The Backpacking Bride Read online

  The Backpacking Bride

  JANICE HORTON

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

  Copyright © Janice Horton 2020

  Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Janice Horton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008340650

  Ebook Edition © 2020 ISBN: 9780008340643

  Version: 2020-06-01

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Also by Janice Horton

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Delhi, India

  There are apparently one point three billion people in India and I honestly think every single one of them has come out to greet me as I arrive in Delhi. From the moment I step off the plane, I’m surrounded by a riotously jostling mass of people. From the baggage claim, I’m gathered up and pushed out of the bottleneck of the airport arrivals hall door and into the street, where I join an even greater surge of people with absolutely no concept of personal boundaries.

  There are so many faces and the constant noise all around is totally confusing. Spicy foods, musky perfumes, and the sour scent of stale perspiration. It’s so overwhelming that I’m starting to have a bit of a wobble. This is not anything like I’d expected or been promised. Where are all the rolling green mountains and the sheer tranquillity?

  Where is the supernatural breeze conducive to mindful meditation?

  Where is the calming atmosphere to help one develop enlightenment?

  Where are the quiet places to chant and receive peace?

  I’m suddenly having a mid-life crisis of confidence.

  Oh my goodness … I really thought I knew what I was doing in coming here.

  But now I realise that I am all by myself and that I know nothing about this vast country.

  I’m somehow supposed to find my way out of this mad chaos and head to a train station for the next part of this journey, but I’m gripped with a real fear of being totally lost and completely alone. Or as alone as one can be amongst one point three billion people.

  What on earth was I trying to prove to myself in doing this? That I’m brave?

  What was I thinking when I got onto a plane convinced I was going to a country where I could find enlightenment and learn real yoga and mindfulness? Have I lost my mind?

  I look around and see that everyone here seems so much younger than me and they all look confident and purposeful. It’s like they all know exactly who they are and where they are going.

  Where are all the other middle-aged travellers like myself?

  According to a piece I read in The Times this week, mid-life backpacking is supposed to have become a new trend, although I can see no evidence of it. Amongst all this youth I feel very unworldly and conspicuous. It’s like I have a sign over my head telling everyone that I am Maya Thomas – the most inexperienced experienced person who has never travelled anywhere before now – and I’m so hapless and hopeless and lost.

  And, not just lost, but I also feel weak and vulnerable.

  Why didn’t I just stay home to feel lost? I was perfectly safe there.

  And why on earth didn’t my sensible sister try to stop me from doing this?

  Oh, wait … she did. But, of course, I would not listen. I never listen. I always think I know best. I’d insisted, being a mature woman, that I was capable. I’d scoffed at her safety warnings about women travelling alone and her concerns about ‘Delhi Belly’ being a ‘Very Real Thing’.

  ‘I’ve had all the travel vaccines and I’ll be careful,’ I had assured her with my usual adamance.

  But none of that bullish confidence or self-assurance seems to have followed me here.

  I try to pull myself together. I tell myself that now I’m here I should just stick to the plan and the instructions on the first yellow Post-it note in Jon’s travel wallet that has written on it:

  Take the bus to New Delhi train station

  Except I can’t see any signs or directions to a train station. I glance around, wondering whom I should ask. Everyone around me seems to be busy greeting each other with the kind of physical enthusiasm that could be easily mistaken for a violent brawl, yelling and screaming in what can only be described as fervent anger.

  Then I spot a young Indian woman dressed in a gorgeous yellow silk sari who is standing alone and looks to be waiting for someone. Right now, she’s like my golden beacon of light.

  She treats me with pity and points out a bus stop where I can get a bus to the train station.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, madam, where are you going by train?’

  ‘Erm … it’s a place called Rishikesh,’ I told her, with a naive shrug.

  ‘And you do already have a ticket, don’t you? You did book a seat on the train in advance?’

  I shake my head and something about her own head wobble tells me this is a big mistake.

  I’d already looked meticulously through Jon’s wallet and there was no advance train ticket.

  ‘Oh, dear. I think you’d be better taking the bus directly to Rishikesh rather than the train.’

  Despite her advice, I still feel I should stick to Jon’s original plan and take the train.

  So, I thank her and make my way over to hover on the edge of a crowd which I assume is also waiting for a bus to the station. When the bus pulls in, I quickly realise there is no line, no queue, no system, and absolutely no order, and so I join in with the free-for-all of pushing and shoving, spurred on by fear of missing maybe the only train that’s leaving tonight.

  When I make it onto the bus, I’m lucky to find a seat.

