Malti’s children, now grown and busy with their own lives, decided their mother should “take a quiet break” and attend a seniors’ meditation retreat in Rishikesh, the holy city on the banks of Ganga. The place had been advertised extensively on TV and radio.

“You know what’s worse than growing old?” Malti had snorted when her son broke the news. “Being constantly reminded that one is growing old! And what about my husband? He’ll miss me while I’m away!”

But when Malti’s protests were ignored, and there seemed no escape, her longtime friend and neighbor, Usha, decided to join her. It was the least she could do for Malti—and with her pension and no one to answer to, she figured, why not?

*

On the first day of the retreat, Malti and Usha were woken up at 5 a.m. for a sunrise session. Malti, who wasn’t a morning person, fell asleep mid-chant and snored so loudly that the instructor had to pause to wake her up. On the other hand, Usha spent her time fidgeting and wondering why anyone would voluntarily subject themselves to such prolonged silence—not moving, not speaking, just breathing in and out.

By lunchtime, they were ready to revolt. The food was healthy—too healthy. Usha stared at the steamed vegetables and oats with sheer disbelief. “This is not food. It’s torture,” Malti cried.

Dinner offered no reprieve either. More boiled vegetables. More cereal. It was an insult to their taste buds.

*

On the second day, Malti groaned as she stretched out on her bed. “My back! I don’t need a squishy mattress. My bones need a firm bed! Didn’t sleep a wink.”

Usha, equally disgruntled, followed her friend to the front desk, but an hour later, they returned defeated. The staff had listened politely, nodded sympathetically, and then suggested they “embrace the discomfort as part of the healing process.” Malti was livid. “The only thing that needs healing is my patience,” she huffed.

As if this wasn’t enough, a young boy incessantly knocked on their door to call them to attend the evening yoga session. He was specially sent over to walk them to the yoga room.

“Now, ladies and gents, let’s move into viparitakarani asana,” the instructor announced. “Lie on your back and rest your legs against the wall. It’s great for circulation and relaxation.”

Usha perked up. “This one sounds easy.” But soon, she was struggling to hoist her legs up. She flailed, trying to push herself closer to the wall, but got stuck halfway.

Malti guffawed. “You look like an overturned turtle.”

“Aiyyo!” Usha shrieked, finally lying sideways on her mat. “I think my body has already achieved moksha.”

*

By the third day, things had taken a turn for the worse. To encourage socialization, the organizers placed Malti and Usha in different rooms. The idea was to help the seniors “mingle” with others, but by now, Malti and Usha’s patience had worn thin.

“First, they take away our food, then our sleep, and now our sanity?” Usha whispered to Malti at breakfast, sneaking smuggled packets of sugar. “I don’t want to share my room with that Geeta,” she said grimly. “I am positive she’s trying to get the attention of what’s his name—Suresh—nah Rakesh—uh the Rishi Kapoor. See how she starts complaining about her eyesight when he’s around to get him to hold her hand? Might as well get a room together!”

Malti giggled. Usha looked at her with a lopsided smile. She had an idea! And as if Malti could read her friend’s mind, her eyes gleamed.

So, as the retreat carried on with its mindful walks and gratitude circles, Malti and Usha plotted their escape. All they needed was someone to aid them.

They approached the boy who had fetched them the evening before. He looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else. During their brief walk, he’d mentioned he was from a nearby village and worked at the retreat to support his family. He almost spat when the women made their proposition. “You want me to take you out?” He eyed them as if they’d lost their minds.

“Shh!” Usha hushed him like the walls had ears. “Yes or no? We’ll pay double your day’s salary.”

“But how will you get out unnoticed?”

Usha beamed. “I’ve seen you driving that rickety car. Meet us behind our building in an hour. Tell them there’s an emergency and you need to leave early. Rest, leave it on us.”

*

Malti and Usha set their grand plan into motion. Usha called the staff to inform them that Malti had taken ill. Right on cue, Malti clutched her abdomen and coughed so hard that even her denture fell out. She moaned, “Hai prabhu, raksha karo!”

