The Backpacking Bride (The Backpacking Housewife, Book 3) Page 6

  I retch. Honestly. I couldn’t help it.

  But then I’m spotted by our Guru as the only one in the shala not to have cleansed my karma.

  So, in panic and fear and embarrassment, I cock my head, tip my bowl and pour the warm and very salty water over my face and up my nose – where it immediately burns all my soft tissue before flooding straight down the back of my throat.

  I start to choke. I can’t breathe. I honestly think I’m drowning.

  I’m convinced I’m going to die a horrible death here in the ashram in front of everyone.

  Until, of course, what went in – the salt water and my morning porridge – all comes rushing back out again into my bowl. When I look up, I see everyone staring at me in horror.

  I’m guessing that if this is karmic cleansing then I’m thoroughly purged.

  Feeling horribly humiliated and with my heart pounding and my stomach still heaving, I flee from the shala and run back up to my room to lie on my bed and be alone with my shame.

  I curl up and let my travel-sore body sink into the thin mattress, my aching head resting on the flat, lumpy pillow. A guttural sob escapes my throat and I really wish I hadn’t come here now. What on earth was I thinking? Pia was right. This really isn’t my kind of thing at all.

  I’d marvelled at all Jon’s stories of India, but it had been from the safety and comfort of distance.

  I’d had no idea what it was really like to travel so far and to land alone in a country that was so vastly different from anything I’d ever known before or could ever imagine.

  I came here naively thinking I’d find a way to heal myself and move on. But now I realise I’d been desperately grasping at straws. How the hell can chanting and bell ringing help me? How can meditation calm my rage? How can yoga make me feel better about myself?

  How can spending seven days in a barren commune in northern India with a load of hippies ever help me to accept a world without my Jon in it and start to live my life without him?

  It all seems completely ridiculous to me now.

  Just as my life without Jon seems impossible to contemplate and unbearable to comprehend.

  Chapter 6

  Cheshire, England

  Jon’s funeral took place in a small village churchyard in Cheshire. He was buried in a family grave with his mother and his father. The day was grey, misty, and miserable and everyone stood around grimly mumbling their prayers at the graveside under black umbrellas.

  I fell into a deep mind-numbing depression after the funeral service.

  Somehow, I had to continue to live. But how? It all seemed impossible.

  How could I ever get over this and move on? I doubted I ever would.

  I’d grieved before when my parents had died but this was entirely different. My parents had been elderly and sick. They’d both needed years of constant care and loving attention from my sister and me until we’d had to make the heart-breaking decision to move them into a nursing home. So, when the dreaded day finally came and they died naturally and peacefully in their sleep within weeks of each other, there had been great sadness and grief, but there hadn’t been the shock and anger that I’m experiencing now.

  There was a quiet feeling of inevitability and acceptance with their passing.

  We didn’t feel they’d been taken away from us unfairly or unexpectedly.

  We’d mourned their loss, but we also celebrated their long and happy lives.

  They hadn’t been stolen away from me too soon and before their time like Jon.

  After Jon’s funeral, I’d gone from angry and depressed to raging and rampant in my despair.

  I’d howled like a wounded animal and I’d cursed at the universe.

  I’d begged to know what I’d ever done in my life to deserve this terrible loss and misery.

  I’d always tried to live by the set of values instilled in me by my loving and worldly wise parents who brought my sister and me up to be honest, trustworthy, and caring.

  Not that I’m claiming to be perfect. Far from it. I know I’m not. I have my faults.

  I’m aware that I’m sometimes an overly observant person, a personal trait brought to my attention through my workplace appraisals and evaluations. I’ve been advised that in its positive form this allows for acute attention to detail but can alternatively make me appear overly critical of people and situations and therefore I can be perceived as disapproving.

