Sea of Innocence

by Desai, Kishwar

  When she had appeared, two local helpers had come up to her to dismantle the tent, which was just an assortment of multi-coloured curtains, strung together from a central pole. She instructed them to take it home, handing them some cash. It was a well-established routine and she stood at a distance, sipping some water from a bottle, supervising them and chatting casually. I could see everything more clearly thanks to the gas lamp that she held up to conduct the folding operations. There was no doubt that it was her.

  Mystified, I stood behind the jewellery stall in order to observe her without being noticed. So she had another identity – fair enough! But why hadn’t she told me earlier, especially when I had seen the card fall from her handbag? I couldn’t think of any good reason at all, unless something detrimental to her would be revealed if she confessed her real profession.

  Mulling over her persona, I had kept far away enough not to be noticed, following her as she set off across the market. She made straight for the well-trodden path which led into the forest. Neither the distance nor the lack of light bothered her, as she seemed to know where she was going.

  I knew this could be dangerous, but I thought I must resolve the mystery about Marian. Did Amarjit, usually a shrewd police officer, actually have any proof that she was Liza’s sister? I resolved that I would call him as soon as I got back to my hotel room, but meanwhile I had to concentrate on where we were going.

  Goa has an almost continuous range of small hills which runs through its length and breadth. It is the stuff of legends, with many mythological gods and goddesses associated with it. In fact, Goa itself is said to have been born when an arrow was shot into a churning sea.

  Densely vegetated areas such as this looked beautiful during the day, as ancient trees with thick roots rose out of the ground. But it was fairly frightening to be walking at night among tall trees and along an undulating path spilling over with eager plants which thrived in the fertile land.

  I had heard about the snakes and scorpions that resided here, but kept blanking out the possibility of an encounter with them and focused on trying to be as noiseless and unobtrusive as possible.

  The group around Marian was quite large now, as a few more people mysteriously emerged from the jungle and joined her. She chatted comfortably with those by her side, stepping over broken twigs and what I imagined to be scurrying mice, stopping only when she reached a clearing with an enormous banyan tree in the centre. The unexpected sound of a soft guitar and singing voices had already reached us a while ago. Red Chinese lanterns hanging from the branches of the tree completed the surreal scene.

  I felt as though I had entered a time warp, and had gone back into the sixties. On the cement platform under the banyan tree sat a man with a long red beard and flowing locks in the middle of a swaying group, strumming and singing a Bob Dylan song. I had seen enough documentaries to know that I was probably in the presence of some of the early flower children who had stayed behind and made Goa their home. And from the marigolds scattered around and the smell of marijuana it was obvious we had reached the celebration.

  I was taken aback. Geared up to expect that Marian was leading us into a drug den, or something equally dangerous, this was the last thing I expected.

  An almost meditative environment prevailed, while the people who sat cross-legged on the platform around the tree and on the ground below clapped and swayed with the music. It was obviously a peaceful gathering, and I could see no sign of the drug mafia in the soft light of the lanterns.

  I had been told that there were at least a thousand of these hippies (or ‘Goa Freaks’, as they were once called), all past their prime, still living in Goa in the way they had dreamt of. They had arrived as young men and women in the sixties and seventies, and found themselves unable to return to their old lives. Staying on, they formed a bond with each other and the golden beaches of Goa.

  And the odd thing was that once again their lifestyle was attracting people from today’s high-flying generation, disillusioned by the vagaries of the financial world. Not in any significant numbers, but still enough to merit an article or two in a magazine, or a film on YouTube.

  These ageing hippies were almost like gurus now, speaking from an iconic status about a unified world of love and peace’. It was a universal message that resonated with each new generation, as they repeated oft-heard platitudes about leading a simple life, and seeking nirvana.

  I slipped into the back of the crowd, which was not visible from the platform because of the darkness, and found a space next to a tall, curly-haired man. As I joined in the singing and clapping, he turned his head to give me a grin, which I returned while making sure that Marian could not see me. I was reassured as there were no lamps near us.

