22 nd December 1990
“I wasn't sure which was better; not to be able to see ahead and give up all chance of making a last minute escape, or to forgo this tiny insurance for the relative relief of not knowing at all.”
Jason Elliot , An Unexpected Light
The red-greyish Howrah Mail was rattling out of Dadar as Sean ran down the ramp and arrived dripping sweat on the platform. He stopped and gaped at the vast locomotive chugging past his eyes. The metal wheels grinding before him. He started towards the train. Jogging awkwardly behind the diesel driven engine, he managed to half lever open the closest moving door. A curious Indian in a tan cotton safari suit opened the rest. Dinan heaved first his voluminous bags and then his body into the last passenger carriage just as they pulled out of the station.
He lay panting with four heavy bags collapsed around him on the entrance floor of the compartment, wearing the anxiety of a ten week old hernia operation, and too exhausted to move. A well attired ticket inspector in a navy suit with gold piping, a blue peaked hat and a matching brown vest and tie with the Indian railway insignia in gold braid approached him and asked for his ticket. Sean beaming in relief showed the inspector his ticket. The inspector peered intently at it, his half glasses perched on the tip of his hawk nose and then informed Sean in a schoolmasterish voice that he was in the wrong class. “Sir, you will have to relocate yourself to Business Class at the earliest opportunity. This is Economy class,” he said sternly.
Sean smiled at Hawknose with the happy dementia of having made it on board. In many ways, that first trip was Dinan's India . Hot and rushed. Anxious for arrivals and departures. And never quite certain what was waiting at the end of the line.
*****
A couple of seconds more in the traffic to the station and the connection would have been lost. Sean would have missed Calcutta , Siobhan, and Christmas with Mother Teresa. Whether it would have made any difference to all what happened thereafter, who can say. The wings of a butterfly theory and all that stuff. He probably would've got to Calcutta a week later but surely thereafter the fates would have conspired to set him upon another onward route with different signposts and fellow travellers. He would certainly have not met Tom in Hong Kong and on his advice changed his ticket to include Taipei on a flight to Tokyo on a whim. He wouldn't have befriended Hamo, Jim, and Ted and had love affairs with Safira, Cecelia and Miranda. Sure there would've been loves and escapades elsewhere. The sadness, laughter and passion would have been in other places and with others. Would these changes have made any difference however to Sean and those around him. Any difference at all…
He arrived at Mumbai international airport, Sahar on December 22nd, hopped into a hotel transit bus and checked into a 24 hour airport hotel called the Carousel. This was all part of his one way ticket deal with the travel agent. The Four Star hotel was thrown in for an extra 60 bucks.
From here on in however Sean was determined to travel one step at a time using trains, buses and ferries whenever it made reasonable sense. No more three or four star hotels. It either had to be backpacker rates at a dosshouse, a stylish inexpensive guesthouse or a historical hotel full of character. And definitely no package tours he had decided. No gawk at this tourist site shite, the fucking Taj Mahal big deal, no grope the balloon titted fake blonde British bimbo on the Kon Tiki tour at the old maharajah mansion (which still had a moulding tiger head stapled to one of its cracked walls) in bloody Rajahstan before the compulsory camel ride and sore arse and compulsory good time, boozy package tour. None of that. He was a travellin' man.
Sean arrived at the Carousel in the early morning. There was an impressive Sikh doorman standing to attention who opened the plate glass doors for him. Well built, bearded and handsome in his splendid red and navy uniform, the doorman, not Sean; looked like he should have been a distinguished guest of the Hotel.
He had time enough for a hot bath. First of all, he simply enjoyed himself lounging around the spacious room while he surfed the satellite cable channels. Most of all, be it the dosshouse or the White House, Sean liked to relax by spreading his luggage around the marble floored room. Clothes, books, pens and pads, shoes and toothbrushes strewn in every conceivable nook and cranny. Later on he would step out to pick up his train ticket at the station.
