by Louise Heal

Created on: July 02, 2007   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

The south-west monsoon gathered over Madras. The sky turned to gray, gray turned into large drops of fierce rain, and the back street outside the guest house turned from a rubbish tip into a flowing sewer.

Downstairs in the cramped dorm room, with barely enough space between the cots for our packs, we sat cross-legged on our beds and tried to pass the time until the streets were navigable again. Outside of the dorm was a huge courtyard with plastic tables and chairs. The soundtrack was the rain falling on these. The toilets and showers were the other side of the courtyard; rumor had it that, at night, rats the size of puppies came up through the pipes. I made a mental note to take my torch with me.

Jesse was an American from the mid-West. He was on a trip around India after leaving the Army. To celebrate his return to civilian life, he was growing hair: a fluffy mustache and long straight locks that were now almost past his shoulders.

"The Indians don't know what to make of my hair" he said. "When they ask me why I have long hair, I tell them I'm an American saddhu".

"Good answer". I wished I had a better answer to his question:

"So what's it like being a lone woman in India?"

I shrugged: "It's OK".

Greg was Australian, and had listed his profession in the guest-house register as artist'. He was one of life's roamers: he had been detained at immigration in London several times and complained about the bagels in New York:

"I hate it when they put the onion bagels next to the cinnamon ones".

I thought he was being unbearably fussy, but years later I ate a raisin bagel that tasted of onion and remembered Greg: he was right.

He loved England: "I adore the television. I'd like to marry an English girl. You know, just for the passport". He looked at me hopefully, but I was in love with my boyfriend and counting the days until I next saw him.

The rain carried on. We went for breakfast in a restaurant around the corner.

"No Iddlis" said Greg. "It doesn't matter how early you get here, they always say the Iddlis are finished". We ate tomato ootapams instead: round pancakes with tomato and cheese. Pizza for breakfast.

On the way back to the guest-house, the water was past our ankles.

We went back to sitting on our beds. Somebody had a copy of the Thomas Cook Indian Railway Guide, so we tried to work out the longest railway journey in India. I think it worked out at 3 days, from Madras in the south-east, to Jammu & Kashmir in the north-west Himalayas. Somewhere along the route, it

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