  It’s a seat designed for two people, but I’m soon joined on it by three others and someone’s baby. Honestly, if I hadn’t been hugging my backpack, the baby would be on my lap for sure.

  It seems common practice for people to just pile in and sit anywhere and everywhere.

  A situation that everyone seems to tolerate and accept without any com
plaint.

  I couldn’t imagine this happening in London!

  It’s stiflingly stuffy onboard with everybody pressed up against each other. All those standing up are holding tightly onto the overhead hand straps and have their damp and hairy armpits almost in the faces of those stood next to them. Despite all the windows being open, it’s hard to breathe and once we get underway, this is made so much worse by all the suffocating diesel fumes pouring in from those open windows.

  I grit my teeth and hope it isn’t too far to travel to the train station.

  My hair is now plastered with perspiration, my neck, my face, my head, and trickling from every pore in my body, giving me the unnerving sensation of fingers trailing down my back.

  Am I being touched by someone sitting behind me?

  It’s impossible to know or in fact to do anything about it.

  I narrow my eyes and scan those around me suspiciously and soon realise that I’m being watched and viewed as something of a curiosity. There are children and men who are staring at me intently. I’m feeling uncomfortable in every way and decide not to engage in eye contact.

  Then a young man, sitting opposite to me, speaks to me directly.

  ‘Excuse me, lady. But are you English?’

  I nod my head slowly and he seems delighted.

  ‘And, tell me, are you here from London, England?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say tentatively, as I’d actually flown out of Gatwick.

  ‘My brother is in London. His name is Raj Patel. Do you happen to know him?’

  I realise he’s not joking. And, even though I do assure him that I don’t know his brother, he wields his phone and says he wants to take a selfie with me. I really don’t like this idea at all. I start to object, but he has twisted around so that now his head is next to mine and when we’re cheek to cheek, he takes one anyway. I’m sure my face was a picture.

  ‘My name is Albi. What is yours? Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m Maya, and I’m going to the train station.’ I reply before realising that of course everyone on this bus is also going to the train station. ‘I’m travelling to Rishikesh.’

  Albi looks at me with some concern. ‘Maya, why? Why are you taking the train that takes all night long when you were already at the airport and you could have flown from Delhi to Dehradun and from there reached Rishikesh by train or taxi in just over an hour? It doesn’t make sense to me.’

  My heart sank. One hour? Instead of goodness knows how many on a train?

  But I realise, of course, that Jon’s itinerary and plan for this trip was one of nostalgia. He’d obviously thought it important to replicate the exact same route that he had taken to Rishikesh in his backpacker days – almost forty years ago – a long time before there was any such thing as direct buses and budget airlines.

  ‘Thank you, but I’ve been travelling all day. At least I can sleep on the night train.’

  For some reason, Albi thinks this is very funny indeed and he laughs heartily.

  * * *

  At the train station, again there are huge crowds on the concourse and on the platforms, and especially at the ticket booths. My stomach is rolling and I’m starting to feel a bit of nausea coming on in the incredible heat and in the overload of odours. Praying that I don’t faint or throw up, I make slow but diligent progress moving forward through the riot of people, and I keep asking those pushing past me if I’m still in the right line.

  I eventually get to the ticket office window, and of course I am told the train is fully booked.

  But I am informed that I can buy a ‘waiting ticket’. I assume this means a standby ticket. I am also told that I really should have booked online at least one day in advance to secure a sleeper ticket.

  An hour later, despite me having paid for a waiting ticket, the train, with its boxy looking carriages and traditional yellow and red livery, leaves without me. However, having watched it depart, I’m feeling terribly relieved as the train looked dangerously overcrowded.

  There were hundreds of people crammed inside and the overspill were sitting on the roof, with many more passengers hanging onto the side of the train and out of the windows. As my waiting ticket would have only given me access to third class travel, I’m pretty sure that I would have been sat on the roof, where I’d have had to spend the whole journey throughout the night.

  It’s now six o’clock in the evening and I’m stranded in the middle of New Delhi.

  Having strayed from my itinerary and with no Post-it notes in Jon’s wallet offering any guidance for this situation, I’m now totally ready to explore all my other options by plane or by train or bus. But before I do, I really need to visit the loo. I’ve been swigging back bottled water to try and quench my seemingly unquenchable thirst and it has gone straight through me.

  There’s a line for the ladies’ loo but I’m so relieved – literally – when as an alternative to the typical Indian-style hole-in-the-ground, I manage to find – for the cost of a few extra rupees – a western-style toilet. Then, feeling that I need to plan my next move very carefully, I buy a cup of ‘chai’ – a hot milky tea that smells of ginger and fragrant herbs – from a vendor.

