Losing Gemma

by Katy Gardner

“That way!” he shouted, pinching my arm more tightly. “You, memsahib . . .” He nodded in Gemma’s direction. “That memsahib, you go to see our Pir Nirulla shrine, yes? That way!”

  For a moment, we just looked at him, then suddenly, at exactly the same time, we both laughed out loud.

  WE spent the evening washing out our undies and reading under the sallow light of the electric bulb. By now Gemma was halfway through The Tin Drum, while I was conscientiously embarking upon a history of postpartition India which had seemed a good idea in the book shop but was now making my eyes swim with boredom. Outside, a determined army of insects buzzed and butted at the wire-netted windows. Occasionally a mosquito would break through the barricades and then we would listen for its whining song and swat it with our hands. Gemma had covered herself with almost an entire tube of insect repellent, yowling as she rubbed it into the rash, and now the whole room smelled of kerosene. Yet still they hovered; all down my arms were the splattered remains of those too drunk on my blood to get away. From time to time a giant brown cockroach scuttled across the floor. I pulled my legs up beneath me, and turning to page five of my book repressed a face-splitting yawn. I didn’t wish to imagine what lurked under my bed.

  I sat up with a start. Something had woken me—the sound of footsteps on the veranda perhaps, or the creak of an opening door—but now that I was fully conscious the noise had suddenly stopped. I peered around the room in confusion. It must have been nearly dawn, for a diffuse pale light filtered through the bolted shutters and from under my mosquito net I could make out the dim shapes of chairs and tables and Gemma’s rucksack, lying upended by the bathroom door.

  Slowly the bungalow came into focus. On the floor were the emptied plates of the dinner Mr. P. J. had cooked for us; strung up over the window was a row of underwear and bras. On the table were two empty bottles of Campa Cola and a packet of fags. I sighed, pulling the sheet around my shoulders. Whatever had woken me was gone.

  Hearing a grunt from the other bed I peered through the mosquito netting and saw Gemma lying on her back, her arms thrown backward over her head. Very quietly, I pushed aside the netting and swinging my feet onto the wooden floor, leaned over the bed. Gemma was frowning and muttering, her eyes still closed.

  “Tell them to wait,” Gemma suddenly said. “I’ve had enough of it.”

  She seemed to almost sit up, her eyes opening and glaring at me, then shutting again as she collapsed backward, her head tossing from side to side.

  “Gemma, sweetie.” I put out a hand and touched her arm. “You’re having a bad dream . . .”

  She turned away from me, rolling onto her side. From the rise and fall of her back, I could see that she was crying.

  “Gemma, honey, please . . .”

  I reached out again and very gently shook her shoulder. I wanted to help her, to make it all better but I felt so useless. It was the same as always: I knew she was upset but didn’t have a clue what to do. She always made it so hard, slipping away from my gauche questions like a silverfish, her responses indecipherable. Ever since that dismal summer of our A-levels there had been something going on, something blocked and swollen beneath the surface of our friendship. She became unreachable that year; skiving off school and walking out of her exams, even though she could have sailed through them with the minimum of revision. I guessed it was connected to her parents’ increasingly bitter divorce, yet despite my desire to help I didn’t know what to say. I would look into her resentful, closed face and the words which usually flowed so easily suddenly dried. On the rare occasion I tried to broach the subject, my hesitant questions were answered by monosyllables, my awkward comments greeted by grunts. After a while I’d had a bellyful of her sulks, her black, brooding silences. If only I’d acted differently, I keep thinking now; if only I’d been a different kind of friend. Yet I never asked and Gemma never told.

  She opened her eyes. Her cheeks were covered by a wet trail of tears and her nose bubbled with snot.

  “Hi,” she said, looking up at me.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Never better. Got a hankie?”

  “Sure.”

  I straightened up, still looking into her face. I wanted to say something else, but I didn’t know what. All the easy platitudes I could think of—about wonderful changes, just around the corner—were so dishonest. It was obviously Steve who was on her mind. Yet I was too cowardly for the conversation I knew we should have. I started to walk across the room and suddenly, from somewhere outside, heard a crash.

