Henna for the Broken Hearted Read online

  Michael tried a ten-day Vipassana silent meditation course but had to leave halfway through because it was too intense. A friend recommended a psychotherapist, and we went together to see if there was any hope for our marriage.

  It wasn't pleasant. Michael, obviously anguished, had a long list of grievances against me. I was too controlling. I only saw things in black and white. I wasn't passionate. I wasn't spontaneous. I didn't understand him. I didn't share his interests. I was bad tempered. He didn't want to work through our problems together. He didn't think it was possible for me to change anyway. He couldn't even have coffee with me in the morning because I didn't drink it!

  There was an upside. While some people turn to drugs and alcohol to drown their sorrows, I'd already been there. I stopped partying. I also stopped shopping. I wanted to do away with everything that reminded me of my past. I became very reflective and introspective. My agony slapped me in the face and forced me to look in the mirror, introducing me to my real self. I immersed myself in spiritual and self-development books. I wrote down all the issues Michael had with me and evaluated them. Which were legitimate and which was he using to justify his behaviour?

  No doubt, I was controlling at times and very rarely spontaneous. Our life ran to a strict schedule, with every social event planned weeks in advance. While partying gave me confidence to be someone else, it came at the expense of who I really was – someone genuine, emotional, trustworthy and who needed solitude to regroup. The outrageous party person I'd been had destroyed my soul. With the ground ripped out from underneath me, I realised that I no longer wanted to impress people or prove anything to them. All I wanted was to stop doubting myself and finally accept me for who I was. To be more independent and confident. To make myself a better person.

  What is a crisis but an opportunity for change? If I embraced the pain, maybe it would lead me to a new path in life that I could paint a new canvas with.

  At work, I became very withdrawn. I didn't want to see or talk to anyone. It was a struggle just to be in the office. I couldn't pretend to be cheery. Neither could I explain what was going on in my personal life. My problem came to light under shameful circumstances one day. The boss was away. It was a colleague's birthday and we all went out to lunch. We were a festive group, and there was the usual generous consumption of alcohol, including tequila. I had earned myself a reputation in the past as a force to be reckoned with when it came to drinking tequila. That wasn't the case this time.

  Back in the office, I started feeling sick, really sick. I crawled under my desk to try and sleep it off. Around 45 minutes later I woke up in a daze. I couldn't move but the tequila insisted on coming up. I vomited all over the floor under my desk. Not knowing what else to do, I called Michael on my mobile to come and rescue me. He came and carried me away. The saga didn't end there. In the lobby, hysteria welled up inside me and boiled over. I was panic stricken and incoherent. An ambulance was called and I was taken to hospital. They were concerned about my mental health and didn't want me to do anything harmful.

  My recollections of the hours spent in the hospital are hazy. I remember bright lights and chattering voices. One of those voices told me to pull down my dress, which was crumpled and immodestly heading towards my waist as I lay on the stretcher. At the time, it struck me as an absurd thing to say. Wasn't nudity an everyday occurrence in hospitals? Besides, unlike other patients, I was wearing underpants and opaque tights.

  As midnight approached, I remembered I was supposed to be a bridesmaid at my best friend's wedding the next day. I needed to get out of hospital as soon as possible. The doctor who attended me shared my same offbeat sense of humour, so I encouraged him to regale me with hospital emergency-room stories. Seeing that I was laughing, he pronounced me sane enough to go home.

  Michael was extremely concerned about my wellbeing, and his remorse prompted him to suggest that we move to Queensland together. I felt a flicker of relief and hope. He did still love me and wanted to be with me after all.

  A day later he called and said he couldn't do it.

  The months passed. Michael couldn't let go of either me or Kimberly. He alternated between blaming me and himself. On the days he felt vulnerable he was tearful, said he missed me, saw many positive changes in me and wanted to work things out. On the days his barrier was up he was tense, said that in his heart he had moved on, didn't have what it would take to fix things between us and was driven a lot by guilt over what he did to me. His oscillations were tearing me apart emotionally, but I was powerless to turn him away when he phoned. I had little experience in dealing with relationship break-ups, and my life seemed incomplete without him. I wanted to beg him to sort himself out and make everything better but I didn't. It would only pressure him, and he seemed incapable of change anyway.

