Henna for the Broken Hearted Page 8

  Aryan's friend Lloyd was visiting from Mumbai. My face had barely recovered from the after-effects of Holi when he called me with a proposal.

  ‘How would you like to be a model for an advertising photo shoot? They want a foreigner who can convincingly dress up in Indian clothes. Someone saw you at the Holi party and recommended you.’

  It sounded appealing. ‘Sure,’ I agreed.

  The work was for a money exchange company whose slogan was ‘We change everything.’

  Hours spent in hair and make-up transformed me. My long dark mane was pulled back in a bun and my eyes rimmed in thick black kohl. Heavy foundation made my skin flawless. Weighty earrings made my ear lobes droop. A tikka (forehead jewellery) was hung by a chain from the top of my head to the centre of my forehead. The sari was draped, and one end placed over my head. As the finishing touch, a huge round bindi (dot) crafted out of red kumkum (turmeric) powder was positioned between my eyebrows at the location of my third eye chakra. I could hardly recognise myself. The person who stared back at me in the mirror looked half-Indian.

  ‘Sit on this stool,’ the photographer instructed.

  I ungainly shuffled over to it, trying not to trip on the sari or cause it to unravel. Lights flooded the room and dazzled me.

  ‘Hold your hands this way, turn your head that way, put your chin down, smile a little more.’

  The work wasn't easy. I'd been a reluctant model a couple of times previously, but I was no less wary in front of the camera.

  It came as a relief when the photographer announced, ‘That's it, finished.’

  ‘Yes! Aa mar shesh! (I'm finished!),’ I responded jubilantly. The first Bengali that I'd spoken since being back in Kolkata slipped out. I surprised myself by remembering it.

  There was laughter all round. ‘You do look really Indian and beautiful. How much Bengali do you know?’ the curious young daughter of the woman from the advertising agency asked me.

  ‘Actually, not much at all.’

  It was one of the few phrases I'd learned at the women's centre. Apart from that and Lakhi's insults, my Bengali remained very limited.

  That evening I hit Roxy and then Tantra with Daisy, Tess and Cliona. At Tantra, the moment I'd been dreading took place. I came face to face with Raj again. It was bound to happen, but was so much worse than I ever imagined. His hair had grown longer and was brushed into an outdated male bouffant. To my dismay, my rejection of his previous advances hadn't deterred him at all. This time, he actually winked while leering at me.

  Daisy, who was standing next to me, tried not to laugh. I quickly turned and headed in the opposite direction.

  ‘Did you see the expression on his face? It was exactly like in the photo Claudine gave you!’

  Daisy had been attracting a few men of her own. She was juggling a couple of Muslim boys. Cliona, on the other hand, had developed an attraction to Sikhs. While I only had eyes for Aryan, the girls were revelling in the attention that being white foreigners had brought them.

  ‘It's too competitive in London, but here there are so many men to choose from,’ Daisy was delighted.

  I didn't envy them; it looked like it was more trouble than it was worth.

  ‘Oh no, both Hussain and Imran have turned up at the same time. And they're both calling me on my phone,’ Daisy shouted in alarm, as she hid behind a pillar.

  Tantra wasn't a safe place to be that night. A dancer from Mumbai was performing, bringing India's moustachioed middle-aged men out in full force. Having a moustache was considered to be a supreme sign of status, manliness and virility in India. It indicated traditional values and a conservative mindset, but in this case also highlighted the paradox of behaviour in India. These men had happily left their wives at home, probably not even informing them of their whereabouts, while they went out to feast their eyes on a skimpily dressed woman dancing like she was in a Bollywood movie. Armed with their phone cameras and knocking back drink after drink, they were overexcited by what was around them. As it turned out, it was Daisy who saw quite a bit of one of the men. She came running out of the female toilets to where I was waiting for her, screaming hysterically, ‘There's a drunk man in there with his willy hanging out!’

  Clearly upset, she grabbed me by the arm and dragged me inside with her. By the time I saw him, he'd put it away. His pants were unzipped, however, and he threateningly looked like getting it out again. I went to find the manager. He happened to look over just in time to see the guy stagger out of the toilets.

