Ticket to India (5 page)

“Mir Hayat and his brothers swore on their great-grandfather's grave they would never leave Delhi,” said
Naniamma
. “You see, they're descended from one of the oldest families in the city and have several bookbinding businesses in the bazaar. They wouldn't have left any of that for all the tea in China. So freshen up—there's no time to waste.”

6

Down Memory Lane

T
HE TRIO STEPPED FROM
the hotel onto a sidewalk cleansed and cooled by the monsoon showers. With springs in their steps, they strode down the sidewalk, looking for an open-air rickshaw, since
Naniamma
didn't want to be cooped up in a taxi. They paused at the corner to allow a group of smartly dressed families to stroll toward a small building nestled beside the hotel. Heads bowed, the group entered the turquoise structure, decorated with six pointed stars.

“‘Judah Hyam Synagogue,'” read Zara, pausing at the sign.

“Jews arrived in India two thousand years ago,
after their temple in Jerusalem was destroyed,” said ­
Naniamma
, admiring the building. “The king gave them a set of copper plates, granting them the right to live freely and build their places of worship.”

Mark Twain sure wasn't kidding,
thought Maya, giving the synagogue a last glance as they walked on.
India does seem to be the home to a million religions.

Crowded in the backseat of a rickshaw, with Zara leaning precariously out over the edge to take pictures, they journeyed toward Connaught Place, a huge circle with roads spreading out like the spokes on a wheel. Maya had read up in the guidebook and found out that this part of Delhi, New Delhi, had been designed by the English architect Lutyens as the seat of British colonial government. They sputtered past a metro station, trendy boutiques, a McDonald's and Pizza Hut, cafés, and sleek office buildings marked with names of familiar companies. Soon the streets began to narrow and grow bumpier as they left New Delhi behind. As the rickshaw pulled up to a red light, Maya looked down and froze. They were surrounded by children in ragged clothes, some selling flowers and balloons, others with their hands out, begging. Maya remembered the kids sleeping on the ­roundabout in Karachi,
and before she could take a few coins from her jean pocket, the rickshaw rattled on.

The children momentarily forgotten, Maya followed the line of her grandmother's intense stare, catching sight of a majestic dome looming up ahead.

“I so wanted to show your grandfather this . . . ,” whispered
Naniamma
.

“What is it?” asked Zara, craning her neck.

“It's Jama Mosque, the largest mosque in India,” said
Naniamma
, knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the seat. “My father took me and my sisters to see it one summer. . . . I remember counting the steps as we climbed to the north gate—three hundred eighty-nine. We were out of breath when we reached the top.”

Maya imagined a man gently guiding a gaggle of giddy young girls up the steps. As the three sat in the rickshaw, lost in their own thoughts, the driver pulled aside at a towering three-story structure, stretching half a city block. The dull pink stone was set with semi-octagonal towers with lotus flowers carved into the horseshoe-shaped arch rising at its base.

“This is it, madame,” said the driver. “Lahore Gate, like you asked.”

Naniamma
paid the driver and they stepped down
to face the imposing gateway. “This leads to Chandni Chowk, the city's busiest market,” she said, eyes darting through the arched passageway. “From here we used to walk or take a bullock cart to Sunehri Masjid, the Golden Mosque. My uncle's house was behind it.”

“Let's go,” said Zara, brimming with confidence and optimism.

They passed through the gate and emerged into the bustling artery that led to the edge of Chandni Chowk. For a long moment they stood in the shadow of the gate, clutching one another's hands, their senses overpowered by the colorful sights and sounds. A medley of little shops stretched along the road, overflowing with kitchen supplies, stationery, linens, and cell phone accessories.

A traffic jam played out before them, a cacophony of horns, snarls of scooters, sputtering rickshaws, and sinewy men pulling carts laden with brass pots, electronic parts, and dry goods. Men and women wove between the vehicles, rushing to meetings; housewives carried baskets of vegetables; and street vendors and hawkers sold everything from phone cards to bags of neon-colored cotton candy. Maya inhaled a mixture of car exhaust and the scent of melons from a stall across the street and watched the chaos.