Around midday , Sean caught a cab into out to the city. He was dropped off in front of the colonial building which housed the railway station bearing the stately sign Victoria Terminus. Before arriving there, his attention was caught by the large park that lay on the promenade leading to the station. One of central Bombay 's famous Maidans. In the Maidan there were literally dozens of scratch cricket games being played by youths of every age.
Sean watched in fascination at all the children playing. Many of their pitches intersected so that the batters and runners had to be watchful as they ran between wickets or they would run smack into another batter involved in a different game. There were hundreds upon hundreds of different bodies seemingly joined in one cosmic enterprise until you looked closer and realised that the whole was composed of a myriad of subsystems. Each subsystem, an unfolding game of the sport of cricket.
A few minutes later, Sean walked over to the ticket windows at the station. There was a special foreigners queue for pre-booked tickets. Ticket window number seven. As such the line was only chaotic rather than totally shambolic. Local touts kept trying to shamelessly push in or pretended to be ‘friends' who melted into the queue. In response at a particularly brazen attempt of queue jumping by one of the locals, a wild haired New Zealander wearing beads and harem pants, two places ahead of Sean, suddenly exploded. “WHOA..WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON. Why did you just push into this line,” he said to the Indian in front of him who simply craned his neck forward and ignored him. “THIS IS A QUEUE MAN…In queue's you go to the end of the line. THAT IS HOW QUEUES WORK except for in this fucking country. Why can't bloody Indians follow simple fucking rules. Why? I'll tell you why,” he said turning to the embarrassed foreigners in the queue as if there was some form of solidarity with his racist jibes… “BECAUSE THEY DON'T GIVE A FUCK!!!
“I've been here for five fucking months and not once has there been any half decent organisation or common fucking courtesy extended in picking up a bloody ticket at a train station, bus station, airport or Government department…DO YOU RUDE PRICKS KNOW WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT…!!! FUCKING IMBECILES!!!”
The profane Kiwi hippie became so upset that his girlfriend, a young mousy girl with a pained face had to calm him down by leading him away from the queue and suggesting they go for a walk. As they left, another couple of Indian youths – all seemingly with the same trim moustaches and wearing white business shirts with the sleeves rolled up, checked pants and sandals – jumped in and took their places. His immediate displacement infuriated the Kiwi even further. He turned back and grasped one of the youths by the shoulder and pulling him roughly backwards, he shouted “QUEUE JUMPER, QUEUE JUMPER” until his long suffering girlfriend again intervened and led him away.
It was quite a performance. A bearded German backpacker in khaki shorts behind Sean commented simply “traveller's fatigue”. Sean nodded in understanding at that mild sounding phrase as if someone had explained the incident by saying manic schizophrenia or psychotic episode. The newly arrived Australian told himself that he would make never succumb to ‘traveller's fatigue' whatever his frustration. He would leave the country if he ever approached this pitch of frenzied xenophobia.
Sean eventually picked up his business class ticket on the Howrah Mail. He read the time details. The Mail departed Victoria Terminus at 20.30 pm later that Tuesday evening and travelled 1960 kilometres to its arrival in Calcutta 36 hours later at 8.30 am on the Thursday morning. He put the ticket into the wallet in his money belt. It was a precious fare.
Sean left the station and emerged into the striking sunshine. He decided to walk around the park and onto the nearby downtown. He would sightsee around central Bombay . He still had half a day. More than six hours to kill. Plenty of time for a leisurely departure even if he had to get back to the hotel, pack his gear and return to the Terminus. He felt happy. He was travelling in the sub-continent, something he had always wanted to do. There was no work in sight. You beauty! He had enough money to get by backpacking in places like India and most of southeast Asia for at least six months. Also he was going on a train journey which he loved. Better still, business class! What luxury. Best of all, he would be seeing Siobhan in less than two days. It felt good to be alive.