  Far from being concerned, both the manager and the security staff erupted into laugher. The security staff escorted the guy out into the foyer and left him swaying there, clearly intoxicated, while Daisy continued to wail.

  ‘Madam, cover yourself up,’ the manager rebuked her, as he tried to place a dupatta (scarf) over her shoulders and impressive cleavage.

  Fortunately, Aryan noticed the uproar and came running over to see what had happened. Only then was the guy duly evicted from the club.

  ‘You're not taking this matter seriously!’ Daisy shouted at the manager. He was too bemused to offer any further solution. It was clearly a case of power and status at play. The flasher was no doubt a high-spending member of the club. Daisy, on the other hand, was an immodestly dressed female tourist. Loyalties lay where the money was.

  After Tantra, Aryan and I ended up at another party before heading back to The Saturday Club. As with most hotels in India, The Saturday Club banned guests in rooms after 11 p.m. However, the rules didn't stipulate when guests could start arriving in the morning. Sunrise seemed like a good time, so I invited Aryan in.

  ‘What music shall I put on?’ I asked him as I grabbed my iPod.

  ‘How about retro?’

  ‘As in 1970s and 1980s?’

  I was surprised. Back home, my love of retro was often ridiculed. Songs by The Carpenters, Air Supply and Bruce Springstein were just some of my unfashionable favourites. But here I was in India, with a guy who actually wanted to hear such music. I could hardly believe it.

  ‘You to Me Are Everything’ by the Real Thing started playing. We sang to each other and absurdly danced around. The significance of the lyrics – about growing closer to someone – drew me in. I had to admit that any distance between Aryan and me was rapidly diminishing. I was filled with admiration for his diverse knowledge of music, coupled with his willingness to sing a mushy song with me at some ungodly hour of the morning.

  We moved on to country classics: Kenny Rogers, Johnny Cash and John Denver. Then we kissed. A tender kiss that we got lost in. One that went on for longer than ten minutes and three tracks.

  Aryan had Mondays and Tuesdays off work, and we spent those days and nights together. We'd go to the movies, eat out, laze around and drink beer in the evenings. Often, we'd just curl up together and not say anything. It was a pleasurable, easy silence. Words just weren't necessary.

  ‘You two don't talk much, do you?’ Mukesh, the friend that Aryan was now living with observed, amused. In India, people usually had too much to say.

  It didn't take long for me to realise that true to his gentle personality, Aryan was indeed not a guy of many words. He conveyed his emotions through his smile, the expressions in his eyes, his childlike laugh and his singing. When he was carefree and happy, he sang Hindi songs and answered my questions with popular lines from English songs.

  ‘I feel like my life is turning into an old Hindi movie. There's a song called “Pardesiyon se na ankhiyan mila na”. It means don't fall in love with a foreigner,’ Aryan told me one day.

  ‘Oh, why's that?’

  ‘Because they always have to leave.’

  It was true. The day would come when I'd have to return to work and my Australian life. I dreaded the thought of it. I felt like I'd come so far, it would be taking a step backwards.

  I wondered if I was becoming too absorbed in my relationship with Aryan. I also worried about what he really felt about me. The insecure, control-freak part of me want
ed to make a fuss and question him. Then I realised he had his own fears and insecurities too.

  ‘I never believed you'd come back to Kolkata, especially not for me,’ Aryan admitted. ‘I'm just as unsure of your feelings for me as you are of mine for you.’

  I was from a country that Aryan was unfamiliar with. And, as a foreigner in India, I unwittingly attracted a lot of attention.

  ‘If you don't look up at me when you walk into the club, I feel anxious,’ he elaborated.

  Meanwhile, I often deliberately didn't look at him because I didn't want to appear too interested, like a girl who wanted to hang off a DJ. I genuinely liked him for the person he was. It was a fine balance.

  ‘We have our own issues, but we'll get through them,’ Aryan said.