  To be honest, this has also been mentioned by one or two previous ex-manfriends, but it has certainly never been my intention to appear abrupt or seem judgemental. On the contrary, I’ve always tried to be a helpful colleague and a true friend. I’ve honestly never knowingly lied. I’ve never broken the law. I’ve never even had so much as a speeding ticket. I’ve always tried to do my best. I’ve been a loving daughter. A good sister. A generous aunt. A loyal friend.

  I regularly give to charity. I despise and petition against unfairness and inequality.

  So why has my one chance of love and happiness been taken away from me so cruelly?

  Was it wrong to try to be a good and decent person?

  Can we conclude that playing life by the rules is for fools?

  My dear father used to say to me that no good deed ever went unrewarded. Well, I’m sorry Dad, but that’s just bullshit. I’ve seen some rotten people making up their own damn rules and thriving on it. Proof is everywhere. People lie and steal and betray and even worse, and yet they do very well indeed. So where is this thing that some call karma and the universal power that some call faith? What is there left for me now? What am I supposed to do next?

  I can’t go back and yet I can’t move forward.

  I’m stuck all alone in a foreboding place between life and death.

  Jon is gone and for the life of me I really don’t know what to do about it.

  * * *

  A few days after the funeral, I was surprised to see Jon’s brother Malcolm calling at my sister’s home. I’d already returned the house key he’d so insensitively asked me to relinquish. Pia had led him into the kitchen and then she’d made herself scarce. It was early afternoon and I was sitting having my umpteenth cup of coffee while still in my dressing gown, looking a terrible, trembling mess with my puffy face and lank, unwashed hair.

  ‘What can I do for you Malcolm?’ I asked him in a voice that even to me sounded surly.

  ‘Maya, I’ve brought you something. I know Jon would have wanted you to have it.’

  He slid a brown leather wallet across the worktop towards me. I recognised it immediately.

  Jon’s old monogramed business portfolio.

  I reached out to it instinctively, and tentatively touched it.

  My fingers caressing the cover instantly reminded me of the day Jon and I first met.

  Such a wonderful day and not that long ago. Six short months. That’s all.

  ‘Open it.’ Malcolm commanded.

  I did. Inside I found a neat stack of printed papers. Only this time, they weren’t bank statements or stock investments or bond certificates, but receipts and travel confirmations. I’d caught my breath and quickly closed the wallet again. The leather made a sound like a hard slap. It felt like a slap to my face. I uttered my thanks to Malcolm. He told me he ‘must get on’ and left me with a folder filled with ruined hopes and broken dreams.

  I stared at it for a while, morosely, and focused on the monogramed initials on the cover so intently that it was as if through the sheer force of this tangible connection to Jon, I could somehow manifest him back from the grave. Eventually, I mustered up the courage to open it again and to scrutinise the itinerary inside. Then I saw that flights were booked and hotels reserved in our names. Seats on planes and beds in hotels that would now be cold and empty.

  Cold and empty like my life.

  When Pia returned to the kitchen, I was a shuddering, raging mess again.

  ‘Look! Just look at this. It’s so unfair!’ I yelled, consumed with anger, slamming my fist down on the cou
ntertop. ‘It’s our entire honeymoon itinerary. All the places I’ve ever dreamed of visiting. All places in the world that Jon knew so well and said he longed to show me.’ My voice cracked as I spoke but still the tears would not come.

  It was Pia who had pointed out to me that I was yet to cry a tear over losing Jon.

  ‘You need to cry, Maya. You need to let go and allow yourself to be sad about losing him.’

  But I was far too angry to be tearful. Tears were for sad people not mad people.

  ‘He promised me a honeymoon that would be a magical mystery tour,’ I explained.

  Pia looked a little surprised by this. ‘Goodness. Really? How? What does it mean?’

  ‘It means our first stop would have been India. We were to stay at the same ashram where The Beatles had once stayed and where Jon had stayed in the seventies to grieve and to reflect on the death of his dear friend.’

  Jon’s words about India echoed through my mind.

  India isn’t really a country you go to see … India is a country you go to feel.