  I sit on top of my backpack against a wall, amongst a crowd of Indian students and a posse of young western backpackers, who also seem to be waiting for their revised travel options to miraculously materialise.

  With help and sympathy from the knowledgeable young travellers around me, I manage to get connected to the free internet on my phone and a young woman backpacker who is sitting next to me helps me to download the Indian Air flight app and a travel map.

  Everyone is so kind. In their eyes I can see both sympathy and concern for me.

  Maybe they all see me as old enough to be their mother? A backpacking housewife?

  Though, as I’m actually on my honeymoon sans groom, I am, in fact, a backpacking bride.

  I’m feeling a bit better now. The tea is hot and spicy. I discover from the flight app that I’ve missed the very last flight of the day from Delhi to Jolly Grant Airport, Dehradun, which is the nearest airport to Rishikesh, so there’s no use backtracking to the airport. But someone tells me there is a coach leaving directly to Rishikesh within the hour from right outside this station.

  I’m also told it’s a private coach rather than a public bus (apparently buses are generally deemed risky, particularly at night, as they have a reputation for going off-road) and so it will have aircon and guaranteed seating and it comes highly recommended. I’m now sold on taking the coach. I head out to find the ticket booth feeling relieved and back on track.

  I’ve got my ticket and find the coach is just as promised, with plush upholstered seats with head and foot-rests, air-conditioning, and on-board toilet facilities. Soon we are off and from the comfort of my window seat I have a great view of the busy streets of New Delhi in sparkling twilight. I can see buses, cars, trucks, scooters and tuk-tuks, all weaving through the slowly moving traffic. There are also lots of people going about their business and so many animals – monkeys, dogs, goats, and many cows – that all seem to be wild, stray, or wandering.

  My eyes practically pop out of my head when I see an elephant walking down the street too.

  An actual elephant!

  And, even though my eyelids are heavy and my body is aching with travel fatigue, I fight the need to sleep in favour of continuing to stare outside at what is happening in this world, that is beyond anything or anywhere I’ve experienced before. My whole life I’ve dreamed of travelling this far and this spontaneously. I just never imagined it would be all alone and through such terrible circumstances. But, despite my angst, I’m fascinated by everything going on outside the window. It feels so surreal to be here.

  I actually did it. I’m really here in India!

  Then we are out on the open road and soon it is too dark to see anything outside.

  Despite my best efforts, I finally feel myself succumbing to the comforting sway of the bus and the into
xicating pull of my jet lag and extreme exhaustion. I’m helplessly drifting. Spiralling down into sleep. Sinking into the dreaded dream-filled state that will once again take me tumbling back into what was the living nightmare of my wedding day.

  Chapter 2

  One week earlier in Sorrento, Italy

  The white vintage Bentley moves slowly and purposefully through the warren of narrow streets until it comes to a halt at the ruined shell of a thousand-year-old abbey. I feel my heart swelling with joy and love and happiness as I climb out of the car and into the bright warm sunshine of this beautiful day. I pause for a moment, in the cool shadow of one of the old standing columns that is draped in creeping ivy, and today decorated with fragrant white roses and silk garlands. I take a slow, deep breath and cast my eyes through rays of muted sunbeams into the cloisters where I can see our wedding party seated and my future husband waiting for me.

  My sister, Pia, touches my arm lightly and smiles at me reassuringly.

  But I’m not in need of composure. I just needed a moment or two to reflect on this truly special moment in my life. A moment I never thought would ever actually happen to me.

  I suppose I had started to think that fate had other plans.

  I’d begun to wonder if I was maybe too set in my own ways to share my life with someone.

  Or that I was being unrealistic in holding on to what might seem like impossibly high standards.

  I’ve often been called a ‘career woman’ by those who might assume that being a modern middle-aged single professional female (a fund investment manager at a private bank) would be my preferred option in life over homemaking and marriage. But, of course, none of my male colleagues have ever been branded ‘career men’ and those who’ve opted to remain single have never to my knowledge been subsequently branded as unloved or unlovable.

  Friends and family have always meant well, planning blind dates or dinners over the years with singletons they know, and I’ve always happily played along, resigning myself to the prospect of finding a life partner through mutual acquaintance. But I ask you, is it too much to ask for a good-looking man to be confident without being conceited? For an interesting man to be fun without being foolish? For an adventurous man to be both a hero and a gentleman? In my experience, yes. Until now.