SETTING OFF
Beyond the doors of the terminal building a mass of people heaved against metal barriers. Men shouted, “Hotel, very good hotel?” or, “You are wanting a taxi?”. The heady smell of curry, perfumes and incense rose above the crowd as they jostled and shoved. Entangled in this mêlée of hot damp bodies scrummaging for space, I tried to fold away my cane. Then Goutam’s voice said, “Nicola?”
Instantly I saw the figure I remembered: small, agile, with masses of bouncy brown curly hair, glasses, a fine moustache, slim except for his paunch. I thought he returned my smile. “Let’s go,” he said. He was concerned to get me out of the clamouring crowd. I placed my hand next to his on the handle of the trolley and followed as he steered. We snaked through the milling people and I snuck my cane into my shoulder bag.
I have always been enthralled by India, even as a child. Images of goddesses and temples with monkeys, elephants and colourfully dressed people crowded my imagination well before I saw pictures of these things or learnt to which part of the world they belonged. As soon as I was able to locate them in India I wanted to go there. But nine years ago, my travel fantasies dissolved when a congenital problem led to the total loss of my sight as I was finishing my degree at university.
It shattered my life at a time when my peers were progressing with their careers and planning their weddings. I broke down and found myself confined to hospital for a year unable to come to terms with what had happened to me. When I came out, I continued my treatment as an outpatient. Living seemed worse than dying but I could not commit myself to either. I continued in a shell-shocked stupor of indecision and hopeless rage. Well-intentioned consolation, comparison, cajolement and encouragement from professionals, friends and family increased my pain, fury and loneliness. I escaped into a world of madness, full of vivid phantasmagoric hallucinations which, however frightening, were less terrible than the dark blind reality they displaced.
From the devastation I discovered small ways that led me back to life. In the following years I busied myself with home-making, professional retraining as an aromatherapist and business building. But I had not forgotten the temples and goddesses and monkeys of my childhood. By autumn 1992, I had become comfortable but stuck in my home, my success at work and the reassurance of a few good friends. I seldom ventured beyond the safety of my daily life, having a morning swim, working from home, walking my dog with a friend, and going to bed by seven in time forThe Archers, my favourite radio soap. I had constructed these routines to
