Page 28 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

Breakfast and Broadcast in Bed

Almost twenty-four hours later, I am still waiting for my mother’s next TikTok video to drop.

I’m not letting it bother me. I’ve been busy.

I’ve purchased a backpack and tossed the old suitcase, ready for a speedy departure.

I’ve bought another climate-appropriate travel outfit.

And now, instead of sitting in my room and glaring at my phone, I’ve taken myself and my laptop down to the hotel’s courtyard area.

An enormous tamarind tree shades one corner and thanks to a slight breeze and my new loose-fitting cotton wardrobe, I’m not excreting my body weight in water.

As I busily educate myself on the spice levels of various northern Indian curries, I realise my spirits have lifted.

I’m not content, exactly; how can I be? My parents are still actively attempting to cause an international incident or get themselves killed.

Possibly both. And my marriage remains of uncertain status.

But I feel oddly Zen with it all; like a bath toy cast adrift in high seas, I am bobbing about at the mercy of any number of external factors.

I’m not going under, despite the size of the waves pummelling me.

It is a huge shift in perspective and certainly a positive development.

And it lasts exactly ten more minutes.

Because at 8:13am India Standard Time, my mobile begins blaring ‘Devil Woman’, which means my mother’s latest TikTok video has landed. My muscles tense as I drag myself away from a particularly fascinating Punjabi food blog.

I’m still navigating to my mother’s TikTok account when Utkarsh bursts into the courtyard. He’s waving his phone over his head. It seems I’m not the only one who’s been waiting on an alert.

‘She’s live!’ he hollers. ‘Wherever she is, she’s broadcasting in real time.’ He ducks under a low branch and plonks himself next to me. ‘If we can figure out her location and we move quickly, we might be able to intercept her.’

He leans across for a better view of my screen, so close that I can feel his breath ruffling my hair. I do my best to concentrate on my laptop, turning up the volume to make sure he is in no doubt exactly where my attention is focused.

My mother comes into view. She is indeed live streaming.

She is also broadcasting from a king-sized hotel bed, sitting up next to my father and (barely) wearing what appears to be a negligee.

One thin strap is teetering right on the edge of her shoulder.

If it submits to gravity, there is an excellent chance of a Janet Jackson–style wardrobe malfunction.

Unconcerned that her video is veering into Only Fans territory, my mother chats happily to the camera, sharing her latest travel exploits. Judging from her relaxed demeanour, she clearly considers this entirely normal behaviour.

The woman has absolutely no shame.

I don’t dare look at Utkarsh. This is even worse than when she was twerking around Delhi and exposing her newly pierced navel. Back then, I wondered if my mother could be any more embarrassing. I now know the answer is absolutely yes.

I wish the ground beside the tamarind tree would swallow me whole.

But I remain undigested as my mother prattles on, possibly oblivious to my discomfort. More likely revelling in the sure knowledge that I am squirming.

‘After our beautiful vow renewal ceremony under the marble gaze of the Taj Mahal, Doug and I celebrated our lifelong commitment the way nature intended …’ She winks at the camera. My father stares dreamily straight ahead.

Oh, God, no. Please spare me. Don’t say it! Just don’t.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

‘With a party!’ Debbie smirks into the camera. ‘Come on. I’m well into my seventies. What did you think I was going to say?’ She leans over and plants a kiss on my father’s forehead.

‘Now, we don’t know very many people here in India, although I’m getting quite the Christmas card list together with all the new friends we’re making along the way.

The locals here are so welcoming. We were even invited to hitch our celebrations to another wedding being held in this charming hotel.

And I have to say, our bride and groom really know how to bring the bling. ’

The scene switches to the exterior of a magnificent building.

It might be a converted palace, or maybe a cluster of repurposed temples.

It is certainly many centuries old. The camera pans along the expansive, manicured lawns, and settles at the base of an imposing stairway.

Fireworks cartwheel on either side of the steps leading up to the main entrance as hundreds of rose petals fall from the sky.

