The Bikini Prophecy - Part One

by Matt Kyler

  I should have ordered the Happy Meal.

  A protective hand grips my shoulder.

  “Matt! Oh, wow, you’re all right, huh? I’ve been really worried about you, man.”

  It’s mid-evening and Ben and Josh are leaving the guesthouse’s rooftop restaurant.

  “I’m all good,” I say, trying to comprehend just how lost I must look if a self-confessed directionless stoner from the sticks is concerned for my wellbeing.

  “Thank God, man. It’s intense out there.”

  “Yeah, got lost in a few back streets this morning but no dramas.”

  “In Old Delhi?”

  I nod. “Just down the back here.”

  Ben’s face beams like a child’s. “Those streets are insane. Did you see the wet market? It was like going back in time, man. People were hacking off goat heads right in front of us.”

  Josh saunters over after paying for their meal. “So what do you think of Delhi?”

  “It’s fucking hot.”

  “It’s a fucking hole. That’s what it is. Get out of here as soon as you can, man. Scope out the mountains up north. Shimla, McLeod Ganj or Manali. Heaps more chilled.”

  There’s no recommendation of Kashmir so I make a mental note of his advice before quizzing them about the rest of their day. Eventually, we all shake hands and wish each other well on our respective journeys. And in a blink of an eye, they walk out of my life.

  But not really.

  Because the restaurant is full of Ben and Josh clones. Dozens of ‘spiritual travellers’ are gathered around large informal tables that are adorned with candles, beers and stoner grins. Sweaty bodies perspire onto fisherman’s pants, earth-coloured tank tops or tie-dyed tees. Ben was right, India is like stepping back in time. In this case, Woodstock circa 1969.

  In truth, I wish I could be like these people, chilled out and looking cool. But I can’t. Because I know I’d look like the one thing I truly hate: a hypocritical fake. Of course, in reality, all this is just a scene. And I know it’s not my scene … simply because I have no idea what my scene actually is. This is miles away from my comfort zone and the whole vibe makes me feel about as welcome as a turd in a swimming pool.

  I scan the joint for a vacant table. There is none, so I grab a Coke and begin searching for an approachable lone diner who won’t mind having their evening spoiled by a mildly depressed Australian male. I hate doing this shit. I hate asking people if they’ll put up with me. But only because I hate putting up with people myself.

  Reluctantly, I meander past table settings and through an atmosphere tainted with the aroma of cheap beer, fried spices and clove cigarettes. Instantly, I recall the sweet scent of my father’s pipe tobacco and those afternoons of male mimicry when I smoked aromatic cinnamon sticks that I swiped from the pantry.

  Finally, I spot two potential unfortunates. The first is a no-brainer. Male. My age. Possibly English or American. Dressed in cargo shorts and t-shirt. And, currently, deep in eye contact with the brick-like Lonely Planet guide to India. The dude looks exactly like me. So I strike him from the list immediately and turn to contestant number two.

  Come on down, single female.

  Seated nearby is a vision straight out of a Bertolucci film. An olive-skinned beauty draped in a red Bohemian maxi dress. I try desperately not to stare at her long brunette hair, exposed shoulders or the bra-less contours of her breasts. Instead, I steal a glance at the slim novel she’s engrossed in then note the two Kingfisher beers within grasp. One bottle is empty while the other competes for kiss-time with a roll-your-own cigarette that is dying in a nearby ashtray. Everything from her cold expression to her strong posture screams ‘Stay the fuck away from me’.

  “Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?”

  The woman looks up with a steely gaze and assesses whether I pose a threat. I don’t, so she says, ‘If you want’ with a mixed English accent, the origin of which eludes me.

  I grab a chair. “Nice to find some calm. Delhi’s pretty hardcore.” She gives me a bored smile. “Impossible to find any peace and quiet.”

  She closes the book somewhat reluctantly. “How long have you been in India?”

  “Just over twenty-four hours,” I say, trying to stretch one measly day into something more impressive, like double-digit hours.

  “It takes time,” she says, reopening the novel. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Eight weeks.”

  “Wow. I’m not sure if I’ll last that long.”

