Are You Experienced?

face?’

‘Racist.’

I wished I hadn’t bought the hat now, but thanks to the argument I’d have to wear it all the time, just to show that she hadn’t changed my mind.

I did wonder how much everyone else had paid for it, though.

Jeremy had told us that the rickshaw to and from the fort shouldn’t cost more than ten rupees each way (roughly thirty pence). Our attempts to get this price were met by the rickshaw drivers with derision. Liz managed to respond to their prices with equal, if not greater derision, and I ended up spectating on twenty-minute arguments in both directions. At regular intervals, either Liz or the driver marched off in a huff, and when it was Liz’s turn, I felt honour-bound to follow her.

Liz managed to get the trip for fifteen going and twenty coming back, both of which she considered to be significant moral victories. Huddled in the back of the noisy, stinking rickshaw, I could tell that she expected some kind of approval for her labours.

‘Well done, Liz.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You saved us at least 15P there. That’s almost 8p each.’

‘Will you stop acting like such a spoilt Westerner? We’re in India, now.’

‘So?’

‘So you have to haggle. It’s part of life.’

‘You don’t have to. Stump up a few extra pennies, and you don’t need to stand in the midday sun screaming your head off like some deranged memsahib.’

‘It’s not about that, and you know it.’

‘What is it about, then?’

‘Look – if you just take the first price they offer, you look stupid. They laugh at you behind your back.’

‘So? Who cares?’

‘And if Westerners go around paying double for everything, it gives us a bad reputation. It sets a bad example. It makes us all look spoilt, and far richer than we really are.’

‘But we

are

rich. Ten rupees is nothing. It doesn’t matter if we pay double.’

‘That’s not the point. If we did that, it would completely upset the local economy.’

‘Oh, right. I

see

. It’s like the beggars all over again. There I was, thinking you were being tight-fisted, and it turns out you’re selflessly doing battle for the good of the local economy.’

‘I’m getting very bored of this pseudo-worldly sarcasm crap, Dave. It’s got nothing to do with being tight- fisted. I’m just not going to let those people make me look like an idiot.’

‘And you looked really sensible giving yourself a haemorrhage over twenty pence.’

‘Oh, sod off.’

We were stopped at a junction by a traffic policeman, and a pair of child beggars tapped on the side of the rickshaw, then stuck their heads pleadingly inside. Liz fished around in her money belt for coins, presumably to demonstrate that she wasn’t stingy. Both myself and the beggar watched her fiddle with the money belt, which now contained a wad of notes almost half an inch thick. I saw the child’s eyes widen with awe.

‘I haven’t got any coins,’ said Liz.

The rickshaw driver revved his engine. Liz flicked through her banknotes, frantically searching for a low denomination.

‘Can you give him something?’

‘I thought…’

‘DON’T START,’ she snapped, with impressive venom. Her fuse had obviously been considerably shortened by her arguments with the rickshaw men. And by her lack of a hat.

Just then, the driver turned and swore at the beggar in Hindi. The beggar ignored him, sensing that he was close to getting some money.

The driver carried on shouting at the child while I fished in my pocket for a coin. Just as the traffic began to move, I found one and put it in the child’s hand as we pulled away. His wrist was knocked by the rickshaw, and I saw the coin fly out.

Spinning round to look out of the back, I saw the child on his knees in the middle of the road, oblivious to the traffic which was hooting and swerving, inches away from smashing into him. As he receded into the distance, I saw the other beggar join the search of the Tarmac, and the beginnings of a scuffle when one of them picked up the coin.

Back at the hotel, Jeremy was sitting on the veranda, reading.

‘You made it?’ he said.

‘Just about,’ I answered.

‘How much did you pay for the rickshaw?’ he said.

Liz jumped in before I could answer. ‘Fifteen.’

‘And twenty on the way back,’ I said.

‘Not bad,’ said Jeremy. ‘Bit more practice and you’ll be there.’

‘What are you reading?’ said Liz.

‘The

Gita,’

he said, holding up a copy of the

Bhagavad Gita

.

‘Oh, wow,’ said Liz.

‘Is it any good?’ I said.

He gave me a patronizing look. ‘Good? This is the

Gita

we’re talking about, here. I mean, is the bible any “good”?’ He made the inverted commas with his fingers.

‘Dunno. I’ve never read it. I expect it’s got a few good bits.’

He turned to Liz, ostentatiously addressing his comments away from me.

‘It is

the

book. It explains everything you need to know about India. You can’t come here and not read it.’

‘I thought the Lonely Planet was

the

book. Is the

Bhagavad Gita

better than the Lonely Planet, then? Are the prices more up-to-date?’

They both ignored me.

‘Can I borrow it after you’ve finished?’ said Liz.

He chuckled.

‘You never finish the

Bhagavad Gita

. I’ve been through it more times than I can remember. Here.’ He closed the book, and threw it to her. It wasn’t a very good throw, but she managed to catch it, and looked at him, slightly bewildered. He smiled back. ‘From me,’ he said. ‘Call it an introductory gift. To India.’ He put his arms behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling. ‘Maybe, if you feel like it, at some point you’ll give me one of your books.’

In return for his sixty-page, dog-eared copy of the

Bhagavad Gita

, he got a fresh, unread

Oscar and Lucinda

.

‘We’ve decided what to do,’ said Liz.

‘Oh?’ said Jeremy.

‘We’re going to stick to our original plan. It’s just too hot down here, and the monsoon’s on the way, so we’re going to head for the mountains. We reckon Simla’s a good place for a first stop.’

‘Simla?’

‘D’you reckon that sounds like a good idea?’

‘You’ve got to do what feels right for you, Liz. I can’t tell you where to go.’

‘What – is there something wrong with Simla?’

‘Go where the feeling takes you, Liz. That’s what you’re here for. There’s no right or wrong.’