Page 33 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime
On a Wing & a Prayer
‘Utkarsh, wake up.’ I give his shoulder a vigorous shake. ‘I’ve figured it out. I know where my parents have gone.’
Utkarsh sits upright. He is clearly disoriented. And maybe a little cranky. Which is fair, given he’s still half asleep and I’m shouting at him about the sex lives of peacocks.
‘Hold up, Eva, you’re speaking too fast. Give me a moment to clear my head.’
‘We don’t have time for me to explain it all over again.’ I say this as though my various ornithological observations have made perfect sense and Utkarsh is simply not paying attention. ‘Just pack your clothes and I’ll fill you in when we’re on the road.’
To Utkarsh’s credit, he is showered, packed and sitting in our hire car within twenty minutes. He smells of jasmine and mouthwash and once again looks like his calm and well put-together self.
‘Okay, Eva. You can tell me where we are going now. But slowly. And from the beginning.’
I sit back in my seat and arrange my thoughts into a logical order, like a detective preparing to deliver the denouement in a closed-room mystery. I know I have solved the riddle of my parents’ whereabouts. I just need to present my case slowly and rationally.
‘I woke up at four, which is around nine o’clock in the morning back home, so I knew I wasn’t going to get back to sleep.
I sat down at the desk and began to think about my parents’ video.
The peacocks. And all those bird facts. Then I remembered my mother’s video sign-off: “I’ve got a twitch to scratch.
” At the time, I thought she was just mangling her words.
She does that sometimes. But what if she said “twitch” deliberately?
Twitching, as you might know, is an extreme form of birdwatching. ’
From Utkarsh’s confused expression, he did not know this.
‘A twitcher travels long distances to spot rare birds,’ I explain. ‘India is a big twitcher destination, apparently.’
‘Okay.’ His voice carries an upward inflection, so it sounds like a question.
‘Now take a look at the note Mum left us.’ I flatten it out on my lap. ‘See all the bird references? “The early bird catches the worm.” “They’ve flown the coop.” “Time to fly.” She’s laying it on pretty thick. It has to be deliberate. I can’t believe we missed it last night.
‘I also think you’re right that my parents are somewhere between here and Delhi, so I went back to the books.
There is a famous bird sanctuary in Bharatpur called Keoladeo National Park.
That’s just a hundred and fifty kilometres north of Gwalior.
And guess what? See the postscript here, where my mother wonders about getting a crane for her next video?
The sarus crane is one of the park’s biggest attractions.
And not just that. It mates for life. It’s like some kind of national symbol of love and devotion.
See her hint here? “We’re off to see a couple that has been together even longer than your father and I.
” They’ve gone looking for the crane, the sarus crane!
’ I throw out my arms like a magician pulling a rabbit out of my hat.
Or possibly a small bird from somewhere up my tie-dyed cotton sleeve.
‘I’m impressed, Eva!’ Utkarsh claps his hands. ‘I do believe you are exactly right. Although the real test will be if your parents are still there.’
And that is the truth of the matter. It is still quite early, but we are also a couple of hours from our destination. And my mother isn’t one to let the grass grow underneath her feet.
I stare out the window as our hire car hurtles along National Highway 123.
The morning fog has lifted, revealing a serene landscape of agricultural fields.
But any hopes of a pleasant and peaceful drive are soon offset by the steadily building traffic.
Motorcycle riders with a death wish loop and weave around an armada of tractors and carts and tankers.
No one is going at a speed that tempts the person behind them to stay in an orderly single file.
It is absolute madness. It would also be very, very loud, except the sounds of horns and engines are muffled in the comfort of the back seat of our hire car.
Unfortunately, no amount of German engineering can save us from all the constant bumps, braking and swerves.
Cars are parked haphazardly at the side of the road, bonnets up and belching thick smoke.
I see three abandoned buses, two of them face down in ditches.
Crumpled bicycle parts are strewn at regular intervals along the potted asphalt.
It looks like the set of a Mad Max movie.
Maybe train travel isn’t such a bad idea after all.
I imagine my parents racing in the opposite direction at top speed, Thelma and Louise style, my mother offering me her middle finger as they flash past.
I’m about to flag the possibility with Utkarsh but when I glance over, he is fast asleep, those too-inviting lips trembling with each breath in and out.
