by Sharell Cook
The after-party was held at Coconut Grove, near the black sand beach. Aryan was the DJ. Almost everyone from the Cliff was there. But it wasn't enough to conquer the mounting tension between the locals and the outsiders. The buffet had different prices for foreigners and Indians. The bar staff refused to serve Aryan's friend vodka shots because he wasn't a local. And the festivities came to an abrupt halt with a fight on the dance floor.
A group of local guys had been drinking Michael's beer. When he refused to give them any more, one hit him. The fight continued near the parking lot, where they beat Michael up quite badly. Faye came to see us the next day in a state of distress.
‘Please tell me what happened,’ she begged as she tried to make sense of it.
Not long after the incident, Faye and Michael decided to leave for Goa. He didn't feel safe in Varkala anymore. It was such a shame, as we were just starting to get to know them.
Between the fights and the robberies, I didn't feel very good about staying in Varkala either. Fortunately for us, Aryan's profession made him popular with many of the locals. He had some disreputable but influential people on his side, and was never bothered.
The thief returned. Aryan and I had been to the opening party of the Skylark Art Garden. After coming home, we relaxed in the hammock for a while before going inside our bungalow. We'd had a few drinks and foolishly fell asleep with the light on and the door unlocked. I woke up around 45 minutes later, only to notice that the shutters on the window were slightly ajar and my handbag was again gone. In it was my iPod and money. The thief also took Aryan's phone and an umbrella. Once again, I found my empty bag outside the bungalow. I was in a state of disbelief. The feeling of knowing that someone had been watching us so closely and had so boldly invaded our privacy was awful.
All of my electronic items had now either been stolen or broken in India. The thought of it made me crazy. What more could go wrong?
This time we didn't even bother reporting the incident to the police. The last thing I wanted was another rebuke for being careless. Besides, we weren't the only ones suffering. Michael had found his expensive yellow motorbike pushed over and badly damaged one day. It was another sign of the simmering tensions on the Cliff.
The parties continued on the Cliff amid altercations between shack owners. Kama had a new lust interest, a sweet Belgian girl called Julie. When she wasn't hugging Kama in one of the hammocks, she joined me on the dance floor. We were trying our best to imitate a tall moustachioed Indian man, whose curious combination of dance moves was a cross between John Travolta and the Karate Kid. He executed them wearing the facial expression of David Hasselhoff, and at one point sang into a banana-leaf microphone.
He wasn't the only source of entertainment. A bespectacled officer from the Indian Navy, who had come to Varkala Beach to study the movement of the tides, had an impressive repertoire of Bollywood dance moves. Regrettably, he directed them all at me and in very close proximity.
‘You're incredibly special. Are you sure you're not a Punjabi girl?’ he kept asking, until Aryan called me away.
Soon, it would be Christmas – my second away from home. This year, being away didn't feel so monumental. The fancy stores in Varkala Town had started stocking decorations, and rows of huge brightly coloured paper stars adorned shopfronts, along with Santa masks and flashing lights. Aryan and I bought a small Christmas tree and decorations for the guesthouse. The neighbours built a nativity scene, and Aryan and I went around handing out Christmas cake. On Christmas Eve, ten of the local boys dressed up in masks and Santa suits, roaming from house to house, chanting loudly and singing Christmas carols. Even the dog ran for cover.
Daisy, who had been renewing her visa in Kathmandu, and Vincent arrived back on Christmas Day, and we treated ourselves to the buffet at the luxury Taj Garden Retreat Hotel on a grassy hill overlooking the Arabian Sea. Swathed in the sari that Aryan had bought me in Kolkata, it was another Christmas where east met west.
Tess returned to Varkala to spend New Year's Eve with us. Dolphin Bay promised a ‘sleepless nite of thunder and lightning’ from 5 p.m. until 5 a.m. The substantial crowd sprawled out onto the footpath, unable to be contained within the walls of the shack, as sweaty bodies danced together. A guy from Australia hoisted me up onto his shoulders, spinning me around as we jubilantly heralded in the new year.