  My task was to remain detached and to keep the focus on improving myself. Then he'd see the difference and want to come back of his own accord. I craved for the opportunity to confront Kimberly and to get closure so I could move on. Miraculously, the universe conspired to grant me my wish.

  I met a couple of good friends for dinner after work one evening. They had missed their train home to Geelong, so we headed to the pub opposite Flinders Street station to pass the time until the next train came. I noticed her soon after we walked in. She was in a corner surrounded by colleagues and had no way of escaping.

  Like a puppet, I walked over to her. ‘Hello Kimberly, what a surprise to see you after so long. How are you?’

  She squirmed.

  As I turned to leave, I addressed her colleagues, ‘By the way, did you know she's having an affair with my husband?’

  That was enough for me, but not for my feisty friend. While I stood there trembling, she ran out of the pub and across Swanston Street yelling abuse at Kimberly as she fled. It felt like an outlandish scene from a movie, not my life.

  I was living an unending nightmare. I had no idea of the direction my life was going in. I felt like I was treading water, but barely at that.

  Michael talked about divorce. ‘I want to know what it feels like to be truly free.’

  He wanted to sell both of the houses we had bought in Queensland. ‘I never wanted to live in the Noosa house anyway,’ he claimed.

  That said, I didn't oppose him. I was thoroughly confused by his confusion, how he sometimes wanted to be with me and not at other times. Along with the houses went my dream for the future. Nothing that was left in my life inspired me. I felt uncertain, hollow and directionless.

  At work, I arranged to take long-service leave. My boss was very understanding, but I felt that I couldn't continue to be there. I needed time away to regain my health and to heal. I needed to rediscover myself. After ten years, I was entitled to three months' leave at full pay or six months at half-pay. I took the six months.

  I stayed home the first month. Time flew by, but none of the days was easy. I was mentally exhausted and struggled to keep it together. I wanted to sit down and cry and yell and run to someone – anyone – and ask them to take away the pain.

  Then an old friend from university needed somewhere to live and moved into the downstairs bedroom. It felt incredibly good to have someone in the house. We cooked together, listened to music, danced, drank red wine late into the night and went on road trips.

  My spirits lifted. I grew stronger. Gradually, with the distraction, my anxiety started receding, as did my need for the pills. My friend's presence was exactly what I needed, not just for the company, but because his personality forced me to confront a lot of the issues I had about myself. He was very independent, decisive, accepting of himself and stubborn. He had little patience with my wallowing, and often got annoyed with me for constantly comparing myself with him and others, and for thinking I was inferior. He just wanted me to give myself a break. He also wanted me to develop my own strength, and had the knack of disappearing every time I started becoming too reliant on him. I knew he was right, but it was tough all the same.

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sp; Michael resurfaced again, and so began another cycle of blame and recrimination. And as quickly as he reappeared, he disappeared again. Tired of being buffeted by these emotional waves, I decided I needed a complete change of environment. To move forward, I needed to throw myself totally out of my comfort zone and open myself up to new possibilities. It couldn't happen here, with constant reminders of the life I had once led. Besides, another Christmas was approaching, and I couldn't face the harrowing memories of the previous year.

  I'd never been anywhere by myself before. A trip alone would help me grow, help me discover the blessings and purpose that seemed hidden in my life. I chose India for its unrivalled ability to challenge me, but looking back I think it was India that chose me. I'd been there twice before with Michael. We visited both the north and the south. I found it infectious. The contrasting crumble of Old Delhi and the orderly New Delhi, the regal splendour of Rajasthan, sacred Varanasi with its mystical rituals revealed openly along the Ganges riverside, the luminous Taj Mahal, extreme Mumbai, the spiritual merging of three seas at Kanyakumari and the hedonistic beaches of Goa. Everywhere, India teemed with life and paradoxes.

