Henna for the Broken Hearted Read online

  The weather had become more uncomfortable; the nights cold, and the mist and dust thicker than ever. I struggled to breathe properly as I made my way to work in the mornings. I'd added a maroon shawl with a paisley pattern to my Indian ensemble.

  ‘This weather will last for around two weeks, before it starts warming up again,’ the women at work informed me. ‘There are six seasons in Kolkata: summer, rainy, autumn, cool, winter and spring.’

  Unused to the climate as we were, it wasn't long before both apartments were infected with colds. Tara was first to get sick, followed by Daisy. The virus progressively claimed more victims. Then the water heater in Panna's and my bathroom blew up. I had turned it on to warm the water for my shower but its light kept flickering strangely. Naturally, Panna was out. I called Daisy to look at it with me. We were both standing there staring at the heater, wondering what it would do, when sparks flew and it emitted a loud bang.

  A call to Sucharita failed to garner any sympathy. ‘I can't help you. The apartment complex electrician will have to come and fix it.’

  By now, the apartment was becoming a challenging place to live in. A huge pane of glass was missing from the kitchen window, allowing mosquitoes free entry into the apartment. Kali had failed to fix the handbasin in Daisy's bathroom, and it wasn't draining at all. The broken water heater meant cold showers until the electrician arrived. Without a functional kitchen, we couldn't even warm water on the stove.

  The electrician who arrived spoke only Hindi. No English, no Bengali. The water heater kept tripping the circuit breaker every time he tried to turn it on. He left it unplugged and hanging from the wall. Unable to communicate with each other effectively, the only confirmation that we could elicit was that it was indeed accha nahi hai (not good). As it turned out, our hot water heater wouldn't be fixed for quite some time. Sucharita had a kettle delivered to our apartment so we could heat water for bathing.

  Repetitive banging from construction in a nearby apartment complex and neighbours playing loud devotional music meant that there was precious little chance for a Sunday sleep-in. We got up and lazed around, reading and drinking coffee. In contrast to the cold nights, warm air blew gently through an open window in the living room, while the sun streamed in. Our choice of relaxing music blocked out the external disturbance. For once, the apartment felt quite homely. Panna and I both commented that it was almost like a Sunday ‘back home’.

  That afternoon, Daisy, Tess, Miriam and I planned a trip into New Market. I would act as tour guide. I'd recently taken Tess and Miriam on a brief tour around Kolkata, but Daisy had been too tired to come along. We'd caught the 206 bus to the Esplanade, and went on an exhaustive walk through the grassy expanse of the Maidan and over the Howrah Bridge. Part of the Maidan had been overtaken by hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who'd come for the Ganga Saga Mela, a three-day festival held in the middle of January each year on Sagar Island not far from Kolkata, where the holy Ganges River meets the Bay of Bengal. It's believed that those who bathe in the Ganges River at an auspicious time during the festival will be absolved of their sins. The countless number of pilgrims were all camped out in the open in makeshift facilities. Their living conditions were the picture of austerity; I was struck by the lengths people were prepared to go to for their faith.

  The walk showed us the different sides of Kolkata's indomitable spirit. Miriam was mobbed by an aggressive group of beggar children, who surrounded and latched onto her. So determined were they not to leave her alone that I had to forcibly remove some of them.

  Not long after, we saw a group of men pulling an overburdened cart. It was buried underneath its cargo of colossal packages, all stitched with a cover of white cloth and stacked at least six high. The men were shouting words of encouragement to each other, as they tried to get the heavy cart to move. It was a backbreaking job, and yet their faces beamed widely when we took their photo. The beauty of India is that there's always a positive to the negative, if you take the time to notice it.

  As we approached the Howrah Bridge, our attention was drawn to the stark yellow and orange hues of the piles of marigolds, strung together in garlands being sold at the wholesale flower market on the ground below. The garlands would eventually be offered to the gods during temple visits and daily pujas (prayers) in homes.

