Ticket to India (12 page)

17

Honorable Intentions

T
HE HUM OF CARS
from a nearby road broke through Maya's dreamless sleep.
We've stopped,
she thought, disoriented. She peered past the cardboard boxes into the driver's cabin. Empty. She shook Jai awake while slipping on her backpack. After her conversation with Zara, Maya had texted her the Maurya Hotel's address, then turned to Jai and offered him a deal. If he helped her find her grandmother's chest, she would do everything in her power to get Guddi and all the other little kids at the warehouse. Reluctant at first, Jai realized that with Maya and her family at his side, they would be far more successful. So he'd agreed. After a handshake, they'd
watched Bhagat amble off to the bathroom after a third cup of tea. Quickly, they'd snuck over to the parked trucks, inspecting their contents: tomatoes, electronics, hay . . . sugarcane. They'd crawled into the back of the truck, fashioning a hiding spot under a stack of cardboard.

From the map, they knew he'd be driving right past Faizabad. All they had to do was get him to stop so that they could get off. Minutes later, the engine had rumbled to life and they were on their way, passing fields covered in marigolds, kids fishing in a wide pond. . . . Lulled by the sway of the truck, Maya dozed off, clutching the journal to her chest, the pink phone in her hand in case her sister called.

Now, Maya scurried toward the back of the truck. “Something's wrong,” she whispered as Jai followed, rubbing his eyes. Together they peered around the canvas flap, catching sight of a low-slung concrete building. A red-and-blue sign on top blazoned:
POLICE STATION—LUCKNOW CENTRAL DISTRICT
. “Oh, no,” said Maya.

“We need to get out of here,” whispered Jai as Bhagat emerged through the front door, a slim, silver-haired police officer at his side.

Maya glanced toward the main road, congested with
traffic. If they ran that way, they'd be seen within seconds. She glanced down at the truck's muddy tires and thought fast. Jai's hand clasped in hers, they jumped, and slithered under the truck.

“Good idea,” whispered Jai, wincing as pebbles dug into his knees.

“They're runaways, you're sure?” came the officer's voice a moment later.

Mouth dry, Maya recalled the police officer at the warehouse.
Don't trust him.

Bhagat's sandals and hairy toes came into view, beside gleaming black boots. “Yes, I'm sure,” ­grumbled Bhagat. “Do you think I was born yesterday? She's a foreigner—American or maybe British, I couldn't tell which. She kept using English words and her Hindi was pretty bad. There's a boy with her and he doesn't look related.”

“Maybe she's lost?” queried the officer, contemplating the situation.

“No. A lost kid would be upset, wanting to find her parents,” replied Bhagat. “For some strange reason she's set on getting to Faizabad, and I got worried about her.”

“It's good you brought them here,” said the officer.

“Well, I couldn't let her go running around the
country on her own; it can be dangerous,” said Bhagat. “They snuck into the back of my truck and I let them think I didn't know they were there.”

“Well, let's get her out and ask her what she's up to,” said the officer, walking toward the back of the truck.

Maya's heart caught in her throat. She watched the truck driver's sandals disappear as he climbed aboard. She was furious that Bhagat had brought them here, but at the same time she couldn't help but be touched by the fact that he was worried about what happened to them. For a brief second, she wondered if he'd help them get to Aminpur if she told him what she was really up to. But staring at the crisp crease in the police officer's trousers, she knew it was too late for that. If the police were involved, even if he was a good cop, he wasn't going to let her go on some wild goose chase. He'd make her call her mother to come get her. And Maya had come way too far to give up now.

As the truck shook, Jai grabbed Maya's arm and pointed. Nodding, she followed as he slithered forward on his belly.

“Where are they?” asked the officer, growing suspicious.

“I don't know,” muttered Bhagat. “They were right here, asleep, when I left.”

Emerging from beneath the front of the truck, Maya saw that a river flowed behind the police station. No escape that way unless they swam for it. Parked beside the truck stretched a row of police jeeps, parallel to the main road. Maya and Jai shared an anxious look.
It's now or never,
Maya thought. With both men busy searching, Maya and Jai darted through the parking lot, using the jeeps as cover.

They paused beside the last vehicle in the lot, a bullet-riddled van, and caught a glimpse of Bhagat sticking his head out the back of the truck. “They're gone!” he bellowed in irritation.

Jai grabbed Maya's hand and pulled her forward, running along the shoulder of the road, where a line of trucks rattled along beside them, stacked with lumber. A tiered building loomed ahead—reminding Maya of a wedding cake—topped with an umbrella-shaped dome. As Jai passed beneath a sign on the padlocked gate that encircled the building, she glanced back and saw Bhagat and the policeman standing at the edge of the parking lot, scanning the road.

