by Sharell Cook
Then the music started. So, too, did the dancing. The fabled red powder was thrown everywhere, and white foam sprayed for added fun. Later that night, I found myself pulled into a huge circle. We linked hands and danced, round and round. The monsoon season was still with us, and like many other evenings, it began to rain. Then it poured. We all kept dancing.
As midnight approached, it was time for the statue to be carted away to the ocean for immersion. I took a lingering look at Lord Ganesh, knowing that he would soon be destroyed.
It's natural to wonder why these painstakingly crafted and beloved statues are discarded into the water, where they're left to crumble and be washed away. As with most things in India, the message behind the action is important and also poignant. Immersion symbolises the return of Lord Ganesh from the earth, after satisfying his devotees' wishes. Moreover, it serves as a reminder of the impermanence of everything in life, and the constantly changing state of the universe. Form eventually gives way to formlessness. Only the energy remains.
Although I'd adapted to life in Mumbai, at times I still missed the cleanliness, space and order of Australia. The photos that my friends sent me showed living conditions so pristine compared to mine in India. Did such a step up in the standard of living guarantee an equally large step up in happiness?
A house party at an immaculately decorated and roomy apartment in Bandra put it in perspective for me.
‘You're going to a kitty party?’ Aryan was dismayed when I told him of my plans to have dinner and drinks at a girlfriend's house. I'd met a group of foreign women also married to Indian guys, and we caught up from time to time. Like me, they found it difficult to relate to most of the expats in Mumbai. But together, we'd formed our own little niche.
I was just as dismayed. ‘What's a kitty party?’
It was, I soon learned, a popular form of entertainment for housewives in India. They gather in large groups at someone's home, bring food, salaciously gossip and play games. At a firangi (foreigner) kitty party, however, the games were replaced by wine and we talked about life in general.
A Bollywood actress was at the party. She had a business relationship with my friend's husband.
‘I'll be going to the US for two months but am not sure about where to live. I want a big place, but I'm concerned about getting good staff. It's important because I don't know how to operate a washing machine or a dishwasher, and I don't want to learn,’ she explained.
It was almost 4 a.m. by the time the last guests left. It didn't concern me that I'd have to find my way home alone. I'd become adept at getting around Mumbai, and it felt safe to me. The actress took pity on me.
‘Kandivali? Where's that? I've never even heard of it. Come with me, you can take my car and driver after he's dropped me home.’
We started chatting in the car.
‘So, what do you like about Indian men?’ she asked me, obviously curious about why I'd married one.
‘Their values and sense of commitment,’ I replied, thinking of Aryan. ‘Indian men tend to be quite stable and caring as well, which is what's often missing in the west.’
‘Really?’ She seemed surprised by my response.
‘And you? What are your views on Indian men?’ I asked her, knowing that she'd recently broken up with her long-term boyfriend. ‘They're too possessive and controlling. And they only see me as an actress, not who I really am.’
I remembered when I met Aryan, he'd expressed similar concerns about people not bothering to get to know who he really was.
‘Hmmm, I guess I got lucky,’ I said to her.
When I woke up in the morning, back in our small one-bedroom flat, the previous night seemed like a fantasy.
Living a simpler life had taught me to find joy in what I had. Even though our apartment was small, I had so much more freedom and flexibility than most people I knew. My days were mine to do what I wanted, when I wanted. There was a beach, a park and a huge shopping centre nearby. I worked when I wanted to work. I was writing and being creative. This new life had purpose and passion. My old life meant obligation, routine and entrapment into acquiring more and more unnecessary possessions. And it was bland compared to the unpredictability of India – unpredictability that had forced me to detach myself and let go.
I started feeling less like a foreigner in India and more like a white Indian. Mumbai had tested me but had failed to make me leave. I'd stayed on in the city against the odds, and proven how much I wanted my new life.
But Aryan wasn't satisfied working in the family business. While I'd finally found a fulfilling career, he'd sacrificed one. He wanted to keep his family and me happy, and prove to everyone that he was responsible and dedicated. Nevertheless, he had no passion for the job. He continued to devote all his spare time to music, spending long hours with friends producing music and dreaming of having his own studio. At work he'd taken to chanting mantras (spiritual verses) to keep his mind numbly blank and focused.
I also dreamed of a change. I spent long hours envisaging living in a cosmopolitan yet quiet area, with a 24-hour water supply, surrounded by a peaceful garden. In Mumbai? I didn't think it was possible. So, I contented myself with visiting public gardens and toyed with the idea of painting the walls of our apartment bright red and yellow.
Then Aryan arrived home one night with some unfathomable news.
‘Lloyd called me. He asked me if I wanted to join him in working at a new lounge bar that will be opening up in Hiranandani Gardens. We'll be playing music there as well as producing music for the venue. The owner wants to release four albums of world fusion music a year.’
Hiranandani Gardens, a planned township in the central Mumbai suburb of Powai, is home to expats and well-to-do Indians. The developer has built parks, hospitals and schools. There are world-class hotels, shops, supermarkets and restaurants. With its neoclassical architecture, the area looks more like Europe than India. But the real barometer of its cosmopolitan nature is that Indian women can be seen wearing shorts and miniskirts there. As Hiranandani Gardens was located almost an hour from where we lived, Aryan and I agreed that we'd have to relocate.