  Walking over the Howrah Bridge left us in no doubt why the bridge was said to be the busiest in the world. The sheer volume of traffic – including cars, buses, bicycles, bullock carts and innumerable people bearing heavy loads on their heads – makes arresting viewing. Incredibly, the bridge crosses the river in a single span, without any pylons connecting it to the riverbed.

  That Sunday, when we left the apartment to embark on our latest adventure, Panna warned us, ‘Be careful. Some taxi drivers have been making their meters increase faster than they should.’

  With her caution ringing in our ears, halfway through our journey we noticed with alarm that the meter was ticking over rapidly. It was already double what it should be.

  ‘Daisy, check the meter,’ I whispered. She leaned over the seat and saw the driver sneakily yanking on a piece of wire down beside the steering wheel. Instead of saying anything, we decided to wait and see what he'd do at the end of the trip. I reassured the others that I would handle it somehow.

  The taxi came to a halt near the Oberoi Hotel on Chowringhee Road. Despite the widespread renaming of streets, people commonly continued to use what they were familiar with. The driver quickly reached for the fare conversion chart, which converts the number shown on the meter into the price to be paid, without being prompted. This was a surprise. Normally, repetitive requests had to be made while the driver pretended not to understand, and kept quoting an inflated fixed price.

  ‘236 rupees,’ he demanded.

  From my forays around Park Street and Chowringhee Road, I knew that the fare was only supposed to be about 130 rupees.

  Remembering Lakhi's series of Bengali rebukes, I put them to good use. ‘Aap ni karap (You are bad),’ I shouted at him. ‘Baloh naa (Not good),’ I continued, pointing to the meter.

  The shock on the driver's face was visible. Outside the taxi, a curious crowd had started to gather, attracted by the commotion.

  ‘He's trying to cheat us,’ we exclaimed. ‘The fare is only supposed to be 130 rupees.’

  Other people also began shouting at him. Realising that he wasn't going to get away with his deception, he dropped his asking price to 160 rupees.

  ‘Take 130 rupees and no more,’ I growled at him, and shoved the money into his hand as we walked away.

  One month in India had certainly improved my assertive skills; once, I couldn't even fend off the bangle seller. My unwavering smile had now been replaced by forceful frowns where needed.

  The matter didn't end there. The next day, Daisy encountered the same taxi driver on her way to work.

  ‘He apologised profusely for trying to overcharge us and even gave me a discounted fare. All the other taxi drivers at the taxi rank were telling him off too. His excuse was that the meter was broken and he was trying to fix it.’

  We didn't believe him. It was another common Indian trait to always find an excuse and never admit liability.

  All too soon, Tara's four weeks were up. I only had a week left myself.

  We chose Oh! Calcutta, a fine dining Bengali restaurant, for our farewell dinner. We all struggled to find the energy to get to the dinner though, as our colds were making us weary. Once there, we decided that a bit of fun would lift our spirits. We ordered some tequila.

  After watching us intently from the sidelines, one of the more daring waiters came our way. Focusing his attention on me, he began his inquiries.

  ‘Which country are you from, madam? I am from Delhi. We are opening a branch of Oh! Calcutta in Delhi. Will you be coming there for tequila as well?’

  How could I say no and disappoint him?

  ‘I'll definitely come if you'll serve me the tequila,’ I assured him with
a grin.

  Literally bouncing up and down on the soles of his feet, he responded grandly. ‘Madam, I will even serve you champagne.’

  ‘You heartbreaker,’ Claudine said after he'd gone. We all left smiling, including the waiters who'd also had an entertaining night.

  As we walked into the mirror-lined lobby of the apartment building, we saw a typed, official-looking notice adhered to the wall. Curious to know what it was about, we went over to have a look. The security guard stationed in the lobby observed us with interest. Most apartment buildings in India have watchmen who monitor who comes and goes.

  ‘It is to inform you that there will be a consecutive fogging operation which will take place on and from tomorrow evening to control the massive mosquito problem . . . the area will be covered with a smoke discharged from fogging machine, so residents are hereby requested not to worry about the smoke,’ Daisy read out.

