Henna for the Broken Hearted Read online

  Tess's parting comment made it much less sad than it could have been. ‘Krista finally tried washing her bum with water after going to the loo!’

  Daisy was horrified. I giggled. Aryan was amused by the ordinary Indian things that amused us. Sucharita would have to be pleased with how much we'd adapted.

  The previous night Aryan and I had been to an all-night party. We'd again ended up talking about our relationship.

  ‘I think you know by now that I really love you. If it wasn't for what's inside you, I wouldn't still be with you. That's how I know that I love you. But I don't feel responsible enough for you. I still need to grow up. There are things in my life I need to sort out. We should concentrate on ourselves and our careers,’ he declared boldly.

  Even though what he was saying was right, it felt like my heart was being ripped out. But, really, what future could we have together?

  I went out to the terrace to get some air. I stood there, looking over the Kolkata skyline and the chai-wala (tea vendor) who'd set up his stand on the roadside. It was the dawning of another day, one of my last in Kolkata. The pre-monsoonal air was so wet and heavy on my body, like my emotions. Aryan and I loved each other but we weren't supposed to be together. This chapter in my life had brought me so much, but it was time to move on. The good times, as we knew them, were coming to an end for all of us.

  The unbearable weather also seemed to be coming to an end. Thunderstorms were becoming more frequent, accompanied by temperature drops, booming thunder and power outages. Streets flooded with water; rats could be seen swimming along in the current.

  In the mid-afternoon, the light dropped so much that it felt like evening. In our apartment I lit candles and incense, and felt strangely relaxed as I sat by the window and watched the storm. The monsoon was due any day, but no one could predict with certainty when it would arrive, just like I couldn't predict with certainty how my life was going to turn out.

  Two nights before I was due to leave Kolkata, fate again intervened. I was supposed to meet Panna at Roxy but, feeling listless and lethargic, struggled to find the energy to get ready. I was half an hour late by the time I arrived. The queue to get in was long, and who should be there but Emily. I'd thought she was in Kerala.

  ‘I'm heading back to Australia in a couple of days,’ I sadly told her.

  ‘Really? Do you think you'll return to India?’

  ‘I just don't know. I'd like to but I'd need a good reason,’ I despaired.

  ‘Well, I want to hire someone to look after the guesthouse in Varkala for the tourist season. My priorities have changed and I don't want to go back there. I need some time to make up my mind about whether I want to keep leasing the property. Would you be interested?’

  I was completely astounded. I'd often fantasised about running a guesthouse. And I loved the beach. It was too perfect.

  ‘Are you serious? Of course I'm interested!’ I spoke excitedly.

  Could I actually go through with it? It was a huge decision. I would have to resign from my job. We agreed to talk about it some more once I was back in Melbourne.

  I told Aryan about the proposal.

  ‘Take a chance and come with me to Varkala instead of going back to Mumbai. You could play your music in the beach shacks there.’

  ‘I'll think about it. Let's see.’

  The afternoon before I left, Aryan disappeared from the apartment and came back with a sari.

  ‘Here, every girl should have one,’ he handed it to me. Made out of deep maroon and gold silk, it was the most exquisite gift I'd ever received. It almost seemed too delicate to wear. I wondered how he managed to choose something so lovely.

  ‘I gave a similar one to my mother a few years ago and she liked it. So, I thought you might too,’ he admitted.

  We went up to the rooftop to enjoy our last evening together.

  ‘Please come back,’ Aryan said simply.

  Our brave plans to go our separate ways had faded now that there was a possible opportunity to stay together.

  Leaving Kolkata wasn't as traumatic as I expected. Aryan and I decided to pretend it wasn't happening.

  ‘I'll see you in a few months,’ I assured him, even though we knew that there was a very real chance that we'd never see each other again.

  ‘I want to keep your Saraswati and you can keep my Ganesh. We'll put them together again if we ever meet up,’ he said by way of goodbye.

  There was nothing more to say. We'd said it all.