“We have to hide!” she cried.

Jai nodded, realizing they were exposed on the naked stretch of road.

“There.” She pointed toward a line of buses standing at a bus station.

“No,” said Jai. “We don't have any money to buy a ticket, and if we sneak on board, the bus driver will toss us out.”

They ran past the depot toward a lush stretch of green—a park of some sort? They ran across the road, dodged a motorcycle, and leapt onto a stone path toward the park entrance. Once through the arched gates, they paused to catch their breath. Maya peered around the stone wall toward the police station.

“They're coming,” she gasped, spotting a green turban bobbing in the distance, and a flash of khaki.

“This way,” said Jai, dragging her up the stone path.

Shaded on both sides by old trees, the path took them deeper into the park. Around the bend they slowed, surprised to see empty, skeletal brick buildings rising on either side, with gaping holes where windows and doors had been. A blue-and-white sign declared the structure on the right to be Dr. Fayrer's House.

“What is this place?” muttered Maya, skirting an old cannon sitting at the entrance to a squat, cream-­colored building. She squinted, reading the sign hanging outside:
BRITISH RESIDENCY MUSEUM—CLOSED
. At
the center of the clearing languished another set of ruins, a sprawling ochre building ravaged by cannon and musket fire. Most of the walls had collapsed and Maya could see its innards, the remnants of a once grand villa. Side rooms branched off wide central halls, fitted with spacious balconies and lofty pillars. A feeling of unease settled over her as she glanced back up the path they'd come; it was empty. “They're not behind us,” she said.

“We need to get back to a main road,” Jai urged.

“Wait a second,” she said, stopping in the shadow of a tamarind tree, thick with pods of sour fruit, and extracting the guidebook from her backpack. “Look,” she said, pointing down at a map of Lucknow.

Lucknow saw the last days of Muslim rule in India when the British deposed Wajid Ali Shah, the last
nawab
of Awadh, in 1856. This fueled the 1857 mutiny, and the city is best remembered for the ordeal of its British residents during a five-month siege of the British Residency.

As she peered at the legend for “British Residency,” the date rang a bell in her mind.
Naniamma
's words
came rushing back:
In retaliation, Indians rose up in mutiny all over India, in the 1857 war of independence.
“We're here,” she said, pointing to the northeast corner of the city.

“There's a main intersection there,” Jai noted, then gave her a questioning look. “From there we can figure out how to continue to Faizabad.”

“Yes,” said Maya, jaw tense. “Faizabad is a few hours from here and we
will
find a way to get there. My mom and sister will be waiting for us.”

Book tucked away, they ran toward a dense thicket of trees to the west. Once through the tightly growing trunks, Jai paused, stumbling upon a jagged piece of marble sticking up from the ground. Maya's gaze fell on the inscription:

John Snowdon—Here lies the son of Empire who tried to do his duty.
A few feet farther sat another pillar of granite:
Simon Merriwether—Do not weep, my children, for I am not dead, but sleeping here.

“What is this place?” she muttered, startled. She stared across the field and saw hundreds of similar stones.

“Look,” whispered Jai, pointing at a ruined church, its steeple tilting to the right. It stood like a solemn guardian, keeping an eye over the vast graveyard they had stumbled upon.

“Let's get out of here,” urged Maya.

She'd nearly made it onto an overgrown path on the other side of the cemetery when she heard a curse come from near the church. Her eyes met Jai's and they both dove for cover. Huddled behind a large headstone, she formed a tight ball in its shadow. Footsteps approached, and she prayed they would keep going. But it wasn't so. On the other side of the headstone, they stopped.

18

Unexpected Encounters

“M
Y DEAR, ARE YOU
lost?” quavered a voice, its accent distinctly English, though the words were in Hindi.

Maya's heart pounded. She curled up tighter, ­hoping that the eerie voice would go away, thinking she was losing her mind.

The voice above cleared its throat. “It's all right, child, I won't hurt you.”

She cracked open an eyelid and found watery blue eyes staring down at her, sunk into a wrinkled, sharp-featured face between large ears.

“Uh, yes,” she blurted in English, thinking fast as
she sat up. “I was visiting with my family and somehow we got separated.”

“Oh my goodness,” said the man, switching to English. His linen suit hung from his thin frame. “How could they have just
forgotten
you?”

“Well, I was with my sisters . . . and cousins. . . . There're so many kids that we're always losing someone.”

The man paused, a frown adding to the score of wrinkles. “Are you a Yank?” he asked, eyeing her quizzically.

