Sea of Innocence

by Desai, Kishwar

  A cold shiver ran through me while I remembered the permanent tattoo that Durga had once had on her arm. We had later had the design erased, at her request. Little did Veeramma know what Durga had been through in her young life.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought her here, a place that might unleash difficult memories that had thus far been assiduously contained. The carefree feeling which had been somewhat dented by the morning’s video suffered further erosion. After all, it was only a few years ago when Durga had come into my life as a traumatized teenager, unfairly accused of murder. I had managed to get her out of jail and adopt her. But I couldn’t protect her from the unexpected. My foolish assumption had been that Goan beaches would be safer than the streets of Delhi for women and young girls.

  In the past few days I had realized that the naivety which once existed on Goa’s beaches had disappeared long ago. There was an uncomfortable and very apparent dichotomy between life on the beach and the rest of Goa. The sandy rim of the sea seemed almost like another country, which was, for some, ruled by its own laws of behaviour. Even though the beaches looked serenely cosmopolitan on the surface and offered a variety of sea sports and other innocent pleasures, there was a looming darkness around the edges. Like a hungry nocturnal sea animal it padded through the sand, seeking victims. Shades of it had been apparent in what Veeramma said about the girl, but a suspicion of it was in the dead eyes of some of the beach boys, and the cynicism with which they looked at the near-naked bodies strewn on the beach. Not everyone on the beach was here for a good time. Or perhaps everyone had a different description of what a ‘good time’ was.

  In contrast to the beaches, mainland Goa seemed almost puritanical, despite the proliferation of the liquor shops and bars. The interior was where much of the history and culture lay. But right now it seemed too much of an effort to explore it.

  Durga smiled back at Veeramma.

  ‘So why do you think she had the tattoo done down there?’ Durga asked, trying to look as though she hadn’t understood. ‘No one would ever see it.’

  ‘Only fish in sea,’ Veeramma quipped.

  Many days later I would remember our laughter and realize how eerily accurate Veeramma’s answer had been.

  ‘She’s quite clever, isn’t she?’ said Durga, looking towards Veeramma as she picked up her bags and joined her friends.

  ‘You have to be, I suppose, if you want to survive on this beach,’ I replied. ‘Veeramma’s quip about the beach boys made me think of the men in the video. Could it have been shot around here, and did the clue to their identity lie in their casual attire, the shorts and t-shirts that everyone wore around Goa? The fact that Amarjit had sent it to me while I was here might not be purely coincidental. But why, after all these years, would he want to get in touch with me, and in such a strange manner? Was it something to do with the girls that Veeramma had spoken about?

  Almost guessing my thoughts, Durga asked, ‘I wonder who that blonde girl was,’ as we trudged back to the restaurant under the thatched roof, on the higher ground. Dusting out our towels, we settled back into our deckchairs.

  I shrugged. I had already been worried that our holiday would get ruined by our occasional squabbles, and now I had another reason to be concerned.

  Urging her to order some king prawns I lit a cigarette and asked for another bottle of chilled beer.

  I decided that I would erase all memory of that girl in the video, and stop worrying about what happened to her. I would also ignore Amarjit’s attempts to get back into my life. This was not my problem. I was here just to holiday with Durga.

  Famous last words, as they say.

  Chapter 2

  Much to my annoyance and despite the increasingly rude messages I had sent to dissuade him the previous evening, Amarjit decided to show up, in person, at the hotel at 8 a.m. the next day. Which made me realize that he must have actually arrived in Goa yesterday, or even earlier, and then sent that video. He might have even seen me on the beach. What the hell did he want? Why was he being so persistent?

  I hated being stalked like this.

  Meeting former boyfriends is difficult enough for me when they drop in unannounced. But more so after I have been dealt with rather vigorously by a masseur and my hair is standing on end.