  Beach Girl for a Season

  THE numbness lasted for over two weeks. Gradually, it was displaced by feelings of loss and directionlessness. I couldn't make up my mind about what to do. Did I really want to quit my comfortable job and return to India? It would mean completely separating myself from my old life. There would be no going back. Was I capable of it? I wasn't sure. No matter how much I wanted to reinvent myself, the prospect was daunting.

  I returned to work to try and make a go of it. Quickly, I realised that although I earned plenty of money and lived well, it just wasn't enough anymore. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life confined to a profession that didn't inspire me, accumulating possessions and being in an environment that didn't appreciate or understand my growing spirituality.

  ‘Be careful,’ my boss warned me, when I spoke to him about returning to India. I knew he didn't want me to leave. ‘It could be risky, and you need to be able to continue to support yourself.’ Cutting ties with the place where I'd worked for ten years would be a big change. Yet, I'd been away from the office for six months, effectively putting distance between myself and my job. I'd discovered a whole new world away from it. Plus, the office was going through changes of its own. A new head had been appointed. People were coming and going. It seemed that transformation was taking place everywhere.

  I couldn't overlook the fact that I'd been presented with an opportunity that might bring me closer to discovering my life's purpose. I'd be a fool not to take it. My subconscious thought so too. It filled my dreams with scenes of a palm-lined beach. I didn't need to worry about money; I would have free accommodation in India and Emily would pay me a basic Indian wage. Friends would continue to live in my townhouse in Melbourne. All I really needed to do was resign, pack my bags and go.

  I spoke to Aryan on the phone almost every day. The conversations were long. We laughed and cried as usual. He'd grown more frustrated at work and was keen to leave. It seemed both our circumstances were pushing us in the same direction.

  ‘A friend of mine said it's necessary to take chances in life,’ he said.

  I decided to throw caution to the wind. This time, he joined me.

  *

  ‘Ten bags, including three large ones,’ Aryan counted and announced.

  The essentials of our lives had been compressed into these bags, which now occupied the roof, trunk and most of the interior of the taxi. We were heading to Kolkata's Howrah railway station. There we would take a long-distance Indian Railways train to Varkala in Kerala, a two-night, two-day journey.

  As the taxi pulled up at the station, a coolie (porter) swiftly unloaded the luggage from the car and effortlessly hoisted one of the large bags onto his head. Other coolies appeared and did the same, while I watched in amazement at their agility and strength. With a quick glance at our ticket, they adeptly located our carriage and compartment. Our luggage was duly deposited there.

  We were travelling in a three-tiered, air-conditioned carriage, commonly known as 3A. These carriages are divided into open-plan compartments, with six beds in each. The beds are stacked vertically in three tiers on either side of the compartments. During the day, the middle beds must be folded down flat against the compartment walls to allow passengers to sit on the lower beds. 3A offered a significant step up in comfort from the raucous sleeper class, which accommodated most of India's thrifty middle class. Nevertheless, the layout was the same. There was absolutely no privacy, and no escape from becoming intimately acquainted with the daily routi
nes of strangers.

  Women reached for food they'd cooked and crammed into silver tiffin containers for the journey. Men reached for packs of playing cards. Shoes were taken off and bodies relaxed.

  It wasn't long before our excessive pile of luggage and contrasting coloured skin attracted attention.

  ‘You are coming from where? And are going to where? What will you do there? And for how long? And who is she?’ the questions started.

  ‘She's a family friend,’ Aryan told the inquisitive interrogators.

  I was dismayed. A family friend? His family didn't even know about my existence! Why did he hide the fact that we were together? Was he embarrassed?

  When I asked him later, he assured me it was the easiest answer. I didn't know it then, but telling the truth would only prompt even more unwanted questions and perhaps disapproval. Up until then, my relationship with Aryan had felt normal to me, as it would have anywhere else. But the people we spent most of our time with in Kolkata were hardly representative of Indian society in general – most Indians were much more conservative. Indians didn't have relationships with foreigners. And, as I would later learn, according to acceptable social norms, unmarried couples didn't traipse around the country together like we did.

