by Sharell Cook
There had been other terrorist attacks in India while I was there, but this one sheeted the closest to home. Perhaps it's because I now had a family to call my own. Safety is taken for granted in Australia. The possibility of a terrorist attack is unheard of, whereas in India it's accepted as a part of life. Minds are numbed by constant tragedies. Life goes on as usual. It can't be any other way, because there are so many people in India, all with things that they need to do and money that they need to earn. There is no scope for pity and misery.
This time, however, the events of the terrorist attack weren't simply brushed off. People were still going about their business but there was a definite air of gloom. Flights were cancelled. Bars and clubs remained closed. I tried to write, but my head throbbed and my shoulders ached.
The year had been filled with extreme highs and lows. It had rewarded me more than I'd imagined possible, yet challenged me just as much. I was looking forward to bidding it farewell and moving ahead.
Just over a month later, as the clock struck midnight on New Year's Eve, Aryan and I danced outside on the dusty earth as lasers illuminated the sky and sparkling confetti rained down on us. We were at a friend's party at a bungalow by the sea on Madh Island, just off the coast of Mumbai. He'd hired it for the occasion. The music continued unabated through the night and into the next morning, interrupted only when a group of Christians arrived to conduct a sermon at the neighbouring bungalow.
The New Year marked a new beginning for me. I'd finally found some peace and resolved to let go of the numerous fights and battles going on in my mind with the last of the old year.
‘I'm only just starting to accept you as my wife for real. I've also seen how much closer you've become to my family since my trip away,’ Aryan admitted.
Strangely, it made me realise I'd been feeling exactly the same way about him as my husband. Our wedding ceremony was merely the starting point for the life we'd live together. The transformational henna on my hands had paved the path. Where we went now was up to us. I just had to accept that being married meant we would be spending the rest of our lives together, through all of life's ups and downs.
‘My biggest problem has been feeling that you're not happy with India, or me being Indian, and that you'll go back home,’ Aryan continued.
My complaining and outbursts had unnerved him; the threat of my leaving constantly hovered over our relationship. I could see that I'd created a far from pleasant home for us when I felt under siege. Aryan had the sweetest heart, and deep down I knew he loved me so much, but sometimes I just didn't want to believe it. I had to learn to give him the gift of the same security he had given me, and appreciate him as the stabilising influence in my life, the person whose love had given me so much courage.
My New Year's resolutions therefore centred on change. There would be no more living in limbo. I would commit to living in India fully. This meant packing up my house in Australia and selling off my remaining possessions. My last link – perhaps my security blanket even – would be gone.
And in its place would be my new Indian life, and new memories.
Making Mumbai Home
IT was almost dusk, my favourite time of the day in Mumbai. I turned on the lamps and burned some incense to encourage Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and prosperity, into our home. It was a sacred evening ritual that Aryan encouraged me to do. The light was soft, and the heady notes of the sandalwood incense trailed warmly through the rooms inside. Outside, children enthusiastically played cricket in the courtyard. The ball made a clunking sound as it landed and bounced off the cement, and cheers rose up as runs were made.
‘Chal, chal, mar, mar (move, move, hit, hit),’ they shouted encouragement to each other.
The area around the apartment building started to come alive. The warm glow from the shops and the smoky smell of oil and jeera (cumin) from the samosas being fried by the roadside drew people into the streets. After living there for two years, I still saw Mumbai as an exotic fusion.
There wasn't a lot about my old life that was same as it was five years ago. Not my job. Not my relationship. And not my home. Being a foreigner in a foreign land makes you so much more aware of how the universe, and life, alters.
‘Sab Kuch Milega’ means ‘You'll get everything’. This Hindi saying is especially popular with backpackers in India, who often have it emblazoned all over their T-shirts. Indeed, it usually is possible to get everything in India. What you want may not always be available, but it's definitely possible.
