Chilli Heat

by Carrie Williams

  I haven’t thought too much about when that will be. It largely depends on what happens with Nadia and that lovely boy Christian she brought to dinner. If she’s hooked on him and wants to stay in Udaipur a while, then I can’t begrudge her that after my own selfish behaviour. I’m sure there’s plenty to see and do to keep me occupied while she gets her share of romance, or sex, or whatever it turns out to be between them. A mixture, I hope.

  Charles is leaving soon anyway; he was vague when he mooted the idea of my accompanying him here, said ‘a couple of days’, but I suspect he’s scheduled to move on tomorrow. I’ve no idea where to – he hasn’t talked about the future at all. It wouldn’t surprise me if he asks me to carry on travelling with him. Despite his little outburst of yesterday, he seemed satisfied with me last night, more than satisfied at the time. I think I’ve passed the test. And he’s evidently fond enough of me to splash out on expensive little treats.

  And some treat it was. In a gorgeous room surrounded by erotic frescoes of bathing Rajasthani princesses, flickering with candlelight, I was given a speciality Mewar Khas signature treatment that Charles had picked out for me. The masseuse told me that it was derived from a pre-bathing ritual once practised by royals to prepare for their wedding day. Beginning with a sandalwood, turmeric and herb scrub to exfoliate my skin, followed by an aromatherapy massage, it was just what my tired, aching, rather bruised body needed, although the irony of Charles having chosen a bridal massage for a woman who is about to leave him didn’t escape me.

  But that, in a way, is the problem – I’m no longer the type to wait around all day for her busy, successful man to come home, divine though the massage was. I couldn’t live like this every day, it’s just not in my blood. A lifetime of domestic servitude clearly isn’t desirable or something that I miss, but it has instilled in me the inability to be idle, at least in any sustained form. I feel, bizarrely, like a trophy wife, or a geisha, or a mistress – there to service my man, whenever he shows up, whenever he has time for me. The rest of the time I must entertain myself or be entertained in some costly way. It really just isn’t me. Even lying here beneath the mango tree, sipping my champagne, I feel like a phoney, an interloper in a world to which I don’t belong. Perhaps I’m mad, but I’ve realised I don’t want the kind of life I would have with Charles.

  I rise at last, head back to my suite to call Nadia, hoping that I can reach her on her mobile. If I can’t, I’ll pack and go to try and find her at her guesthouse. The Panoramic, did she say? Yes, that was it. I can’t remember its location from the taxi ride – I had other things on my mind – but the boatman will be able to tell me where that is.

  I’m just approaching my suite, composing in my mind the letter to Charles, thanking him for the massage and everything else, when I see a figure skulking at the end of the corridor. It turns, and I realise it’s Nadia. She steps towards me and beside her, leaning against the wall, I see her rucksack.

  I smile. ‘I’ll just going to pack,’ I say. ‘I won’t be more than fifteen minutes.’

  She grins, opens her arms for a hug.

  15

  MUM BLOSSOMS AS we travel through Rajasthan, taking in the blue city of Jodhpur, with its clusters of traditional houses painted a pale indigo, originally to denote that Brahmins lived in them, and the pink city of Jaipur, colour-washed in the nineteenth century, according to my guidebook, in order to emulate the light-red sandstone used in Mughal cities. She delights in the vibrant colours, not only of the buildings but of the women’s saris, and of the scintillating fabrics on display at the many markets that we visit, alongside pungent blood-red chillies, whole and in powder form, heaped on the pavement or spilling forth from sacks. With her little digital camera she takes thousands of photos, and her wheel-along case is soon filled with swatches of material; over lunches and dinners she talks endlessly of her youthful ambitions to be a fashion designer, stifled – I presume, although she never says as much – by marriage and motherhood.