  Suddenly, realising what I’d just said about Jon’s friend, I turned to Pia with an idea.

  ‘If this ashram is a place to go to grieve and mourn then I think I should still go there!’

  ‘Really? Maya, are you serious? You’re really thinking of going on your honeymoon alone?’

  I was deadly serious. ‘I think it might help me. Yes. I really do need to go there!’ I insisted.

  ‘Maya, you’ve never travelled so far before. I know you’ve always talked about travelling the world but you need to listen to me and think this through properly. I know you’re grieving but you are also vulnerable. I really think this could be a mistake!’

  To me, her words sounded something like a challenge.

  ‘But I have my passport. I’ve already had all the travel vaccines I need. I still have time. The flight to Delhi leaves tomorrow night from London. Look, everything’s already covered and fully paid and looks non-refundable!’

  Pia sat down next to me and we looked through the rest of the itinerary together.

  In typical Jon style, every piece of paper, printed-out email confirmation, and receipt in his wallet was filed in date order and was covered in a splattering of yellow Post-it note reminders, all with a specific written instruction or a travel tip or a snippet of local information. All reminders of the things he’d wanted to show me and us to experience together.

  Take the train to Rishikesh from Delhi

  Do yoga

  Meditate in the shala

  Bathe in the Ganges

  Chakra Healing

  Cosmic Ordering

  The Ceremony of Light

  Tai Chi in Kowloon Park

  Eat Dim Sum

  Take the Star Ferry

  Drink a Singapore Sling in Singapore!

  Petronas Towers

  Batu Caves in KL

  Eat seafood in Penang!

  Some were directives and one or two had people’s names written on them.

  I wondered who Harry Chen and Guru J might be.

  Along with the notes, there was an old Polaroid photo of a group of hippies and an Indian gentleman in a huge turban and there were also lots of faded tourist brochures from Hong Kong and Singapore.

  ‘Wow. You’re right, this really is a magical mystery tour,’ Pia agreed. ‘This all sounds amazing. A first-class flight to Delhi from London. A week in an ashram in India followed by three nights in Hong Kong and two each in Singapore and Kuala Lumpur, followed by a week in Penang before flying back to London.’ She looked at me with an expression of sisterly concern. ‘But are you absolutely sure about the ashram, sis? I mean, is it really you?’

  ‘It could be …’ I protested. ‘I’m open to experiencing new things. I’ve read Eat Pray Love.’

  Pia narrowed her eyes and looked unconvinced. ‘The only reason I ask is that on your birthday last year, I suggested we go on a spa day together that included yoga and meditation, and you said you hated that kind of thing. I think you actually called it “mumbo jumbo”.’

  ‘But we did try those beginner’s yoga classes at the new gym last January,’ I countered.

  ‘And you didn’t stop complaining about your aches and pains until around April.’

  ‘But Jon told me how he learned proper meditation and real yoga in India – not the watered-down western version of it – and how he developed a strong faith, not in a religion … but in spirituality. And, most importantly, he learned how to heal at a time when everything in his life seemed futile.’

  I remembered that Jon had also quoted Martin Luther King to me.

  If I closed my eyes, I could still hear his words in my head.

  To other countries I may go as a tourist; but to India, I come as a pilgrim.

  And he’d been so very enthusiastic about all his amazing travels and adventures in Asia.

  Arh, the sights and sounds and smells of the orient: the history … the food … the sultry air!

  ‘Look here,’ I said, pointing to the detailed itinerary, ‘In Hong Kong, he’d planned to take me up into the mountains for a panoramic view of the cityscape. He was going to show me the Symphony of Lights laser show from a sailing junk in the harbour. In Singapore, we were to stay at the famous Raffles Hotel. In Kuala Lumpur, he’d wanted to take me to the very top of the world’s tallest twin towers. And, in Penang, he told me that we’d enjoy the best food in the whole of Asia!’