Gallingly, the new year began with further visits from the thief. Soon after Daisy gave her dog to one of the shack owners on the Cliff, Aryan and I awoke to find the shutters on our bungalow open. That made it not once, but three mornings in a row.
Daisy, Tess and I resolved to uncover whoever it was. We came home early from a party and took up strategic positions. After waiting hidden in the shadows of the fence for over an hour, I grew tired and went inside to sleep. It was 4.30 a.m. and there was still no sign of the thief.
‘He came to my window and peered in at around 5 a.m.,’ Tess announced the next day. ‘I was awake but couldn't see anything in the dark and was too scared to move.’
We sighed. Again, the person had managed to avoid getting caught.
The police raids continued on the Cliff, however.
‘The owner of the supermarket next door complained about the music, so the police came and took away my CD player and ten of my kitchen staff so I couldn't serve any food. My business is ruined,’ Kama said dramatically.
His lust life was also creating problems.
‘Kama's wife turned up looking for him on New Year's Day. She was insane with anger,’ Julie told me. ‘I had a huge fight with him and ran off. He didn't even bother to come after me, and sent two of his kitchen staff instead. Now he's being so affectionate with me again, I just don't know what to do. I don't want to believe that he's a bad guy.’
It was almost time for her to return to Belgium. If she didn't realise what he was really like before then, I feared that another mock beach wedding might eventuate.
There was only a month left of the season. What would happen to us after Kerala remained unasked, and unanswered. My visa was about to run out. It seemed that the best option would be to get a new visa from Kathmandu, like Daisy did. Aryan agreed to come with me.
The four-day journey from Varkala to Nepal via Delhi and through India's poor heartland of Uttar Pradesh was arduous and tested us in every way possible. Poverty-stricken, overburdened and uncivilised, most of Uttar Pradesh isn't welcoming to visitors. The state is home to the Taj Mahal and Varanasi, two of the most popular tourist destinations in India. Yet, most of it consists of rural farming land that is unable to support the largest population, of almost 200 million inhabitants, in India. Crime, lack of education, unemployment and ‘eve teasing’ (sexual harassment of women) plagued the state. Colleges banned girls from wearing jeans to stop men from being aroused. It was seen as the only way to curb crime against women.
We arrived at Gorakhpur, a few hours from the Sonali border crossing, on a train from Delhi. It was 5 a.m. when we disembarked, only to discover that a bandh (closure) was in place due to political unrest. As dawn broke, we snuck out of town via the back roads in a solitary escape vehicle. It was one of the very few local bus services running. I had little understanding of the situation, including the violence that apparently would have ensued if we'd been caught.
The conductors on the bus were particularly lecherous and uncouth. I couldn't help noticing that one of them had a large hole in the crotch of his pants, which he freely used to access and scratch himself. The male passenger seated in front of us enthusiastically chewed paan and regularly opened the window to let out a stream of tainted red spit. Blasts of chilly air slapped my face each time.
The conductors decided to have some fun by asking Aryan about me and making lewd remarks.
‘Chup rao! (Be quiet!)’ I shouted at them in rage.
They looked at me in surprise.
‘Shhh, don't say anything and don't acknowledge them,’ Aryan ordered me.
Later he told me that they wer
e discussing taking both of us away, beating him up and playing games with me. It made me feel sick.
Twelve hours later, after taking another bus from the border, we arrived in Kathmandu. I was exhausted but filled with aggression towards the crude Indian men who could get away with behaving so offensively.
The atmosphere was noticeably different in Nepal. Despite being a very poor country, a certain dignity was apparent. People greeted me with a ‘Namaste’. Staring was minimal. And there were no rude comments even though Aryan was often mistaken as a Nepali. At worst, they thought he was my Nepali guide. We had encountered similar assumptions in India as well. It was frustrating and demeaning, but there was little we could do about it. People did not expect Indians, or Nepalis, and white people to have relationships with each other.
