Chloe in India by Kate Darnton Read Free Book Online Page B

Bahrisons Booksellers. For lunch, she took us to a hole-in-the-wall, where we gobbled down chicken
kati
rolls, grease dripping from their wax paper sleeves.
    Another Saturday afternoon, a couple of weeks later, I was about to drop dead with the sheer boredom of my new, friendless life, when Shreya stopped by. She took one look at my face and said, “You ever try
golgappas,
Chloe?”
    Before Mom could protest, Shreya had popped me on the back of her scooter and zipped me around the corner to a grimy little storefront I had never noticed before: Bengali Sweet House. We stood there together, in front of the
golgappa
wallah, while Shreya showed me how to stuff whole puffs straight into my mouth and then crunch down on them, letting the tangy sauce gush over my tongue. I wasn’t sure I liked
golgappas,
but I sure liked being there with Shreya.
    “Best cure for homesickness there is,” Shreya said as we climbed back onto her scooter. I wasn’t sure if she meant the
golgappas
or herself, but I had to agree.
    —
    Even though Shreya seemed to know everything about Delhi—and seemed to get me, too—I still didn’t feel like going to this tomb or mausoleum or whatever it was. I felt like staying home.
    “Do we have to?”
    Mom and Anna were working in the office. Lucy was napping. The house was blissfully quiet. And I was just getting to the part where Harry meets Sirius Black.
    Dad reached down and took the book right out of my hands. “C’mon, kiddo,” he said. “Get your shoes.”
    —
    As soon as Vijay parked the car, we were surrounded.
    “Sir-
ji,
you buy postcard! You have most beautiful daughter! You buy postcard!”
    Dad grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd of vendors pushing postcards and potato chip packets and fans into our faces.
    We made it to the ticket counter, only to be accosted again: “You need tour? I give you most excellent tour of this most historical and beauteous of monuments in this most magnificent of countries, this incredible India.” The tour guide flashed a tattered ID card at Dad, then leaned close, lowering his voice: “Government-certified. I give you very best price.”
    “No thanks,” Dad said, handing me a ticket and brushing past the tour guide. “C’mon, Chloe.”
    “This is great, Dad,” I muttered, pushing through the turnstile. “Really loving this. Super relaxing so far.”
    But then we walked through the entry gate, and it was like we had passed into a different world.
    —
    Vast lawns spread before us. The sun was already low, casting long shadows across the smooth green grass. It was still hot, but a soft breeze stirred the pom-pom tops of the palm trees that lined the main path. There weren’t many people, just a few Muslim families out for early-evening strolls. They nodded at us as they passed.
    “It’s so…so peaceful.” When I spoke, it came out as a whisper.
    In the distance, a man’s voice wailed out over a megaphone. He was singing in a language I didn’t recognize.
    “The call to prayer,” Dad said.
    I had no idea the place would be so huge. We couldn’t even see the mausoleum because it was hidden by an enormous stone gateway at the far end of the lawns.
    There’s hardly ever this much open space in Delhi.
    Dad took my hand and threaded it through his elbow. We started down the main path, our shoes crunching on the coarse sand.
    “So this was, like, the model for the Taj Mahal?”
    “Yep.” Dad nodded. “Bega Begum had it built for her husband, Humayun, after he died. It was a testament to her love.”
    “That’s kind of creepy….”
    “Wait, listen!” Dad was standing stock-still in the middle of the path. Then it came again—a weird meowing sound, kind of like a cat.
    I looked at him, confused.
    “Peacocks! Here, this way…”
    Dad pulled me off the path, toward a massive, crumbling archway that led to a separate, enclosed garden.
    “Hey, look at this.” He was pointing to a set of stairs cut into the archway’s inner