  My mind was suddenly in overdrive, my heart beating so fast that I needed to steady myself.

  ‘I’ve decided I’m going to see it all. It’s what Jon would have wanted!’

  Pia wisely knew that as I’d set my mind to this there was nothing she could do to change it and so she took hold of my hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Okay. Maybe you’re right. I can see how this might help you come to terms with losing Jon and help you see life from a new perspective. And, while you’re in Hong Kong, you could try to find Mum and Dad’s old house.’

  I felt my eyes watering at Pia’s suggestion and in anticipation of seeing the house again – the gorgeous pink house where I’d been born and long dreamed of returning to one day.

  ‘You should take the photo with you. It has the full address on the back,’ Pia urged.

  I nodded my agreement and once again considered all my fleeting and flickering sepia-toned recollections of living in Hong Kong. All those memories had been so richly embellished by the wonderful stories told to me in the past. After our parents died, Pia and I had split the responsibilities of sorting out their affairs. As the oldest daughter – and a banker by profession – I’d agreed to be the executor of their estate in order to settle their accounts, pensions, and insurances.

  In being privy to their personal and private financial matters, I’d had to methodically search through all the yellowed copies of paperwork pertaining to my father’s previous position at the port in Hong Kong. I remember how I’d held my breath and my heart had fluttered when I’d found an old document that looked like a deed and mentioned the house on Stubbs Road in Happy Valley. The house that my mother had named Shangri-La.

  The meaning of which is attached to a book called Lost Horizon written by a British author called James Hilton. My mother was apparently reading this book when they first arrived and when she saw the property she was inspired to name her new home after a description in the book of ‘a harmonious and mystical valley in a faraway and happy land’.

  But the old document wasn’t a deed. It was actually just my father’s original employment contract. It stipulated his working responsibilities and a generous remuneration package – including the provision of a house – which reflected the grandness of my father’s position and high standing as General Manager of The Maritime Port, Hong Kong.

  It came as rather a blow to me to realise that they’d never actually owned the house. Not that they’d ever misled me or indicated they had. I suppose I’d just presumed. I suppose I’ve always fantasised about there being
a deed.

  In my child’s mind the house had always looked like a castle in a fairy tale book. A grand old colonial relic three stories high with a pink stucco exterior. And all my life, I’d dreamed of going back there someday and living in that beautiful house and having a different yet totally parallel lifestyle to my own. A life in which I wasn’t a boring banker working nine to five in a stuffy old bank in this incessantly damp corner of the UK. But instead, one in which I might work as a curator in a museum or as a collector of art for a gallery or first-edition books for a gorgeous old library in Hong Kong. A life in which I’d socialise in sophisticated company down at the marina, eat dim sum for lunch in the harbour and shop in the traditional Ladies’ Market on Kowloon Island.

  Conversely, my sister Pia has no history with or connection to Hong Kong at all because we’d moved back to the UK while Mum was pregnant with her.

  So, perhaps understandably, she doesn’t get my fascination with the pearl of the Orient.

  Pia also has a husband and two children to keep her busy and her thoughts fully occupied.

  I’m very much in awe of my sister’s skills as a homemaker and mother and I do love my nieces. Although I have to admit, I’ve honestly never felt any maternal yearnings to have any children of my own. I suppose it’s a good thing now because that ship has long sailed.

  All I can say is that I have no regrets. I’m quite sure I’m much better at being a doting aunt than a loving mother.

  Concerning our parents’ effects, my sister was appointed keeper of all things personal and sentimental. Mostly, it was things like old photos and memorabilia. Aside from the family photo albums, there was a beautiful and decorative lacquered box that I expect our mum must have bought in Asia. It contained her jewellery and personal things like birth and marriage certificates, and it was in this box that Pia had found the old photo of the house with the address written on the back.

  A Polaroid photo that had provided precious evidence to back up my errant recollections.

  I thought Pia’s idea to try and find the house when I was in Hong Kong was a great one.