A tiny figure clad in a light blue sari,
Naniamma
stood wide-eyed and pale. “It's changed so much,” she said, her voice a little uncertain. In her hand she clutched the sheet of graph paper—her memory map.

“Does anything look familiar?” asked Zara.

Before their grandmother could answer, a young man with a faint mustache stopped in front of them, carrying a tray of plastic combs. “Madame, you want?”

Naniamma
shook her head and said emphatically, “No, thank you.”

He shrugged and moved on. The vendor was replaced by another one, hawking potato chips. “Where you from?” he said. “You are not from here, no? Where? America? England?”

Naniamma
grabbed the girls' hands and hurried across the street.

“How did he know?” Zara asked in surprise, echoing Maya's thoughts.

“They can tell from your clothes,” she said distractedly. “They recognize they're foreign—your shoes, too.”

Oh, wow,
thought Maya, jumping back as a passing cart splashed dirty water in their direction.

“Now, stay close,” warned their grandmother as she stopped beneath the awning of a spice shop. “Ignore
anyone who tries to sell you something or tries to offer you help without you asking for it.”

Maya nodded as their grandmother stared down at the memory map. “We go up this road until we come to a fountain,” she said.

“What kind of fountain?” asked Zara.

“It's an old Victorian fountain,” explained
Naniamma
. “Made of carved marble.”

“Like the ones people have in their garden?” asked Maya softly. “With flowing water?”

Naniamma
paused, doubt flashing in her eyes. “Well, yes, kind of like that. It was just a small fountain. In a park.”

“So we're looking for a park, too?” asked Zara.

“Yes, with benches and a stretch of grass. I remember having picnics there with my uncles and cousins.”

Led by their grandmother, they plunged into a stream of bodies jostling up the street. They skirted a barber cutting his customer's hair on the sidewalk and took a left past a tree that Zara nearly ran into, since she was busy trying to take a picture of a cow sitting in the middle of the road blocking traffic.

“This was once the grandest bazaar in India,” said
Naniamma
, eyeing the line of drooping shop fronts. “A pool sat at its center, reflecting the moon—that's
what ‘Chandni Chowk' means: ‘moonlight square.'”

Squinting past the peeling paint, cracked wooden lattices, and broken balustrades, Maya tried to imagine what it must have looked like once. Her eyes widened as she caught hints of beauty: in the curve of wrought-iron balconies, intricately carved columns, and ornate cornices. She realized that this area must once have been quite posh—filled with ornamented palaces, elegant mosques, coffeehouses, and gardens. But now it had been swallowed up and run down. At the next intersection,
Naniamma
stood at the corner looking from her map up toward a small hotel across the street.

“It should be here,” she muttered. She glanced at her memory map, looking confused.

Maya wondered uncomfortably how accurate
Naniamma
's memory map was, plus how much had changed in the decades since her grandmother had been gone.

“Excuse me,” said Zara, taking charge as she called out to a man exiting a television repair shop. “Can you tell us where the old Victorian fountain is?”

“It was torn down years ago, miss,” said the man. “They built that hotel over it.”

“Uh, thanks,” said Zara. The man nodded and walked on.

“Oh, no,” muttered Maya, a sinking feeling in her stomach. She looked at her grandmother, who was staring from the hotel down to her map, looking lost.
We need to help,
she thought.
We promised to find the chest for her, to get the ring for
Nanabba
.
Even Zara looked at a loss for words. Without thinking twice, Maya reached into her backpack and pulled out the guidebook. “
Naniamma
,” she said, “how about we try to match the landmarks in your memory map to a more current map of the area?”

Zara gave Maya a rare appreciative smile. “That's an
awesome
idea.”

“Yes,” said
Naniamma
, the lines around her mouth easing. “That would be very helpful,
jaan
.”

Zara reached for the guidebook, but Maya's finger tightened around its edges. “No,” said Maya, surprising them both. “I'll navigate.”

Zara paused, about to say something, but stopped. She stared at Maya, as if seeing her for the first time. “Okay, find Lahore Gate; that's where we came in.”