Foreigners in a foreign country together, the maze of narrow winding streets and Kathmandu's medieval architecture enchanted us. We wandered around aimlessly, getting ourselves lost and discovering something new at every turn. Afterwards, we hired a motorbike and explored the surrounding temples. More than 300 steps on a hill to the west of the city led us to Swayambhunath Stupa, the oldest holy shrine in the Kathmandu valley. Its piercing eyes looked out in all directions (north, east, south and west), symbolising the all-seeing nature of the Buddha. Its nose was the Nepali character for the number one, symbolising unity and the ‘one’ way to reach enlightenment – through the Buddha's teachings. In a rare display of his roots, Aryan was also overwhelmed to visit Pashupatinath Temple, the oldest Hindu temple in Kathmandu and one of the most significant Hindu temples of Lord Shiva in the world. ‘My mum would really appreciate me doing this. She would love to come here,’ he explained to me as I waited outside. Unfortunately, only Hindus were allowed to enter. It seemed so mysterious to me, and I wondered what went on inside. In the evenings, we drank wine and listened to live music in the bars of the pulsating tourist district known as Thamel. One day, I got an unexpected taste of home when we discovered an Australian exhibition, complete with didjeridu-playing Aboriginals. The fact that Aryan loved the barbecued meat confirmed to me that our blend of cultures seemed to merge relatively effortlessly. I'd never had a problem eating Indian food, and now he was enjoying the food from my home. I suspected that he'd fit in well in Australia.
On the return train from Delhi to Varkala we found an unusual man seated opposite us.
‘I'm Lokesh,’ he introduced himself. Aged in his mid-twenties, Lokesh was a recent but ardent devotee of Lord Krishna. He was also deeply into astrology and claimed he could predict the future.
‘If you give me your birth details, I'll prepare your charts,’ he offered, to pass the time during the journey.
The results were intriguing. He said some surprisingly accurate things as he addressed Aryan.
‘Your family's financial situation was difficult in the early years but is okay now. Although you're emotional, you often keep your feelings to yourself. You didn't plan your career, it's just something you fell into. You're loyal in relationships, and it's always been the girls who have created doubt in the past.’
Turning to me, he warned, ‘You need to be more forthright in giving Aryan guidance. But I believe you will both marry next year, around March,’ he concluded.
It was a bold prediction but one that Aryan and I both found comforting. The future of our relationship had been on our minds a lot. Whether or not Lokesh's prediction eventuated, it gave us hope that we would remain together.
Our relationship was always going to attract a great deal of attention, and at times scorn, in India. How would it affect us? Could I cope with the challenges and disapproval? Living in Varkala without the facilities that I was used to had shown I was adaptable, but it had also revealed that there was no utopia.
Life slipped into a peaceful pattern in Varkala upon our return. Daisy had fled with Tess to Kolkata to escape from Vincent. The ongoing police raids had subdued the Cliff. There were no parties to tempt Aryan into staying out late and over-indulging. Days were long and slow, and ran on Indian time. The weather was warm and breezy. I sat around reading books and studying Hindi. Aryan devoted his time to learning new music production software. Without interference from anyone else, our relationship moved to a new level of contentedness.
Our reverie was unexpectedly interrupted by a phone call from Aryan's mother.
‘She was again asking me if I'd met a girl. She really wants me to get married and is keen to arrange a wedding.
‘Do you think it would be possible for us to be together forever? If I don't marry you, I'll probably give in and have an arranged marriage. It'll be easier that way. I don't want to love anyone like this again.’
So many thoughts flooded my mind.
‘Do you really think you could be a good husband?’ The prospect of being locked into another party lifestyle wasn't appealing.
‘I can. I'm willing to learn,’ he assured me.
