Henna for the Broken Hearted Read online

  ‘No one told me you were coming today,’ I replied. ‘Otherwise I would've moved my things.’

  It transpired that she had also been shifted without notice, and was equally unimpressed about it. What's more, she'd apparently been comfortably ensconced in a properly furnished apartment on one of the upper levels of the building. In her late thirties, she didn't appreciate having to live in this barren and inhospitable environment or sharing a room with me.

  The feeling was mutual. I was even more underwhelmed by the prospect when Panna told me her routine: ‘I only have to work for a couple of hours a day, so I go out every night and don't usually come back until late.’

  She was enjoying living the life she didn't have back in England. This was a massive difference from my eight-hour work days and two-hour commute, which meant an early bedtime and waking to a 7.30 a.m. alarm five days a week.

  Despite the fact that the apartment was generously sized and had three bedrooms, Sucharita had insisted to Panna that we share one bedroom because it was the rules.

  ‘She said that since we were volunteers, we must learn to adapt,’ Panna relayed.

  Ah! Adapt. That word again.

  What was even more illogical was that Sucharita had conceded to let us keep our clothes in one of the spare bedrooms until a wardrobe arrived, whenever that would be. So we could use the vacant room for storage, but not for sleeping?

  ‘There's no point discussing it with her anymore,’ Panna advised. ‘I've tried, but it got me nowhere. Indians have their own ways of doing things.’ Although assertive, Panna had failed to resolve anything in our favour with the unreasonable Sucharita. Our only option was to adapt, and try and make the best of it.

  Having spent a considerable amount of time in India, and being of Indian descent herself, Panna was right. Indians can be extremely adjustable or extremely stubborn, depending on the perception of power. Rules are created or bent at will to suit situations. Definitions of right or wrong are never absolute, and instead depend on the context and the desired outcome.

  In any case, I was quite thankful for the company; I was beginning to feel lonely in the apartment.

  New Beginnings

  THERE'S something invigorating and exciting about the impending start to a new year. I'm always one of the excited ones, keen to clean the slate of a year, refocus, and fill the next one with new goals. I was particularly keen to put the past year behind me. It had been life-changing for me and I wanted to know what the future had in store.

  Georgie and Nicole were leaving for Darjeeling on New Year's Eve, so we went out the night before to have a farewell party for them. Little did I know, that night would set my life towards a whole new direction.

  It had started simply enough, with a delicious dinner at Kewpies Kitchen restaurant. Located in the owner's home, the Bengali restaurant is intimate and unique, and one of the most sought after in Kolkata. This comes as no surprise, given that the owner's wife wrote two cookbooks on Bengali cuisine.

  It wasn't until we ended up at Roxy, the stylish 1960s-inspired cocktail bar at The Park Hotel, that things took an unexpected turn. World-class bars and clubs are not something that people readily associate India with. And many tourists who visit India for purposes more spiritual never bother to seek them out. However, in modern-day India, they do exist in abundance. India's young and rich are cosmopolitan and well travelled. They like to live western lifestyles, and expect the finest facilities.

  I felt comfortable in Roxy's sleek and contemporary interior. Cocktails were sipped, and conversation was light. Then Utsav, a close friend of Panna's, suggested a mystery cocktail. Named ‘God Knows Fucking What’ by the barman who created it for him, it contained a lethal concoction of unidentified ingredients. I was the only one game enough to try it. The mood turned upbeat and energetic as the alcohol coursed through our bodies. We hit the dance floor and grooved to retro, electro and everything in between.

  ‘Can I dance with you?’ a mature Indian gentleman approached me.

  Although he must have been around 60, he had the stamina of someone half my age. I couldn't keep up with him.

  ‘Please, you've worn me out. I need a break,’ I begged him, as I fled back to the bar.

  Before we knew it, it was 4 a.m. Unlike the rest of India, where bars and clubs had to close by 1.30 a.m. or even 11.30 p.m. in some places, Kolkata didn't have a curfew.

  Then it happened.