The camera then glides through the front doors and into an enormous reception hall, filled with wedding guests.

It smoothly makes its way past dozens of tables until settling on the bridal table.

And right there, seated where esteemed family members would normally be positioned, are my parents.

I watch in horror as my mother wobbles to her feet and clinks her glass with a spoon. Wine sloshes onto the white tablecloth in front of her. She appears to be the only person drinking anything stronger than sparkling water. ‘Can I have your attention please?’

The dining room continues to buzz with conversation. My mother narrows her eyes, a look I know so well from my teenage years. I will the assembled crowd to shush for their own sakes. Debbie Reddy is not someone to be ignored.

‘Listen up. Now!’

Despite her advancing years, my mother retains a remarkable ability to project her voice.

Everyone stops talking and turns toward the unsteady foreign woman commanding centre stage.

She straightens her sari and beams genially at her audience.

She looks like an empress preparing to address her loyal subjects.

‘For those who don’t know me, which is most of you, my name is Debbie Reddy.

And this is Doug, my husband of more than fifty years.

It seems impossible that just twenty-four hours ago I did not know this beautiful young couple.

’ She gestures toward the newlyweds, who smile back as though it is the most normal thing in the world for a random and slightly tipsy tourist to be giving a speech at their wedding.

‘I met the groom and his very handsome brother at the train station in Agra. Doug and I were waiting at our platform when we overheard two young men in an animated conversation with a railway guard. It seemed one of them was getting married later that day and they’d broken their journey in Agra to visit the Yamuna River, where their parents’ ashes had been scattered.

But somewhere along the way, they’d lost their tickets.

They simply had to catch the next train but it was full.

And they couldn’t convince the official to trust their story and let them board. ’

She gives the audience a few seconds to reflect on how close they had come to attending a groom-less wedding.

‘Now, I am always impressed when young people honour and respect their parents.’ My mother tips her head slightly so she is looking straight into the camera and I am in no doubt that she is now speaking directly to me.

‘They also need to respect their parents’ choices.

Freedom isn’t only for the young. And age and uncertain health is no reason to stop living.

‘But we’ll discuss that some other time.’ She dismisses me and turns back to her audience. ‘Now I could have ignored these young men at the railway station. I could have written them off as scammers and charlatans. But sometimes you have to just lean into life.’

The guests murmur their agreement.

‘So, Doug and I offered them our tickets.

In exchange, they invited us to this wonderful celebration.

We caught a later train and made it here just in time to share the evening with you all.

So, my message to our young couple: be kind to each other and to others.

Be open to everything life has to offer.

And always believe the best in people. And if you do those things, I am certain you will have a long and happy marriage, just as I have had with my darling Doug.

‘To the bride and groom.’ My mother lifts her wine glass, drenching my father’s sleeve in the process.

‘To the bride and groom!’ the attendees repeat enthusiastically, raising their tumblers of still and sparkling water.

The video fades to black amid rapturous applause. The production is rounded out with a sponsor’s announcement.

‘This instalment of “Reddy, Set, Go” is brought to you thanks to the Superior Tourist Agency.’ This time my father has provided the audio, his voice professional and authoritative from his many years as a university lecturer.

‘Their specialists have handled all our travel needs from Delhi through to Agra and beyond. How magnificent is this hotel? Superior found us a room here at very short notice. So why not contact their team if you’re thinking of a romantic celebration or if you just have a hankering for adventure? ’

Superior Tourist Agency. The name sounds familiar.

And I remember why when a photograph of the shop front fills the screen.

It is the same place my Delhi taxi driver took me after claiming the city had been overrun by demonstrators.

My mother had mentioned the ‘protests’ in her text.

I wonder if she had been conned into using Superior Tourist Agency to book a new itinerary.

Or maybe she’d turned the tables on them and worked a scam of her own.

I suspect it is the latter. And I have to admire her for it, albeit grudgingly.

I stare at the blank screen, feeling defeated.

I turn to Utkarsh. ‘So now what? We know they left Agra by train. But I’m guessing that doesn’t narrow things down any.’

