Around India in 80 Trains by Monisha Rajesh Read Free Book Online Page B

week in Panjim in Goa, but lived next door to each other in Bagshot, in Surrey.
    A sensible distance away sat the couple from the suite next to ours. Cyril was a retired cardiothoracic surgeon in his 80s, with a naughty face and eyes that laughed in place of his mouth. His wife, Marie, had an Audrey Hepburn elegance and wore her dark chocolate hair tucked girlishly behind her ears. They lived in Sydney, but gallivanted around the world, travelling up the Irrawaddy river, playing golf in China, or filming lemurs in Madagascar. Marie and Passepartout clinked their glasses together and sank into conversation, while Cyril chased a king prawn around a plate with a toothpick and winked at me.
    ‘So you two nippers are our neighbours?’
    ‘Yes. Now let me double check’, I replied, not wanting to commit a faux pas, ‘you’re from Australia …’
    Cyril nodded.
    ‘… and Marie’s from New Zealand …’
    ‘… and every month we meet in the middle for violent sex,’ he finished, clapping his hands and jumping off his seat.
    ‘Oh, Cyril, don’t be so silly …’ Marie murmured over her wine.
    He mock-flinched and his eyes disappeared into crevices.
    ‘I once did a big trip like you. I bought myself a motorbike. Didn’t know how to ride it, but where’s the fun in that?’
    ‘What did you do?’
    ‘I just got on it. Like anything, you try it first and then learn how to do it later. I went to the shop, got on it and came home. Only I didn’t know how to stop it, so as I neared my house I just turned it on its side and stepped off it.’ He wrenched both fists across to his right, closed his eyes and went rigid.
    A buzz began to grow in the carriage as the remaining guests gathered for dinner, jabbering over the clink of gins and crunch of pretzels. Many ITV reruns of Murder on the Orient Express had taught me that a train like the Indian Maharaja was a five-star cruise on wheels, the preserve of retirees, rich grannies and dapper little Belgian men with moustaches. But this was a pick ‘n’ mix of passengers: a young Swiss couple in matching outfits; three Japanese ladies with an oversized interpreter; Bob and Jane from Devon, who loved tea and Test Match Special ; Dan and Maisie from New York, who dressed like Don and Betty Draper; and a Russian group made up of two pairs of newly weds and one spare mother-in-law, who arrived in football gear and wore bath slippers in the dining car. The consensus among the guests was that they had won the holiday on a television show. Aside from the staff, I was the only Indian on board. As we made our way towards the dining car an Englishman with carefree hair appeared in the doorway. James was a journalist from The Times . Drew Barrymore had been on board the week before, and he was writing a piece about the resurgence in popularity of luxury trains even though she had apparently left after just two days.
    Bob and Jane were already seated at a table, examining a bottle of wine, and waved us over.
    ‘Come on, join us fogies,’ Bob smiled. ‘We won’t bite and we’ll try not to bore you to death.’
    We slid in as he filled our wine glasses. He peered closely at the bottle and began reading the label, ‘ Herbaceous, crisp, and dry, with hints of green pepper and a touch of spice at the finish . I wish I had the job of writing these blurbs’, he continued, ‘I’d have so much fun with them: “a smooth aroma of vanilla and blackberries with an undertone of wet dog.” Having said that, this really isn’t bad at all.’
    My only memory of drinking wine in India was five years ago at a hotel bar in Hyderabad when I had ordered a glass of red wine that tasted marginally better than cough syrup, and when the bill came, had cost more than six Bacardi Breezers put together.
    ‘I’m very impressed,’ Bob said, poking his nose into the glass. ‘It’s very drinkable and apparently isn’t produced far from here. Fancy, Indian vineyards, whatever next.’
    From across the