I let him be and carefully scan the oncoming traffic, on the off chance that I’ll spot my parents. Our driver is treating the trip like an audition for Daytona, so I feel certain that, if I call out to him to U-turn, he would give chase with reckless enthusiasm.
But my mother remains as elusive as ever. And by the time we reach Bharatpur, all I have to show for the journey is a nasty lump where the top of my head connected with the car ceiling.
The entrance to India’s preeminent birdwatching site is unremarkable and very, very dusty.
My immediate impression is that this is not the Taj Mahal—it is definitely a second- or even third-tier tourist attraction.
Where the Maharajah favoured marble, the administrators of Keoladeo National Park have opted for metal and concrete.
A decorative arch stands a few metres in front of the main gate.
Not that it meets the recognised criteria for an arch: the structure comprises two slanted columns that stretch toward one another but never actually meet.
It is as if the builders had just walked off the job one day.
The columns are made up of three large blocks, each featuring a statue of an animal.
There is a tiger, an impressively tusked boar and a couple of deer.
Two white cement birds perch at the top.
They might be ducks. Or swans. Or cranes.
Presumably, I will see the living, breathing versions of some of these animals inside.
I just hope the tiger and the boar are a nod to the area’s natural history and not a preview of current attractions.
I worry briefly about my parents. But then an image of my mother graduating from her seniors taekwondo course flashes through my mind. A tiger wouldn’t dare.
Next to the iron entry gate, a security guard is dozing on a plastic chair, a newspaper open on his lap.
It seems it’s a slow old day in Bharatpur.
Utkarsh and I get out of the car and walk toward the line of rickshaws queued next to the ticket office.
The temperature is creeping up past thirty degrees, so the drivers are sitting in the shade of a nearby tree.
They look up as we approach, curious but without any sense of urgency.
I can’t blame them. I wouldn’t be in a hurry to pedal a couple of sturdy-looking tourists anywhere in this heat.
Eventually, one of the men wanders over.
‘I believe you are Eva.’
I look at him, startled. ‘You know my name?’
He responds by holding his phone up to my face. On it is a photograph of me from a few years back. I’m not smiling, but my mother is on the other side of the camera, so … obviously.
‘Yes. You are most definitely Eva.’ He returns his mobile to his top pocket. He waves us to his rickshaw. ‘Madam Debbie sent me to get you.’
From the journals and miscellaneous paperwork of Eva Reddy (Age 24)
March 9th, 1996
Well, today was an absolute bloody shocker.
I had wanted to keep my engagement secret for as long as I could—I needed time to figure out how it might affect my job.
Television hasn’t evolved a great deal from thirty-odd years ago, when married women were banned from working in the public service.
We’re not forced to resign anymore, but your range of options can suddenly narrow if you don’t have a solid game plan.
I was also worried about how my friends and family would react.
This is the 1990s. At twenty-four, I’m just about a child bride.
No one was going to be ecstatically happy that I was getting married, least of all my mother.
But the last-minute vacancy at the reception hall forced my hand.
I couldn’t keep the news to myself any longer.
My tour-de-engagement began this morning with Rachael and Katie. Let me set the scene.
UPMARKET SYDNEY STREET
It’s midmorning on a drab, windless and overcast day. Cafés line the pavement on both sides of the road. Locals are making the most of the mild autumn weather and sipping their lattes outdoors. There is the usual line-up of designer dogs.
CUT TO
EVA, RACHAEL and KATIE are seated at an outdoor table. Their food has just arrived. EVA pokes at her meal with scant enthusiasm. She’s on the Eat Right 4 Your Type diet and because she’s Blood Group A, she’s stuck eating rabbit food. No one is talking. The atmosphere isn’t tense. More expectant.
RACHAEL
(Stabbing her poached egg with unnecessary force.)
Okay, Eva, out with it.
EVA
(Defensive)
Out with what?
RACHAEL
Come on, how long have I known you? You’re not the ‘let’s catch up for a spontaneous brunch’ type, even if it is your birthday weekend. So, what is it?
KATIE
(Waving her fork like a baton.)
I reckon it has to be a big promotion. You’ve been getting more reporting shifts lately. I consulted my tarot cards this morning and they said you’re about to experience a major life change.
EVA
(Trying to look like she’s about to share some happy news.)