Quite a roller-coaster of a day – up, then down, a bit of a loop the loop, then up again!
I had had a bit of a bad night. Months ago, back in England, I had shattered my tooth, requiring dental implants. Here were also some fragments left in my gum, and the dentist had promised to file these down, prior to removing the lot in time. Only he didn’t, and one in particular was razor sharp, a sort of mini Mount Everest, I was catching my tongue on it, and had resolved that it had to be dealt with.
I contacted Aparna, but she was even more ill, so put me on to Yogi. He was, of course, most solicitous, and we set out to the dentist together. I had thought we would be going to a big posh dental practice; I needed to explain in English what I did, and more important did not, want doing. But we walked to a local chap he knew. This man did not speak the greatest English, but I was immediately reassured, for it was clear he knew exactly what I needed. I was put in the chair, and he ground down the offending point, making it all smooth and comfortable. He then would not accept any money. In and out in ten minutes – amazing.
On the way back, Yogi and I stopped at a tailor’s; it was SPA’s regular supplier of their branded clothing, ties, etc. I did ask why we were there, and Yogi said something about getting a cold drink. Which indeed we received: two cold Cokes. I don’t think Yogi knew I was looking for an Indian-style, high-collared jacket, but I thought I would seize the opportunity, and asked if they could make me one. But of course! In next to no time, I had chosen the material, specified the style and details, and been measured up. Another result!
Buoyed by this, and having said goodbye and thank you to Yogi, I went out again, buying a Nepalese football shirt, and celebrating a very good day with a coke and burger in The Burger House, a restaurant I had spotted. I also withdrew some more cash; I would need to pay for the (heavily discounted) jacket sooner or later.
Back home, I was putting the money away in its safe space when I noticed my passport was missing. Aha, I thought, it will still be in my bum bag, which I always wear when travelling. But where was it? I searched the room, panic rising; there were not all that many places to check. Deciding it was not there, I started sending out messages, to Aparna and Yogi. The last time I could actually remember having it was at the Immigration office at the border; I recalled zipping my passport back into its pocket. But after that…?
Aparna searched her house – no luck. The only other possibilities were that it had somehow unclipped itself from my waist. In Aanshika’s dad’s car? Findable. In the tuk tuk? Three days on and with no registration number, definitely not.
In the evening, I went for a walk with Yogi, but it was a bit of a dismal affair, despite the pleasant nature of the walk itself, down to the river, passing groups of women in red and orange returning from their devotions there. We discussed possibilities, what we… I… might have to do. And the walk went on a little too long. I was depressed and angry with myself, and soon enough tired and soaking wet too. I bid Yogi a weary farewell, and returned to my room for a shower.
It was when I reached into the wardrobe and pulled out a clean shirt… and out it tumbled, my black bag. Passport, of course, inside. I had searched the wardrobe, though obviously not well enough, and I had not the slightest recollection of stowing it there. Another round of messages – sorry sorry sorry sorry. And that all too familiar feeling, when finding something you were convinced was lost. Not just relief; sheer elation.