  The crowd, a mixed one of Indians and foreigners, all seemed to be absorbed by the medley of hippie anthems that the red-bearded man was performing. He sang in a slightly nasal voice and for a moment I really calmed down, forgetting my silent rage.

  Like the others, I drifted back in time to what must have been a period of idealism and hope, till it got mired in the haze of hallucinogens. And, sadly, no one realized that this invasion of foreigners onto the beaches of Goa in the sixties would not only give Goa the look of a contemporary haven, but eventually also contribute towards many of the problems that the state faces today. Because it was these nonconformist flower children who had brought with them Goa’s never-ending fascination with drugs. I looked around, wondering if the police knew about today’s event? I could smell marijuana even more strongly now – did that mean that this party was likely to get busted?

  Or, as seemed increasingly clear to me, this was probably happening with the blessings of the local powers that be, and only if the required sums were not doled out, or someone’s ego not massaged, would the plug be pulled.

  In that case, was dumping her sister’s investigation the price Marian paid in order to continue having this kind of freedom? The fact that she had something to do with the organization of this ‘celebration’ definitely meant that she knew how the system worked. So why did she need me, and why had Amarjit insisted I help her? It all seemed more and more absurd.

  As I was thinking, I noticed Marian climb onto the stage; her thin, usually nervous face was looking relaxed and animated, prettier than ever before. She was obviously a familiar figure and well known to the singer. He stopped strumming briefly to give her a kiss, as she swung by him, unselfconsciously, and then half sat and half sprawled near him. Someone handed her a cigarette. Was it loaded with more hashish? Was it safe for her to smoke it openly, I wondered.

  I looked nervously at the man next to me, who wasn’t smoking anything and didn’t look like he was tripping, and raised my eyebrows. I didn’t want to be busted in a police raid. He smiled and shrugged, obviously getting the implication. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s all cool here. They have all the permissions – everyone has been paid off.’

  The celebratory atmosphere puzzled me, too. There were congratulatory cards ‘To Stanley’ hanging from some of the branches, and posters of the man who was singing in a younger avatar, without his beard and dreadlocks.

  He wasn’t so thin back then. Was all this fuss because he was someone famous? A forgotten lost member of the Beatles when they had come to Goa more than five decades ago?

  Intrigued, I asked the man sitting next to me if he knew who Stanley was.

  He looked amused and astonished at my ignorance and replied, ‘You don’t know about the legendary Stanley? He’s a real icon. They say that about a thousand years ago Stanley used to work in the City of London. I believe he was a millionaire, but he gave it all up to come to Goa and live on the beach.’

  I had not encountered a single myth about the hippies in Goa which did not refer to the fact that they had once been fabulously rich and had renounced it all, or else that they had made a lot of money in Goa through drugs, so this did not surprise me much. Though why they would abjure a decent lifestyle with private aircraft a
nd Gucci shoes to live in penury under a banyan tree was a mystery to me. And equally, why would they want to give up a peaceful existence that promised nirvana, for a life on the run once they began making money from drugs? I just didn’t get it.

  ‘Thanks,’ I told the man as appreciatively as I could. He had a very pleasant smile and I decided to let my guard drop a little. Why not?

  ‘My name’s Simran Singh. You might not believe it, but I’m actually a social worker who seems to have gone a bit astray in Goa, as you can see. Not many of us around here, I think. And what brings you here?’

  ‘Good to meet you, Simran. My name’s Dennis Pinto. I’m in between jobs, really. Start work in about ten days, so thought I’d take a break. I’m a scriptwriter for TV serials in Mumbai. All that masala stuff you can’t bear to watch.’

  ‘So how come you know so much about Stanley?’ I asked. ‘And who’s that sitting next to him? That girl?’