  “What was that?”

  Very quietly, as if a vehicle was rolling down the hill with its engine turned off, I could hear the trundle of wheels.

  “It’s a car, or something . . .”

  From the veranda there was another bang and then, very distinctly, a loud rap at the door.

  As I strode across the room my heart thumped so hard I feared it might leap out of my mouth. When I reached the door I hesitated for a second. My legs felt unaccountably wobbly. Taking a deep breath, I threw open the door.

  “I’ve found you at last!”

  Standing on the veranda with the sun rising over the trees behind her was Coral.

  11

  I stood aside to let Coral in. She was dressed the same as on the train, her bag slung over her shoulders, her long skirt scraping the floor, but something about her had changed. Her body seemed more angular, her eyes, which darted quickly away from mine, more restless.

  Walking into the center of the room, she plonked her bag on the floor and sat down heavily on one of the chairs. I remained standing by the door, staring at her in amazement.

  “Whew! What a journey!”

  “Christ almighty,” I heard myself say hoarsely. “How did you know where we were?”

  I glanced at Gemma, who was sitting on the edge of her bed grinning with what seemed to be relief. Why did she seem so unsurprised?

  “The word for it is serendipity,” Coral said, smiling to herself as she rummaged in her bag. “I was hitching a lift with a mate and hey presto, suddenly we saw the signs to Agun Mazir.”

  “Which we’d told you about in Calcutta,” Gemma put in quietly. I stared at her. It was almost as if she was prompting her.

  “So where was your friend going?” I said as evenly as I could.

  “Jeez, girl, what’s with all the questions? Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

  “Of course.” I tried to smile, but not very successfully, I suspect. To be honest I felt as if I’d been punched in the face. Gemma must have secretly invited her, I realized with a pain that seemed to start in my stomach and work its way up to my chest. That was why she’d insisted on leaving her that note in Calcutta.

  “What’s the matter, Esther?” Coral cocked her head at me quizzically. “Still letting India get you down?”

  Turning and winking at Gemma she pulled a couple of oranges, a jar of Vegemite, a tub of peanut butter, and a loaf of bread from her bag, all of which she set triumphantly on the table.

  “There you go,” she said. “My offerings. I have proper, Western-style food, smokes . . .” She threw a packet of Marlboros on the table.

  “. . . and extremely good dope.”

  She produced a small brown lump, wrapped in plastic.

  “Not bad, eh?”

  We gazed greedily at her supplies. Since we had been living off dhal, eggs, and chapatis for the last few days the prospect of something different made my stomach gurgle expectantly. I was also craving a proper cigarette. I picked up the packet, glancing down at it as I turned it over in my hands. “Duty Free Goods: not for resale” read the label on the bottom; the rest of the writing was in Arabic. Scrumpling the wrapper eagerly, I pulled out a fag. Coral picked up an orange.

  “Do you want one, Gem? They’re real beauts.”

  I winced. It was silly, but no one, other than me, called Gemma “Gem.”

  Gemma took the orange, tearing at it with her teeth. I watched her in disgruntled silence. Why had she ar
ranged this behind my back rather than simply telling me that Coral would make her own way here? Was I that difficult to talk to?

  “So,” said Coral, looking at me. “Are you back on track?”

  I stared at her, unable to think of an appropriate reply.

  “Yeah,” I eventually said. “We’ve been having a fantastic time.”

  “Doing all the temple-gazing sightseeing scene?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “It’s so easy here, doing all that stuff. It’s like, set up for tourists? Jeez, you shoulda been in Cambodia. Like, you had to kinda get across these landmines before you could see the temples? It’s really heavy. But when you get there, they’re mind-blowing . . .”

  I folded my arms. Despite my own quest for authenticity, I hated macho travelers who took pride in visiting places which on some undeclared scale had been judged “difficult,” or “heavy.” In Egypt I’d met several: a hefty American in khaki shorts who claimed to have hitchhiked through Iran and insisted on speaking what was clearly appalling Arabic with waiters whose English was in comparison quite fluent, and later in Luxor a stroppy Londoner who had been in Gaza and lectured me for several hours on the Palestinian cause. The company of both men bored and threatened me in varying degrees. Neither seemed to have enjoyed or been inspired by their experiences in a way that I could understand. Their stories were instead a claim for status, a way of pulling rank.