  Quite apart from the fact that the massage had given me an oily sheen that made me resemble a gold-plated Rolls Royce (I probably looked as large too, in my crumpled kaftan), I simply didn’t want to meet Amarjit. He had already wrecked my stay in Goa with that video. It was hardly the sort of thing to send to someone holidaying with her 16-year-old daughter and it had depressed me more than I’d realized.

  I hadn’t been able to push those depressing images out of my mind. It was especially curious that the girl seemed to have willingly put herself in such a risky situation. Even if she had misunderstood the intentions of the young men, she surely knew that being alone with them, given the fact she was a foreigner, could lead to some rather serious consequences. What puzzled me was that, after the boy molested her in front of the others, she had laughed, and even lay down next to him. Despite the peculiar circumstances, she seemed, at least to me, to be an ordinary middle-class girl just having a good time. So why then was she alone in a room full of men, who were probably filming her with them? And why didn’t she walk away from that highly insecure situation?

  Unfortunately, despite my determination not to think about her, when we got back from the beach, I continued to do so till late at night. Obviously I couldn’t discuss the video with Durga for fear of disturbing her fragile calm. I knew that showing her the images or sharing my worry over this young girl would remind her of how vulnerable and alone she had once been. It might even bring back the nightmares that had finally stopped haunting her. Nor could I talk about it with anyone else, because I had no idea why Amarjit had sent the video to me, whether it was a recent incident, or part of some ongoing investigation.

  As a result, I hadn’t been able to sleep and had booked myself for a massage at the crack of dawn, before Durga woke up and found me restless and anxious.

  And now Amarjit stood before me, with that familiar half-smile. It seemed he had completely forgotten what I had said to him when we had last met, years ago, as well as the messages I had sent yesterday.

  But to be honest, every time we met, I too tended to lapse into an easy familiarity, without even realizing it. Besides, his recent divorce made me a little more sympathetic towards him. Life was never going to be easy when your wife had cleaned you out and walked off with a younger man.

  Instinctively I smiled back and then quickly looked away, changing that expression into a frown.

  It was a struggle.

  I wished I could hurt him and tell him to go away, but all the moments we had shared held me back. Former lovers (of which I have quite a few, I’m afraid) always have a peculiar impact on me. Perhaps I am one of those incorrigible romantics who live in hope that the good times will come back again. Though I doubted if Amarjit and I would ever make the Mandovi River sizzle. There was too much unfinished business between us, and I was sure he was still too cut up over the way his wife had left him.

  Yet we did have a relationship which went back a quarter of a century, and much of that history was dotted with pleasurable moments. Barring the last few years . . .

  Luckily Durga was still asleep upstairs in the hotel room and Amarjit and I could speak frankly. It was important she didn’t know that he had come to visit us this morning. At the time when she had been kept in judicial custody it was Amarjit, a supposedly close friend of her father’s, and a senior police officer, who had failed to protect her over and over again. Seeing him she would immediately sense bad news. And might even guess that our holiday was irrevocably wrecked.

  It was now clear to me that my mother must have told him everything, including where we were in Goa, banking on our old friendship to make it a less acrimonious meeting. I also thought that she still harboured a hope (which she h
ad hinted at earlier, on hearing about his divorce) that we would suddenly fall in love, again, if we met in the salubrious climes of Goa.

  ‘Don’t you have anything better to do than to hound me like this? It’s just about eight in the morning. This is Goa, for God’s sake! And I’m on a holiday!’ I said as grumpily as I could manage, cutting through the smile he had pasted on his face.

  I noticed that he had come to meet me minus the usual paraphernalia of police uniform, medals and fancy car topped with a red light and a flag. He was in a loose kurta and jeans and I hadn’t seen him like that since our days together in St Stephen’s College in Delhi. Mufti? Had he forgotten who, and how important, he was? That would take a volcanic explosion, wouldn’t it?

  ‘Have they finally thrown you out?’ I asked bitterly.

