Henna for the Broken Hearted

by Sharell Cook

  Interestingly, it was the increasingly status-obsessed middle class who put up the most resistance to our relationship. This rapidly burgeoning group of people has struggled and worked hard to have more money, and mobility, than ever before. They're determined to achieve a higher position in society. Just like my new neighbours splurging on the most ostentatious furnishings for their apartment, to the middle class, outward displays of riches and success are important evidence of having ‘made it’. Therefore, why would you not marry a prestigious doctor or engineer if possible?

  In contrast, the poorer sections of Indian society often found my marriage more amusing than anything. My toe rings were invariably noticed when I went to the local beauty parlour.

  ‘Ooooh,’ the girls working there marvelled.

  ‘Indian husband,’ I explained, as they giggled with glee.

  Although I still felt inadequate about my place in Aryan's family, they treated me well. They appreciated me for appreciating their culture, and found me and my bad Hindi amusing. What they liked most was the impact I'd had on Aryan. He'd finally returned to Mumbai, settled down, joined the family business and become responsible. The future was a weight off their minds.

  ‘Thank God we have you in our lives now. We were so worried about Aryan,’ Amita once said to me. ‘He's changed so much for the better since he's been with you. You're the only one who's ever had this effect on him.’

  Sink or Swim

  BEING married brought with it the comforting feeling of belongingness and security. I delighted in being a part of Aryan's family, and having a future overflowing with possibility. Yet, we both continued to grapple with our existence and the adjustments that were necessary.

  Change did not come easily. The humidity, coupled with consistently high temperatures, along with the ongoing water problem, was sapping. We altered our routine, thinking we'd get up early and catch the first instalment of water to wash clothes and do the cleaning. Our erratic sleeping pattern had been okay when we didn't have much responsibility in our lives. But now, it was a burden.

  The working day in Mumbai generally starts late, around 10 a.m., and ends late, around 8 p.m. Aryan wasn't left with much time in the evenings, after coming home from the family business and having dinner. His heart was still in music and he wanted to continue to learn new production software and work on music projects. I needed to sleep because I had to write the next day. As money was being reinvested into the family business, it meant I was still earning most of our income. With that responsibility, I felt like my needs were more important. When Aryan didn't alter his routine, I felt unsupported and resented the fact that I was the one who had to do most of the gruelling work of adapting.

  The four walls of the apartment began to feel like a fishbowl. I didn't have an outlet for how I was feeling, so Aryan bore the brunt of my frustrations. I expected things that Indian wives probably wouldn't.

  Friends of his would sometimes be in the neighbourhood, and he'd go out to meet them.

  ‘I'll be back in half an hour,’ he'd tell me. Three hours later, he still wasn't home and I had dinner ready to serve. He was used to the flexible concept of time in India, whereas to me, half an hour meant half an hour. I was used to people calling if they were even going to be ten minutes late, and the fact that he saw no need to do this left me feeling like he had no consideration for me.

  I also found it hard to sleep when Aryan stayed up late. Noise travelled in the small apartment, and I hadn't developed the ability of most Indians to readily doze anywhere and anyhow, despite what was going on around them.

  These elements made me yearn to be back in Australia living my old life. During moments of weakness, I felt I'd sacrificed so much for Aryan and wanted to always be the first priority in his life. But I knew, when push came to shove, that we couldn't leave India. I finally had my dream job, and that, I wasn't prepared to give up.

  Just when I thought things couldn't get any more trying, Aryan announced he needed to go to Kolkata and Bhutan for three weeks. He'd landed a DJ gig in Bhutan, and wanted to get together with a small group of friends in Kolkata to collaborate on some music.

  ‘Let's take a short holiday before you leave,’ I suggested. ‘It's really getting to me in this city, and I can't stand it anymore. I need a break.’

  We decided to go to Matheran for a few days. The closest hill settlement to Mumbai, Matheran was a popular summer retreat for the British. Although it provided a cooling respite from searing temperatures, the most appealing thing about it was that all vehicles were banned, even bicycles. Horses and hand-pulled carts are the only means of getting around. After Mumbai's manic traffic, I wanted complete serenity.