  ‘To answer the first question, because I wanted to meet some of the older hippies. I was intrigued by their stories; might make a film on them one day, I guess.’ He peered to see who I was pointing to. And the girl? Anne? Oh she’s his daughter.’

  His daughter?

  Marian never failed to surprise me.

  How many lies had she – or rather Anne’ – told me? I tried to remember if she had ever mentioned her father in our very brief meetings. And I was pretty sure that she had not. It was my fault – I had been working to a written script, as Dennis was only too well-qualified to point out.

  I had not asked Marian any questions except about Liza, I realized, and nor had Amarjit given me much information. I had been so deeply affected by the videos of a young girl in trouble, that I had allowed myself to be manipulated throughout, trying to be sensitive about a difficult subject. It was possible that everyone knew much more than I did, because I had blindly accepted the fact that all I was looking for was a girl who had been raped on the beach, and that her sister, though unreliable, was too distraught to be cross-examined. I secretly believed she would eventually tell me everything. And I rather single-mindedly and foolishly stuck to that narrative.

  That’s right. She’s an astrologer. You must try her. Her predictions are always spot on. She told me last year that I would leave my TV company to work for a new one, and I did. And that it would be a great move. And all indications are that it should be. She’s got an instinct for it.’

  Last year.

  So what Curtis had told me was correct. It was possible that Liza had been here a year ago – and Marian had been here for equally long, if not longer.

  None of this surprised me any more. As I watched, a few people waved their hands in front of her and she pushed them away laughing. Astrologer Anne was not going to prophesy anything right now. No wonder Veeramma had tried to warn me time and again, and why she had been so upset. She probably realized I knew very little about Marian or the story behind Liza’s disappearance, which probably bore little resemblance to the one I had begun to build up in my head.

  Where did Liza fit into all this? I looked around, wondering if she too would suddenly appear. But though there were a number of curly blonde heads in sight, I didn’t think any of the faces matched the photograph.

  The music stopped temporarily as another long-haired, equally wrinkled man came onto the stage and spoke about ‘My friend Stanley’ and how much he was a local treasure, a part of Goa.

  And then everyone began singing and swaying once again, enjoying themselves hugely, including Dennis.

  Had I been less tense and worried, in another time and space, and despite the sweaty bodies around me, I would have been charmed by the atmosphere, too. But right now there was too much on my mind.

  Why had Marian (as I continued to think of her) kept all this information from me? And, more dangerously, had she kept it from Amarjit as well? I remembered her telling me about the Oxford degree she intended to take, and about not doing drugs. Obviously she had hidden a lot from us. Why? Simply to give herself a more respectable appearance? Or could she be involved in her sister’s disappearance?

  Then the thought struck me:

  That is, if she has a sister at all!

  My face flushed with renewed resentment and mortification, as I suspected I might have been sent on a completely wild-goose chase. Why had my daughter and her friends been made to leave? Why the hell had my holiday been stalled?

  Just to trail a lying, dishonest woman, who probably had some very grim secrets to hide? Or who was simply a complete fantasist? I knew that when people were addicted to drugs their sense of the real and unreal got increasingly blurred. And if she took drugs it would also explain her scrawny appearance.

  On the stage, the speeches weren’t over yet. Now it was Stanley’s turn. He slowly got to his feet. I wondered if he would devote a few words to the fact that his younger daughter was missing. Wouldn’t this be a good place, with so many people present, to talk about her and how much he had loved her?

  Instead, he gave a completely predictable speech.

  ‘This is the place of my rebirth,’ he said looking around nostalgically, obviously enjoying the moment. He could say whatever he wanted, because most of his audience wasn’t even born when he had first come to Goa. As he rambled on, I listened to every second word, distracted by what I had learnt of Marian’s duplicity.