  Just as we were about to leave Roxy, I saw an Indian guy enter the room. He stood near the entrance with a friend. I looked at him, noticing his full lips and beautiful eyes. To my surprise he came over. He was to later admit that he surprised himself by talking to me; he thought I looked quite intimidating. I would later admit that I was surprised that I wanted to talk to him. With everything that had gone on in my life over the past year, I wasn't interested in meeting anyone, especially Indian guys who were keen to try and get somewhere with a white girl.

  ‘Are you really this tall or are you wearing heels?’ he asked.

  It was an understandable question. I must have been around 10 centimetres taller than him. My 175-centimetre frame was tall by western standards, but in India I was more like a giant.

  ‘Yes, I really am this tall,’ I said, amused.

  His name was Aryan, and he was a resident DJ at The Park Hotel's nightclub, Tantra. Chatting with him felt effortless and comfortable. He smiled and laughed readily. There was no tension or pretension, just a tangible and uplifting lightness of being. We went upstairs to chill out on the sofas where it was less noisy.

  I was surprised to find out that Aryan and I were the same age. What's more, astrologically, we were supposedly very compatible. He was an emotional water sign like me. From the way he spoke and acted, he certainly did have a gentle calming manner about him.

  ‘Come to Tantra tomorrow night. New Year's Eve will be big,’ he said as we parted.

  Although I'd enjoyed spending time with him, I had no intention of going. Back at the apartment the next day, Panna couldn't understand my reluctance. She was enjoying knowing people in Kolkata, and going to bars where she was known and recognised. It was new and exciting for her.

  ‘I've had enough of the party scene back home,’ I tried to explain. ‘It doesn't hold the same attraction for me.’

  More than anything, I didn't want to be distracted from the real reason I came to Kolkata – to learn more about myself in a different environment. Hanging out in bars and clubs was hardly a different environment for me, and I wanted to avoid it.

  So for New Year's Eve, I found myself at a rooftop party hosted by Linda, an American friend of Panna's. She spent six months of the year in India, and even had an Indian boyfriend. I was quite in awe of her extraordinary life. I wondered what it would be like to be so much a part of another culture like that. And how did she manage it? I tossed the idea around in my mind, but it seemed unfathomable. I doubted I could ever create a life like that for myself. I wouldn't even know where to begin.

  The party was attended by an interesting mix of people. Two of the guests had graduated in accounting like me, but had gone on to pursue completely different paths. One was now a filmmaker, the other a musician. The filmmaker had recently won an award for a documentary about his parents' experience of the 1947 partition of India by the British into Muslim-controlled Pakistan and Hindu-dominated India.

  I envied the two guys for where they had ended up; filmmaking and music were pursuits so opposite to accounting. The creativity of my younger years had been replaced by structure, logic and analysis. It was a long time since I'd painted, sewn or written poetry or stories. All those things were a significant and enjoyable part of my life when I was growing up. Sadly, that wasn't the case anymore. But perhaps there was hope yet for me: if those two guys could make the transition to a creative field and pursue their passion, maybe I could too?

  Claudine, Tara and I stayed at the party until after 3 a.m. We were among the last to leave. Meanwhile, Panna and Cl
iona had gone on to their usual hangout, Roxy.

  ‘Aryan was there last night. He was looking for you and asked us numerous times if you were out,’ Panna informed me in the morning. Clearly, even if I avoided The Park Hotel, I couldn't avoid the situation. And, despite being flattered that Aryan was so interested in me, I still had no intention of pursuing anything with him. Instead, I put him out of my mind.

  That afternoon, Panna, Claudine, Tara and I joined the rest of the city and spent the day at the horse races at the Royal Calcutta Turf Club. It was a New Year's Day tradition, and a popular one at that, despite the revelry of the previous night. The Turf Club, built by the British in 1820, had managed to retain its colonial name. Its buildings were grand and imposing, at its centre a lofty clock tower. Looking around, it wasn't difficult to imagine the refined manner in which the British lived during the rule of the Raj. Nowadays, the Indian elite were making bold fashion statements in bejewelled saris and suits, short dresses and ridiculously ostentatious hats. Clearly, like everywhere else, it wasn't just about the horses. Those with new money and generous allowances were the most obtrusive, while the old money put on a more refined display. There were ordinary folk there as well, like us, casually dressed.