  Again with the disinterested smile. “Your accent… you are from where? America?”

  “Australia.”

  She visibly softens for some unknown reason. Probably keen to know if I have a pet kangaroo. Which, oddly enough, I did. Briefly. Before it grew up and, well… hopped away.

  “You don’t sound Australian.” There’s a hint of skepticism. “Too easy to understand.”

  “I’m trying to talk slower over here. No one would understand me if I spoke normally. Where are you from?”

  “Israel.”

  “Seems to be lots of Israelis here. In Thailand too.”

  “Sure. Both countries are inexpensive for Israelis. So when people finish military service they come here to drink, do drugs and have sex.”

  “Kinda like Australians in Bali.”

  “Really? I don’t know this. We can’t visit Indonesia.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Jews can not visit many Muslim countries.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course,” she says, looking at me like I’m a naive idiot. “Australians can go anywhere?”

  “Pretty much. The Kiwis hate us, though.”

  “Kiwis?”

  “New Zealanders.”

  An alarmed look appears on her face. “Is this true? They hate Australians?”

  “It’s a sporting rivalry thing.”

  “Football?”

  “Rugby. And cricket.”

  “Cricket?!!!” She slaps her book on the table and her face becomes animated. “Oh, my God, please, tell me, what is this cricket? I see this game everywhere in India. Children playing. Men playing. Everywhere I go I see cricket. It’s like a religion here.”

  I laugh at her reaction. “The game’s from England. It’s popular back home too but nothing like here. Trust me, cricket in India is on a whole different level.”

  “And you play this game?”

  “Used to. Played it every day when I was a kid.”

  “Have you played here?”

  “Not yet. But I want to. I even brought over a heap of Australian coins that have a famous cricket player on them. I read about bringing stuff from your own country to show local kids. I was going to hand the coins out to any kids I play cricket with. Well, that’s the plan.”

  The woman looks me directly in the eye. “That is a very nice thing to do.”

  I know. I’m excellent like that. We should have sex now.

  That’s what I’m saying in my head. In real life, I decide to introduce myself instead. Tahlia does likewise. Then she picks up her tobacco satchel, pecks out some strands and begins to roll a smoke.

  “You look like you’re in the wrong place,” she says, while running her tongue along the edge of the cigarette paper. “Like a surfer.”

  My brilliant white Rip Curl t-shirt may as well be a pink tuxedo around this crowd.

  “Yeah, I probably should start dressing like everyone else.”

  “Why? Wear what is comfortable.” Tahlia flicks her head to no one in general. “All this is just costumes. It’s not their real skin.” She lights her smoke and takes a drag. “Does that make sense?”

  I nod, pretending that Tahlia is speaking parables instead of jibberish. She folds her tobacco pouch closed and pushes it towards me. I haven’t smoked for years but it seems the done thing in India. It’s probably healthier than breathing the air, so I take the pouch and set to work.

  “So why d
id you come to India?” she asks finally.

  “Like you guys, I guess. Somewhere cheap to travel. I was going to hang out in Thailand for three months. But I knew my money wouldn’t last. How about you?”

  Tahlia takes a long drag on her cigarette and, with a look of indifference, slowly exhales. “My husband was killed in a plane crash.”

  The statement shocks me. “Wow, that’s not good,” I mumble.

  “No. He was a fighter pilot.” She drains a mouthful of beer and in that instant, I recognise the emotion on her face. It’s not indifference. It’s grief. And the numbness of loss. “I needed to escape,” she says flatly.

  A million arrows pierce my heart and all I want to do is scoop this woman up and protect her from pain.

  “I don’t know how do you even begin to deal with that.”

  She smiles and raises her bottle. “Yoga, food, cheap beer and cigarettes.”

  I notice there’s no mention of dreadlocks, tattoos and drugs. Nor sex. Unfortunately.

  “When are you going back home?”

  “I have no plans. My parents they want me to go back and finish my law degree. I don’t care about that anymore. They just want to watch over me. Like a sick person. What I want is to be left alone. I want to escape from Israel for a while.”