I returned to Australia early that new year and piece by piece, step by step, tidied up the loose ends. Aryan stayed in India. I had a lot to sort out and needed time to myself to do it. When I came back to India a month later, it was with an open heart and mind. I'd missed India while I was away. Yes, there were obstacles and inefficiencies, but there were so many things I undeniably liked, too. When I stopped noticing how difficult it was to get some things done in India, I started appreciating how easy it was to get other things done. No matter what happened or what I needed, there was usually someone nearby to conveniently fix it or provide it. And for a very reasonable price.
When the sole of my sandal broke, Aryan took it to the chappalwala who had a small stall on the footpath at the end of our road. He glued and stitched it back together while I waited. Cost: 5 rupees (15 cents).
When our lamp stopped working, Aryan fetched the electrician from one of the small shops in the street outside our apartment building to come and repair it. Cost: 40 rupees ($1).
A tailor sat with his sewing machine on the ground floor of our apartment building. He quickly mended and adjusted the seams of our clothes. Cost: 10 rupees (30 cents).
A dhar-wala often visited on his bicycle, which he would put on a stand, and pedalled to rotate a sharpening stone to sharpen our scissors. Cost: 20 rupees (60 cents).
When my laptop played up and refused to stay on for more than a couple of minutes, Aryan reassured me that we'd take it to the computer store nearby. The technician phoned us a few hours later. ‘Your laptop is fixed. All the viruses have been removed. You can come and collect it.’ It was fully operational again, and for only 250 rupees ($10).
The air conditioner clunked to a halt one hot, steamy evening. It was just over a year old, so the warranty would have expired. What's more, I didn't know where the receipt was. I envisaged an expensive repair bill. Aryan and I returned to the store where we bought the air conditioner.
‘We'll send a repairman to take a look at it within two or three days,’ the shop assistant assured us.
Not even a day later, two repairmen arrived at our door. Unannounced, of course. They pulled the air conditioner out of the wall and lifted the top off. Both the repairmen and I looked down in horror.
‘Yeh kyaa hai? (What is this?)’
I was particularly aghast. The unit was filled with pigeon feathers and excrement that had fallen through the grille.
The repairmen were obviously amused by my reaction. Very diligently, they proceeded to clean the air conditioner. When it was reassembled, they plugged it in and it started to work again. I was overjoyed. But I was even more impressed when they went to the effort of sweeping the mess off the floor.
Then came the moment I was dreading. One of the repairmen pulled out a service form.
‘What date did you purchase the AC, madam?’
‘I'm not sure, I can't remember,’ I replied honestly.
‘Okay, I am writing this date down,’ he said as he made up a date. The repairs were free. It was a welcome surprise to have India ‘kindly adjust’ in my favour. The lack of proper procedures and processes that had maddened me so much had finally balanced in my favour. Was this what they call karma?
The more I was reminded what an intriguing country India is, the more I rediscovered my interest in it. As I sat at my desk working one day, I happened to glance out the window. A massive, decorated Brahman bull accompanied by a drum player strolled into the courtyard of the apartment c
omplex. The bull had bright orange-painted horns, and wore a colourful blanket on its back and a long necklace hung with bells. The drum player started yelling something that I couldn't understand. Within seconds, both he and the bull were escorted off the premises by the watchmen.
What had just gone on? Definitely something mysterious that only happens in India. My inquiries revealed that it was a Bholanath bull – a bull that can predict the future. Ask it a question and it will shake its head in either ‘yes' or ‘no’. Also known as the Nandi bull, the bull is the companion of Lord Shiva. Bholanath, one of the 108 names of Lord Shiva, is associated with him in his most innocent form, pleased by simple prayers and eager to grant wishes.
Innovative ways of making money can be found on every corner in densely populated India. Even if no one really believes in the supposed powers of the Bholanath bull, it still provided a great source of entertainment for children.