  Like everything else I did, I had been meticulous when planning our trips. Daily itineraries were prepared, hotels and train tickets booked in advance. It was quite a contrast to how most backpackers saw India, but I didn't want to leave anything to chance.

  Of course, India made sure that despite my extensive arrangements, things still went awry. Taxi drivers took us to the wrong hotels, trains were late and people gave us incorrect directions. We were lied to, cheated and sometimes even found ourselves stranded. Yet, it was during some of these moments that I discovered a wonderful sense of liberation.

  Unable to get a taxi from the Ellora Caves to Aurangabad one day, the only option had been to pile into a local jeep. Our backpacks were thrown onto the roof. Inside, twice as many people than seats were crammed together, the smell of sweat masked by sticks of burning incense jammed into a little holder on the dashboard that sat next to a Ganesh idol. Hindi music blared from the speakers. The driver dodged other vehicles, people and cows.

  I was mesmerised. India pushed me to let go and adapt, while the country's cultural clichés sucked me in and enveloped me. Ancient scriptures. Reincarnation. Snake charmers. Gods with multiple heads and arms. Curry. Chaos. Smiling people with few possessions. And all those holy cows.

  To me, India felt like an old but unpredictable friend; one whose behaviour I could never be sure of, but liked anyway. Its allure was nebulous, but had a lot to do with the sense of possibility the country offered. While I felt that life was too immense and I needed to control it, in India it was the opposite. In a country addicted to religion, people put themselves in God's hands. They had faith in a higher power and believed that it could turn their fortunes at any time. I didn't – but that would change. As a result they spent a great deal of time engaging in rituals to please the gods. They even believed that man could become god, self-realised, through the practice of yoga and meditation.

  For this trip, I decided to spend five weeks in Kolkata – chosen because I was yet to visit that city – doing volunteer work and giving something back. It would take my mind off my woes and it wouldn't hurt for me to be truly humbled by those less fortunate than me.

  Michael didn't react well to my plans.

  ‘I've made a mistake, please let's try again,’ he begged. He even phoned my parents.

  ‘We'll talk when I get back,’ I told him.

  I left my friend in charge of the house, packed my bag and boarded a flight into the unknown.

  Alone but not Lonely

  A COMBINATION of fear, apprehension and excitement gripped me as the plane began its descent into Delhi. I wished someone special was sitting beside me to share the forthcoming adventure with. Yet, at the same time I was aware it was something I had to do for myself, on my own, to grow. And, just perhaps, to grow up.

  India announced itself as soon as I stepped off the plane and made my way to the domestic terminal for my flight to Kolkata. The most recognisable reminder was the pungent, heavy air. It was winter, a season notorious for pollution and smog trapped between the upper and lower layers of the atmosphere. My nostrils welcomed it.

  To a girl from Australia, the place fulfilled the definition of exotic, and left no doubt as to exactly where I was. Always absorbing, often confounding, but never boring. Love it, hate it, it's impossible to remain ambivalent about India. The sights, sounds and smells are so intrusive they cannot be ignored. Jostling crowds, blaring horns, the grate of rapid-fire Hindi, clanging of temple bells, cries of street vendors, brightly coloured saris, flashes of gold and the sweet smell of jasmine.

  The shuttle bus to the domestic terminal was waiting near a carpark curiously designated for VVIPs (Very, Very Important Persons). Were there so many VIPs in India that another, more exclusive, category was needed? I wondered. Only later did I learn it was India's often corrupt politicians who received such special treatment. The bus finally lurched into life, taking us transiting passengers, both foreigners and Indians, over a dusty field away from the international terminal. Ignoring the looming signs that implored him to go ‘Dead Slow’, the bus driver proceeded to swerve violently around each corner. We passed dusty hangars sheltering aircraft in various states of repair, some with their seats ripped out and sitting dejectedly on the ground. To the side of the airport, airport employees slept on stretchers in makeshift huts, guarded by armed security. On the main road in front of the airport, roaming cows and monkeys greeted travellers. In the middle of the roundabout, a group of men wearing suits and ties lay sprawled on the grass in the late afternoon light, smoking bedis (hand-rolled cigarettes) and playing cards.