In these excellent spirits, Sean decided to walk in the Maidan. First he sauntered around the edge of the large park marvelling at the cricket games, trying to watch disparate pieces of play in various games. There was a municipal building on the other side which turned out to be the Prince of Wales museum. He entered and studied the colonial artefacts. He lost account of the time. He looked at his watch. Still a bit more than two hours to go. He had better move on. He had a plan to save time however. He would take the suburban commuter train from the station and experience a bit of local colour while avoiding the traffic jams. He found the nearest railway station, Churchgate, one down from the Terminus. Sean then worked out the line which took him out to the area near the Carousel Hotel and went to the platform to catch the local train.
This was a mistake. When travelling, it is important to think occasionally. Not all the time. Just sometimes. Sean knew India had a lot of people. A billion or so. Mumbai is a large Indian city. There were 18 million souls inhabiting it. It was also the business capital. It was well known that more movies were made in Bollywood than all the other major studio cities combined. So naturally there were a fair few million commuters in Mumbai. Add the fact that India had more than 63,000 kilometres of train track. It was said that five things united the Indian people: the English language, cricket, bad democracy, the army and the railway. Not surprisingly a lot of Mumbaians took the train home. This would've been a reasonable conclusion. Moreover when these throngs of office workers took the train, it would have been reasonable to assume that their attitude might have been similar to that of the touts at the station ticket box. Indians have an individualistic ethos. It was every man for himself. The funny point was that for the individual to succeed in the Mumbai train commuter system, they needed the group. It was one of those counterintuitive things.
This became apparent to Sean upon entering a carriage which quickly assumed the inner spatial aesthetic of a sardine can. They were almost exclusively male passengers. The carriages were in effect segregated with there being a single woman's carriage among the ten or so carriages on this particular service. At each station, the men discharged themselves in a tight scrum pattern knocking past the waiting passengers on the platform who were trying to enter with equal force and velocity. Without the group formation bullocking their way out of the carriage, any individual would have been forced back inside and have to travel to the next stop before trying again.
The time was getting late. Past 7.00 o'clock by the time the train arrived at the Chakdoori station, the nearest station to the Carousel Hotel. By this time, Sean felt suffocated by the proximity of dozens of Indian office workers. The stench of body odour in the tight space was almost overpowering. The sweat trickled down his shirt front. Sean lined up with about 20 others in a tight front pack and as soon as the door opened they leapt together shoulder to shoulder alighting from the carriage whilst the Indians outside were reluctantly swept back and parted by the physical wave rolling from the train. He gulped in air like he had just surfaced from the depths of the ocean.
Sean worked out the directions to the Carousel and started to run. 25 minutes later he was there. That meant he only had 50 minutes to pack, cab a cab and catch the Howrah Mail. Given the 30 kilometre taxi journey earlier in the day had taken 40 minutes by itself in less crowded traffic, Sean knew his chances of catching the train were at best 50:50. Still he would give it his best shot. He needed to be focussed on what he was doing and work out the next steps to have any chance at all. Step by step.
He threw his belongings into his bags and telephoned the concierge to prepare the bill while he had a 90 second shower. By the time, Sean ran out of the hotel entrance, even the red jacketed Sikh doorman seemed impressed by his manic efficiency. You could tell by the way the stately doorman raised his left eyebrow. He made the quickest hotel check out in his personal history, 9.32 minutes including shower, pack up of strewn luggage and bill payment. Sean realised he had less than 36 minutes to make his scheduled departure. If he missed the train, he would forgo the cost of his fare, the possibility of getting another ticket for at least a week and most importantly had lost the chance to spend Christmas with Siobhan in Calcutta .
Sean flung his bags into the front passenger and back seats to save time collecting them from the boot when they reached the station. Every second counted. He launched himself into the back of the cab with his enormous backpack diagonally across from the driver. Leaning forward, he said “Lets go. Victoria Terminus in central Bombay . Please hurry!!!”
The driver, a youngish man with the trim moustached and thick wavy, Brylcreamed hair turned around, wobbled his head, and smiled. “Yes sir, where is your location.”
