Calder Simon - Irresponsible Traveller : Tales of Scrapes and Narrow Escapes

Ill see you soon, he says, squeezing my hand. In India, hand-squeezing has become our way of kissing in public. I should just go and catch my train but weve had such a nice day together. He quickly glances over his shoulder to see if anyone is looking and then leans forward and plants a kiss on my lips.

See you soon, I say finally, as I let go of his hand and swipe my token across the barrier of the Delhi metro station. He winks and walks away.

I am halfway down the escalator when I feel someone looking at me. I glance over my shoulder and my eyes meet with those of a man in his fifties or sixties standing behind me. I am wearing a vest top and a pashmina. Like a reflex, I adjust my pashmina to make sure my shoulders and chest are covered. I hear the man mutter something under his breath. He steps forward to stand right next to me and turns his head to face mine. He repeats the word, but I cant make it out. A slur in Hindi, probably.

His brown eyes are narrowed with a look of disdain. The skin around them is lined with dozens of fine wrinkles. I fiddle with the zip on my handbag. Dont be intimidated, I think. Ignore him. I look ahead, but I can see his face out of the corner of my eye, staring at me. Ignore him, I tell myself, but then I quickly glance over and see that yes, he is still staring at me. There is a black strap across his chest. I see that it holds a small, curved knife, kept in a red-painted holster at his hip. What the hell? I feel something burn through me, a flash of fear that quickly turns to anger. Anger at being intimidated for no reason, anger that a man at least thirty years older than me with a menacing little knife feels he has the right to come and stand next to me and mutter under his breath. Who does he think he is? I look right back at him. You dont scare me, I think, and we stare at each other until the escalator reaches the ground floor. I look away and smile to myself just to make it clear that he has had no effect on me. I walk to my platform, not bothering to look back.

I check my watch while I wait for the train. Its 10.15 p.m. The hotel Im staying at has an 11 p.m. curfew but its only three metro stops away. I watch the train approaching and then see him, the man with the angry eyes, walk on to the platform, his hands in his pockets, glaring at me.

We both get on to the train through doors a few metres apart. Keen to get away from him, I walk through at least six carriages. I eventually stop and pretend to study the train map above the carriage doors before glancing back, only to see him standing further down the carriage, staring at me. The knife seems bigger than before and the carriage is empty. I feel the electric mix of fear and anger, and march down the train as it leaves the platform and starts pulsing through the veins of the underground.

Why is this train so empty? I wonder, panicking. I glance over my shoulder and see him striding after me. He is no longer looking at me and wears a blas expression as if what he is doing is completely normal and non-threatening. What does he do with that knife? I imagine him cornering me, dragging the curved blade across my face. Oh God. Oh God, I plead, as I approach the end of the train. Where do I go now?

An automated womans voice is saying something. I realise she is announcing our arrival at the next stop. The train pulls into the station and I leap off and practically run down the deserted platform. I look back and see him walking briskly after me, his knife flapping at his side.

I jump back on to the train to confuse him but he follows. He is standing at the end of the carriage and casually loops his hand into an overhead handle. He looks right at me.

The doors begin to close. My heart is racing. I make a dash for it and throw myself through the narrowing gap. I scan the platform. Hes not there. The doors are closed. The train is pulling away. And then through the window I see him and he smiles.

Zoe Efstathiou is an NCTJ-trained journalist who writes freelance travel and beauty features. This story was shortlisted for the Bradt/Independent on Sunday Travel Writing Competition in 2012. Despite her scary encounter on the Delhi metro, Zoe visits India as often as possible, finding her experiences there a great source of inspiration.