The Bikini Prophecy - Part One

by Matt Kyler

  “They’re for travel sickness,” I say, rubbing my stomach.

  The man takes the capsules and fires off several questions in Hindi to anyone who can translate the writing on the pill packet. The answers don’t please him and he angrily thrusts the capsules back at me. I take them and back away from his wild eyes.

  “Excuse me?”

  I turn towards the origin of the voice. It belongs to a conservatively dressed man who could pass as a stereotypical nerd. He points to the travel sickness pills.

  “Could I see those, please? I am a medical student.”

  “Yeah, no worries,” I say, handing over the pills.

  “For travel sickness, yes?”

  “Yeah. It’s a natural remedy.”

  “Ahh, natural remedy.” He flips the foil packet over looking for the ingredients. “Herbs, yes?”

  “Yeah, natural herbs.” Immediately the image of old Ben dishing out his particular blend of natural herbs to ill travellers pops into my head.

  “What is in this—” He glances at the back of the foil blister pack. “—natural herbs?”

  I’m fucked if I know. I binned the cardboard box they came in long ago, so I take a guess. “Peppermint and chamomile, I think.” And various garden weeds probably. Possibly even oregano from Oregon.

  He looks directly at me. “And this works?”

  “Well, I’m not sick,” I say, lightly challenging his cynical tone.

  “Maybe a placebo effect, yes?”

  “Maybe. But it seems to work every time.”

  He considers this for a moment then approaches the woman’s husband. Words are exchanged briefly before the husband agressively waves him off. My new friend backs away and hands the tablets back to me.

  “This man says he does not want his wife taking drugs.”

  “Oh, okay. I understand.” But I don’t. Because getting high on herbal travel sickness pills is about as likely as getting high on incense or lavender pot pourri.

  I pop one of the soft capsules into my mouth just to make a point. A crowd of onlookers watch on with interest, presumably waiting for me to fall into a chamomile-induced coma or suffer some fatal olfactory overdose. I don’t. So it isn’t long before a curious passenger asks to see the blister pack. I hand it over.

  “Feel free to have one. Pass them around. I’ve got more in my backpack.”

  The med student translates my words to those gathered around us.

  “My friend, what is your good name?”

  “Matt,” I say, swapping a handshake with the man who introduces himself as Surav.

  “From which country, Matt?”

  “Australia.”

  “Oh, very good cricket players,” says Surav before rattling off the names of a handful of Aussie cricketing millionaires.

  “India has lots of legends too,” I say. I mention three names that trigger multiple head nods of agreement from those who are eaves-dropping. “Good batsmen,” I say. “Very very good.”

  “Oh, yes. Very good batsmen,” agrees Surav. “Very very good.”

  I’ve noticed over the last few days that I occasionally fall into a verbal cadence employed by certain locals. I have no idea why. Short of it being proof that I’m possibly a culturally insensitive dick, I guess.

  Despite its frequency, the cricket talk isn’t entirely unwelcome. It’s inclusive, provides an easy ice breaker and always brings out the best in people. So, in the spirit of the moment, I pull out one of the Don Bradman coins that have recently found refuge in my money belt. Without a word of explanation, I pass the coin to Surav. The curious crowd huddles closer, their eyes focused on the loose change. Surav says something in Hindi and I hear the words ‘Australia’ and ‘Bradman’. Several men look up and reassess me. They glance at my creased cargo pants and dirty white runners, leaving me to wonder if they think I’m an international cricketer who’s down on his luck. Or worse, a New Zealander.

  “In rupees how much is this coin?”

  “Probably about ten rupees.”

  Surav gives this some thought, then he asks: “Can I keep it?”

  “Sure,” I say, silently cursing myself for once again showing the coins to adults.

  Overjoyed, he pulls out a notebook from his pocket and flips it open to a blank page. He hands it and a pen to me.

  “Please sign.”

  “Sign?”

  “Yes, autograph.”

  I laugh but it soon becomes obvious that he is serious. So in keeping with my minor celebrity status, I scrawl my name with a flourish then pass the notebook back. Half a dozen heads crane in to study my penmanship. It’s obviously impressive because I am immediately obliged to shake half a dozen hands. It’s a strange scene, really. There are head bobbles, smiles and earnest looks at both signature and coin. Behind that image is a stunning valley vista marred by the sight of a vomiting woman flanked by an angry husband and other curious onlookers … several of whom are eating herbal travel sickness pills.

  I look to a smiling Surav who is clutching the worthless coin.

  “I will be remembering this day forever,” he says gleefully.

  I nod in agreement. I won’t forget this craziness anytime soon either.

  Or will I?

  I guess, anything is possible!

  I open my hotel room’s window and survey Mandi’s morning traffic. As I do, Lonely Planet’s short summary immediately springs to mind. ‘It’s no tourist town,’ it states.

  No shit.

  At first glance, the market town looks dull and unattractive, which may go some way to explaining why most travellers bypass it as they head ‘off to great places, off and away’. Of course, the guidebook does the place no favours. Listed below the unappealing ten-line entry are just two suggestions of tourist interest: some temples or a sunken shopping complex.