When he looked at me, I could see the love in his eyes. His whole facial expression changed with it. And the way he held and kissed me was so tender. There was so much potential in the life we could build together. Yet, I felt scared about giving up my nondescript life in Australia. Concern about subjecting myself to a life where I would be regarded so differently, and as an outsider, tormented me. At the same time I didn't want to slip back into a life of comfortable monotony.
I needed to see where this journey would lead. Thoughts of the future eluded me. Aryan and I were effectively jobless and homeless; we'd have to create a whole new life for ourselves. Where would we live? Where would our kids go to school? How often would I get to see my family? And how could Aryan be so confident he wanted to spend his life with me? I didn't doubt Aryan's sincerity, but his confidence felt so alien. All I could do was take one step at a time, and believe that things would fall into place if we were meant to be together.
My thirty-third birthday came and went. It was another dry day, so the alcohol shop was closed. Every year, the Indan government announced a list of days prohibiting the sale of alcohol. The dry days usually fell on certain festivals, elections and religious occasions. Added to this, the first day of every month was a dry day in Kerala. It was the day that most employees received their salaries, and the Kerala government wanted to discourage them from drinking. (I could hardly imagine what would happen if the Australian government did such a thing.) We spent the afternoon consuming cocktails at Dolphin Bay and gazing out over the ocean. Thankfully, dry day laws weren't followed on the Cliff, where they served alcohol without permission anyway. I couldn't help feeling I was getting old and that my life was still directionless. It was a new and unpleasant feeling. At the same time, I recognised that I was learning so much. It wouldn't do me any good to be impatient.
The season was drawing to a close. Ken, the African drummer who lived nearby, was keen to know if we intended to keep leasing the guesthouse. If not, he wanted to take it on for the next five years and develop it.
I could see the potential in Ken's plan. In reality, it would be difficult for him to make any money, given the huge capital investment required. What's more, the owner was getting greedy with the amount of rent that she wanted. I didn't see much point in renewing our lease under the circumstances. Emily agreed with me. She was now living in London and didn't have any plans to return to India.
With five months remaining on my visa, Aryan and I were left wondering what to do with ourselves. The weather was getting hotter and humidity levels were building every day.
‘Let's go north to Manali,’ he suggested. ‘Some of my friends have been there. It's a beautiful place in the mountains.’
The thought of fresh, crisp air really appealed, so I agreed. We'd take the train to Delhi, and from there the overnight bus to Manali.
You would think I was now a whiz at packing and leaving, but preparing for our departure brought back feelings of trepidation about moving on, and of leaving the ease of the known for the uneasiness of the unknown. After the
relative calm of Varkala, I dreaded being in the deluge of humanity in a large city again – the pushing, shoving, staring and people wanting to sell me things. I felt tense just thinking about it.
‘I can only be strong if you are. I don't think we can do this trip with you like this,’ Aryan looked at me, worried.
I took a walk along the Cliff to fortify myself. After eight months together, Aryan and I knew we made a good team and complemented each other well. I was useful at planning and he excelled at implementing. He packed our bags while I finalised our travel arrangements. We were in this adventure together.
We said our goodbyes to the people we'd befriended on the Cliff. Most of them weren't emotional; everyone was used to the transient free spirits passing through. Shack owners were packing up their belongings for storage. Many of the seasonal workers also had plans to head to the hills. Sulfi from Dolphin Bay had started to grow a moustache.
‘It's the end of the season. Plus, it will help me to be taken seriously by the police around here. It looks like I'm out of my caste without one,’ he explained.
Such was the pervasive power of the meesha (moustache) in Kerala.
Kama was looking forward to Julie's return from Belgium in a week. No matter how much Daisy and I warned her about what he was really like, she didn't want to believe it. She felt she needed to come back and make up her own mind about him.
Our last meal in Varkala was the most delicious fish tikka we'd ever had on the Cliff. I surprised myself by stringing together a sentence in Hindi.
‘Varkala me, yeh machi sabse achhi hai (this fish is the best in Varkala).’
Perhaps my long hours of study had started to produce results after all.