  ‘I was working with money,’ he said. ‘Making tons of it, and was totally depressed. Strange, isn’t it? Money can’t buy you love, it’s true. I was looking, just as many of you are today, for the meaning of life. But exactly forty years today I came to Goa and found the sea, the sand, a great life and a few other things. But most importantly I found myself! And today, I’m a lucky man because you – all my friends and my daughter – are all here with me to celebrate the moment.’

  He laughed and I could see his nicotine-stained teeth, some of which were missing. And like Marian (or rather Astrologer Anne’) his bones jutted out. It seemed that the years of drinking, drugs and living on the edge had taken their toll. Yet none of that mattered because Stanley seemed a happy man. Life had not defeated him – as long as he had his peace amulets and his shocking-pink sarong tied way below his emaciated waist.

  He pulled Anne/Marian into the circle of his arms. Father and daughter, they looked good together, even though between them they must weigh less than 90 kilos.

  It was far from what I had imagined.

  Watching them sing and dance, without a single mention of Liza, made me uneasy. I wanted to rush out and talk to Amarjit, but instead I took some pictures to mail back to him, and decided to stay a while longer so I could gather as much information as possible.

  Thinking back, I remembered that Marian had specifically said that she sent photographs of Liza back to her parents to keep them from worrying. But I realized she had only mentioned her mother, who worked in a bank in London. Was it another ‘embellished’ truth? I felt a tight band of tension spread from my head down to my shoulders.

  It was inexplicable that she had been pretending to be isolated and overwrought at having lost her sister, when actually she had a large circle of friends and knew so many people. And so did her father. How long had she hoped to go on fooling me, and of course, Amarjit? Could she have invented this story about the plight of her missing sister just to get sympathy from the police force? Why?

  The other thing that bothered me was that she obviously wasn’t a tourist at all. I now suspected that she actually spent a large part of her time living in Goa. I didn’t know her present address, nor had she given it to me, but I was certain she would have a well-maintained apartment.

  She appeared very comfortable in the way she moved around and greeted the people who had come for the celebration. In many ways she was better equipped than I was to find out the truth behind Liza’s disappearance. If indeed any disappearance had taken place. In fact she could probably teach me a thing or two about how the system worked in India.

  As these thoughts ra
n through my mind, a tall man, who looked Goan, climbed onto the platform and put his arms around ‘Anne’. They retreated to the far side and she kissed him. He said something to her which obviously changed her mood. Looking sombre, she whispered something to her father, before setting off with the man. Then, over the music, I heard the distant roar of a motorcycle, and it seemed she had left.

  When she did not reappear, I decided it was time to go back to the hotel. This whole case was becoming a giant puzzle. I felt as though there was a conspiracy to fool those who were interested in finding Liza, and I didn’t know why. Why would anyone want to create such an elaborate hoax, anyway? What a waste of time.

  I got up to leave and then sat down again, realizing that I didn’t have the faintest idea how I would get back to the hotel.

  Luckily, as I asked for directions, my newly found friend, Dennis, said he was also leaving, and that we could walk together through the ‘jungle’. Reassuringly, he mentioned that he even had a hired scooter parked near the beach. It was the normal mode of transport in Goa, and because he looked so dependable, I accepted his offer to drop me off at the hotel.

  Exhausted by the events of a tumultuous day, I decided not to worry as he led the way out. He didn’t look like he was about to assault me. But then I couldn’t claim to be a great judge of character any more.

  ‘You must have heard the story about the stash of drugs that Stanley put away somewhere forty years ago, that everyone has been hunting for ages, haven’t you?’ he asked me as we chatted on our way back through the dense vegetation.

  ‘Really?’ My response was guarded. ‘Isn’t that just part of the usual hippie mythology?’

  ‘Anne told me how hundreds of people have been looking for it. Whenever Stanley mentions that he might have buried it at a particular house or in a particular location, everyone rushes off there and starts digging. It can be quite funny. There have been quite a few of these false alarms. Supposed to be real Afghan opium, worth a million dollars at today’s prices.’ Dennis’s tone was light-hearted and gossipy.