  An historic toy train slowly crawled its way up the hill, across bridges and through forests, and two hours later deposited us in the heart of town. The unsealed roads revealed rich red soil underfoot, and the presence of many horses made it feel like we'd been transported back to colonial days. Even our hotel, a rambling place with villas by a pool, had a distinct colonial ambience to it. We spent our days walking along the nature trails, riding horses into the sunset and fending off monkeys. In the night we drank beer, burned incense and talked.

  It was such a welcome contrast to our wearisome bickering in Mumbai. Not surprisingly, I bounced back, and felt free, blessed, energetic and filled with love. The high was better than any drug, and natural.

  ‘I'd ask you to marry me, if we weren't already,’ Aryan said to me one night.

  I decided I had to support his planned trip, and stay in Mumbai by myself – and make the most of it. I'd challenge myself to be independent and prove I could look after myself in that heaving, chaotic city.

  From the hills, my actions in Mumbai seemed like those of another woman: the hiding in the apartment, the ranting and raving, the storming off and wanting Aryan to fix everything that didn't work. Most of all, the fear. Of being stared at, of being misunderstood, of being taken advantage of. I felt like I had to dress like an Indian, talk like an Indian and completely change myself to fit in.

  How can one make a new life like that?

  I'd been taking myself way too seriously.

  I had misgivings about being alone, but when we got back I vowed I'd focus on what I wanted to achieve in Aryan's absence.

  The first task was the bank and post office. I hadn't set foot in an Indian post office since the disastrous episode in Manali. It was about time. Blessedly, the post office near our apartment was nothing like the post office in Manali. No one told me I had to send my item by parcel post in order to have it registered. No one asked for my passport and visa details. The transaction was effortlessly completed with a smile. For once, I was glad about the lack of consistency in India.

  The bank proved to be more of a trial. I needed to make a deposit into someone's account. I knew where the bank was, but I didn't know the best way to get there from the post office. I insisted that the rickshaw driver take me the long way that I was familiar with, which totally confused him. When we arrived, he shouted something at me in Hindi that I didn't understand, but I was quite sure he was calling me an idiot.

  ‘Sorry, madam, we're not accepting deposits today,’ the bank clerk informed me when I reached the counter. ‘The computer network is down at this branch. An Internet problem apparently.’

  ‘When will it be fixed?’ I knew it was pointless asking, but I couldn't stop myself.

  ‘Don't know, madam.’

  ‘Are there any other branches around that are working?’ I was determined not to let the situation get the better of me.

  ‘Maybe, madam. Try Borivali.’

  ‘Can you call them and find out?’

  ‘Sorry, madam, I don't have their number.’

  He wasn't keen to go out of his way to be of assistance. Followed soon by this: ‘Madam, can I interest you in this excellent combined investment and life insurance product that we currently have on offer?’

  I was gobsmacked. ‘What? No, I don't even
have a bank account in India or any documents! Please just tell me where I can make this deposit.’

  The scene attracted the attention of the other employees.

  ‘Madam, the Kandivali branch is operational. You can go there,’ one finally advised me.

  These seem like such little steps, but to me, they were Everests. That I managed to conquer them reinforced in me that I was capable.

  My mother-in-law never interfered in our lives, but she was worried that I might be lonely in Aryan's absence and that I might be committing that terrible Indian sin of not eating properly. Then Maliha rang and told me her mother was going to come over on the train and take me home with her.

  Although it was such a caring gesture, and one I was grateful for, I was still irrationally scared of my in-laws. I was scared of not understanding anything, of not being understood, of having to speak mostly in Hindi for days.

  What could I do? The only way forward was to keep pushing through the fear. I was never going to learn Hindi quickly unless I spent time speaking it, and I was never going to get to know my in-laws unless I spent time with them. I knew they liked me, and I loved them back.

  ‘Don't worry, they're happy with any effort you make,’ Aryan had reassured me.