  Amarjit raised his eyebrows, looking as though I had paid him a compliment. Apart from a guarded ‘hello’ he hadn’t said a word thus far, allowing me to get all my angst out.

  ‘Though,’ I continued dryly, ‘if you send sex videos to people, I wouldn’t be surprised if they have.’

  He waited for me to stop spluttering. And then paused for another beat.

  I remembered this tactic only too well. The silences that could wear you down; and then, like a common criminal, you would be forced to grovel and confess – Yes, yes; I did it. The fault was mine. All mine. I’m guilty.

  ‘Have you quite finished?’ His voice was annoyingly amused.

  We were still in the lobby of the hotel and so I turned around and marched to the coffee shop, sitting down without bothering to hide my irritation. I beckoned a waiter, and ordered black coffees for both of us. I was damned if I was going to offer him any breakfast.

  I tried to forget that oil was dripping down my back, and in the mirror opposite I saw that strands of my hair were bunched together as though I had applied gel to them. Not a great way to look at all.

  Perhaps concerned about who was likely to see him, he looked around the room before sliding into the chair opposite. He sat with his back to the wall, half turned towards the entrance. It was the posture of a man ready to run, if required. Why was he so tense?

  ‘Is Durga here with you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I muttered to the tablecloth.

  What gave him the right to ask me anything?

  ‘Is it possible for you to send her back to Delhi?’ he asked. ‘I need your help, and it might be a little dangerous if she’s around.’

  Affronted, I stared at him. He had just made my daughter sound like a piece of luggage! Send her off, indeed! My temper rose even higher.

  Realizing that we were in the smokers’ section, I deliberately and slowly pulled out a cigarette from my handbag, and placed it between my lips. I knew my smoking annoyed him, ever since the day he had given up and assumed I would follow suit.

  But apart from watching me carefully as I lit the cigarette – almost as though I was indulging in some pagan rite – he did not rebuke me.

  I slowly blew out smoke, making him wait for my answer. When I spoke my tone was, I hoped, annoyingly languorous.

  ‘Let me explain this to you: I am here on a holiday with my daughter. We plan to stay here for at least ten days. We’ve barely been here for three. Why would I want her to leave? Since when are you my holiday planner? And, after the last time, why the hell would I want to help you?’

  His ears turned red. A sure sign that he was starting to get angry. Good!

  He ignored my words, and lowered his voice. ‘It’s not safe for Durga. Especially if you get involved in the case I’ve come to talk to you about. She’s a very pretty girl and I don’t want her to attract any attention.’

  ‘I have already told you that I am not interested in the video, or in this case, or in fact in anything to do with you. Nor am I prepared to tell Durga to drape a dupatta over her head. She’s sixteen years old. Get a life, Amarjit! Besides—’

  I was about to remind him about his childless status. But knowing it was something he was extremely sensitive about, I bit my tongue. I could be mean, perhaps, but not cruel. Besides he could always make a similar remark about me. I had never borne a child, though at least I had managed to become a mother.

  ‘What were your thoughts about the video I sent you?’ he asked, looking around once again, as though he thought someone might be listening.

  His obvious tension was giving me a headache.

  I gave him a sweet smile.

  ‘Oh dear, I think I forgot to thank you. Very entertaining. I had no idea you dealt in soft porn. And so, tell me: did they screw her in the end?’

  There was a silence and I looked up to see, for the first and probably the last time in my life, Amarjit frowning, looking as though my question had physically hurt him. And because it was a crude question, and one I should never have asked, I, too, wished I could withdraw it. Even as the words had escaped my lips, I knew how unfair they were.

  I just wanted him to feel as ashamed and awkward as he had once made me.

  But he said nothing, and continued to stare back at me. So I took a deep breath and tried again, this time maintaining a gentler note.

  ‘Alright. I give up. What’s the story? I mean of that girl in the video?’ I asked.

  Was my reluctant interest responsible for his obvious relief? He quickly lowered his gaze to the coffee cup. Yet when he looked up he seemed uneasy. Was he hiding something from me?