  As we strolled along soaking up the atmosphere, the anticipation was obvious. We followed Panna to the members' area where she was to meet yet another friend. Occupying the top third floor, the privileged space provided an unbeatable view of the racecourse and the Victoria Memorial in the distance.

  Much money changed hands that day; fortunes were made and squandered.

  ‘I lost 27,000 rupees ($700) today,’ one unlucky fellow unburdened himself to Claudine. ‘But you look nice and sexy,’ he continued.

  Tara and I sniggered in amusement over her latest admirer. Being the only blonde among us, the Indian men were most generous with their attention.

  Even Kolkata's formidable policemen were reduced to unusual behaviour in Claudine's presence. She had us howling with laughter one day as she entertained us with the tale of her five-hour visit to the Kolkata police station to report the theft of her wallet.

  ‘The Chief Superintendent himself personally attended to me. I received a number of offers of marriage, and even caught one policeman sneakily taking my photo,’ she said. ‘And then, another policeman took me all the way back to the apartment on his motorbike. He offered to pick me up and take me to work every day.’

  By the time we arrived back at the apartment that evening, we were completely worn out. The crowd leaving the races had merged with that coming from the nearby zoo to create a seething mass of people, young and old, and overburdened buses and taxis on the roads. At the traffic lights, engines were turned off to save fuel. Crossing the road was almost eerie as the silent lanes of banked-up traffic waited, ready to start up and come charging.

  A week later, Claudine dragged Tara and me out to spend time with her new friend Raj, the springy-haired son of the Police High Commissioner. It seemed that her liaisons with the Kolkata police weren't over after all. We met him on Park Street, just outside the Oxford Bookstore. He looked at the personal development book, The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari, which I had just bought and was carrying.

  ‘One has to get a Ferrari first,’ he commented disdainfully.

  Raj took us to visit his palatial family home in central Kolkata, where we were fed snacks and harassed by the family's feisty gaggle of pet geese. Regrettably, our visit had coincided perfectly with their walk and swim. The house was a rambling two-level, burgundy-coloured mansion, complete with guards and an extensive collection of Ganesh statues. It was an imposing sight. Raj obviously lived a life of luxury, wanting for nothing.

  That evening, Raj and his driver collected Claudine, Tara and me for dinner at the Tollygunge Club, where we were joined by his friends, a lawyer and a pipe-smoking businessman.

  The Tollygunge Club, another vestige of the British occupation, prides itself on being among the top twenty country clubs in the world. It offers all sorts of sports, from horseriding to golf, on its sizeable 100-acre grounds. I was amazed at how India had preserved aspects of traditional British culture better than the British themselves, and how much India's elite clamoured to be a part of these exclusive English-style clubs. By restricting its membership to a select 3500, the Tollygunge Club has ensured that the list of wannabes waiting to sign up is always long and the queue slow to move.

  Over dinner, Raj's interest in me grew, buoyed by the red wine that was flowing. When we decided to move on to The Park Hotel, he ordered me into the car with him and the pipe-smoking businessman. Tara and Claudine went with the lawyer in his car.

  ‘Don't worry, he's a nice guy and different from the others,’ Claudine reassured me.

  I was unconvinced. By that stage, Raj had already tried to put his arm around me. We were to soon discover that the lawyer was actually the least offensive of the trio.

  Panna, Cliona and Utsav were at Roxy as usual, but seemed reluctant to talk to us. It didn't bode well. Raj seemed unhappy that we knew people, and quickly whisked us out of there and into Tantra. All I could think about was one thing: I would see Aryan again.

  He noticed me as soon as I entered and climbed the stairs to the Bodhi Bar on the second floor of the club. The DJ cabin was located on the same level, on the opposite side of the room. We smiled and waved at each other across the distance. Then Raj called me to have a tequila-and-lime shooter. His arm was again on my waist. I slid away. Claudine and Tara had escaped to the dance floor and were chatting to some Norwegians by the time I found them. Again, Raj and his friends seemed keen for us to leave. None of us was interested in going.