  Just like when my mother-in-law first visited our apartment, my fears melted away when I saw her.

  ‘Is ke liye, thank you (Thank you for this),’ I told her as we climbed into the taxi at Dadar station, after our train trip.

  ‘Kyon? (Why?)’

  By thanking her, I was implying that her deed was excessive and uncalled for. She'd simply done what any caring family member would do.

  ‘Yahan se bahut lamba hai (It's a very long way from here),’ I fumbled to convey how much I appreciated her going out of her way for me.

  Our short conversation in Hindi was enough to prick the ears of the taxi driver. He started giving my mother-in-law the third degree as he drove. Although quite bemused by the attention we received, my mother-in-law is very talkative and answered the questions as they arose. ‘I came from Orissa 40 years ago. My husband has a furniture shop here . . .’

  There was the staring as well. I'd become better at blocking it out, but it was novel for my mother-in-law, who was used to going about her business unobserved. As soon as we reached her apartment, she said to my sister-in-law, Radha, ‘So many men staring.’

  ‘Don't speak to any of them. Just ignore them,’ she instructed me. There was a time when I did tell the starers to udhar dekho (look away), but I'd given up on it long ago.

  I was glad Radha was there. Not only did she speak excellent English, so she could translate where necessary, conversations with her were fascinating. Aged in her early twenties, her marriage to Aryan's youngest brother had been one arranged between two families that knew each other. She'd given up her career as a fashion designer to have a baby. There was a sense of relief in both families that their children had upheld tradition.

  ‘I did want to concentrate on my career a bit longer, but I'm content that it's turned out this way,’ she assured me. ‘I can always go back to work later on. I'm really glad that I've married into a family that is okay with me working. They allow me to be myself. I can still even wear jeans if I want.’

  That was the beauty of Aryan's family. Although they were traditional, they had adjusted to city life and become more open-minded. I felt the same acceptance from them as Radha did.

  As a guest, I was pampered. At my mother-in-law's insistence, I quickly fell into a lazy routine of eating, sleeping, watching TV, day after day.

  ‘Abhi khaoge? (You will eat now?)’ she'd ask me during most waking hours. Then, when I'd finished eating, she'd tell me to sleep.

  Used to being constantly offered food, I was therefore confused when none was forthcoming one morning at breakfast. I'd been enjoying lounging around in my nightwear and drinking my coffee, as I usually do at home. Everyone was getting piping hot palak parathas (Indian bread with spinach) and coriander chutney. My mouth watered; I wanted some.

  But Abhi khaoge had been replaced by Abhi nahane.

  My mother-in-law wanted me to take a shower. Something wasn't right. Why wasn't I getting any food?

  ‘Should I have a shower now?’ I finally asked Radha.

  ‘You don't have to if you don't want to, but we always do. Hindus consider it to be unclean to eat before bathing in the morning,’ she said.

  This was a revelation. Aryan had never showed such concerns. And everyone in his family had been too reserved to tell me how to behave. Sure enough, as soon as I'd showered, a steady stream of food flowed to me from the kitchen.

  Spending time with my mother-in-law was very inspirational. I helped her with the cooking, and she helped me with my Hindi. I sat on the floor in front of the TV with Radha, and cut up vegetables. Then I watched her prepare the dishes. She chatted to me in Hindi the whole time she was cooking.

  ‘Is me daalo. Tel, rai, jeera, pyaaz (Put it in this. Oil, mustard seeds, cumin, onion).’

  Her patience, no doubt garnered from bringing up five children, was endless.

  I was amazed to learn how she taught herself to speak and read Hindi when she came to Mumbai from Orissa. If she can do it, so can I, I thought. I was also encouraged that her Hindi wasn't perfect, that she spoke as if everything were masculine, and addressed everyone as if they were male. No one was ever bothered by it.

  Determined, I sat down and practised writing the Hindi alphabet over and over again starting with the vowels: a, aa, i, ii, u, uu. And then moving on to the consonants: ka, kha, ga, gha, cha, chha. I did it again and again, row after row, until I started remembering the order. Next, I tried to write people's names. Much to everyone's amusement, I put vowels in the wrong place and got the letters wrong. I thought it funny too.

