Bombay to Beijing by Bicycle Read Online Free PDF Page B

simply ignored that I even existed. Traffic moved faster here than in Mumbai and I wished for bicycle lanes but I doubted any of the drivers here would’ve bothered respecting them. Road rules, it seemed for most drivers, were meant for someone else. Cars and trucks failed to indicate, overtook on blind turns, laughed at stop signs and ran oncoming traffic off the road. No wonder, according to the National Crimes Record Bureau of Delhi, there were over 80 900 people killed in car accidents in India in 2001. vii
    To this day I don’t know how I ever got through India alive.

    The surface of the road was surprisingly good and, being the afternoon, it was thick with schoolchildren on bicycles. Within seconds two teenagers pulled alongside me on their clanking Indian bikes – heavy things with no cables that squeaked mercilessly and were ironically called ‘Hero’ – yet I couldn’t imagine any of these bikes saving anyone.
    One of the teenagers spoke. His name was Devendra and he offered to take me to the caves.
    ‘But first let me take you to my grandmother’s house for some lunch.’
    ‘Well, I’ve really got to get going …’
    ‘Please, it is my duty.’
    As I would find out, Indians are some of the most friendliest and hospitable people in the entire world and think nothing of inviting you into their homes and preparing a meal for you. To our great shame, I could not imagine Indian people receiving such generous treatment in Australia.
    I followed Devendra and the other boy to a simple house in a quiet street with lazy eucalyptus and palm trees. The house had a large open lounge room with a high ceiling, and stairs leading up to a terrace. I would almost call it palatial.
    Devendra’s aunt, a small, crumpled woman shadowed by a pink veil, came out from the kitchen to welcome us. I attempted to shake her hand but she put her palms together and bowed. I immediately felt stupid; I hadn’t quite adjusted to the social gender disparities.
    Women in India, it seemed, were almost invisible. Men dominated the streets in large numbers, hanging off each other, laughing and talking loudly. Rarely did I have an opportunity to converse with women.
    ‘May I go?’ asked the boy who had followed us.
    ‘Yes, of course!’ I said, apologetic, and he left.
    ‘Indians. Always late,’ said Devendra derisively. Perhaps I had misread the situation. I thought the other boy had been his friend when in fact he had just tagged along. I wondered whether there had been some caste tension between them, as Devendra had seemed reluctant to let him past the door.
    Like the class system in Britain, caste determines your station in Indian life. If you weren’t been born into one of the top three ranking castes – Brahmin (priests and teachers), Kshatryas (rulers and warriors), Vaishyas (merchants and cultivators) – and into anything else such as the Shudras (menials) or harijans (untouchables) then life was pretty much pitted against you even before you learnt how to walk.
    Devendra’s aunt returned with dahl (lentils), rice, poppadums , roti (flat wheat bread), spicy potatoes, raw onions and water. We washed our hands and shovelled the food into our mouths.
    ‘Would you like some water to drink?’ Devendra asked. I was a little reluctant, my Western hysteria questioning whether the water was safe to drink. I relented.
    ‘Sure.’
    He picked up the cup but instead of bringing it to his lips he held the cup above him so the water poured into his mouth in a controlled stream. I tried to copy Devendra’s example but the water missed my mouth entirely and sploshed up my nose and down my neck.
Devendra laughed.
    ‘This is Indian way. Not your way.’
    Devendra and I thanked his aunt for lunch, said goodbye and then headed for the caves. We walked through a parched paddock that housed a number of families in tarpaulin shacks. Women, dark as chocolate, stared out expressionless while others hid their faces as we passed. A thick smell