trip is challenging enough without adding dysentery to the mix.

Tolerably refreshed, I return to the main room.

My suitcase sits on the luggage rack, clothes spilling onto the floor.

The bag is battered and dust streaked and has lost one wheel, presumably somewhere on the stairs of the Sivananda Ashram.

It is now about as portable as a packing crate.

Hopefully, Agra will be my last stop, so I won’t need to replace it. My wardrobe is a different story.

I bought some light, elastic-waisted pants at a clothing stall near the station last night.

As I pull them on, I make a note to myself to pick up a few more pairs.

They are so much more climate appropriate than anything I packed in Sydney.

They also suit me. Or perhaps I suit them now that I am a freewheeling middle-aged nomad.

Dressed and ready for the day ahead, I go to the writing desk where my laptop awaits, ready for another frantic round of emailing and googling.

I checked my mother’s TikTok account before I went to sleep last night. She’d added a brief post from the ashram: just a minute or so of very wobbly yoga. Maybe her imperfect balance was due to age. But I did note that her water bottle was well within arm’s reach.

She hasn’t posted anything new this morning.

Hopefully that’s a good sign, and she hasn’t yet visited the Taj Mahal.

My strategy is to get there as soon as the gates open at sunrise.

Then I’ll wait and wait some more—only leaving when I have either found my parents or they alert me to their next destination.

I hope with every fibre of my being that there will not be another destination. I’ve had my fill of India. Young Eva would have loved every minute of this adventure, but I am no longer young. Or adventurous. I’m tired and just want to go home.

I suspect my mother knows I’m flailing. I imagine her snickering as her index finger hovers over the plus button, waiting to detonate her next video.

But what she doesn’t know is that I have a secret weapon.

Thanks to Utkarsh’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the Indian rail system, I am hot on her trail.

I just need her complacency and my perseverance to collide at the world’s most famous monument to love.

Sunrise is still nearly an hour away. For once, I have the time to do a little research.

I google ‘Indian scams’. The search yields 609 million results.

I rummage through my suitcase and pull out my Single Girl’s Guide to India instead.

There’s a long list of dangers and annoyances at the back of the book.

That is one of the things that teenage Eva and I still have in common: we both love a list.

I scan the various entries. I haven’t been in India for three days and I’ve already managed to fall for scams one to seven.

There is the fake hotel photos and reviews scam.

Tick. The non-official taxi from the airport scam.

Tick. The fake tourist office scam. Tick.

The blocked road scam. The revised taxi fare scam.

The no change scam. The fake officials at the train station scam. Tick. Tick. Tick. And bloody tick.

That just leaves rip-offs involving handmade bracelets and unsolicited photography but they seem easy enough to avoid.

Forewarned is forearmed, after all. Plus, I have every intention of finding my parents and bringing them home in the next twenty-four hours.

India is running out of time to trick me.

I slip my guidebook into my bag and head out into the dimly lit street.

The doors are just opening as I arrive at the Taj Mahal.

There is already a small queue of tourists waiting to be let in.

Disappointingly, my parents aren’t among them.

But that would be too easy. A young girl of about ten years old is working the line, crude woven bracelets snaking up her arms. She is begging people to buy her homemade wares for ‘extra blessings’.

I congratulate myself for doing my research before setting off this morning. I’m not going to fall for any more scams, particularly one orchestrated by a child. I am way too smart for that. Or that’s what I think, as I send the girl away with a dismissive wave.

But as she bumps past me, I feel a tug on my wrist. When I look down, I discover to my horror that I am now wearing a bracelet.

It is frayed and grubby and incredibly ugly.

It is also attached to me as firmly as a handcuff.

I try to take it off, but it is pulled too tight.

The only way to remove it is with scissors.

‘One hundred rupees, madam.’ The girl regards me with an expression that suggests I have violently assaulted her in the act of stealing the bracelet.

‘But I don’t want a bracelet.’

‘It is on your hand. You must pay.’

‘But I don’t want it. I didn’t put it there.’

‘It is on your hand,’ she growls, chin jutted forward. It is impressive that someone so young is also so very intimidating.

I am about to argue further when my brain does a quick calculation.

The girl is asking for a little over a dollar.

I hand her a five hundred rupee note, the smallest denomination I have in my wallet.

I know where the conversation is headed next, and it is far too early in the morning to haggle with a street-smart tween.

‘You can keep the change,’ I concede, without prompting.

The girl’s expression transforms in an instant. Her face radiates pure joy. Suddenly, she looks like a child on Christmas morning instead of some miniature Don Corleone.

‘Many blessings for you. Thank you, madam.’

She turns and skips off down the street, the note clenched in her tiny fist. I wonder if my grudging largesse has given her the rest of the day off work. If that’s the case, it is five dollars very well spent.

I bring the bracelet to eye level and examine it more closely. The braiding is actually quite intricate even if it still isn’t especially pretty. But I like it. It reminds me of a child’s smile.

I pay the entrance fee and walk through the main gate just as the sun is starting to rise. And oh my God. The spectacle unfolding in front of me is truly glorious.

I’m sure the Taj Mahal is impressive at any time of the day or night, with its gleaming white marble, towering minarets and symmetrical domes.

But with the sun providing an ever-changing backdrop of amber and pink light, it is easily the most astonishing and awe-inspiring thing I have witnessed in my life.

I stand and stare for who knows how long. I’ve been so focused on finding my parents and getting through the day unscathed that I had just about forgotten that here is one of the wonders of the modern world. It feels good to stop and appreciate this simple moment of beauty.

As the sky flames in the background, I position myself on the famous bench seat for a selfie. As I tilt my head this way and that to minimise my wrinkles and double chin, a hand swoops in and snatches away my phone.

‘I will take your photo, madam.’

‘No!’ I jump up and lunge at the thief/photographer. But he holds the phone above his head and out of my reach.

‘You sit. I will take your photo. I will give you a good price.’

Suddenly I realise I am in a hostage negotiation situation for my phone and I don’t know the rules. Or the going rate for unwanted portraiture.

I am still lashing at the air and making feeble pleas for my phone’s safe return when a familiar voice cuts in.

‘Sir, I must insist you give me the phone. I will take the photo of my wife.’ Utkarsh’s size and presence convinces the man to relinquish the phone without argument.

I mouth a thank you as Utkarsh signals for me to return to my spot on the bench.

He clicks off a half-dozen shots, varying the angle and distance, and then checks his handiwork.

‘You look very beautiful,’ he offers as he hands the phone back to me.

When was the last time someone told me I was beautiful? Years. Maybe even a decade. I can feel my old teenage blush creeping up my neck on its way to my cheeks. I check the photo. I actually do look quite good. The light is kind and the backdrop magnificent.

‘Thank you, Utkarsh,’ I say, slipping my phone back into my bag. ‘You come to my rescue yet again. I can’t seem to keep out of trouble.’

‘So I see.’ His eyes glance down at the braided string around my wrist.