Sean looked at him in exasperation and said deliberately “Victoria Terminus in Central Mumbai and we must be very quick. I have to be there for the Howrah Mail.”
The cabbie whose dated drivers permit on the windscreen identified him as Deepak Chowdhury thought for a couple of seconds, said “Yes sir,” leant out of his window into the Mumbai fumes with his right arm raised in a stop gesture, shifted gear, blew his horn vociferously and moved out into the traffic. The road was busy and the car began travelling at the sedate speed of 25 kph when it wasn't held up in spidery jams. The various intersections fused into a mesh of vehicles heading in different directions. All of them totally heedless of the random traffic lights and with a lack of adherence to any supposed road laws. The traffic was much slower than earlier in the day.
Besides his anxiety at the conditions, Sean sensed that the cabbie hadn't understood either the time urgency or the destination. What the driver had called the location. Sean didn't give a damn what anyone called it as long as they got there on time. Surely the destination shouldn't be a problem. Victoria Terminus was one of the city landmarks and a key transport hub. Perhaps the driver was confused as to what route to take to get onto the main arterial which fed into the city. Sean knew from the ride this morning that the area they were driving through was a labyrinth of ill made roads. The Carousel was one of those hotels built close to an airport but off the main freeway. It required a bit of backcountry driving to connect to the city. The only problem was that in India , backcountry meant an industrial wasteland of shop smelters, engineering works and automotive repairs set in the midst of a large transurban slum. The industrial workers who lived in nearby shanty towns rode to outer city factories in crowded buses that contributed to the gridlock in this poor and broken down city.
The driver inquired: “Victoria Terminus. Which passage would you like to take, sir.”
“Listen Deepak is your name right…listen Deepak. I arrived in Bombay today and I am going to Calcutta tonight by the Howrah Mail,” said Sean agitatedly. “Whatever it takes. I don't know the quickest way to get there. You're the taxi driver. You should know. Just bloody well choose and step on it!”
Deepak then in a manoeuvre that flabbergasted Sean pulled the car over to the side of the road, turned off the engine, smoothed his gelled hair with the flat of his hand and picked up his roadmap as if they had all the time in the world. He even started whistling.
The last tendril of Sean's patience snapped. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING,” he said.
“If we don't start moving this taxi, I'm going to miss my train. The train that is taking me to Howrah Junction in Calcutta . The fucking train which is leaving Victoria Terminus in 30 minutes.”
“You want to be at Victoria Terminus in 30 minutes?” said the taxi driver part in question and part in exclamation.
“Yes,” said Sean. “You are fucking spot on!”
“My goodness gracious! exclaimed Deepak. “But it will take 50 minutes to drive there in this traffic.”
“It fucking will if we stay here and talk about it! said Sean raising his voice progressively as his frustration and anxiety merged. “WE HAVE TO FUCKING FLY. LETS GO!!!” Sean realised that he sounded just like the mad New Zealander in the waiting line at Terminus station earlier in the day. He had been in India for less than 12 hours and already he had totally lost his cool. He didn't reflect on the fact that his predicament was entirely self afflicted. All he knew was that they needed to hurry if he was going to catch the train and yelling seemed to make good sense.
Deepak gaped at Sean and then furiously wobbled his head. Either he suddenly understood the rush or was terrified by the lunatic westerner in the backseat. Whichever, he crunched the cab into gear and the vehicle lurched off the pavement. Almost immediately they drove into the path of an oncoming truck filled with building materials. The complexion of the journey abruptly changed. Into that of an harrowing taxi ride. Frightening for the driver with a deranged passenger. Frightening for the unlucky pedestrians in close proximity as the cabbie drove along footpaths, down wrong way streets and virtually over rickshaws doing his utmost to catch the Howrah Mail. For Sean, as he rolled from side to side, occasionally banging his head on the car door, the dangerous driving invoked a range of emotions. It gratified, scared and exhilarated him all at the same time.