  I don’t mind that she goes on a bit – I’m just grateful that she is free from the clutches of Charles and that I didn’t have to force the issue. She had made the decision herself, although she hasn’t explained to me why, or not in much detail. She just told me she didn’t think she was the kind of woman who could live the life of an idle wife or mistress. I sensed there was more to it than that – after all, no one would force her to live that way. Even if she had stayed with him, had travelled around with him, she could have forged a life for herself, could have even started up as a designer just as she’s talking about now. No, something happened between them to make her back off, but I’m not going to probe. It’s her own business. And perhaps there are some things about one’s own mother one is better off not knowing anyway.

  For my own part, I’m starting to question the choices I’ve made, the life I’ve plotted out for myself. I’m due to begin a degree in media studies in London next year, but being in India has made me wonder about it all. Here in Rajasthan there are acute water shortages, and I’ve read that half of the children under three are malnourished and half of the women are anaemic. I don’t know what can be done about the devastating droughts that plague the region, but thinking about it makes my life back in Britain, my petty troubles, my future plans, seem utterly meaningless. Although media studies is no longer the joke subject it was ten or so years ago, I wonder what relevance it will have to the world, beyond preparing me, perhaps, for a job in marketing or PR or journalism. And is that really what I want to do with my life?

  I try to enjoy travelling, and Mum and I start to have a good time together, but all this is just another layer of confusion to add to my overall feelings of not knowing who the hell I am. It’s tempting to talk to Mum about it all, but I’m embarrassed, especially about the sex side of things. How can I tell her I’m torn between boys and girls, that I don’t know if I like snatches or dicks best, that I might well be bisexual? That not being able to decide is making me miserable and frustrated, and losing me people I start to care about? Mum’s led a fairly cloistered life and I’m pretty sure she’s never had a bisexual or gay friend, or not one that she’s known to be such. And then there’s the race thing, and I don’t see how much help she can give me with my feeling of being stuck in the middle, neither one thing nor the other. Sure, as a white woman married to an Indian man when such things were much less common than they are now, I’m sure she’s had more than her fair share of prejudice to contend with, her own battles to fight. But she remained white; she never tried to become Indian in habit, dress or whatever. So I don’t think she could empathise with this split I feel in me, this sense of never quite fitting in, of standing out.

  We agree on going on out to Jaisalmer, the ‘golden city’, this time, perched on a ridge of honey-coloured sandstone and crowned by a fort. From there, we’ve heard, you can take a camel safari out into the Thar Desert and sleep under the stars. I’ve also read, on a travellers’ chat room, that the city is slowly collapsing, its historic buildings crumbling like biscuit after piped water and underground sewers were installed to service both the growing population and the increase in tourists. Together with monsoons and a huge earthquake a few years ago, seepage from these conduits into foundations has made the whole place unstable, and almost led to the loss of the city’s oldest palace.

  It’s the perfect opportunity for me to fill Mum in on some of the evils of the five-star hotels she loves so much, and to insist that we forgo staying in one in favour of something more eco-friendly – a town-house hotel called the Killa Bhawan, recommended on the same green talkboard. When we arrive, Mum is not at all put out – the rooms are brightly painted, in shades of crimson, lime green and orange, and there are amazing views from the three terraces, especially at sunset when the declining sun seems to set the whole city alight. There are no baths, but Mum says she can cope with that, especially when the friendly staff talk to us about the restoration projects underway. She finally seems to understand that visiting
a place can’t just be about taking from it, that you have to treat it with respect, at the very least, and even picks up a leaflet on the Jaisalmer in Jeopardy campaign. The same staff also advise us on a reputable firm – a two-brother outfit – with whom to book a camel tour, since the choice is vast and the quality is said to vary wildly.

  We go to bed happy to be here. Mum, it seems, has forgotten all about Charles – or at least, if not forgotten, then is secure in the knowledge that she did the right thing by leaving him. As for me – well, I do think of Christian with fondness, but we knew each other for such a short space of time, I can’t really miss him. And I’ve come to the conclusion that if I’d really wanted to, I’d have gone for it. I shouldn’t keep doing my head in about missing opportunities: I’ll know when the right one comes along.