“A Yank?”

“From the United States of America.”

“Um, yes,” said Maya, eyeing the path, hoping to catch sight of Jai. The longer she dawdled, the more the likelihood of being found by Bhagat grew.

“Those Americans made some fine automobiles,” said the man, a faraway look in his eyes. “I still remember my father's Tin Lizzie. . . . Have you ever seen one?”

Maya shook her head.

“A Tin Lizzie is a Model T Ford—my father had one imported from Canada. She was a thing of beauty—shiny Brewster green, stunning curves. . . . But I ­ramble on,” he said, his gaze sharpening. “I am Sir
Arthur Cecil Labant, at your service,” he said with a short bow. “That's my wife.” He pointed to the grave where Maya sat.

Horrified, she rolled away, catching a glimpse of the inscription on the headstone.
Amelia Labant: 1924–1946. If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again
. “I'm so sorry,” she sputtered, smelling mothballs as she stood beside him.

“She doesn't mind, do you, dear?” he said, laying a bouquet of pink roses on the headstone.

“Rosa bourboniana,”
remembered Maya.

“Why, yes,” said Sir Arthur with a pleased smile. “These were her favorite.”

“I helped my grandfather plant them in his garden,” she said. “They were his favorites too.”

“A man with good taste,” he said, a ­twinkle in his eye. “Is he here with you?”

“No, he died recently. . . .”

“So sorry for your loss,” he said with a sigh. “When my Amelia died, I went into deep mourning—didn't come out of my room for months. We'd been married a scant year but had known each other since our salad days. Our fathers, bless their souls, were managers with the railway, connecting Bombay to Calcutta.”

“Oh,” murmured Maya, trying to edge away, but he didn't take the hint.

“When I emerged from my room, India was a country divided . . . no longer the beloved land of my childhood.”

“Partitioned?” Maya blurted, then mentally kicked herself. She was supposed to end this conversation, not extend it.

Sir Arthur's eyes took on the glazed look again as he stared at the British Residency, jutting up from above the trees. “James Scott Labant, my illustrious forebear, arrived in India as the writer for records of state with the East India Company. It was 1798, a decade from the day the British had been booted from American shores.” Maya inched away while clearing her throat, trying to get Jai's attention. He was nowhere to be seen. But Sir Arthur pinned her with his gaze and she froze. “While your first president, George Washington, battled over the future of the new United States, the British East India Company dug its heels into India. Its army defeated the Mughal emperor and the
nawabs
of Lucknow and Bengal.”

Maya blinked and mumbled, “Oh,” while he continued talking.

“It was a heady time for James, as we've read in his
letters to his wife. He fell in love with the country, you see,” rambled Sir Arthur. “But things took a terrible turn on June 4, 1857. Sepoys attacked their British officers all across India and mutiny blazed.”

You mean the war for independence?
Maya thought, feathers ruffled as she channeled
Naniamma
's indignation at what the British had done.

“Here in Lucknow, the siege of the British Residency lasted months. Over two thousand English sheltered here, including women and children, many perishing.”

Maya's stomach knotted as she eyed the line of graves. They marked casualties of battle that began the unrest that would lead to Partition a hundred years later. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a dark head behind a cherub statue.
There,
she thought with relief, inching toward it. Jai's head popped up and their eyes connected. He pointed toward the path and she nodded.

“The British recaptured Lucknow, buried their dead, and kept the Union Jack flying night and day for the remaining ninety years.”

“Well, it's been lovely,” said Maya brightly, “but I need to go find my family.”

“Would you like me to drop you off at your hotel?” asked Sir Arthur, changing the topic.

Maya thought fast. “I don't quite remember which one it is. . . . Palace something or other.”

“You don't remember?” asked Sir Arthur.

“I, er, hit my head,” she said, pointing to the cut on her head. “My memory is a bit blurry.”

“What about a telephone number?”

She shrugged, watching Jai inch toward the path.

“Oh dear, this is quite a predicament,” said Sir Arthur. “I'm afraid I don't have those newfangled cellular telephones everyone is carrying about these days. But you're welcome to have a spot of tea with me, rest a bit, and hopefully your memory will jog itself. If not, we can call Inspector Muneer, a good friend of mine from the police station.”

Maya gulped at the mention of the police. The last thing she wanted was to talk to a police officer. She eyed the frail, trembling man, recalling
Naniamma
's advice not to ask strangers for help. But they needed to get out of here, and fast. A car ride out of the British Residency sounded like a good idea. She looked toward Jai and motioned him to come over. “That would be very kind of you,” she finally said.