  With nothing much to do, people started retiring early for the night. I climbed into my bunk bed on the upper row and prepared to sleep. A stout, moustachioed Indian man lay opposite me, less than a metre away. He punctured the air with a curt fart as he settled himself in for the night. The elderly Sikh gentleman below me carefully removed his daywear turban, and replaced it with a more comfortable night version before reclining. As the lights dimmed, the snoring started. First, it was a solitary sound. Before long, a cacophony of snorers from every compartment joined in. I resisted the urge to leap out of bed and beat them all with pillows.

  The gentle rocking of the train did its best to lull me into a slumber. But it didn't seem long enough before the drone of the early morning chai-wala woke me.

  ‘Chai, chai, chaiya, chai,’ he chanted loudly as he made his way through the carriage, serving the sweet milky tea that Indians so adore.

  The morning brought a rush for the handbasins as toothbrushes, soap and towels were retrieved from luggage. A few Indian men had decided to partially disrobe to perform their ablutions, swanning around topless in simple lungis (cloth worn like a sarong).

  The train had both Indian squat toilets and western ones. The toilets in 3A were cleaned, although not frequently enough. The theory was, if the user aimed well, the waste would drop directly on the railway tracks through the visible hole. The reality was different though. It was one thing to see, from the window of the train, the smiling brown bottoms of guys openly relieving themselves alongside the railway line. But it was another to be confronted with human excrement in close proximity, all over the toilet bowl. Amusingly, one of my Indian friends likened the display of bare bottoms to the shameless shows put on by dancing male peacocks. Mor nach raha hai (the peacock is dancing), he called it. A lot of peacocks liked to dance early in the morning in India.

  Aryan loved the train environment. He happily roamed through the carriages, bringing back all kinds of interesting snacks from the vendors. Fortunately for him, he could do it inconspicuously. I, on the other hand, stood out like the proverbial sore thumb and preferred to remain in the compartment. The changing scenery revealed a rural India untouched by progress. Women toiled in fields. Herds of buffaloes and sheep roamed freely. Dung, shaped and dried into perfectly round saucer shapes, was used as fuel and insulation. The appearance of the people on the train also changed as we moved south. The colour of their skin deepened, moustaches became thicker and hair bushier. Many men also donned the traditional Keralan dress, a white mundu worn in a similar manner to a lungi.

  At one of the main stations, I got off the train with Aryan to have a look around. There was no hint of what its exterior looked like. Some railway stations in India had glorious colonial architecture, while others were unremarkable. Yet, all platforms looked the same; shabby, soiled and congested with vendors, passengers and porters. Passengers inundated the carriages and all tried to embark at once.

  ‘Jaldi, jaldi, aage, aage (Fast, fast, forward, forward),’ they yelled, as they carelessly pushed and shoved one another in a rough scramble. Steel trunks full of belongings and heavily laden jute sacks were used as weapons in the battle to board. Eventually, when people and luggage were all on the train, peace was restored. Heads wobbled in acknowledgement of fellow passengers, and everyone unwound for the rest of the journey.

  I soon discovered that southern Indians are particularly enthusiastic head-wobblers. This curious gesture, which looks like a cross between a nod and shake, has a multitude of uses. The non-verbal equivalent of ‘accha’, it can mean anything from ‘good’ to ‘I understand’, depending on the speed of the wobble. But most importantly, it's a universal gesture that unites all Indians. Cultural and language barriers miraculously dissolve with a wobble. I'd never seen Aryan wobble his head before but all of a sudden he was doing it like he'd done it all his life. (Actually, it's very difficult not to return the gesture if someone wobbles their head at you.)

  In the dark of the night, our train finally pulled into Varkala station. Frantically, we struggled to offload our ten bags in the two minutes that the train would remain there. In our favour, our stop was near the end of the line so there weren't many people to get in our way.

  Then the train departed, leaving us standing in a daze on the platform.

  We'd arrived.

