Page 35 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

We Are Not Cranes

We trundle down the main road of the park, pausing every few hundred metres to admire the wildlife.

I would prefer to be pedalling to my parents at high speed but Utkarsh is wholly engrossed in what he is seeing.

Every time we stop, he pulls out my Single Girl’s Guide and proudly identifies anything with scales, feathers or fur.

I also suspect our driver is working on Debbie Standard Time, because there is clearly an agenda at play and it isn’t mine.

Nor does it have anything to do with the guy gripping the handlebars.

As usual, my mother is the one in the driver’s seat.

All I can do is sit back and try to enjoy myself.

And against all odds, that’s exactly what I am doing.

The sanctuary is much more impressive on this side of the gate.

If the roads are a little uneven and the infrastructure a little worn around the edges, the wildlife certainly doesn’t care.

Thousands upon thousands of birds swoop and stalk the vast wetlands.

We see owls and kingfishers and pelicans and flamingos, as well as the occasional deer and herd of antelope.

At one viewing area, I spot an enormous python curled around a tree.

Reading from the guidebook, Utkarsh reports that Keoladeo is the python capital of India.

The park boasts the greatest concentration of the creatures anywhere in the country.

Apparently, there are another 599 of the things slithering about somewhere. I make a mental note to watch my step.

Finally, our driver stops his rickshaw and gestures for us to jump out. ‘We are here. Please enjoy the sarus cranes.’ He gives us a little bow as if the birds are actors and he is the director who has brought them together for a special performance.

‘But my mother, Madam Debbie … where is she? I thought you were taking us to her.’

‘Madam Debbie insisted you see the cranes first.’

Of course she did. She knows how worried I would be by now and she would be revelling in it. I can just see her kicking back with a gin and tonic in one hand, a clove cigarette in the other, having a jolly good laugh at my expense. The woman is diabolic.

I watch dumbly as our driver points his rickshaw toward the road and starts pedalling away.

‘I will return in half an hour,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘Please enjoy the show.’

I clench my fists and stare at his departing figure. My body is just about throwing sparks, I am so angry. This ridiculous game of Where’s Wally? has to stop. But until my mother decides to turn the page, I am stuck.

‘I’ve had enough!’ I shout to both no one and the universe. ‘I don’t want to see any more bloody birds.’

‘Eva, it is only half an hour. And these birds are apparently one of the park’s biggest attractions.’ Utkarsh grabs my hand and drags me to the viewing platform, laughing. ‘There are twitchers all over the world who would love to trade places with you.’

I sit down next to him and will myself to relax.

About fifty metres away, two cranes are facing one another, their necks stretched so far back, their bills almost touch their tail feathers.

They trumpet a call, letting everyone know they are a couple, and their dance begins.

One of the birds runs around its mate in wide circles, wings outstretched, jumping and leaping in some kind of slow motion Riverdance .

The choreography is intricate and mesmerising—a defiant shout to the world that they are in love and they don’t care who knows it. I watch, fascinated, forgetting the series of disasters that brought me to this place and moment.

After about twenty minutes, the cranes quit their erotic dancing and return to the practical consideration of foraging for their supper.

They are a married couple that live and love passionately.

I’m sure my mother intended for their dance to make a point about my own relationship—and I have to admit that it’s a point well made.

Sarus cranes approach life as a team. They both contribute equally to the relationship. And their lives are richer for having found one another. My marriage was one of emotional and physical subsistence. Cranes need more than that. People need more than that. I need more than that.

I sit staring at the cranes as they gather food, aware of Utkarsh’s calm and steady presence beside me. I am lucky to have him in my corner. And I hate that I treated him so poorly back in Gwalior.

‘Utkarsh.’ I turn to him. Those Bollywood eyes return my gaze and I have to look away. ‘I’m sorry I was so horrible to you last night. It was inexcusable, especially when all you are trying to do is help me.’

‘No, Eva. I overstepped and I apologise for that.’

‘Maybe so.’ My mouth is dry and the words feel tacky on my tongue.

‘But you were right. Of course, I want to find my parents and I’m convinced I need to do that before something goes horribly wrong.

But I also don’t want to go home. My life is a shambles.

I’m not even sure that I have a life anymore.

I’m a mess. You sensed that. And I was angry when you called me out. ’

Utkarsh squeezes my hand. I can continue or not as I wish.

And I realise that what I wish to do is keep talking to this man who has become my friend.

About everything. I tell Utkarsh about turning fifty and the message from Ernest Friend and how I discovered that Jonathan was cheating on me.

I told him about losing my job and not knowing what to do with my life without a career or a husband.

And how my parents had gone rogue just twenty-four hours later.

And while I was mad with worry, I was also relieved to be anywhere but home in an empty house.

Eventually I fall silent. Utkarsh sits quietly, his hand still in mine.

