7:00 am, New Delhi: The shriek of the hotel phone had not stopped all morning. With the wedding festivities over, I was exhausted and wanted to sleep in for once. At least until 10am. It had been ringing so much that I wanted to rip it out of the wall, just to get some peace and quiet. Who the hell is it? I thought, furious and slamming the pillow over my head. One of the calls was my mom- it was the earliest call. It was very nice to hear her loving voice, especially since it was the first time since I arrived in Delhi. Still, after 2 hours straight, someone else was persistently trying to get ahold of me. I finally grabbed the phone, extremely aggravated."Alo?!?!?" I barked.
"Mr. Dinesh for you madam", Now, Mr. Dinesh was the bell boy at the Rajasthan Guest House where I was staying. He had been taking very good care of me with great personal detail to ensure my satisfaction. Now however, I realized that Mr. Dinesh had a crush on me. I answered the concierge, " I'm sleeping, no more calls shukriya!" I hung up. Mr. Dinesh was out of control. I had a feeling it was him who had been calling because the doorbell also rang several times that morning and I didn't have any buddies in Delhi who would be popping by. Grrrrrr.... I snarled within. Somehow I had gotten myself into a situation. He had been bringing fresh flowers to my room each day that he had picked from the garden out back. He went across town to get me Chinese food one night when I mentioned that I was craving chow mein. I'm sure my coquettish smile didn't help. But this morning I wasn't smiling. The cough that I had developed was quite bad now- I sounded like a 4o year smoker hacking uncontrollably. Exhausted from coughing and the heavy dosage of meds I had taken the night before, I was in no mood for Mr. Dinesh and his annoying calls and visits. Eventually I fell back into a restless sleep.
I popped out of bed around 11 am after having asked reception to book me on the first train to Rishikesh, a small village that was along the famous Ganges, or Ganga River as it is locally known.
I went downstairs and checked out of my room. Unfortunately, my ticket to Rishikesh hadn't been booked in time and it was looking like I wasn't getting out of Delhi anytime soon.
Mr. Dinesh eventually showed up downstairs, carrying the luggage of new guests coming into the hotel. I smiled falsely and nodded at him as he passed. It would turn out that I'd be at the hotel for another two hours, pacing the lobby, waiting for my ticket to Rishikesh for which I was wait-listed on, pacing back and forth, all the while being devoured by mosquitoes that fed on my flesh 24/7. It was a feeding frenzy around my ankles as I swatted the elusive insects in vain. Frustrated and impatient, I mentally resigned myself to staying another day in New Delhi before escaping to another city, far from the scorching heat . I kept missing the train departures to Rishikesh because I failed to reserve my seats at least 72 hours in advance and all trains were full. I was officially stuck. For anyone wanting to travel within Delhi by train, be sure to book ALL TRAIN TRAVEL in advance. Don't think you will get lucky as I foolishly assumed.
Standing there in the small empty hotel lobby, flanked by all of my luggage, I picked up my red notebook and a business card fell out from in between the pages. I picked it up and turned it over "Manzoor A. Wangnoo - India Department of Tourism". I had met him the day before in Connaught Place, where I made my haunt for checking email.
FLASHBACK TO THE DAY BEFORE
As I was scurrying out of the Cafe Coffee Day, a voice came from behind.
"In there a long time, eh?"asked a British Indian voice near the exit of the cafe.
"Huh? Oh yea, right" I replied, somewhat distracted and in a hurry to find a cab. He took off his Ali G sunglasses and stepped closer, as if he didn't want me to miss what he was going to say next.
"Where are you from? How long are you staying in India?" raising his eyebrows curiously.
When he took off his glasses, I noticed the sharp features in his face, the angular jawline and Mediterranean glow of his golden complexion. I asked him where he was from, positive that he was not Indian. He made a playful remark, finally admitting he was indeed Indian. Yet he was different somehow, he seemed Middle Eastern with a savvy and clever demeanor, one who might be innocuous but my fears had him pegged as a slickster.
We stood there chatting for a bit, my guard up the whole time, as I fidgeted with the coins in my pocket. He was trying to convince me to change my plans of going to Rishikesh and instead go to a place he called Chugganugga (or so I remembered the name). I regretted telling him so much about me already but in Indian culture, they ask foreigners a million questions and you either find yourself getting defensive or hypnotically telling them your whole story. We finished our conversation and he made a few attempts to get together for dinner that night. I told him I had plans already. So I tucked his card in between the pages of my journal and said goodbye, never intending to see him again.
Going back to the following day, here I was staring down at his card, "Manzoor A. Wangnoo - India Department of Tourism" and the card stared back. Stranded at a hotel I was anxious to check out of, in a city I was ready to leave, without much deliberation, I called Manzoor, closed my eyes, and took in a deep breath of faith,
"Namaste, Manzoor, it's Robinne...from Cafe Coffee Day yesterday, remember me?... is it too late to go to that Chugganugga place?" .....
Manzoor, my tour guide of Chugganugga, which was really Shrinagar, Kashmir, in the Himalayas. Don't ask where I got Chugganugga from.