“She should stay in my room so I can take care,” Usha added solemnly.

The manager looked concerned but agreed promptly. “Your health is our priority, madamji. We’re here if you need anything.”

Once in the clear, Usha and Malti tiptoed out of the retreat from the backside, ducking behind bushes and pillars like spies. The boy, whose name they learned was Hari, was already in his battered car, nervously inspecting around. “Get in, quick!”

*

The first stop was the famous suspension bridge. Malti and Usha stood at the entrance, staring at the narrow, swaying expanse of iron cables. Sensing Malti’s apprehension, Usha gestured at Hari to lead the way. “Remember how you’d stand on the edge of that Columbus ship every time at the mela? You’ll be fine.”

Halfway across, the bridge wobbled as a group of children ran past. Malti shrieked and clutched Usha’s arm. “This is it! Tell my dear husband I love him!” Once on solid ground, she touched it in gratitude. 

They spent the next few hours in the local market. Malti picked out a scarf to shield her head from the biting gusts of wind, while Usha bought a pair of sunglasses that she said made her look “twenty years younger.” Hari convinced them to try on some ridiculously large, strange-looking hats. The trio roared with amusement.

By noon, their stomachs were growling louder than Ganga’s rapids. Hari led them to a dhaba where they feasted until the women leaned back, patting their bellies and belching unapologetically. And by sunset, they were dipping their feet in the water, soaking the cool breeze by the ghats and surrounding hills. Bells rang, devotees chanted, and hundreds of floating diyas illuminated the river. A priest walking by offered them one each to make a wish.

Usha went first. She turned to Malti dotingly. “I wish to be your friend in my next life, too,” she said, caressing her face. With a gentle motion, she released the lamp into the river. They watched as it drifted away.

Next, it was Hari’s turn, but he dithered. “Sounds silly, but I wish to start my travel company.”

Usha waved a hand. “Silly? Why, boy? Dreams are worth fighting for! Look at us—two seventy-year-olds having the time of our lives.” Hari laughed. He let his lamp go. 

Malti folded her hands. “I’d like to meet my husband–he’s waiting. But for now, some pakoras and chai would do!”

Usha rolled her eyes. “My dear friend and her neverending tea woes.” Malti nodded sheepishly. And, as if the universe concurred, a chaiwala called nearby. 

Soon, Usha was sipping ravenously from her kullhad. She clinked her cup and dunked a crispy pakora. “This,” she declared with a mouthful, “tastes phenomenal!” 

*

On their way back, Usha insisted she wanted to sit in the passenger seat. Malti, exhausted from the day, snored easily in the back.

“You think they found out we’re missing?” Usha asked nonchalantly.

Hari shrugged. “But don’t think they’d be willing to mess with you two!” Usha chortled. The rasp made her ankles and back ache, but the long, winding road ahead cloaked her in a quiet balminess. “What a day, though!” he remarked. “I hope to have a friendship like yours when I grow older.”

“Well, we’ve been friends for over forty years–” Usha smiled and drifted into a halcyon memory. Then, her expression faltered. “But lately, Malti forgets. It began with small things, but now she believes her late husband is waiting for her at home.”

Hari winced. “She doesn’t remember?”

“Sometimes does, sometimes doesn’t–” Usha placidly exhaled. “She might soon forget everything. I wanted one last adventure while she still remembers me. Thank you.”

Hari remained silent for a long time before finally speaking. “Glad I could help.”

When they reached the retreat, everything appeared undisturbed. Even the watchguards sat slumped in their chairs. Usha gently took Malti’s hand and guided her to the room. Within moments, they were both fast asleep. Snug. Unbothered by senescence.

The next morning, as the retreat concluded and the women departed, a small parcel was left in Hari’s name. Inside was not double, not triple, but twenty times his day’s earnings and a note read: Towards your travel company.

***