  ‘They probably did molest her . . . and rape her. But I have no proof of it.’

  ‘So where is she?’

  He spread his hands and shrugged.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘It could be weeks or just days, or months. I have no idea. Now she’s gone and all we have is that video. It was found on a mobile phone last week near a shack on the beach. There is no SIM card within, and no traceable number. The same video was also sent out to various people in the government and the police. We don’t know who sent it or why. Perhaps it was just to warn us that this was happening to the girl. She vanished some time back, I’ve been told.’

  ‘So who complained about the fact that she was missing?’

  ‘Her sister. They are . . . were . . . both in Goa on a holiday. The video was probably shot somewhere around here.’

  ‘In a house with round windows,’ I said, thinking back to the video.

  ‘What?’ Amarjit looked startled.

  ‘Nothing.’ I shook my head, determined not to be the least bit intrigued by this case.

  We stared out through the veranda, shrouded in greenery, at the calm blue sea outside. It was a picture-postcard scene, with the first few swimmers bobbing among the waves. The fishing boats were further out in the water and I could see their sails, like the closed wings of butterflies resting on a blue garden. The water was peaceful, gentled by waves which were spreading themselves in welcoming smiles on the sand.

  How could one even imagine this to be a scene of violence?

  And yet I had sensed it lurked beneath, yesterday.

  I wondered if this was my cue to abandon Amarjit and ask Durga to go down to the beach with me before I was dragged any deeper into this. But the thought of waking a sleeping teenager was daunting.

  Besides, I was curious why he was so keen to find out more about the missing girl. Hundreds of Indians and scores of foreigners went missing every year. Few were ever found and it was very rare for a senior police officer to take any interest in their disappearance. What could have possibly upset him? And why had he come all the way to Goa? Even though the video had upset me a great deal, I covered up my unease, and began to demolish his argument that a rape had occurred.

  ‘That girl seems a survivor. She looked like she knew those boys quite well,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Are we then worrying without a cause? Yes, they were trying to feel her up and get her to strip, but it might have been consensual. Like a game. She didn’t make an effort to leave, and it was obvious that th
ey all knew that a video was being shot. Even this scuffle between them may have been part of a prepared script. Are you sure this wasn’t staged, and that they weren’t actually shooting a movie? Maybe even porn?’

  Amarjit looked as if he was about to say something that would possibly persuade me to the contrary, but I carried on determinedly.

  ‘Look, she’s a young woman, in a strange country. Why would she agree to go into a room with four – or was it five? – Indian men to dance, or whatever it was they were doing . . . And then why would she agree to lie down next to them on a bed? Why didn’t she try to get away from them even after one of them touched her breasts? My hunch is that she knew exactly what she was getting into.’

  Amarjit looked around again, as though worried that someone would hear us. But we were in a corner of the coffee shop, with a row of plants screening us from the rest of the restaurant, a safe distance from the nearest table.

  I knew I had said some very politically incorrect things, but then I had heard the local Goans complain more than once about some of the female tourists and their behaviour. The insinuation was that these women were trying to seduce the local men. I did not subscribe to this point of view, but right now I felt we must at least consider it.

  It was difficult to tell if this was just a clash of cultures. After all, the women could equally complain that the men who ‘succumbed’ to their charms were looking for sex and a foreign passport.

  Was it a larger problem that an apparently modernizing India did not know how to deal with female sexuality, and assumed that normal, friendly behaviour and western clothes meant that the women were available?

  Some Indian village panchayats in a northern state had recently reacted badly to Indian girls wearing jeans and carrying mobile phones, and had banned both: jeans and mobile phones. Goans would not hold such extreme views, surely, but I felt that in recent years the constant presence of tourists in this small state might have had an adverse impact. Especially since many of the locals veered towards a fairly conservative lifestyle while life on the beach was anything but that.