  Chaos reigned at the domestic terminal. It was December 2005, and Delhi airport was yet to be woken by change. Its terminals were unrenovated, JetLite was still known as Air Sahara, and the local airline, Kingfisher, had only been operating a week. The cramped and outdated domestic terminal was hopelessly inadequate for the volume of traffic that mercilessly converged on it every day. I struggled to negotiate check-in and finally settled myself in the departure lounge. The cricket dominated every television in the terminal, and almost every passenger was glued to it. Disinterested as I was, I was glad when boarding for my flight to Kolkata was called an hour before the scheduled departure time.

  This didn't mean that the flight actually left on time. We were herded onto another shuttle bus and taken to our plane, which was stationed in front of one of the ramshackle maintenance hangars near the international terminal. It was well into the night by the time I arrived in Kolkata.

  I was met at Kolkata airport by the volunteer coordinator. The volunteer program was administered by an organisation in the UK, and for a participation fee, I was to be provided with a place to stay, meals and a coordinator to look after me. Her name was Sucharita. She emerged from the depths of the human wall that had formed against the barricades outside the arrivals terminal. It would be hard to miss her. Her considerable height and short wavy hair, unusual for a middle-aged Bengali woman, made her stand out.

  Waiting in the car was Tara, another newly arrived volunteer. She was born in India but had been adopted by a family in the USA. On vacation from college, she'd come back to rediscover her Indian roots.

  Sucharita announced we'd be having dinner at a restaurant with a visiting representative from the volunteer program office in the UK. We drove through the streets of Kolkata to the venue. The air was softer here than in Delhi, and the architecture distinctly colonial. Slowly crumbling walls and flaking paint unceremoniously revealed tired, grey cement. Unwilling to preserve the legacy of the British empire, Kolkata's communist government left it to decay. A mammoth resoration drive, the first of its kind in India, was gaining momentum in the city but it would evidently take a while for it to rescue the facades of all the buildings.

  Among the dilapidation, the restaurant was located atop a swanky new
shopping mall. This wasn't the Kolkata I was expecting. I was soon to discover that in contrast to its impoverished past and ailing infrastructure, Kolkata had been developing at a swift rate since the economic reforms of the mid-1990s and the information technology boom that revitalised its economy. No longer identified with just slums, destitution and the heartening work of Mother Teresa, the city was reclaiming its title of the cultural capital of India, particularly known for its writers, poets, musicians and artists.

  Our dinner companion from the UK couldn't wait to have a beer.

  ‘Care to join me?’ he asked.

  Feeling the tension of travelling for almost 24 hours, I indeed longed to join him. However, I was fully aware of how disreputable it would look. Virtuous middle-class women rarely drank alcohol in India. My hesitation to say no must have been evident because a beer soon materialised in front of me. The waiter proceeded to take a particular interest in this apparently loose western woman who was drinking beer. Sucharita didn't seem impressed either.

  ‘My name is Martin, like as in Ricky Martin. I sing like him also,’ he announced with a grin. ‘And what is your good name, madam?’

  I'd forgotten how excitable Indian men could be. And there was that peculiarity of asking to know one's ‘good name’, as if I had a bad name. (In fact, the correct alternative is a pet name.) Fortunately, his curiosity didn't end with me. He soon turned to Sucharita.

  ‘And who might you be, madam? You are with these people for what reason?’

  Not keen to indulge his fantasies, she told him that we were from a hospital far, far away.

  ‘Oh, I was thinking that you might be a nun,’ he replied animatedly.