  When he did speak, Aryan was always reassuring and positive, and rarely said a bad word about anyone or anything. I wondered what a sweet and genuine guy like him was doing in the party scene. Obviously, music was his passion. But he lacked the superficiality and self-interest that often characterised the scene, and made me want to turn away from it. He had a rare humility and depth about him. He was good-looking, fashionable and obviously took care of his appearance. Yet, he was down to earth and kind-hearted. He didn't seem capable of hurting anyone. There was a certain vulnerability about him that made me want to look after him.

  ‘I've noticed so many little things about you, from the way you tie bedsheets around yourself like a dress to how you stop doing your make-up if I come into the room. You never criticise me for my flaws like other girls. And all the while you're concerned with trying to look your best for me. I don't care anymore. I want to see you at your worst. I've stopped looking at your face and now I look at what's inside.’ The more time we spent together, the more Aryan revealed himself to me and opened up to me about his thoughts.

  Without a doubt, I was having fun in Kolkata but nevertheless, I guiltily felt that I wasn't being very constructive with what I was doing. Previously, I was dissatisfied with my volunteer work taking up all my time. Now it was the opposite. I was always with Aryan or doing the rounds of the party circuit. I consoled myself with the thought that my eyes were being opened to the world, and I was getting to see another side of India, one that very few visitors experienced.

  Most foreigners get taken advantage of at some stage during their trip to India. On past occasions, as a tourist, so had I. My interactions with India's well-off upper class were different. Because everyone had money, no one tried to pull scams. Instead, the opposite was the case: people couldn't do enough. My offers to pay for anything were rebuffed, friends refused to let me take taxis and went out of their way to drive me home, and others called me to make sure I'd reached home safely. I felt so warmly enveloped and protected. It was a different India altogether. Not one that I aspired to remain in, as it didn't encourage me to grow as a person, but one that I appreciated all the same.

  Staying at The Saturday Club was becoming expensive. Plus, the staff were bothering me.

  ‘Madam, you like to party, isn't it?’ the guy at reception asked me one day when I picked up my keys.

  I was also receiving strange internal phone calls every Sunday morning. I'd answer the phone, but no one would speak. After a month at The Saturday Club, I decided to move.

  Daisy and Tess were also keen to move out from under Sucharita's control at Hiland Park. Aryan was keen to move in with us too, so we decided to look for an apartment to all share together. There were plenty of affordable places advertised in the newspaper, so we didn't think it would be too difficult to find somewhere.

  How naïve we were! There was no anonymity of dealing with real estate agents like I was used to in Melbourne. Instead, we had to meet the potential landlady and be scrutinised by her, while she laid down any number of archaic conditions.

  ‘No alcohol, no staying out after 11 p.m. and no members of the opposite sex sharing the apartment.’

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Had I travelled back in time? Surely it couldn't be 2006? And I couldn't be 32 years old? Everywhere we looked, we encountered the same response. Most property owners didn't even want to rent their apartments to foreigners. And a man could definitely not, under any circumstances apart from marriage, occupy it with us. Indian values were strict about that sort of thing.

  In the end, we had to give up on the idea. Daisy and Tess managed to find an apartment for themselves at Hiland Park through a friend. They'd be sharing with another volunteer named Krista, who'd already been living with them. I went to stay with Aryan at his friend Mukesh's apartment.

  It was an interesting set-up. Mukesh didn't actually live in the apartment. Like most Indian guys, he lived at home with his parents. In order to get some privacy, he'd rented the apartment as a place he could visit during his spare time. He worked in the family business, but was also into music. In the evenings, he'd come and drink a couple of glasses of whisky, practice his DJing skills, and sometimes invite his girlfriend over. On Sundays he rented out one of the rooms to his friends who were in relationships and wanted somewhere to be alone with their partners. It was a profitable idea. India's communal living style and conservative values ensured that opportunities for intimacy outside of marriage were hard to find.

  It was there that I had my first encounter with an Indian-style bathroom. Up until then, aside from the squat toilet at the women's centre, I'd led a sheltered existence of modern bathrooms designed for foreign use. These had areas cordoned off for showers, usually with shower curtains, and a minimal collection of buckets. This bathroom was the opposite. In what I would eventually discover was standard practice, there were at least five buckets of varying shapes and sizes in the bathroom. There was also a shower head on the wall near the door but no drain below it for the water.