  We’ve opted for a short tour, venturing only a short distance into the desert and spending a single night there. There are longer safaris, but we need to get moving soon. Mum has made arrangements to meet someone down in Goa, and we certainly won’t be flying this time, so we’ll need several days to make the trip.

  Our camel driver, Rajesh, came to our hotel to fetch us after lunch; we’d spent the morning exploring the streets of the fort, one of the oldest inhabited ones in the world, with its intricately carved havelis. It is he who is leading us out into the sand dunes now, on our plodding, farting camels, while his brother Abhay drives ahead in a Jeep, to the spot where we will set up camp tonight, the Sam dunes. He has not only bedding but cooking apparatus and the ingredients from which the pair will magic up our evening meal.

  Rajesh doesn’t have his own beast, instead either walking along beside us, chiding the camels along with a big stick, or taking it in turns to ride pillion behind me or Mum. Or that’s the theory, but he spends more time with me, since my camel is the most unruly, constantly threatening to break into a gallop and separate from its mate. Seeing that I am struggling to control it and that I’m a little panicked, he climbs up behind me and puts his arms around me to hold the reins and exert a little authority on the camel. His English isn’t great, but every time the camel lets out another fetid fart, we laugh together, and Mum, a few metres ahead, looks back and smiles at us.

  Rajesh must be in his late-twenties, his brother a good five years older, although their faces are slightly weathered from the elements, like the buildings of Jaisalmer itself, so they may be a few years younger than they first appear. They’re both lean and fit from their sorties into the Thar. I wonder at this strange life they lead, taking tourists out into the seemingly endless sand dunes, day after day, spending their nights beneath the vast open sky. Do they have families back in Jaisalmer? What occupies their thoughts as they walk or ride, for the thousandth, the five-thousandth time, towards an ever-receding horizon?

  You’d think you’d relax, on such a journey, but largely deprived of noise and other stimuli, my mind is working overtime. Seeing the women, still wonderfully colourful in their albeit ragged saris, walking long distances to collect water in clay jugs that they balance on their heads, or carrying massive bundles of laundry, also on their heads, to the river, to spend their whole day scrubbing at it, is giving me a fresh perspective on my comfortable life in the West. In many ways I feel like a voyeur: after all, I have paid this man to bring me here, to show me this place. But not liking all of what I see is making me question my right to even be here, if I can’t help improve the lot of these women, if my very presence is adding to their problems. How dare I come and take the water for which they have to walk miles every day?

  Of course, it’s not all angst: there’s incredible beauty here too, especially in the form of a couple of deserted villages that we get off to explore. I take plenty of photos and consider emailing the student newspaper of the college I am to attend next year to see if they are interested in commissioning a feature on the Jaisalmer in Jeopardy campaign. I wrote for my school newspaper, and it’s an obvious way for me to help put something back into this country.

  We arrive at our destination just as the sun is beginning to go down and, as Rajesh and Abhay build a small fire on which to brew up some reviving chai, Mum and I go for a walk over the dunes, which are shaped into waves and crests by the desert winds. As the sun sinks towards the horizon, these dunes change colour almost perceptibly, and we hold our breath, awestruck, at the otherworldliness of the setting.

  There’s not much to do here, clearly, and, as soon as we’ve finished our chai, chatting as best we can with the brothers but hindered by their limited English and our non-existent Hindi and Marwari, they begin to prepare supper. Mum and I sit beside them on the sand, watching them chop vegetables, helping out where we can, talking between ourselves.

  As the light diminishes and the stars wink into life above us, I study Rajesh while he stirs the potato and green bean curry he has prepared, then rolls out the roti and forms the kadhi dumplings with his hands. The latter, though gnarled from the camel driving, are quick, dextrous; his arm are sinewy. Like his face, his body is interesting, bears witness to a life spent largely in the open, amidst nature. I envy him in a way: everyone has their troubles, but this seems such an uncomplicated life, to a large extent free of the material possessions that we in the West claim are essential, claim as our right.