Small things also made me laugh. Simple, everyday things I'd never encountered before. I bought a light bulb from the local supermarket. As I was unloading my trolley at the check-out, I heard ‘Madam, madam’. One of the shop assistants was trying to get my attention. When I turned towards him, a light bulb shone brilliantly in my face, almost blinding me. After I recovered from the shock, I realised it was my light bulb. The shop assistant had plugged it in and was demonstrating to me that it worked.
My website had become an obsession. When each day was over, I fell into bed exhausted, but the end result was satisfying. Not only was I writing about a place I loved, I was sharing it with people. It was easy to put my heart and soul into it. As the website grew in popularity, businesses in India began taking notice. Invitations flooded in, as did offers of travel from one end of India to the other. The people I encountered along the way were gracious and inspiring, with a wealth of knowledge and experience. So many shared my everyday beliefs about spirituality and Indian philosophy. What's more, they were living their dreams. It confirmed to me that I was on the right track.
I was most impressed by the photographer I worked with on an advertising campaign for Mahindra Homestays in India. From Tamil Nadu, his name was Prasana. He broke the ice by immediately noticing my toe rings. It took me by surprise.
‘You're married?’ he asked me. I was pleased that he didn't think they might just be fashion accessories, like many foreigners wore. I soon realised he was a perfectionist like me. Work days were long, as we pursued the best light and angles, giving us plenty of opportunity to talk. ‘I completed my MBA and spent six months as a client servicing executive in an advertising agency. I hated it,’ he confessed to me.
‘So how did you end up as a photographer?’ I was curious.
‘It started off as a hobby and I taught myself. Then I quit my job and moved to Chennai to begin freelancing. I spent a lot of time struggling to prove myself in the industry. Finally got my big break.’
I recognised how bold and tenacious he'd been, particularly in India where creative career choices aren't often encouraged or looked upon favourably.
‘What did your family think?’
‘Actually, my father's a doctor and my family's all academically inclined. They were really worried and upset, and initially opposed what I was doing. However, they've accepted it over time now that they can see it's my passion,’ he explained.
I admired him. And, I was also quite astonished that I was in a position to relate to him. I thought back to the New Year's Eve party I went to in Kolkata, and to the filmmaker and musician I'd met there. At the time, I'd been so envious of how they'd left accounting and succeeded in their passions. I'd wondered if I could possibly follow in their footsteps but had no idea of where to begin or what direction to go in. Yet, a few years down the track, here I was. Miraculously, I'd done it!
It felt surreal to live the life of a travel writer, even more so to realise that it was my life. Lest you think it's all glamour, let me dissuade you. It can be an exhausting, mad life!
In June, as yet another southwest monsoon commenced making its way up the coast, I was staying in a cottage on a 90-acre coffee and spice estate in the Wayanad district of Kerala, in southern India. The road leading through the estate was thick with vegetation, including coconut palms, jackfruit trees and stunning red hibiscus flowers. The sun was about to rise. Soon, the whole valley came alive, illuminated in the sun's warm glow. I sat on my balcony, amid the swirling mist and intermittent bird calls, letting the fresh filtered coffee from the estate awaken me.
In July, I'd left the monsoon behind and travelled to the other end of India, 12,500 feet above sea level in the remote, high-altitude Spiti Valley of northern Himachal Pradesh. The stark alpine landscape was arid and barren, scattered with small villages and monasteries, and enclosed by soaring peaks crowned with snow. It was a world within a world.
I traipsed through the countryside on the back of a yak to the highest village in Asia. Village life was fascinating; tradition required families to donate their second eldest son to the local Buddhist monastery, to train to become a lama. Not all the children appeared to deal well with their fate; one little boy so disliked being told to study that I saw him belligerently throwing rocks at people. Farming was the principal source of income. It was a simple and uncomplicated way of life, but challenging. Winters were harsh. Heavy snowfall and below freezing temperatures forced residents to be housebound for months at a time, when they passed the time making handicrafts.