  As I looked around, perplexed, I noticed only one hole in the floor, situated over the other side of the room, near the toilet. If I turned on the water and stood under the shower, the whole bathroom floor and toilet would get wet. I wasn't to know it was a wet bathroom – and a typical feature of most Indian homes.

  Carefully, I filled a large bucket with water, stood in it and attempted to wash myself without getting any water on the floor or any other surface. But where to tip the dirty water? Was that hole in the floor really a drain? Or something else? I had no idea. So I left the bucket full of dirty water sitting there.

  Since the infamous small mug replaced toilet paper in this bathroom too, I decided that I'd better figure out how to use it properly. I'd tried, unsuccessfully, to picture how it was done. I certainly couldn't imagine Aryan using it. He must, though – he was an Indian guy. Now was the time to be brave and ask. I'd noticed he was very comfortable with himself, and that, in turn, made me feel comfortable enough to approach him.

  ‘Um, you know that mug in the bathroom, for washing up,’ I tentatively started. ‘The water. How do you use it?’

  He looked at me curiously.

  ‘It's just that, well, there's no toilet paper here. And I don't think I'm doing it properly,’ I tried to clarify.

  He laughed and unabashedly answered me. ‘Well, you have to kind of lean back, pour the water with your right hand, and cup your left hand to direct it.

  ‘So you do it from the front?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘Yes,’ he laughed again.

  Ah. No wonder I'd found the process quite cumbersome and messy. I'd been trying to pour the water, unguided, onto my bum from behind.

  While I learned to deal with the mug, I was less than impressed about the wet bathroom arrangement. The whole bathroom floor and toilet did indeed get wet after showering. In order to get to the toilet, it was necessary to walk across the wet floor. Footwear had to be worn when going in and removed when going out. Sitting on a wet toilet seat wasn't exactly pleasurable either.

  To minimise the amount of water that went everywhere in the wet bathroom, many Indians prefer to take a bucket bath. This is done by filling one of the large buckets full o
f water, lathering the body with soap, then proceeding to use the small mug to pour the water from the bucket over oneself. As I was used to showering under a constant flow of warm water, taking a bucket bath didn't appeal to me at all. Sucharita's unsympathetic words rang in my head, ‘You must adapt’.

  While Aryan was at work, I studied Hindi from my textbooks. Instead of taking classes, I'd purchased a few textbooks and was determined to teach myself. A language very different from English, I found it challenging and absorbing. Instead of saying, ‘Pleased to meet you’, it was, ‘Aap se mil kar badi kushi hui (Having met you great happiness happened)’. To casually ask someone how they were wasn't ‘How's it going?’ but ‘Kyaa haal hai? (What's your condition?)’. Yet, the discovery that intrigued me the most was that the word ‘accha’ could have at least five different meanings depending on the tone and placement in a sentence. Commonly said in a neutral tone, it means ‘good’. However, it could also mean ‘really?’, ‘I understand’, ‘okay’, ‘listen up’ or ‘oh!’. I imagined telling someone that I wasn't feeling well, and mistaking their reply of ‘accha’ as good. Awkward social situations could easily eventuate if I didn't get it right.

  ‘Say accha in all the different ways for me,’ I pestered Aryan when he got home. He recited them and we both laughed.

  ‘I love it when you're happy. It feels like I don't have a care in the world,’ he told me.

  It was true, Aryan's moods had started reflecting mine. When I was quiet, he seemed withdrawn. When I was laughing, he was too.

  A couple of weeks later, I was again living at Hiland Park. Tess and Krista had gone to Goa and Daisy didn't want to be alone in the apartment. Aryan initially stayed with me there during his days off. Soon those few days stretched into weeks.

  We shopped, cooked together and entertained friends. At night there was soothing music, candles and incense, so much hugging and kissing, passion and sleeping enmeshed in each other's arms. It was exquisite and divine, a bonding of two bodies and souls.