  A fogging operation. None of us had ever heard of a fogging operation before. This popular, but often ineffective, method of mosquito control in India involves spraying chemical insecticides around in a thick, noxious diesel- or kerosene-fuelled fog. It sounded ominous, particularly because of the missing windowpane in our kitchen. What was going to happen? Would the apartment be filled with smoke every day?

  As it turned out, we needn't have worried.

  ‘I saw some smoke around five this evening,’ Panna commented.

  It seemed to have had little impact on the mosquitoes though, which were just as plentiful and as eager to bite as usual. I was relieved that I wouldn't have to put up with them for much longer.

  I was in two minds about the fact that my time in Kolkata was almost up. While I was definitely looking forward to being back in my comfortable surroundings at home, I also felt I needed some time out by myself. I hadn't been able to relax and contemplate anywhere near as much as I'd wanted. Claudine, my closest friend, would be leaving the week after me; I knew that even if I were to stay, it wouldn't be the same without her around.

  And I was disappointed I wouldn't be remaining at the women's centre for longer. Work had recently become interesting. Everyone was excited about an upcoming handicrafts exhibition the centre was going to hold, and I wished I could be a part of it.

  Nalini also seemed sad that I would soon be leaving. We'd enjoyed each other's company and had had some meaningful conversations. I'd even felt comfortable enough to tell her a little about my situation.

  ‘I'm really uncertain about going back to my life in Australia. My husband is having some kind of crisis and doesn't know if he wants to be with me,’ I confessed to her.

  ‘Be patient and understanding, and one day he will decide that he wants the relationship. There's already too much divorce in the west,’ she counselled.

  She was only young, but I admired her wisdom. And she was right about divorce. I guess if I was looking for a sign about what to do with my future, then that was it. Patience and understanding were two of my strong qualities: I should put them to good use.

  I thought I'd come to Kolkata and gain a sense of satisfaction and self-worth from helping people. I thought it would be good to feel needed. Instead, more than anything, I felt overwhelmed that I couldn't do enough for them. In reality, I was getting the greatest boost to my self-confidence from the friendships I had made.

  Daisy thought I was open, honest and well balanced. Claudine liked how we were so upfront with each other, and could come out and say whatever we thought. From Panna, I learned the importance of good communication to prevent misunderstandings. We'd initially clashed as we came to terms with our forced living arrangement, but had ended up friends. She also encouraged me to be more assertive, and helped me realise that I wasn't always to blame for people's reactions.

  On my last Friday night in Kolkata, Panna unexpectedly invited me to Roxy and Tantra with her. All the girls insisted that I go. They wanted me to see Aryan.

  ‘You're always asking about our romances, go and have one of your own,’ they implored.

  Aryan was delighted to see me. His smile lit up his whole face. As usual, we talked and laughed so easily.

  ‘C'mon, let's get out of here and go back to my place,’ he suggested.

  ‘But what about your work?’ I was unconvinced.

  ‘It's okay, there are other DJs here,’ he replied.

  I was still unsure. I really didn't feel relaxed about going home with him alone, and I certainly didn't want him to get the wrong impression.

  ‘You have to promise to look after me though. And, I'm only coming as a friend. Don't expect anything else from me,’ I warned him up front.

  As the taxi turned off Park Street, I realised we were heading towards the women's centre where I worked. When it pulled up right in front of the centre, I was stunned. Out of all the districts in Kolkata, we had ended up there. Was this meaningful coincidence? Synchronicity? Were Aryan and I so destined to meet that, if I didn't talk to him in The Park Hotel, this was the back-up plan?

  ‘This is where I've been volunteering,’ I pointed.

  Aryan took my hand and led me into the neighbouring building where he lived. His studio apartment was simply furnished and overlooked a garden. I noticed a chair near the doorway.

  ‘I often sit here and look out, and think about things,’ he told me.

  I was pleasantly surprised. Although Aryan seemed like a sensitive guy, I didn't expect that, given his work, he'd be so quietly contemplative.

  As I stepped inside the apartment, I wondered whether I should take off my shoes. I didn't know how to behave in an Indian home. I felt stiff and formal, and was worried about making a mistake.