  “Maybe I’ll move further east after India,” I said.

  Coral nodded. “You’d like Thailand,” she said. “That’s kinda a softer option, you know?”

  I swallowed. “So,” I said, trying to sound casual, “how did you know where we’d be staying?”

  Pulling a match from Gemma’s box, Coral struck it with one sure swipe, then leaned over to light my cigarette.

  “Wow!” laughed Gemma. “You must have the knack.”

  “Well, there’s only one place you coulda been,” Coral was saying. “That’s what I figured.”

  I couldn’t force myself to return her easy smile.

  “For God’s sake,” Gemma suddenly said. “What’s with the Spanish Inquisition? It’s just great that Coral’s made it!”

  Jumping off the bed, she hopped across the uneven floorboards to where Coral was sitting and kissed her on the cheek. Then, still not looking at me, she sat down on the other chair.

  “This looks great,” she said, reaching out for the bread and tearing off a chunk. “I was getting really sick of chapatis.”

  “What about you, Esther?” said Coral. “Aren’t you going to have any?”

  I shook my head. “Nah, I’m not hungry,” I said, pulling my dress over my head. “I’m going for a walk.”

  AS soon as I was outside I stood with my back against the wooden walls of the bungalow, sniffing at the warm morning air as I struggled to regain my composure. From the veranda I could see trees, the sweep of forested hills opposite, and, about half a mile below, the tops of village buildings. Frail lines of smoke rose up above the roofs: beneath me, the chulas were being lit for breakfast.

  I took a deep breath and started to walk down the hill. It was ridiculous, but I was inexplicably upset by Coral’s reappearance. Perhaps it was just jealousy, I told myself, for she was disquietingly close to how, in my secret fantasies of India, I’d imagined myself becoming. And it was hardly her fault that she was the more seasoned traveler. Yet there was more to it than that: I recounted the previous conversation, trying to discover the source of my irritation, and realized with a rush of angry recognition that it had involved an almost endless series of put-downs. What was it that she’d said about Thailand? That it would be a softer option, the cow.

  And then there was the little matter of Gemma not telling me she was coming. I kicked at a stone lying in my path and it flew up into the air, hitting an overhanging branch with a ping. She must have revealed our plans after our row in Calcutta, I thought darkly. She’d done it deliberately.

  But why would Gemma keep Coral’s intentions secret? I picked up another stone, this time lobbing it into the trees. The missile smashed into a tree trunk with a crack, causing its branches to shudder and a flock of brightly colored birds to rise squawking into the air. Somewhere, not far away, I could hear the whoop and chatter of monkeys. I took a deep breath, forcing my mind to shift gear.

  “Calm down, Esther,” I whispered to myself. “It’s not important.”

  I looked out over the trees. It didn’t really matter if Gemma had invited Coral, I told myself; it was pathetic to feel so betrayed, for she was a friend, not a lover. At this word, my stomach gave a sudden, sickening jolt. It was me who was guilty of dishonesty, I thought disgustedly, not her; so why was I behaving so enviously? Did I have to be the top dog the entire time? I turned back up the path, no longer able to bear my own company. Coral’s unexpected appearance was probably just a miscommunication rather than a deliberate secret, certainly not worth another fight. After all, I should be pleased that Gemma was becoming more outgoing. And so what if Coral got on my nerves? I’d only have to put up with her for another few days. Taking another breath and brushing my hair out of my face, I turned and walked back toward the bungalow.

  By the time I reached the guest house, the table was covered in orange peel and the room fuggy with the heavy herbal aroma of marijuana.

  “Esther! Where’ve you been? We’ve got the munchies. Come and eat some of this before we finish it all!”