  I returned to the Bodhi Bar, where I could see Aryan, with Raj in hot pursuit. He ordered another shooter, and another. Before long, he was drunk and hoping that I was as well. Then he lunged and tried to kiss me. I turned my head quickly so it landed on my cheek. Unimpressed, I fled to the bathroom.

  ‘I've had enough of this. He won't leave me alone!’ I shouted over the music to Claudine. She was about to accompany Tara, who'd also had enough, back to the apartment. ‘I'll stay until Tantra closes, then go home with Panna, Cliona and Utsav,’ I told her. I wanted to at least try and get some enjoyment from the night.

  ‘I bet I know whom you're going to see,’ she teased.

  Aryan came out of the DJ cabin to greet me as soon as I knocked. He looked every bit as attractive as I remembered.

  ‘I've been asking your friends where you were.’

  ‘I know. But I didn't feel like partying. Tonight Claudine convinced me to come out to dinner with her and some other people. That guy you saw me with earlier was one of them. He tried to get me drunk and kiss me. I had to run away! It was awful!’ I explained.

  Aryan laughed. ‘It's good you're here now then. Come and sit inside.’

  There was a beanbag on the floor. I relaxed into it while Aryan and another DJ played music. It wasn't long before the club closed, and we had to leave. Aryan wanted me to join him and his friends.

  ‘No, I have to go home with the others,’ I declined. I didn't want to take any chances, especially after my encounter with Raj.

  I met my friends at the front of the club. Raj was still on my mind as we got in a taxi.

  ‘I'm so annoyed he kept forcing himself on me. I expected him to be better behaved, considering who he was,’ I kept complaining.

  ‘I agree. He's not a nice person. I went to school with him and his friends,’ Utsav replied. ‘But Indian guys are no different to guys anywhere else. Actually, they can be worse.’

  We stopped for chai at a roadside dhaba (restaurant) on the way home, and crawled into bed as the sun was rising.

  Claudine woke us all up mid-morning with a knock at the door. ‘I was just checking to see that you'd gotten home safely.’

  Still feeling sleepy and a bit hung-over, I went over to her apartment and curled up on her bed for a chat.

  ‘Tara and I are keen to see the Norweg
ians again,’ she confided.

  I laughed. ‘Well, anything would be a better alternative than revolting Raj. Fancy telling me he was a nice guy! And anyway, how come I got stuck with him? I'm not coming out with you on anymore of your dinner dates,’ I grumbled.

  ‘So, tell me, how was Aryan? Any flirtations?’ she changed the subject.

  ‘He was really sweet. But no, I didn't get to spend much time with him because he was busy working and then Tantra closed,’ I told her. ‘Besides, I'm really not up for it.’

  She knew what my situation was like, and didn't press me.

  Fork in the Road

  IT turned out that three new volunteers had arrived during the night. They were all from England, and aged in their late teens and early twenties. Daisy would be staying in my apartment, while Tess and Miriam were in the other apartment with Cliona, Claudine and Tara.

  Unlike Panna and me, Daisy was yet to get curtains in her bedroom. Kali had decided that the solution was to fully cover the windows with newspaper to keep out the light, which he busied himself doing. It was impossible to determine from his response whether or not curtains would be hung, but it certainly didn't look promising. At least Daisy, who had been allocated the master bedroom to herself, had an ensuite bathroom and a wardrobe in her room.

  Panna and I suspected we wouldn't be getting a wardrobe after all. Kali had suspended rows of string from one side of our room to the other for us to hang our clothes on. We had, however, been granted a water heater in our bathroom.

  ‘Welcome to India,’ we joked to Daisy.

  It was a relief the water heater had finally been installed. It's the little things such as hot water, easily taken for granted, that mean a lot when you're in a foreign place devoid of the usual conveniences and comforts of home. In India, it was hard to get the most straightforward tasks done, amid systems that were confusing to learn. Even having a standalone hot water heater in the bathroom wasn't something I was used to.