The trip wasn't an easy one for me. I was plagued by altitude sickness and became very weak. Headache, dizziness, vomiting, upset stomach – a different symptom each night. It felt like it would never end, and I felt so alone and helpless without anyone familiar there to help me.
I had only a few days to rest before my next journey. This time, it was to Chennai, to take part in an auto-rickshaw rampage, billed as an event for the ‘clinically insane’. I was about to spend thirteen days in a rickshaw, driving it over 1900 kilometres and through four states, from Chennai to Mumbai. Fortunately, Aryan saw the funny side and agreed to join me.
We were given a lesson in how to drive an auto rickshaw. I struggled to come to terms with the fact that the accelerator was located on the rickshaw's handlebar. Every time I gripped the handlebar in fear, the rickshaw dangerously surged forward. India's roads are often narrow and filled with potholes, but it's the traffic that's the biggest hazard, consisting as it does of everything from trucks to bullock carts. Obstacles such as the holy cows required dodging as well.
The journey to Mumbai was arduous but enthralling. Life on the road developed into an exhausting routine of 6 a.m. starts, and all-day driving, but it was worth the pain.
Shortly after, I headed to Udaipur, in the desert state of Rajasthan. It was a long time since a city had so entranced me with its splendour, often called the most romantic city in India. I had a whirlwind 72 hours there as a guest of the Mewar royal family who have done a remarkable job of converting their palaces into hotels. My room overlooked the famed Lake Pichola and the Lake Palace Hotel. Stationery with my name embossed on it sat on my writing table, and an invitation to drinks with the head of the Mewar royal family lay alongside it. It really felt like I was caught up in a royal fairytale. Or perhaps an extra in the James Bond movie Octopussy, which was partly filmed on the premises.
When I arrived back in Mumbai, it was September and time for my favourite festival of the year, Ganesh Chaturthi. This eleven-day festival honours the birth of Lord Ganesh. Pot-bellied and elephant-headed, he's a strange-looking but widely adored Hindu god with the revered ability to remove obstacles. Eager chants of ‘Ganpati Bappa, Morya!’ (Lord Ganesh, Hail!) filled the air, radiating excitement and anticipation.
Months before, tens of thousands of highly skilled artisans had been working to craft intricate sculptures of Lord Ganesh for the festival. These masterful creations were installed in carefully decorated pandals (canopied tents) all over the city, accompanied by a great deal of fanfare. I slipped off my shoes outsid
e one of the tents, parted the curtains and stepped inside, into another world. Flickering fairy lights covered the ceiling, water trickled from a small fountain, and a dense cloud of incense swirled around. And there he was, lounging in all his glory on a throne on the podium, a towering Lord Ganesh, resplendent in his colourful robes. Gold jewellery dripped from his body and a gold crown graced his head. A hefty garland of gold and yellow marigolds was secured around his waist. At his feet were piles of coconuts, apples, bananas, pomegranates and platters of his favourite modak (a sweet made from rice flour, jaggery and coconut). They'd been provided by his devotees to ensure a trouble-free and prosperous year ahead.
‘Bahut sundar hai (very beautiful),’ I whispered to Aryan.
Many others had joined us in putting their busy lifestyles on hold to gather together and spend time with the beloved elephant-headed god. They prayed and sung, like others had for thousands of years, and would continue to do so for thousands more to come.
When the final day of Ganesh Chaturthi rolled around, everyone gathered to bid farewell to their favourite god and send him off in a huge street party. Maliha had a statue of Lord Ganesh at the end of her street, so I decide to join her. I got there in the evening at around seven o'clock, just as the statue of Lord Ganesh was carried out from his pandal and lifted onto the back of a large truck. Dozens of helpers, clad in saffron shirts and white hats, helped. I was handed a saffron-coloured ribbon bearing the familiar ‘Ganpati Bappa, Morya!’ chant written in Hindi to tie around my head. Even babies wore one. Crackers exploded and fireworks decorated the sky.