“Excuse me sir,” said Deepak as he drove like a maniac towards a group of schoolchildren alighting from a bus on the other side of the road, honking his horn feverishly as he scattered them in a cloud of dust, from which the taxi emerged heading at a sickening speed towards an old man hauling a fruit juicing cart, before swerving back onto the right side overtaking several cars in the process.
“Yes,” said Sean tonelessly at the thought of missing the train.
“I have a suggestion,” he said while blowing his horn.
Sean's ears pricked up. “Yes. Deepak, what are you thinking?”
“Well sir, Victoria Terminus is a long way away..you understand…”
Sean nodded in deep resignation.
“There is another station past Victoria . The Howrah Mail stops at this station after it departs central. It is the only other station that it stops at in greater Mumbai. After that stop, there is no other for 50 kilometres or more. Also I think it is a little bit closer to where we are now,” said Deepak.
“How close?” Sean asked gripping his seat as the taxi wildly swerved from side to side.
“Maybe another 25 to 30 minutes from here,” said Deepak not wanting to be too definite.
They had been driving flat out for five minutes by this time so Sean figured they might just have a chance to make it if Deepak truly knew what he was talking about. This was a calculated risk of course. It would still be a close call even if everything went well. Assuming the cabbie was right, if the Howrah Mail took say ten minutes to get to the station and if it stayed there for another five then they might just make it. But if they got lost or caught in traffic which were also strong possibilities then the chance of going to Victoria and hoping the train was delayed would be lost. Continuing to Victoria Terminus was probably the best bet. The conservative play. At the worst, he could try and organise a ticket after Boxing Day there. He knew the trains were fully booked until then…He closed his eyes and thought.
“What is the name of the next station,” asked Sean.
“The name of the station, sir ?” repeated Deepak and thought hard. “…aahh yes, it is Dadar station, I think…yes, that is it! Absolutely sir. Dadar Station.” He unexpectedly grinned and overtook a rickshaw as an oil tanker coming the other way scraped past him.
Sean looked intently at Deepak. Could he trust him he wondered.
“Ok Deepak, lets go to Dadar and just call me Sean, ok?” he said.
“To Dadar…yessir,” said Deepak suddenly braking and turning hard left.
After about 25 minutes, the taxi turned into what seemed a quieter part of town and cruised towards the one well lit building in the area. “This is Dadar station,” said Deepak.
“Ok, said Sean. He thought for a second. Everything had to be right on. He couldn't afford waiting in lines or having another long winded, unclear conversations that he already realised was commonplace in this country. “Can you come with me. I need someone who can speak Hindi to tell me which platform the train is on.”
Sean unloaded himself from the taxi and put on the large 40 kilogram backpack and the 18 kilogram pack on the front of his chest. In one arm he carried a basket of food, medicines and consumer items from Australia that Siobhan had asked for and the box of presents from friends in the other arm. He started running despite his load. Deepak ran behind holding nothing. Sean didn't have the time to worry about distributing weight. Sean ran hard. It was 100 metres to the station through a market area. He pushed his way through the crowd ignoring the complaints and stares.
He reached a long flight of steps and started bounding up. When he came to a turnstile, he went through without showing any ticket leaving the station attendant stuttering in protest. He glanced back. Deepak was following in his wake.
As he came to the top of the stairs, Sean looked out and saw eight platforms in front of him. The station was an old one that would have been in a separate town when it was built 130 years ago. Now it was in the city. It was unusually built so the commuters walked up to what amounted to an iron bridge spanning six lines of track. There was a metal stairwell on both sides of the walkway for each line. Twelve in total. There were several trains either pulling in, leaving or waiting at the station. “Which platform is the Howrah Mail on,” yelled Sean. He had to go to the right one.
Deepak asked a group of the locals lounging and smoking nearby. “Platform two,” he screamed back excitedly.