Maya grabbed a colored pencil, forest green, symbolizing good luck, and flipped to a map of Old Delhi. The trio bent over the book, poring over the streets and alleys until Maya pointed out the gate's location and circled it.

“Where did you say your uncle's house was?” asked Zara.

“Behind Sunehri Masjid,” replied her grandmother.

Maya examined the map key. “Sunehri Mosque is number seven on the map.”

“There,” Zara pointed out a second later. Maya ­circled it. “But the old Victorian fountain isn't on the map,” Zara added with a frown.

“It's okay.” Maya grinned with growing confidence. “We just need to find another landmark to orient ourselves. We can trace a route to the mosque from there.”

“We'll need to backtrack a bit,” said Zara, turning them around toward the gate.

“I remember this temple,” said
Naniamma
excitedly, after they had walked a few blocks. She paused within a cloud of smoky-sweet incense wafting from the doorway of a Hindu temple.

Maya stared into the vast courtyard, where half a dozen statues stood, dressed in silks and draped with garlands of marigold and jasmine. A bright blue figure at the center caught her attention. “Which god is that?”

“Lord Rama,” said
Naniamma
. “Beside him is his wife Sita, who was kidnapped by a demon king.”

“And that one?” said Maya, pointing at a statue that was part man, part ape.

“Hmmm,” mused
Naniamma
, peering past the priests in loincloths chanting over worshippers. “Yes, yes, that's Lord Hanuman—he helped free Sita.”

“This is Ram Temple,” said Zara, reading the sign hanging farther down.

“It's here,” said Maya, pointing to where the temple was listed on the map. She drew a strong green line from the temple to Sunehri Mosque.

“Good job, girls,” said
Naniamma
. “I don't know how I would have done this without you.”

The girls glanced at each other, momentarily taken aback. Realization dawned that somehow, it seemed predestined that they come together. Each had a role to play in finding
Naniamma
's treasure.

“Let's go,” said Zara, giving Maya the nod to navigate.

Through a maze of narrow, congested lanes, they walked until they stumbled upon a small shop surrounded by a crowd of people, all watching a big-bellied cook who faced a huge pan filled with bubbling oil.

Naniamma
stopped in her tracks, a childlike smile spreading across her face. “It's still here,” she whispered reverently.

“What is it?” asked Zara, peering down at the map.

“It's Ghantewala,” said
Naniamma
.

“A sweet shop?” said Maya, catching sight of the blue-and-yellow sign.

Naniamma
nodded. “My father used to bring us here for
jalebis
.”

They joined the crush, watching the cook squeeze squiggles of batter from a muslin cloth bag into the hot oil, hands moving in quick circles.
They look like funnel cakes,
Maya thought. She'd eaten them in Karachi but had never seen them being made. Once golden brown, they were tossed in a vat of sugar syrup.

“Do you want one?” asked
Naniamma
.

At their eager nods, she purchased three and handed them out. Maya sank her teeth into the crisp surface, releasing warm, gooey sweetness. She closed her eyes with pleasure.

“It's still delicious,” sighed
Naniamma
. “Three hundred years ago, the emperor's elephants would stop here and wouldn't budge until they got their treats!”

“This store has been here that long?” said Maya in wonder.

“Wow,” added Zara, grinning at Maya before taking another bite. “I can't say I blame them.”

Maya looked back at the map. Still eating, they paused in the shade of a tall, Gothic-style sandstone
pillar, capped by a crucifix. As Maya probed the map for a detour, her sister read out the plaque at the pillar's base:

In memory of the officers and soldiers, British and native, of the Delhi Field Force who were killed in action or died of wounds or disease between the 30th May and 20th September 1857 . . .

“What's this?” asked Zara.

Maya paused and matched the landmark to the page in their guidebook. “It's the Delhi Mutiny Memorial.”

Naniamma
grimaced. “Yes,” she murmured. “Indian soldiers rose up in mutiny against the British. They wanted to restore the last Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar, to power. So the British invaded Delhi in response. They razed much of the city and exiled the emperor and his family to Rangoon. The people of Delhi, both rich and poor, were evicted from their homes and massacred.”