  ‘Practise little by little. Start with reading the signs on shops and in the trains,’ my mother-in-law advised.

  From observing her during my stay, I learned to play the role of a good Indian housewife. I brought the men water when they got home from work, served their meals and cleaned up after them. I noticed my mother-in-law's sense of pride over always having plenty of food ready for them. She never grumbled when anyone came late. Rather, she was happy that they'd come home to eat.

  Seeing this made me recognise that perhaps I'd been too forceful in my judgements about Aryan's behaviour. This was normal in his mother's house. A constant stream of people came and went, often unannounced, and my mother-in-law always had food ready for them.

  I was also enlightened by what everyone wore while at home. Radha lived in long shapeless nightdresses called maxis. She donned a different one every day and only dressed up if she was going out. Maids came and went, as did numerous people who knocked on the door. Yet, she was unconcerned about her appearance. It was a huge contrast to how I fussed over being seen if I wasn't properly groomed. Inspired, I resolved to go shopping for some maxis.

  I loved spending time in my in-laws' apartment, sitting on the window ledge next to their tulsi (holy basil) plant, and gazing down at the ever-changing street below. The apartment that Aryan had grown up in had a soothing energy about it. No doubt this had a lot to do with its location on the lane behind Siddhivinayak Temple. The lane was filled with sadhus (Hindu holy men), flower sellers and people on the way to see the resident deity, Lord Ganesh. By the end of my stay, their home had become my home.

  When I went back to my own apartment, I felt like I knew and understood Aryan's family so much better.

  Aryan returned to a slightly more Indian wife.

  ‘I can read Hindi,’ I proudly announced.

  He looked at me in disbelief. It wasn't what he expected at all and I couldn't believe it myself. Reading Hindi was painfully slow, like putting the pieces of a puzzle together. I was used to recognising words on sight, not having to sound them out like a child. But a whole new world had opened up to me. I was more confident in my ability to communicate with people and be independent. I di
dn't feel like I had to act so conservative and be inconspicuous all the time. And I was much less self-conscious.

  Unfortunately, my newfound optimism about living in India didn't last long. On 26 November 2008, at around 10 p.m., Aryan and I were sitting in our living room. His sister Maliha, her husband and her mother-in-law were with us. I'd prepared a full Indian meal (daal, vegetables, fish curry and rice) upon request, to satisfy her mother-in-law's doubts that an educated white girl could in fact cook. We were just about to eat when a news report flashed across the TV screen.

  ‘There's been a gang-related shooting in front of Leopold's Café,’ Maliha remarked.

  It didn't sound very serious. Unfortunately, the reality was much more sinister. As we later discovered, Mumbai was under siege. A group of Muslim terrorists had arrived on a boat from Pakistan. Using guns, grenades and bombs, they went on a rampage, slaughtering people at the Chhatrapathi Shivaji Terminus train station, Leopold's Café, Taj Palace Hotel and the Trident Oberoi Hotel. They also took over Nariman House, an important Jewish building. Hostages were held for over 48 hours. Many were killed, foreigners in particular. The death toll reached more than 200 people. Shocking report after shocking report filled the Indian media. Newspapers contained gruesome pictures of bloodied dead bodies.

  From the peaceful safety of our apartment, it was hard to believe that such horrific events were occurring. Yet, media reports and concerned messages from my friends and colleagues confirmed it. That's when reality really started sinking in, and the attacks felt a lot closer to home and personal. The places being attacked were all so familiar to me. I'd walked through the Taj Hotel with my family, met friends there and admired its grandeur. Aryan's first job as a DJ had been at Leopold's Café. Now, these former places of pleasure had become places of mourning. I cried when I read that the general manager of the Taj Hotel lost both his wife and children in the attack; they'd been trapped inside the hotel and viciously killed. How can anyone ever recover from losing their whole family in such a violent manner?