Page 42 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

Curry With a Side Order of Candour

‘I want you to know that everything I told you was true.’ Utkarsh reaches for the rice. He is so focused on me that a tablespoon or so misses his plate and lands on the plastic orange tablecloth. ‘I just didn’t tell you everything.’

We are at a rooftop restaurant close to the hospital.

It’s a modest establishment. The tables and chairs are of the outdoor setting variety, the kind that makes you want to stand up and stretch your legs just by looking at them.

They are made of plastic, just like everything else here, from our plates to our cutlery to the menu and the flowers on the front desk.

It’s all plastic. Even the floor is laid with synthetic Astroturf instead of tiles or carpet.

The set-up doesn’t encourage lingering. Which suits me fine.

All I want is food and a little honesty and I’ll be on my way.

I take a forkful of lentil curry and compose my thoughts.

How do I feel about the man sitting opposite me?

There’s still something between us. After our night in Khajuraho, it would be strange if there wasn’t.

But I can’t figure out what that something is.

It’s not lust. Or, it’s not just lust. That itch has been scratched, and it’s left a raw and angry welt on my heart.

What we have isn’t exactly friendship either.

Friends don’t hurt each other the way Utkarsh hurt me.

They do forgive eventually. But I’m not there yet.

Right now, my feelings have settled somewhere else entirely.

Maybe it’s as simple as a shared understanding.

Our situations are different, but we are both dealing with loss.

And we recognise that in each other. The trust has gone for the moment. But somehow our connection remains.

Utkarsh waits for me to say something but I stay stubbornly silent. When he continues, his voice takes on an almost pleading tone.

‘I told you that I was a businessman. That is true.’ He leans forward, his palms open. ‘My business is private investigation. I kept that detail to myself.’

‘Utkarsh, that is called lying by omission. It is still lying.’ I channel every detective in every police procedural I have ever watched and level him with my most unforgiving stare.

‘So, who hired you and why? Actually, we both know the answer to the who. The why is a little more interesting though. Were you hired to seduce me or was that just a bit of fun off the books?’

Utkarsh looks down at his untouched food. His shoulders are slumped, ashamed.

‘I would never … I could never … Please, Eva, you cannot think that poorly of me.’

‘All you need to do is answer my questions and then I will decide what to think. But you do have a lot of explaining to do.’

He gives his meal a desultory stir. ‘I promise you, Eva, I was not hired to seduce you. I would never do something like that.’

‘So what were you hired to do? You can tell me that, surely?’

‘My job was simply to make sure you stayed safe.’

That felt like the truth. Jonathan would never pay someone to have sex with me—his ego wouldn’t allow it.

But he would certainly presume that I was an incapable fool who needed babysitting.

It would never occur to him that I could negotiate my way around a foreign country on my own.

As far as he’s concerned, I cannot function without him.

It’s offensive. And, despite my recent hospital stay, it’s untrue.

Although I’ve only recently started to believe that.

I remember the gentle concern he showed me as a teenager.

When did that turn into a patronising conviction that I am nothing without him?

It’s a line of thought I’ll return to later. I move on to my next question.

‘How did you find me at the airport?’

‘By lucky coincidence, I was in India visiting family when this job came through. I knew what flight you were on, or at least I had an idea what time you would land. I had a photo, so I knew what you looked like. I should say, you are even prettier in person.’

I shake my head at him, unmoved. No way am I going to let him charm his way out of this.

He gives a sheepish shrug and continues his story.

‘I do live between Sydney and Delhi, as I told you. And my nephew is a cab driver and he really was sick. Driving his taxi was the perfect cover. I know how the taxi system works at the airport and I thought there was a chance of picking you up if you missed the booth for the official taxis. And if you did hire an official taxi or you chose another driver, I planned to follow you and stake out your hotel until I did have you in my taxi.’

I tear off a chunk of paratha and think back on our first cab ride. ‘But what about that terrible travel agency you took me to? You told me my hotel had burnt down!’

‘Oh, yes. That was a lie. So maybe here and there, I have not told the truth. But only ever with the best of intentions.’

I respond with a scowl. The only intention I can identify is the intention to trick me.

‘The travel agency belongs to a friend. It is a very good travel agency, but I convinced my friend to scare you a little so that you would build trust with me.’

‘Well, you certainly scared me.’

‘I apologise for that. My friend took to his part with more enthusiasm than I anticipated.’ Utkarsh stares at his food some more.

I have never known his appetite to be anything but robust. I have to believe he really does regret what has happened.

I’m also a little impressed with how cleverly he built and brought his plan together.

‘I kept an eye on you all the next day. I knew that taxi driver was bad news. And when I pretended to run into you at Delhi station, you were ready to trust me. I was hired to watch over you. Being your travel companion was the best way to do that.’

‘And all the stories you shared with me about your parents’ matchmaking and Aanya?’

‘All of that is true. My beautiful wife did pass away twenty years ago.’

He looks so bereft and remorseful, I relent and offer him a tight smile.

‘I suppose I should thank you for rescuing me from the street.’

The look of relief on his face almost breaks my heart. There is definitely still something between the two of us, but this is not the time to explore it further. I have two renegade old people to track down.

‘You should know I have terminated the contract.’ He starts piling food onto his fork. Clearly, he is feeling better now that the interrogation seems to be over. ‘I watch you now only because I care about you and want you to be safe. I am not doing it for money.’

‘You aren’t being paid anymore? And you still followed me to Satna?

That is not surveillance, Utkarsh. That is stalking.

’ I look across the rooftop to the cement plant a few blocks away.

My resolve sets as hard as the city’s most famous export.

‘I want you to stop following me. I don’t want your protection or help.