Sean ran down the stairs with his four heavy bags, Deepak in tow, just as the train was slowly departing. As Sean hauled himself into the carriage, he threw a bundle of rupee notes including a sizeable tip – which he had counted in the taxi to save time - at Deepak's fast disappearing feet.. He looked at the cabbie's astonished face and raised his right hand across his chest with a clenched fist and upright thumb in appreciation. Well done mate.
*****
Sean's first train trip in India on the Howrah Mail was peaceful and anticipatory. Among his fellow passengers in the carriage was a former army officer and a young doctor with his shy wife and three children. During the trip, he played some corridor cricket with the three boys and old Major Puri. They used a rolled up newspaper bound with rubber bands as a ball and his squash racket as a bat. The dustpan was the wicket. Quite a few times, the young boys smacked the paper ball for four down the length of the carriage.
After the nervous mother, who was continuously wrapping the loose folds of her sari around herself, had gathered her three sons for a dinner of chicken and rice with naan, Sean sat down with the Major for a cup of chai.
“ Calcutta is your destination, I presume,” he said.
Sean nodded and said “It will be my first time there but I'm looking forward to seeing it. All the old buildings and the history. It must be quite a place.”
The Major leaned back and stoked his fine white handlebar moustache. He was a lugubrious man whose large frame had fleshed out so he filled out his white suit admirably like an old splendid hotel overfull with furniture and antiques. During their impromptu cricket game, the Major had introduced himself and told Sean that he had fought for General Montgomery as a 17 year old desert rat in North Africa . He had taken part in the battle El Alamein railway station against Rommel's Afrika Korps. Later he had fought with the New Indian army against Muslim forces at the time of partition.
“Of course most of the city is now in a state of decrepitude,” he said. This is partly due to the ineptitude of the Communist state government and partly due to its diminished role in economic and political affairs in the independent nation. Of course, it wasn't always this way. Before Calcutta was the showpiece capital of the British Raj…”
Sean was amazed at the lucidity of the old man's English. Few of his journalistic colleagues would speak as well and it was their first language!
“I quite like decrepitude Major Puri,” he said, “especially when there's a colonial legacy.”
“Please call me Thomas,” said the Major. “That is my English name. I have two but the Indian name will be difficult to pronounce for you…“Actually it was the Portuguese who were the first colonists. They set up a trading community beside the Hooghly , he continued. “They were soon joined by the British, Dutch and French among others. Rivalry between them all received some degree of sanction from the Moghul court which thought it could control the uncouth foreigners but as history shows, this situation resulted in the ascendency of the British. A very martial race and well organised,” he said approvingly.
“How did the British win out…Thomas,” Sean asked.
“Superior force of arms and good management of men is the simple answer,” said the former military man. “But the chain of events was quite remarkable. The Murshidabad warrior prince Siraj-ud-daula attacked the fledging British community at Calcutta when he thought they were gaining too much control. In any regard, he disliked their uncivilised ways. During this attack, the infamous black hole incident occurred. Vengeance duly arrived in the form of a British army from Madras under Robert Clive who defeated the supposedly imprudent Siraj-ud-daula at the battle of Plassey in 1757. After that the traders and administrators came, in the form of the British East India company. Calcutta became in effect their headquarters. Under the company's guidance, it developed into a trading port without peer in the world. There was order, mission, discipline in those days. For more than two centuries it boomed but now decrepitude…Corruption, venality, disorganisation and decrepitude,” the major said murmuring the last phrase almost to himself.
“What exactly is the black hole of Calcutta again,” asked Sean embarrassed at his ignorance but enjoying the old man's description.
“A footnote in history really. Of no real consequence besides being a propaganda tool to inflame public passion…What actually happened is that a number of British prisoners were incarcerated in a tiny hole. Many of them suffocated. Deaths of captured soldiers is understandable. After all, there is a logistical issue for marching armies having to guard detainees; but not of woman and children. That is unacceptable,” said Thomas sipping his tea.