I felt a sense of accomplishment over being able to settle into a typical middle-class Indian lifestyle, eschewing that of an expat, even though it had taken its toll. I'd learned a lot about Indian society in the process and experienced things that most other foreigners wouldn't have. But what I really craved was to regain some anonymity. I had no intention of acquiring a bevy of servants or possessions, or even mixing in expat circles. I simply wanted to live serenely, without being such a subject of interest all the time.
I dreaded having to trudge though dozens of substandard apartments in the hunt for somewhere suitable to live. I wasn't even sure what was available within our budget. Yet, before I'd even finished compiling a list of requirements, Aryan called to tell me he'd found the ideal place for us.
It was a one-bedroom row house, located just opposite to where Lloyd would be living and where the music studio would be set up. It had three levels, including our own private rooftop and downstairs garden with a swing. We looked inside. To my delight, the walls were painted cheery shades of yellow, orange and red. The rent exactly fit our budget. We even had our own water tank! One of the last remaining row houses in a complex that existed before the area was developed, it was around ten years old and by no means luxurious like the surrounding apartment towers (in fact, I'd have to revert to cooking with a gas bottle as there was no gas pipeline). And, of course, there was an unappealing wet bathroom. Nevertheless, it was a house with a rare creative feel that was perfect for us. The owners, a kind-hearted elderly couple from Kerala, agreed to rent it to us.
Once again, what the universe had produced was better than anything I could have envisaged. I was humbled, grateful and in awe. My broken heart had led me into the unknown, and now my life had been transformed. I was doing what I was born to do. If my life hadn't been so torn apart, I never would be where I was. I wouldn't have
had the courage or motivation to make changes to myself and my life.
I'd gone from self-awareness, to awareness of others, to awareness of the greater whole. I'd developed faith, and had been infused by the infinite sense of possibility in India. Old notions of who I was, defined by the roles that I'd played, had fallen away.
After years of searching and wandering, I'd completed the hardest and most rewarding journey of my life, and was at last living my dream.
Now, another new chapter could begin.
Ackowledgements
WRITING this book was something I'd often thought about since my life started heading in this unusual direction. I'm not sure that I ever expected it to come to fruition. Therefore, I'm indebted to Helen Littleton for discovering my story and going out of her way to help bring it to life.
I'd also like to thank my husband for telling me to write it, for soothing me through the insanity of the writing process, and for bringing me food. There's a saying that being loved deeply by someone gives you strength while loving someone deeply gives you courage, and it's certainly the case for me.
I was heartened to gain both an agent and a publisher who'd also been to India, and could relate to my experiences. In addition, I'm very grateful to the talented people who edited this book and made it as marvellous as possible.
I've poured my heart and soul into the book, and it's fair to say that revealing so much of my life, warts and all, to the world has been daunting. Hence, I'd like to thank Angela Rojas, a wonderful intuitive healer, who helped turn my fear into enthusiasm. And last but not least, I'd like to thank everyone – friends, family and readers of my blog – for their support and interest in my book. It's really helped boost my confidence and keep me motivated.
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Hiland Park, my first home in Kolkata, was the city's first luxury high-rise development. Located on the outskirts of the city, its gleaming white towers rose starkly from the vacant grassy surroundings.
The kitchen in my mostly unfurnished apartment was barely functional. It had no cupboards, no cooking utensils, no hot water, and no microwave oven to warm my food. The stove, as is common in Indian homes, was a portable silver cook top that looked like something you'd take camping.
I spent most of my free time with other volunteers who were staying in the neighbouring apartment, Tara (left) and Claudine (right).
Where I volunteered, the irrepressible Lakhi taught me how to reprimand people in Bengali. We were always laughing about some
thing.
There were many open air markets in Kolkata, where fruit and vegetable vendors sold produce spread out on the ground before them or heaped onto tables. In the background, decrepit local buses trundled by. Here, underneath the Howrah Bridge, an arresting wholesale flower market overflowed with piles of bright yellow and orange marigold garlands.
My second home in Kolkata was an apartment on the first floor of a small residential building in Deshapriya Park, a typical Bengali middle-class neighbourhood. Unlike Hiland Park, it didn't have air conditioning, and I had the additional challenge of shopping at the local markets. In the evenings as the sun set, Aryan and I would sit on the terrace, drink beer, and talk about our lives.
Aryan and I took the train from Kolkata to Varkala, a two night journey. Train stations were hectic, as people fought their way aboard with steel trunks and jute sacks.
The guest house that I was managing in Varkala consisted of three bungalows on a large block filled with palm trees. We lived in one of the bungalows, and bought a small scooter to get around. It was a simple life.
Varkala Cliff featured a long winding stretch of cliff, with views that extended over the Arabian Sea. A paved footpath ran along the length of the cliff, bordered by coconut palms, touristy shops, beach shacks, hotels and guesthouses.
Kerala, proclaimed as ‘God's Own Country’, is like a world where time and tradition have stood still. The palm-fringed canals of the backwaters offer a kind of tranquility that's difficult to find anywhere else.