Utkarsh leans back in his seat, his brow furrowed in thought.

‘It doesn’t help very much,’ he agrees. ‘But I don’t think they will be very far away.

The groom was travelling to his wedding when he stopped in Agra.

I can’t imagine he would do that if he had more than a few hours remaining of his journey.

So, when we do figure out where your parents recorded their latest video, we’ll be able to get there quickly. ’

‘If we figure it out,’ I reply, disheartened.

I am out of ideas. I will watch the video again, dissecting it frame by frame, looking for clues, but one hotel room looks much like the next.

And plenty of places cater for weddings.

It really feels as though we’ve hit a dead end until my mother chooses to make contact again.

Next to me, Utkarsh’s fingers tap away on his phone. I guess he is checking every train that departed Agra yesterday. I appreciate his energy and commitment to the task at hand, but it is a pointless exercise.

I am about to tell him as much when he gives his mobile one final tap and switches to speakerphone. After the first three rings, someone picks up.

‘Hello, Superior Tourist Agency. How can I help you?’

If jaws truly do drop, mine just headed for the roots of the tamarind tree. I squeeze Utkarsh’s shoulder and give him a thumbs up. Not only is my travel companion handsome, he is also smart. And it seems, as he begins talking, a little bit sneaky too.

‘Hello, sir. I’ve been watching Debbie Reddy’s travel video, and she complimented your business for arranging the most recent leg of her holiday, including that beautiful vow renewal ceremony at the Taj Mahal. So heartfelt. So romantic. My eyes filled with tears witnessing their great love.’

I stifle a snort of laughter. He is laying it on thick, bless him.

‘Yes, I remember Debbie and Doug,’ the travel agent replies, sensing a healthy commission in the offing. ‘Excellent customers with a very clear idea of what they wanted from their holiday. We are proud to have been able to assist them.’

‘It certainly seems you created an excellent itinerary. I was hoping you could tell me more about the hotel they are staying at now. It is very beautiful, and my fiancée and I would be very interested in holding our wedding there.’ He winks at me.

Once again, I tamp down a giggle. But this time it is accompanied by one of my signature blushes.

‘Yes, of course. That hotel is indeed very lovely. It is in Gwalior. We have an arrangement with the management there and can do an excellent deal for your function. Would you like the address?’

Utkarsh jots down the details, thanks the agent for his help and promises to call back as soon as he’s had a chance to do some more research on our prospective wedding venue.

‘Utkarsh, you are brilliant!’ I go to hug him, but he is busy deciphering the Agra train timetable and I abort.

‘We’re in luck.’ He looks up at me with an enormous smile on his face. My heart does an unexpected double-dutch. Damn, he is good-looking. Even more so now that I know he is firmly on my team.

‘There’s a train leaving Agra station at nine fifty-five. We’ll make that one easily and be in Gwalior around eleven. That’s an hour before check-out time. Every other train leaves later this evening. Maybe your mother has finally made a mistake.’

I hope he is right. More than anything, I want my parents, particularly my father, back home and safe.

But I’m also not sure I want the adventure to end. That isn’t a sentiment I am ready to examine too closely. I excuse myself and head upstairs to pack and check my emails.

As I leave the courtyard, I can feel Utkarsh’s eyes following me.

From: Jonathan Moore

To: Me

Eva,

If you won’t come home, I am coming to India. We need to work this out and we can’t do that on different continents. I have booked a seat on the next flight to Delhi. Business class was full, so I am flying economy. That’s how desperate I am to see you and fix our marriage.

I love you.

Jonathan xxx

From: Me

To: Jonathan Moore

Dear Jonathan,

Do not come to India. I repeat, do NOT come to India. You will never find me and I do not want to be found. My priority is my parents. Everything else can wait until I am back in Sydney.

Eva

PS If you really are thinking of flying economy, that is your most romantic gesture in at least ten years.

From: Jonathan Moore

To: Me

Too late. I’m at the airport.