  “To a country full of Israelis?” I say lightly.

  Tahlia laughs at the irony. “Yes, I know! I hate them. They’re everywhere. All I want is to be in India. So many people and distractions.” Her face softens. “So much life.”

  A waitress finally arrives to take my order. She gives me a pleasant but bored smile when I tell her I’m undecided.

  Tahlia gathers up her belongings. “I’ll leave you to order your meal,” she says. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “You too.”

  She smiles but it reminds me of the waitress’ tired deceit. And for the first time, it dawns on me that I’m not alone in India. This country is probably filled with lost souls. Some of whom, alarmingly, are even more messed up than me.

  My lack of direction in life can be explained by a single trait - I have the navigational skills of a lemming. A life radar that directs me toward random acts of stupidity, most of which are of my own doing.

  It’s four in the morning and I’m lost in Delhi’s backstreets. Again. Which is not good. Plus I’ve just submerged a running shoe in cow shit. Also not good, since this shoe is supposed to be stepping aboard a train in less than an hour. Of course, the chance of that happening is slim given that I’ve obviously taken a wrong turn somewhere. As a result, I have absolutely no idea where the train station is.

  I was hoping that the persistent rickshaw drivers who annoy tourists during daylight hours might save me from my current predicament. Unfortunately, rickshaw drivers do what most people do prior to dawn. They sleep. Scores of them. All lying prone with their dirt-encrusted feet extended over handlebars or curled in foetal positions on rear passenger seats. But it’s luxurious accommodation when compared to the roadside resting places occupied by the homeless, dispossessed or destitute. These silhouettes sleep on any surface, alone or huddled alongside tiny kin. It’s a dark vision of a dirt poor life. And I feel a pull of awakening within. I put it to bed and begin a search for real light instead.

  Delhi is an entirely different city in the early morning darkness. Unlike daylight’s carnival-like chaos, the post-midnight hours bring with them an eerie atmosphere filled with that rare Delhi commodity - silence. Inactivity rules and once packed thoroughfares appear lifeless with the exception of fearless Delhi dogs who challenge my passing shadow with vampire smiles.

  Instinctively, I quicken my pace, marching with purpose lest the mutts realise I’m easy game. Or completely lost.

  And I am lost.

  In more ways than one. Because last night I ventured right off the map and did something stupid.

  I contacted Claire.

  I’m guessing that this kind of stupidity would rank quite highly on a Top Ten list of ‘Ways to Fuck Over a Heartbroken Ex-lover’. Possibly just behind, quite literally, fucking a heartbroken ex-lover.

  Which, as it happens, I also did.

  This last brain snap happened the night before I flew out of Australia. Of course, Claire’s no fool, so I had to beg and lie just to persuade her to sleep with me. But, as usual, she caved in. Unfortunately, for every upside there is also a down. Which means, I sent her a mixed message and now I know she’s revisiting the past I wanted us both to leave behind. And last night, I did it again.

  I sent an email to Claire.

  I have no idea why I did this. Maybe it was Tahlia’s plane crash talk, sparking fear with the sudden thought of losing someone dear. I dunno. All I know is that when I left the restaurant, I had convinced myself I missed Claire. Which is stupid, since life was unbearably complicated when we were together. Plus there’s now the added complication of me being in love with another woman.

  …there are two women in your life.

  At least the tarot card chick got that right. And that’s the problem. I have too much love to give. But not enough care.

  Thus last night’s email:

  From: Matt

  To: Claire

  Subject: Delhi Dog

  I think I left two malaria tablets on the floor.

  Hopefully the cat didn’t eat them!

  See ya

  With a clarity reserved for all morning afters, I can now see that sending that email was a mistake. Fact is, receiving any correspondence from a love interest can trigger unwanted emotions. So I know what will happen next. Claire will cling to the hope of something more from me. And I will hurt her again. Because even though I don’t want her to cling to me (because it drives me nuts), I’m not strong enough to let her go.