I do not need a security detail. I am more than capable of taking care of myself. ’

Utkarsh looks at me over a spoonful of palak paneer, one eyebrow raised. My argument is very obviously flawed.

‘Okay, okay. So getting run over in the middle of Holi festival was not my finest moment. But I need to find my parents and I now know I have to do it by myself. It’s time I faced life without other people—and by “other people”, I especially mean men—propping me up.

I don’t need you. I don’t need Jonathan.

All I need is myself, a decent supply of paratha and some sign from my mother. ’

Right on cue, our phones go off. I shoot Utkarsh an exasperated look.

‘You’ve torn up your contract and yet you’re still following my mother on TikTok?’

‘I’m sorry, Eva, but I find your mother incredibly amusing. I’m invested in her exploits now. You don’t mind if I follow her a little while longer? Digitally, that is.’

I grumble but position my phone on the table so we can both see the latest instalment of ‘Reddy, Set, Go’.

The scene opens with the joyful chaos of Holi festival.

I can’t tell where my parents have chosen to celebrate; they could be in any one of hundreds of Indian cities.

All I can see is people and explosions of colour.

I search through the faces on the screen.

I don’t have to look hard to find Debbie.

She is not among the throng. She is high above them.

I almost choke on my paratha. My 74-year-old mother is crowd surfing.

Her sari is hitched up around her hips and she is wearing a wide, Cheshire Cat grin.

Her behaviour is incredibly inappropriate and not just because of her age. But she doesn’t care one jot.

I’m relieved to spot my dad sitting a little apart from the craziness. He has his tabla across his lap and is happily drumming out a rhythm of his own, a contented smile on his face.

Utkarsh bursts out laughing. And I can’t help myself, I start laughing too. Debbie Reddy is the worst but I have to admit she is also pretty amazing. And she obviously doesn’t need rescuing. I’m the one who needs her.

The video ends with the customary advertisement. This time Debbie is plugging a fashion tape, especially designed to stop saris from gaping immodestly during vigorous activity.

‘She hasn’t told us where she is. I guess you’ll just have to wait for the next video. But you know they are alive and happy.’ Utkarsh temples his fingers under his chin and lightly taps his lips, thinking. ‘I really would like to come along for the ride, if you’ll have me.’

I pretend to consider his request. But I’m not even tempted.

‘Utkarsh, I can’t travel with you. Yes, we had fun—most of the time. But I need space. And I need to learn to rely on myself and no one else. I need to finish this journey on my own.’

‘But what about us?’

Those bedroom eyes make my body fizz. But my head is in charge now.

‘We can talk more when I am back in Sydney. But right now, the betrayal is too deep for me to forgive you. I still need time to work through it all. There’s a lot to process—not least the fact that I am still married.’

I stand up and give Utkarsh the lightest peck on the cheek.

‘Goodbye, Utkarsh. I will see you again. And that’s a promise.’

As I walk down the stairs to the street outside, I really feel like I’ve turned a corner. I have no idea what is around that corner, but I can’t wait to find out.

From: Me

To: Rachael Ezzy; Katie Taylor

Hi guys,

Important update. I have sent Utkarsh packing.

Again. It was very kind of him to scrape me off the street and ferry me to a top-notch medical facility.

And I did thank him. But I do not need a babysitter.

And I certainly do not need someone lurking about in the shadows, monitoring my every move.

It’s unsettling. And it’s unnecessary. I am strong.

I am self-sufficient. And I am more than capable of looking after myself.

That might sound like a spurious claim from someone who has just spent the night in hospital, having stepped in front of a fast-moving auto-rickshaw.

But the incident has resulted in something of a revelation.

And oddly enough, my mother and her many TikTok adventures can take some of the credit for the epiphany.

I’m not sure exactly where she was in India when she recorded her latest video, but she was fully immersed in Holi festival.

Actually, is ‘immersed’ the right word when someone is crowd surfing?

Let’s say my mother embraced the celebrations and let her spirit soar.

I am getting used to my mother’s TikTok theatrics, so I scarcely raised a grazed eyebrow.

What did interest me, though, was a final text credit at the end of the episode, thanking the Superior Tourist Agency for its ongoing support.

When I ended up at the Superior Tourist Agency on the pretext of avoiding violent street protests, I refused to go inside.

It seems my mother went along with the charade, knowingly or not.

And instead of ending up half-dead in a pile of cow shit, she’s having fun.

I was the one who landed in a hospital bed.

And the reason for our very different fates is simple.

Debbie Reddy goes with the flow. I stubbornly resist the inevitable.

Think about it. In Satna, I was trying to escape the crowd and as a result I ended up in the path of oncoming traffic.

If I had surrendered to what was going on around me, I would have saved my insurance company a lot of money and I wouldn’t be walking with a limp.

My mother crowd-surfs. I become roadkill. Lesson (finally) learned.

So, from now on, I’m going to roll with the punches and see what happens.

With sex off the table—in the short term at least—I’ve been trying to think of some other benefits of reaching middle age. And this is what I’ve come up with. Older women acknowledge when they make a mistake. They accept that mistake. Apologise for it. And then get on with what they are doing.

So, I have to apologise to India and to its people.

I have been culturally ignorant and constantly patronising.

I arrived in this country presuming that I was in some way better than the people and the places around me.

But now I know that I am the one who is lacking.

In India, people live big, colourful, joyous lives.

My life has been small, monochrome and cheerless. Well, all that’s about to change.

I also now understand that everyone is not trying to rip me off, they’re trying to feed their families. Why can’t I just pretend there is a protest? Or graciously accept a bracelet? Or just tip more generously?

I reckon there’s a blog post somewhere in all of that. I might try to knock something together tonight. But from now on, I intend to embrace every wonderful, crazy moment of this amazing country.

You guys really should visit sometime.

E. xx