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71 felt relieved to find someone she knew, and tagged along. She was uncomfortable and out of place, which in most countries attracts unsavory characters. A beggar came to her asking for money and to get rid of him quickly she gave him a few rupees. He thanked her by clasping his hands to his forehead and touch- ing her hands. As soon as he turned away, she applied anti-bacterial cream to her palms. Back at the hotel, she called her interpreter. “She wants to say thank you,” he said. “You were her savior.” The next day, however, she was out of com- mission, in bed for two days with stomach problems. When she finally emerged from her hotel room, she wondered (through her inter- preter) if I had also gotten sick from drinking the water. I said no, all I drink is beer or gin and tonic. Whenever other filmmakers and I left the cinema, mobs of students circled us ask- ing for our autographs like we were movie stars. Even the paan walla — the man who sold betal leaves meant for chewing, who we stopped and spoke to every day — asked for autographs and a group picture to hang in his paan shack across from the festival grounds. A couple days later, I skipped the screen- ings to meet Dr. Guruva Reddy, the relative from my Portland connection who worked at the local Sunshine Hospital. He sent his driver to pick me up at the hotel at 1 p.m. to have lunch. I waited in the lobby for over an hour while the driver waited in a white, army tank- like car for me to come out. Dr. Reddy brought his assistant, who was also his niece. Mrs. Reddy was short, pudgy and friendly. Her exposed stomach hung over the bottom part of her sari, which was red, matching her tika, the dot between the eye- brows worn by married women. She carried what she called a “handy phone,” which she used as a prop whenever she was gesturing. As she motioned, the dozen thin glass bangles circling her hairy forearm jingled. Mrs. Reddy picked me up the next day in the same white Ambassador to take us to the second screening of my film. On the way, feel- ing peckish, she ordered the driver to stop at a restaurant. “But we’re going to be late,” I argued. “They’ll never start on time,” she said. We missed the beginning. Indian time, I suspected, was a myth. The film was halfway through when we walked into the cinema. The audience seemed to enjoy it; they were flash- ing the screen with laser pointers. After the screening, she took me to visit her friend, Dr. Daggubati Ramanaidu, who is in the Guinness Book of World Records for pro- ducing the most films (over 100). His mansion overlooked the river and slums of Hyderabad. His servant, dressed in a white dhoti like his master, was a boy of about 15. He brought us tea before the cast and crew screening of his latest film, a Bollywood-like song and dance film, in the private screening room. Later, Mrs. Reddy dropped me off at the ho- tel, where I invited her for a drink. She had a sweet lassi and I a Kingfisher. “Did you hear about the accident with the schoolgirls in the bus?” she asked. “Yes, it was in the paper.” “The girls are in our hospital. May I ask you a favor? Would you mind coming tomorrow or the next day to visit them, to cheer them up? “Yes,” I replied without hesitation. “They will appreciate that.” “What should I bring?” I asked. “Nuts?” I had heard from Nalini that Indians love cashews. The next day at the Sunshine Hospital, Mrs. Reddy pushed open the door leading to the floor where the girls were staying. The rooms had eight beds, four on each side. Mrs. Reddy introduced me to every girl, whom she knew by name. I had to stop and take a deep breath. I was shaking; I wanted to cry, but leaving was not an option. Those beautiful young girls, all aged around 14 or 16, were disfigured, the plastic masks on their faces having melted onto their faces. Some were trying to smile; others had a hard time speaking. Maimed for life, they looked like the Indian women that you sometimes saw on the streets, victims of acid throwing, a common occurrence in India. I tried to say something funny or entertaining but my throat was dry, and my words were not coming out the way they were supposed to. After distributing my small presents, we walked to another room. My heart sank again. Some girls were bandaged up, others badly scarred. Yet they all had unbeatable optimism. We went from room to room. I was starting to feel more at ease, able to talk about sil- ly things and make the girls laugh. Then we came to another door. As I was about to open it, Mrs. Reddy grabbed my hand. “Not this one,” she said. “She is in a coma and will not make it through the night.” MoRE InFo this and other of Jean Poulot’s travel stories will appear in his upcoming book, “traveling the Alphabet: From Afghanistan to Zimbabwe and 24 countries in-between,” due out in 2014.