  ‘It doesn't matter to me,’ Aryan replied. From his lack of concern, it appeared he wasn't very traditional.

  The first thing I noticed about the room was the large hand-painted backdrop that dominated one wall. It was of a woman's face in the ocean. She looked incredibly attractive under normal light. Under ultraviolet light, she became ethereal and almost eerie.

  Aryan lit some incense, pushed the sticks through the crack in the door, and put on some world music with an Indian flavour. The mood was set perfectly. We sat together, and talked and laughed some more. Then he turned to me.

  ‘So, tell me, what are you really like?’ he asked. ‘I want to see the real you.’

  I was slightly thrown by the question. It wasn't something that I'd anticipated.

  ‘People don't take the time to show me who they really are, and they don't care about who I really am either. There's so much pretending,’ he elaborated. A typical, extroverted alpha-male DJ, he certainly was not.

  Having spent plenty of time in the clubbing scene, I knew what he meant.

  ‘Seriously, this is the real me. What you see is what you get. I hate pretending too. Honestly,’ I assured him.

  ‘So you're always this well mannered?’

  I was to later discover that normal western manners appeared extreme in India, where ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ were rarely used or expected. At the time though, I was more bemused than anything.

  ‘Can I kiss you?’ he asked me.

  It was such a simple request, I couldn't say no. And I didn't really want to. The kiss was soft and tender, but felt profound and endless. I was totally unprepared for the prospect of anything more, and wanted to leave. This wasn't how I expected the night to turn out. I was no longer in control.

  ‘Don't go. Stay here,’ he implored. He tried to kiss me again. I felt panicky and pushed him away.

  ‘No, really, I must go,’ I insisted.

  Although Aryan was obviously disappointed, he was kind enough to find a taxi for me and offered to come with me to make sure I got home safely.

  ‘It's okay. I'll be fine. Plus, I live a long way from here.’

  I couldn't wait to flee to the safety of my own apartment and bed.

  The next day, the girls were very excited by the fact there had been romance. They insisted that we go out again that night – my
last night in Kolkata – despite my protests. After dinner at Peter Cat, we went straight to Tantra where we ended up meeting some very sociable Icelanders from an airline company. They had a couple of bottles of vodka permanently on the bar. Rarely were we without a drink in our hands. I managed to sneak away from them for a short time to see Aryan.

  ‘You came! I didn't think you would after last night,’ he said in amazement.

  I was quite amazed as well. I thought his overt advances would have made me run, like I did from Raj, but I was attracted to his gentle nature and calmness. He was very non-threatening.

  ‘I brought you something. Put out your hand,’ I told him. In it, I placed the small bronze incense holder I'd found in my apartment.

  ‘Take this. I noticed you didn't have one in your room.’

  He smiled his wonderful disarming smile. ‘Wow, that's so thoughtful of you.’

  Tantra closed at around 5 a.m., but none of us was in the mood to go home.

  ‘Music, we want a party with music!’

  Aryan obliged and took us to a friend's elegantly furnished and sprawling apartment not far from Park Street, where there was indeed a party with music. We drank and danced and indulged until way after the sun came up.

  One of the people I got talking to at the party was an older guy named Rajiv.

  ‘I can tell you're a genuine person because of the smile lines on your face. You must always be smiling,’ he complimented me. ‘I can also see that you and Aryan obviously have a lot of affection for each other.’

  He'd seen us hugging each other. I'd slipped into showing Aryan affection much more easily than I expected. It felt natural. In a way, I almost felt protective of him. But I was still determined not to get too intimate.

  After the party, I went back to Aryan's apartment again, sure that nothing physical would happen between us. I just wanted to spend some time with him before I left. We lay down on his bed, held each other tightly and talked about life.

  His family lived in Mumbai. He had two older sisters and two younger brothers. He'd moved to Kolkata to take up a DJ residency at a club in a luxury hotel when he was in his early twenties, and had been happy to have his freedom. It sounded like he'd put his freedom to good use, too. By Indian standards, he was worldly, to say the least. But it was a lifestyle I could easily relate to.