As we watch the cranes striding through the wetlands side by side, I feel closer to him than to anyone else on earth.

I realise he is not just good-looking, he is a good man.

I feel seen and understood as I haven’t done in many, many years.

If I believed in such things, I would describe him as an old soul. In all my life, I’ve never met anyone so effortlessly and confidently his own person. When he finally speaks, every word is carefully calibrated and delivered in a velvet baritone that makes my heart sing.

‘You know those cranes will never do that dance or sing that song with anyone else. When their mate dies, they refuse to eat and they starve to death.’

I keep staring straight ahead, touched by the beauty and the inevitable sorrow of their partnership. ‘That’s exactly how I feel. I don’t know how to be by myself anymore. I can’t see a way forward.’ I turn to him. ‘Is that how you felt when you lost Aanya?’

His eyes remain fixed on the cranes. I can’t tell if he is remembering happier days or if I’ve scratched at his grief and turned it red raw. It makes me wonder if this time, I am the one who has overstepped the boundaries of our friendship.

I hurry on. ‘I’m so sorry. That was insensitive of me. Your loss is so much greater than anything I’ve been through. My husband hurt me deeply, but it happened so quickly. And he is alive. I didn’t mean to remind you of Aanya.’

‘Eva, Aanya was my life. I remember her every time I breathe.’ He turns to face me.

For the first time since our conversation started, we aren’t talking in profile.

We are looking directly at each other, exposed and unguarded.

‘You can’t suddenly remind me of someone who is always with me.

But I still eat well. I also love well. I am not a crane.

We are not cranes. We should not stop living. ’

The weight of his words hangs between us. Did he just offer me advice? Or is he suggesting something more? And if he is hinting at taking our relationship further, how do I feel about that? And how do I feel if he does just see me as a friend?

My thoughts swirl dangerously as I try to find a response that will be acceptable and face saving whether I have been propositioned or simply received support from a friend.

I am rescued by the sound of wheels crunching along gravel. Our driver has returned. I jump up and power walk back to the road.

‘You enjoyed the dance of the cranes?’ our driver asks.

‘Thank you. I enjoyed it very much. But now it is time for me to see my mother.’

‘Ah, yes. Madam Debbie said you would want to see her. But she could not wait any longer. And she felt it was more important that you witnessed the beauty of the cranes. She says maybe you can meet at her next destination.’

My mother has again scurried away like a particularly malevolent cockroach. I’m not surprised. I’m not even angry. I am too panicked at the prospect of spending another night with Utkarsh now that our relationship is at some kind of crossroads.

‘Where did she say she was going next?’ My voice only just lands on the healthy side of hysteria. ‘Maybe we can still catch up with her.’

The driver shakes his head. ‘She said you should get some sleep. You are—’ He stops, his brow furrowed, as though trying to remember exactly what Madam Debbie said.

‘Not accustomed to so much excitement in your life. She will contact you tomorrow. But for now, you must rest. Do not worry, I will find you an excellent hotel.’

He ushers us back into his rickshaw with a smile that beams with the promise of a generous commission.

I climb into the rear seat, pushing my butt hard against the metal side, but it makes no difference.

The vehicle is designed to carry passengers who are either very slim or very fond of one other.

We keep bumping shoulders and knees and arms, sending wave upon wave of sparks through my body.

Is Utkarsh experiencing the same intense physical reaction?

His expression is unreadable as he stares straight ahead, deep in thought.

As we pedal back to Bharatpur, his words keep coming back to me.

He is not a crane.

I am not a crane.

But what are we to each other?

From: Me

To: Rachael Ezzy; Katie Taylor

Hi ladies,

I’m finally ready to admit it. I have a teensy, weensy crush on Utkarsh. But how do I know if he has a crush on me? I have no idea how to navigate this thing now that I am middle-aged.

It was so much easier when I was young. I was on the right side of pretty and confident enough in the fact that if a boy spoke to me, I could reasonably conclude he was interested. And if I was wrong, it didn’t much matter, because the boy in question would be flattered rather than horrified.

The only exception to this rule was when the boy was out of my league (Jonathan). In that case, I would presume he wasn’t interested. No risk. No loss. Then very occasionally, I was pleasantly surprised (Jonathan).

But I’m no longer on the right side of young or pretty.

I suspect I’m also no longer on the right side of interesting.

When you’re squishy around the middle, when your hair is somehow dry and greasy at the same time, when your laugh lines have settled into something that is no longer amusing …

how do you know if someone is interested in you?

I guess the simple answer is you don’t. You just have to take the risk.

I know what you guys are going to say. Risk it! Bet the whole house! Sorry. But I’m not prepared to do that.

Much love,

Eva

PS My mother has once again avoided capture. Apparently, she’ll let me know her latest destination in the morning. Wish me luck!