  That’s not to say my email was sent with heartless intentions. It wasn’t. I am actually concerned for the well-being of our… her cat. After all, it was me who bought the furless bloody thing in the first place. As a gift. A terrible gift as it turns out. Because, instead of showing the unconditional love that I hoped it would, the cat decided to hiss, scratch and bite anyone that passed within hissing, scratching or biting distance. In particular, Claire. If Claire patted the cat, it bit and scratched. If Claire stopped patting the cat, it bit and scratched. If she interrupted the cat’s couch-time, ignored its cry for attention or didn’t let it under the bed covers on demand, it bit and scratched. And if that wasn’t enough, the selfish little shit exploited Claire’s sensitivity so completely that its mere presence in the house brought my lover to tears with an allergy. All in all, it was as if I’d gifted Claire a feline clone of myself. In hindsight, instead of a cat, I probably should have just gifted Claire some unconditional love of my own.

  In hindsight.

  Everything is easy in hindsight.

  Even finding a train.

  I open my guidebook beneath a street-light and quickly identify where I lost track. It seems I made the usual error: I trusted my gut instinct. According to the map, I only needed to step outside the guesthouse, turn right and walk in a straight line for five minutes until I tripped over a big steel train. I chose a different path. The more complicated one. Unsurprisingly.

  At 5am I finally find New Delhi Railway Station. And the place is alive with humanity. Scores of people crowd the platforms. From corpulent figures in fitted garments to the bedraggled poor, clothed in soiled hand-me-downs. Everywhere I look, I see a mix of social class, skin colour and age, united with just one goal - to escape Delhi.

  I sidestep sleeping figures and work my way down a never-ending platform until I find a vacant square of concrete. I drop my backpack and anxiously recheck my travel ticket for the platform number, departure time and train name. The Himalayan Queen. Just saying its moniker calms me, conjuring up visions of romantic rail travel in my mind. Complete with cedar panelled walls, martinis and billowing steam that vaporises into the crisp mountain air. Of course, when The Himalayan Queen does arrive, that vision is the fir
st thing to vaporise. The train is neither elegant nor opulent. It’s just a diesel locomotive pulling a dozen weathered carriages.

  The engine shunts to a stop and within seconds almost every human on the platform rushes the cattle-class carriages. Thankfully, I’ve booked first-class so I slowly make my way towards the coach that has the words ‘Air conditioned’ emblazoned on its hide. Once inside, I stow my backpack and sit among the wealthy Indian vacationers. I’m the only foreign passenger in the carriage. I’m also the filthiest and worst dressed.

  Feeling self-conscious I turn my attention to the window and silently contemplate the adventure that lies ahead. I’m certain it will involve spectacular scenery, quaint villages and amazing people.

  But nothing prepares me for what I do witness.

  Assholes!

  As the sun rises my carriage window unexpectedly fills with the sight of hundreds of slum-dwellers vacating their bowels within metres of the railway tracks. The scene truly is stunning, but for all the wrong reasons.

  Eventually, the view turns from shit to simple manure as we pass a million acres of cultivated farmland. The level landscape bores my eyeballs for several hours until we reach the town of Kalka. It marks the halfway point of our trip and the beginning of our ascent into the mountains. The climb necessitates a change to a narrow-gauge train, so I grab my bag and cross to a waiting locomotive. Our new engine is appropriately dubbed The Toy Train. And it’s not hard to see why. It’s an aged, half-sized rail motor that carries a hint of Disneyland conveyance about it … that is if Disneyland was designed in 1950s Soviet Bloc and daubed top-to-toe in flaked pastels. Even so, there’s no doubt that the train was built to freight passengers to a better world. A happier, calmer one. Possibly even free of assholes.

  I clamber onboard, still self-conscious about my sweaty clothes and shit-stained shoe. I deliberately avoid every Indian and claim a seat opposite two other perspiring male backpackers. Both are wearing cargo pants, t-shirts and caps like me. We swap greetings in English and instantly become a gang of Average Joes just shooting the breeze. I notice another backpacker several seats behind us and briefly consider inviting him into our clique too. Unfortunately, his dreadlocks, yoga pants, khaki t-shirt and bandana are too challenging for my mainstream prejudice so I just ignore the poor bastard instead.