  Aryan and I had easily picked up our relationship where we'd left off. Seeing him for the first time in two months had been overwhelming. He met me at the airport, his heart beating fast. We looked at each other in wonder, incredulous at this crazy-brave adventure we were about to go on. Love gave us courage.

  It was only on the windy road to our hotel in Varkala that Aryan and I sighed in relief.

  ‘This place is just like Goa, but less developed,’ he commented. Perhaps we weren't so crazy to come here after all. Perhaps it would all work out okay. We'd find out soon enough what living here for eight months would be like.

  As we discovered in the light of day, Varkala was indeed a beach paradise. Its feature was a long winding stretch of cliff, with views that extended over the Arabian Sea. A paved footpath ran along the length of the cliff, bordered by coconut palms, touristy shops, beach shacks, hotels and guesthouses. Nestled at the bottom of the cliff was an elongated stretch of sparkling beach, reached by steps leading down from the clifftop.

  Emily's guesthouse turned out to be three simple but bright and spaciously constructed bungalows on a large block of land set back from the beach. Coconut palms, leafy green plants and hibiscus flowers were in abundance around the property. The ravages of the recent southwest monsoon could be seen everywhere, and quite a bit of restoration work would be needed to make it habitable. The bungalows had to be re-thatched and the long grass cleared. Emily had been in the process of expanding the guesthouse, and there was also a semi-complete outdoor kitchen and eating area that needed to be finished off.

  Aryan and I moved into one of the bungalows. Daisy had also decided to join us in Varkala, and would be taking one of the others. That left one bungalow for guests. Most of the time, it would be occupied by a couple from Italy who came and stayed for a few months every year. All I had to do was keep the property clean and manage the finances. It was September, and the tourist season wasn't due to start until December, so we had plenty of time to settle in. Shopkeepers had arrived but the rest of the folk were predominantly locals.

  Tess stopped by on her way to Thailand. Cliona and her Indian boyfriend, who were travelling around India together, also visited. Goodbyes had become meaningless as we continued to reunite so many times.

  Waking up to the sight and sound of nature every morning was a joy. I actually wanted to go outside, unlike in Kolkata. Aryan and I had leisurely breakfasts at the beach
shacks, enjoying the salty sea air and ocean view. Some afternoons, we'd share a beer or two and stroll along the cliff, exploring the shops that sold everything from clothes to spices. In the evenings, candlelight flickered over dinner, as the powerful waves pounded the rocks below in the darkness.

  Self-proclaimed ‘God's Own Country’, the state of Kerala is like a world where time and tradition have stood still. Its palm-fringed canals, verdant mountains and fertile farming land offer a tranquillity that's difficult to find anywhere else. Silence and solitude calm the soul. At the same time, the state remains relatively undeveloped and lacks the infrastructure of other parts of the country. Bicycles are a common form of transport. People still grow their own vegetables, catch their own fish, prepare oil from coconut and grind their own sun-dried spices. The people of Kerala also keenly distinguish themselves from the rest of India, particularly by speaking the state language, Malayalam, as opposed to Hindi. Many locals are involved in seafood, agriculture, and handicraft and coir production, while the more enterprising ones have jumped aboard the tourist industry, which has grown rapidly since the 1980s.

  While Varkala Cliff was undeniably picturesque, Varkala Town was a different matter altogether. Located a ten-minute drive away from the Cliff, it was dusty, noisy and nondescript. The town had a few small supermarkets, strings of small specialty shops and numerous roadside fruit and vegetable vendors. Right in the centre of town was the only alcohol store. Depending on the time of day or night, a queue of eager men could stretch around the corner. Of course, no women were in sight.

  The difficulty of finding what I wanted in the town meant that it didn't take me long to develop a dislike for it. Staff unnervingly followed me around in the supermarket and constantly interrupted my attempts to browse. Once I scoured the shelves looking for roll-on antiperspirant.

  ‘Oh no, madam, you will have to go to a Fancy Store for that,’ one hovering employee informed me. A fancy store? What was a fancy store? Tramping from store to store to look for supplies in the heat and crowd quickly made me wilt.