  I decide to visit the nearest and after a long shower that threatens to halve the daily water quota of several lower-stream villages, I find myself standing in front of a stadium-sized excavation in the earth. A nearby sign proclaims the emptiness to be Mandi’s Indira Marketplace. Intrigued, I lean over a low concrete safety wall and peer into the cavernous hole. Below my feet, and lining the entire circumference of the inner wall, is a large multi-level subterranean shopping complex. The hidden marketplace surrounds, and looms over, a manicured park that is populated with a cartoonish clock tower, curved pathways, conical shrubs and spindly-trunked trees with mushroom-top canopies. The view is anything but dull. In fact, it’s quirky as hell and I can’t help but wonder if the chief-architect was stoned, mentally unstable or just a really big fan of Dr. Seuss.

  I locate a set of stairs and descend into the oddball mall. My footfalls funnel me to the lower level and onto an underground walkway that circles past scores of busy storefronts, all of which look over the parkland below. With little purpose other than to kill time, I stroll around the length of the consumer colonnade, stopping here and there. I buy a coffee. I buy some breakfast. I buy a pack of gum. Then, in keeping with the theme of my Dr. Seuss-like surroundings, I stop at a shop that stocks locks. And one that hocks socks. I buy a small lock. I buy some thick socks. I buy this and that as the garden clock ticks and tocks.

  After an hour, I’m bored beyond belief, so I look for the nearest exit with the sole intention of spending the rest of my stay in bed, watching MTV India or cricket. I barely make it to the second level when a gang of young men surround me and go through the usual routine: good name, nationality, cricket. I answer all the basics but it’s not enough for these confident college students. In perfect English, they query me about immigration and career prospects for doctors and engineers in Australia. I give them all I know, which amounts to a cautious optimism born from utter ignorance. My offering of faint hope is rewarded with backslapping and an invitation to join their gang—in this case, the Mandi District Under-19 Cricket Team—for an afternoon training session. In desperation, I search my mind for a reason to decline but, of course, Mandi is no fucking tou
rist town so I’m left with not a single good excuse.

  The gang’s leader leads me onto the local sports field. “I will introduce you to the coach,” says Harish as we cross a bovine ballpark dotted with two dozen competent cricket players and one dozen incontinent cows. Our arrival is hastened once we hear the gruff coach order the team to fall into a line ordered by height. We approach the humourless man and Harish chats to him in Hindi. After a brief back and forth the coach addresses me.

  “You play competitive cricket?” he asks, showing no interest in a handshake or proper greeting.

  “Not since I was a teenager.”

  “Other sports? Tennis?”

  “Just social fixtures a long time ago.”

  “Basketball?”

  I shuffle on my feet, self-conscious. “Only at school.”

  “Football? Hockey? Baseball?” The dude’s reaching.

  “I haven’t really played anything for a decade,” I mumble. “I’ve been too busy.” Day-dreaming about doing something that makes me rich and famous … possibly even happy.

  “But you came to Mandi to play cricket?”

  “Not really. I’m just here on my holiday.”

  An understandable look of disbelief appears on his face. “In Mandi?!”

  “I’m on my way to McLeod Ganj.”

  Finally, the puzzle pieces fall into place and his lips curl into a smug smile.

  “Acha, you’re on a pilgrimage to see the Dalai Lama,” he says in a mocking tone. He abandons our conversation and turns to the team.

  “Warm up,” he bellows before directing his attention back to me. “If you want to join in, please line up.”

  I do as I’m told and begin a routine of stretching exercises and training drills designed to test both coordination and patience.

  After half an hour, the torture finally ends and all senior players are ordered to the practice pitch. Coach singles me out on the walk over and tosses me a cricket ball. He instructs me to send down a few fastballs to his best batter. Filled with nerves, I pace back to my mark then proceed to embarrass myself.

  The coach calls me over, his face grim and serious. “I think, perhaps, you are trying too hard,” he says, motioning for the return of the ball.

  I nod in agreement and, reluctantly, hand him the ball.

  “Please wait over there with the juniors,” he says.

  I slink across the field to a sideline guarded by a dozen twelve-year-olds. Humiliated, I sit among the kids and watch the proceedings. It’s an agonising wait and by the time the senior practice is finished I’m bored out of my mind. Sensing my disinterest, Harish and his friends drag me to the clubhouse. The charismatic engineering student shouts me a Coke and a packet of chips then brushes off my attempt to reimburse him.

  “So what is your age, Matt?” asks Harish, as we grab chairs alongside the others.

  I take a hit of my ice-cold cola. “Almost thirty.”

  “You are married?”

  “No. Single.”

  Suddenly, half a dozen heads swing around and take an interest in the conversation.

  “In India that is very old to be single.”

  “Weddings cost too much,” I protest lamely, then with a smile I say, “Financially and emotionally!”

  Most of the lads nod in mutual understanding and the topic is closed.

  “You were coached for how many years?” asks Harish.

  “Coached?"

  “In cricket."

  “None!” I laugh. “Can't you tell?”

  “So just natural talent, yes?”