*****
Most of the time, Sean wrote in his notebook, read his book or gazed out of the window. He was reading Paul Theroux's Riding the Iron Rooster on travelling by train through China to leisurely pass the time. He always liked reading travel books about other places whenever he was on the road himself. In this way, he could absorb the travel experience doubly. He also thought about his reunion with Siobhan. There were many questions in his mind. How would she react? What would she look like after six months in Calcutta ? Would she still be in love with him? Would they sleep together on their first night back together? The reality of course was that their status was indeterminate. Any resumption of their affair depended on her feelings about his betrayal and whether she had forgiven him during their separation. He took out a letter from Bangkok that she had written after having just left Melbourne . At the time she and a girlfriend were on their way to Nepal and thereafter India . Siobhan and himself had gone to Thailand on their first long trip through Asia . They had grown fond of Bangkok after spending an accumulation of eight days there over three visits during their criss cross travels. They always stayed at a simple guest house near the national Library in Samsen Street called Sawadee. Sean read the letter for the dozenth time. None of the correspondence which followed had the same tone.
En route to Kathmandu
Saturday 14 th July
Hi Sean,
Just a few quick lines from way up here above the clouds to let you know that Tracey and I survived the airflight on Friday the 13 th despite all Helen's fears and paranoia. We had a grand flight to Bangkok though we both felt it to be very long and by the end of it both of us were pretty shattered to say the least. All those late nights and early mornings caught up with us, with a bang, and we really felt our age last night!! Old fogeys that we are!! Anyway all the airport stuff went OK & we bombed off by taxi to Sawadees, - it was 3 am Australian time by the time we got to sleep - & even then it took quite a while to clear the mind, relax and go to sleep. I reckoned by that stage you'd be blowing a few snores yourself…..”
“Its funny going back to Sawadees as it all seems so familiar though I must admit that I had forgotten the ‘hole in the floor' or should I say the ‘hit and miss' toilet there. Much to my disgust I realised that I had forgotten my toothbrush so my teeth are hanging out for a good scrub at this stage. I was surprised to see Sawadees so empty and quiet but Sawanee said that Malaysia is getting all the tourists this year plus there are a lot more guest houses. But the big news is that Sawanee is pregnant, due in October. She is looking well on it, & I'll make you jealous by telling you that the fruit drinks areas good as ever and the old banana pancakes go down well!! That will reassure I'm sure.”
“Sean it was hard to say goodbye to you. I reckon that I cried all the way to Bangkok . I'm more sedate about it now of course but just this travelling and staying at Sawadees – I keep expecting to turn around and see you there – so I suppose I can say I miss you already!! I do feel we are doing the right thing for the moment & time will help us make up our minds & get on with our lives as we think best. It was getting harder & harder for us to communicate on a meaningful level and the biggest problem was the ‘distance' between us…There is another man inside you. A wild man. I wouldn't be honest if I didn't say that this worries me. Sometimes I think you need to let this man escape. The only thing is I don't want to be around for that time. Maybe you& he need to be lost in Asia for a while… Having said that, I told you before you are my best friend & and I meant it, & I hope despite what happened we will always be that to each other. I do believe in my heart of heart that we will meet up again someday, whatever the circumstances…”
Sean closed the letter and tried to think about something else…The fresh start for his career. He had only purchased a one way ticket to India . Once his money ran out or he tired of travelling he would need to find work. He had nothing else planned bar the casual intention of picking up a job as a journalist in places like Hong Kong or Tokyo . Sean had arranged letters of introduction to editors of various English language newspapers based in these cities. Whatever happened, Sean was determined not to go back home early. Like a dog with his tail between his legs. If his money ran out before he found a job, Sean would do…well he would do whatever it took. He didn't know it then but work was always available for those who are persistent and bloody minded. Good jobs even if you met the right people. The other thing Sean didn't know was that reunions and new beginnings hardly ever work well together.
THE END.
© All Copyright on this work besides stated excerpts belongs to The Hotel Travel.com of 1/4 Mary Street Hawthorn 3122, Australia.
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