  Shuffling up, Gemma made room for my bottom on her chair. We sat clumsily together, our thighs touching, our arms around each other’s shoulders: a vision of intimacy. I glanced at her uneasily. How had things got so complicated between us? We’d been best friends since the age of five: our blood pricked and mixed, the oath of loyalty taken. Back in those days we lived in each other’s gardens, spent whole summers together: swing ball, messing around with bikes, make-believe ponies leaping over jumps constructed out of crates, that kind of stuff. Inseparable, that’s what our mothers said we were: the terrible twins. But somehow it’d all got snarled up in these concealed jealousies and insecurities and necessary truths that neither of us dared voice.

  Sharing the seat was agonizingly uncomfortable. After a minute or so I stood up again.

  “We were just talking, like, about Pir Nirulla?” Gemma said, rolling another joint.

  Coral leaned back in her chair, her eyes fixed to my face.

  “I didn’t know how famous he was. Coral’s been telling me all this stuff?”

  I raised my eyebrows enquiringly. Was it just me, or was Gemma beginning to acquire an Australian accent?

  “Like, the shrine has these really strong powers?”

  Coral took the joint from Gemma’s lips and dragged at it.

  “Give us a puff,” I said. They didn’t seem to hear.

  Coral inhaled deeply. “You know that people come to the mela from all over India?” she was saying. “And further, too. He’s, like, one of the top guys.”

  She looked at me knowledgeably: the Wise One, lecturing her disciples. How come she was suddenly so well informed? Okay, so she’d been in India for “five years” and had experienced “heavy stuff” in Cambodia, but this was my adventure, not hers, I thought with a fresh blast of exasperation. I was the one who had originally found out about Pir Nirulla and planned to visit his shrine, yet now she was suddenly some kind of world authority on the subject.

  I sucked at my teeth, trying to appear indifferent.

  “So why’s this place so small?” I said quietly.

  Coral shrugged. “Outward appearances aren’t everything. Things aren’t on the surface here, like in the West. They’re deeper, more hidden. You know?”

  “No.” I stared into her inscrutable eyes, overtaken with hot dislike. Of course I knew. It was the whole reason I’d wanted to come to India: to push myself to the boundaries, to discover an alternative way of being alive. But I was damned if I was going to be patronized by her.

  “Don’t you believe in tr
ansformation?”

  I looked at her grudgingly. Why did she think I’d traveled all this way? For a sun tan? And why was Gemma staring at her so reverentially?

  “Well, yeah, I suppose so . . .” I said at last.

  “Like, take me. The deeper I go, the more I leave my old self behind. You can start out being Esther, or Gemma, from England, and end up being someone completely different. That’s why we journey, isn’t it? To change things?”

  “But only if you know how,” Gemma suddenly put in. “It’s too easy, isn’t it, to just make it into a game?”

  “Too right.”

  Taking a last drag, Coral finally passed the joint to me. I put it between my lips and inhaled, relieved that the lecture was finally over. The dope was even stronger than the stuff in Calcutta. As I took the smoke down the top of my skull felt as if it was about to detach itself from the rest of my head.

  “Jesus!” I said, trying not to cough. “That is so strong.”

  “I got it in Puri. In this government shop. Like, it’s legal there?”

  “You’re kidding!” Gemma looked at Coral animatedly, her eyes gleaming with admiration.

  “Sure, straight up. It’s for the fakirs and temple wallahs. But they’ll sell it to anyone.”

  “Well, it certainly does the biz.”

  I took another long drag. Now my whole head felt as if it was about to explode. Around me, the room was starting to blur. I focused resolutely on the table.

  “Transformation,” Coral suddenly said. “That’s what it’s all about. It’s also why I’ve got a new name. Because the journey is only just beginning.”

  I sucked at the spliff. I’d nearly reached the roach now, and the smoldering paper was burning my lips. I squinted at her, feeling my face grow hot and cross once more.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Smiling serenely, she looked into my face. “Well, sister, it’s like this. Up in the mountains, where I’ve been living, I’m not known as Coral. I’m Santi. That’s my spiritual name. It’s, like, I’m at peace. And that’s the name they’ve given me—you know, as a disciple?”