  “Mate, I’m terrible. I couldn’t even make the first-grade team in my district.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “How many people in Australia?”

  “Just over twenty million.”

  “Amazing,” declares Harish with a shake of his head. “There are more people in greater Delhi than the whole of your country. I wonder how it is possible that your nation can produce so many comparatively good cricketers with a country like India that is fifty times its size?”

  “It’s probably just a cultural thing. We’re pretty full-on about sport back home.”

  “Yet the same can be said of India too.”

  “It feels different here,” I say. “Not as aggressive.” I think about the primal competitions that engage Australian males. The games of dominance that are just an extension of the day-to-day interactions where men constantly calculate where they rank on some invisible hero hierarchy. A lad ladder that’s based on who could beat who in a fight … or who’s slept with the most chicks … or who has the biggest biceps and dick … or who earns the most cash and drinks the most beer. Or any other bullshit match-up that fuels inadequacy in the average man, undermining his gender-worthiness until he feels small and powerless among the other seemingly confident Alpha males around him. I don’t see many of those kind of fucked up winner-takes-all men in India. In other words, I don’t see many mirror images of me.

  “There’s a different vibe,” I continue. “Plus you guys seem to place a lot more importance on education.”

  “So Australians don’t value education?”

  “We do. But not like here. There’s still lots of stigma about getting good grades back home. I mean, you wouldn’t admit to doing well in school back home. That’d be like signing your own playground death warrant.”

  “This is really true?”

  “Yeah, absolutely.”

  “Because smart means you are weak, yes?”

  “Soft,” I say, trying to stifle a Coke burp. “Like an office worker or a girl or kid. That's how it was when I was growing up.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “I love that you guys actually hold hands with other men here.” I note the instant change on Harish’s face and quickly add, “Seriously. I think that’s healthy for males. But there’s no way you’d do that in Australia.”

  “This is gay, right?”

  “Not gay, but… Look, it’s just not something that’s in our culture. Men don’t even like holding hands with women in Australia, let alone other men!”

  “And Australian women like this because it means their men are manly?”

  “Probably not. But you’re asking the wrong guy, dude. I don’t know what the hell Australian women want. Which is probably why I’m single.”

  “I think all men are exactly the same when it comes to that, my friend,” says Harish with a smile. “Both in India and Australia!”

  “I reckon you’re right.”

  I rip open the packet of masala chips and extend it forward. Harish claws out half a handful and for a moment we chew on the topic of our conversation in silence.

  “This hand-holding you talk about seeing here is just between good friends,” explains Harish. “This is not a show of love, just friendship. But only between males. Any public display of affection between females and males is socially unacceptable. That is why you won’t witness boys and girls kissing or holding hands. India is very conservative about this.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “I think men are part of the problem with this because we all want sex but we only want to marry a good girl. Someone pure.”

  “So how do you guys actually meet women?”

  “Friends, parties, dating sites. Some people still use matrimonials.”

  My ears prick up at the mention of the last word. I’ve read these personal ads in the newspapers. Some are hugely entertaining but they give the impression that males shouldn’t be left unsupervised with sharp objects, computer keyboards … or single females. And the best ads are the ones that make no sense but speak volumes.

  Looking for qualified bride: This is information given by brother, Arish. By nature he is so decent shy and jolly by nature. My brother really want to help every time to needy people. Every person who see him once really memorise that person. My family want a suitable nature, good-looking, homely, non-working girl. Wheatish complexion. My fath
er is sub-inspector, mother is simple housewife. Sister has done web-design course. One uncle, he is bank officer. He lives in Bihar with his family. Our family is God fearing, dipped with religious feelings. If suitable person or girl read this plz contact me.

  “Some people pay for hookers,” continues Harish. “Do you have these in Australia?”

  “Prostitutes? Yeah.”

  “This is illegal?”

  “No. It’s mostly legal. We’re kinda laid-back about that stuff. The only thing we take seriously is sport.”

  Harish laughs with uncontainable delight. “So in Australia sport is more intense than orgasms?!”

  I give him a smirk. “Well, that would explain our cricket success!”

  After swapping email details with Harish and the rest of the gang, I stroll back into town alone. As I reach the main street, Mandi’s mountainous terrain begins to dim the afternoon sky to an evening setting. With an early dinner on my mind, I find a table in a restaurant on the lower level of Indira Marketplace. My meal is expensive but delicious. Like really delicious. Possibly even something to write home about. Deciding to do just that, I pay my bill and leave in search of an Internet cafe.

  Outside, heavy cloud cover has rolled in, bringing damp air and inking the night sky pitch black. The change in weather also brings a marked drop in temperature and I feel a chill penetrate my thin t-shirt. The resultant shiver comes as no surprise given my current winter wardrobe. It’s a detail that hasn’t gone unnoticed by others. In fact, an Italian backpacker in Shimla approached me out of the blue and asked if I was Australian.

  “Yeah,” I replied, cautiously. “How did you know?”

  He glanced at my board-shorts and t-shirt then grinned. “Who else would wear surf clothing in the Himalayas?”

  Of course, what makes that fact truly absurd is that I don't even know how to surf!