Paul Theroux - My Secret History

“It is a pleasure meeting such an attractive woman,” he said to Eden, and I knew that her height — she was a foot taller than him — unnerved him. And his charm had become more mechanical with each passing year.

I was surprised by the effect it had on Eden. She clearly enjoyed hearing this formula being repeated to her. I was embarrassed both by the flattery and by her reaction.

“I am at your service,” Indoo said, seeing instantly that she was susceptible. “I can see that you will want to be shown something very special of India.”

She was beaming — she was the memsahib , he the chowkidar , her servant.

“One of its many fascinating secrets,” he said, and glanced at me with a wan smile, perhaps hoping that I would not interrupt or mock him.

Eden said, “You’re very kind. But I think I’ve done all the sight-seeing I want to.”

She had told me that morning that she did not want to see Humayun’s Tomb, or the mosque in Old Delhi, or the lovely tower on the outskirts of the city, called the Qutub Minar. So we had taken a taxi and made a round of the antiques shops. In the course of browsing and buying she had learned some new words that she had already begun to use— company paintings, mughal, Rajasthani . She was full of questions. Three times that morning she asked shopkeepers what a particular stone object happened to be, and each of the men wagged his head and gave her the same answer: It is a lingam, madam . By lunchtime she had bought some painted wallhangings (“company period”), a carved chest (“mughal motifs”) and some brightly woven cloth (“Rajasthani”). I had been on the verge of complaining about all this tedious shopping when she bought me a brass inkstand and kissed me — much to the delight of that shopkeeper.

Indoo said, “She is right. Why look at ruins? It is all tourists and disfigurements. Adventure tours are the big thing now. Thrilling, I tell you. Special — we go tomorrow.” He showed his teeth. “Adventure tour.”

“Do you want to, Andy?” Eden said. “It’s up to you.”

“I’d like to try,” I said. “What are we in for?”

Indoo, being very positive, semaphored with his head. He said, “White-water rafting on the Ganges. Bring your bathing costume. I shall provide a hamper and all other requisites.”

We left Delhi by car at four-thirty the next morning, Indoo sitting in front with the Sikh driver, Eden and I in the back. We slept on the way, jogging along in the dark, and it was sunny when we woke up at Roorkee — Indoo wanted to show us the canal and the carved lions. We stopped for tea and bananas, and then drove on — the Sikh honking incessantly at cyclists and bullock carts.

“This is a holy city,” Indoo said at Hardwar, and when the Sikh hesitated, perhaps thinking that some sight-seeing was expected, Indoo said firmly, “Carry on.”

He pointed out Rishikesh (“The famous Beatles visited here”) and we drove on. The road began to rise and curve above the river, but after a few miles the Sikh turned sharply right and we traveled down a narrow track to the riverside.

“This is the camp.”

There, among thin-leaved trees and twittering birds, was a pair of stone buildings. Two sturdy Indians wearing shorts and T-shirts sat with their backs against the warm stone, drinking tea in the sunshine. Just beyond them was the Ganges, thirty yards wide and frothing over smooth brown boulders. This alone was a surprise: I had always thought of it as a flat silent river, mud-colored and turgid. This was more like a mountain stream.

The two Indians scrambled to their feet when they saw us. Indoo shouted to them in Hindi and they hurried into one of the buildings. Ten minutes later they served us a late breakfast of fruit and a burned oily omelet. Eden made the motions of eating but did not eat.

The Indians were caretakers, they were cooks, they were drivers and boatmen. While we ate they tidied the gear, sorted the equipment and began inflating the raft.

Eden said, “This is fantastic. I can’t believe I’m here. I feel excited, like a little girl on her first expedition.” She clutched my arm and said in a squeaky voice, “I’m so frightened!”

“If you don’t want to come with us you can stay here,” Indoo said. “We have all necessary facilities.”

“I’m going with you,” Eden said in a different and intimidating voice, as though her courage had been impugned. “Do you think I’d let you leave me behind?”

Indoo was rattled by the severity of her reply. He turned to me and said, “It’s so good to see you, Andrew!”

We strapped the raft to the car roof and drove along a bumpy road to a point several miles upriver, where there was an unoccupied villa. We parked in the grounds of this big empty place and changed into our bathing suits in its musty carriage house. Here the river was wider than at the camp, and not so turbulent, but Indoo said there was white water just around the bend, where there was a dome-shaped stony hill.

We walked to the rocky riverbank and in bright sunshine put on our life jackets.

“There’s something about putting on a lot of uncomfortable equipment that makes me nervous,” Eden said, buckling the straps.

“And crash helmet and gloves,” Indoo said.

“Oh, Jesus. See what I mean?”

Indoo stood at the water’s edge and showed us how to paddle — the techniques of slowing down, and turning, and speeding when it was necessary to power the raft out of a hole in the rapids.

“Why don’t we practice in the raft?” Eden said, and it was clear that she felt foolish standing on dry land flipping her paddle back and forth, attempting the correct strokes.

“We cannot,” Indoo said. “When we are on the raft there will be no time. River will be flowing too fast. Remember, this is Ganga!”

“Mother Ganga,” one of the boatmen said eagerly.

“Oh, Jesus,” Eden said under her breath.

“You don’t have to come,” I said, speaking casually, so as not to make an issue of it.

But Eden was insistent. “I’m not staying behind,” she said, and to Indoo, “Show me that turning stroke again.”

“That is the spirit,” Indoo said.

Six of us knelt in the big rubber raft — Eden and I in the bulgy bow — and we pushed off from the bank. The raft seemed an ungainly thing, like a misshapen rubber tire or a beach toy, but in the first set of rapids I saw that it was a useful shape. Its sides were cushions — the best protection against the sharp rocks in the shallow rapids — and the whole raft lifted and flexed and squeezed itself through the turbulence, as Eden screamed. The rushing water drowned the sounds of her fear.

The Ganges here was not a sluggish silent thing. It was blue and loud and very cold, reminding me of the melting glacier that was its source in the foothills of the Himalayas.

When we got through the first white water, Indoo gasped with pleasure and said, “If you fall out, protect your face and swim for the bank if you can. Otherwise we’ll pick you up.”

“Now he tells us,” Eden said, and I knew from her bad temper that she was really scared.

In this quiet reach in the river, Indoo gave us instructions for the set of rapids up ahead. We were to use the draw stroke, and when we entered the boiling hole beneath the rock we were to paddle with all our might in order to propel the raft out of the whirlpool — otherwise we would be hammered down by the force of the water, and kept there.

“Beautiful,” Eden said in a toneless voice.

The rushing water was as loud as a cataract and had the same rhythm of a pounding engine. The Indians at the stern were howling to keep their spirits up. It was a shattering minute of cold water and loud noise and frantic paddling. I looked aside and saw Eden’s mouth open, and her drenched face and white teeth.