  I find myself strangely attracted to this silent weather-beaten man hunched over his fire, lost in the task of preparing our dinner; there’s a mystery to him, an impenetrability that arouses me. There’d be no need for small talk, with Rajesh, for any of the nonsense involved in becoming someone’s lover – the chat-up lines, the playing hard to get, the mind games. I’d just put my hand on his strong wiry arm and he’d understand and lie back on the sand, unwrapping his skirtlike dhoti from around his hips and under his groin to reveal his lean brown thighs. Kneeling on the sand, I’d strip, slowly, savouring the feel of the desert breezes on my bare skin, the feeling of communing with my surroundings. His prick would be straining for me in the moonlight, and after wetting it with my mouth, sucking at it as I fondled his balls, I’d straddle him and ride him through the night, wordlessly, feeling every sensation intently, the lack of other stimuli heightening everything, until our fucking became like a prayer or a hymn to nature.

  Startled back to reality by Mum’s voice, I look across at her. She’s accepting a bowl of curry from Abhay, thanking him in slow, over-enunciated English. I take mine in turn, and we sit in near silence, sharing our meal with the brothers, hearing the cries of animals we can’t identify ring out in the encroaching darkness. Mum looks slightly apprehensive all of a sudden, but given that Rajesh and Abhay don’t react to the sounds in any way, I decide that there can’t be anything too threatening out there.

  After dinner, Rajesh shows us over to our ‘bed’, which he has made on the top of a large dune with a flattish top. Mum and I laugh nervously: it seems almost absurd to be spending the night so exposed to the elements, now that we’re here; a little foolish to be roofless like this.

  The brothers retreat and, as we undress and change into our pyjamas in the darkness, we see them sitting in the Jeep, the ends of their cigarettes flaring and then dying back, over and over. The low chunter of their voices is reassuring. We climb into bed, pull the cover up and say goodnight to each other.

  It takes a long time to get to sleep, what with the snuffling noises of the animals against an almost eerie quiet, and the sky above us is so breathtaking I can hardly bear to close my eyes. Beside me, Mum is restless too, but we don’t talk. Now that our feelings of foolishness have dissipated, there’s something almost religious to this experience and neither of us wants to break the spell.

  But sleep must claim me at last, for I awake with a start and, reaching across for Mum to reassure me, find that she’s not there. I nearly flip – perhaps the animals we heard aren’t so harmless after all. Who are these people we’ve come out here with anyway? The guest house recommended them, but for all we know they could be inexperienced chancers with little knowledge
of the desert and what lurks here.

  I leap up, look around, waiting for my eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. Noticing the embers of the fire still smouldering, I begin to walk towards it. The dark bulk of the Jeep reveals itself not far away. I turn around. I don’t want to call out, in case I attract unwanted attention from some predatory creature, so I’ll just have to creep around on the sand until I work out where Mum has gone. Perhaps she’s just answering a call of nature, seeking out a spot in which to pee. Perhaps I’m overreacting.

  After fifty metres or so I come to a halt. Mum is answering a call of nature, but not the one I’d imagined. On the ridge of a nearby dune, I see the silhouettes of two figures rolling around in a passionate embrace, and now that I’m close I can hear their moans. One of them is female. I turn away, start running back towards our bed, not wanting to see any more.

  16

  I HAVEN’T SMOKED in years, but when I hear Nadia start snoring and know that she’s finally dropped off, I get up and walk over to the Jeep to crash a cigarette. The older camel driver is sitting in the driver’s seat; as I climb in the passenger seat, he motions into the back and I see his little brother asleep there, curled up beneath a sheet.

  ‘No sleep?’ he says, and I shake my head and gesture around me.

  ‘Too beautiful,’ I say, and he seems to understand, smiling and nodding.

  For a while, the time it takes to smoke my cigarette, we sit in silence. I think about Charles, wonder what he’s doing now, what he thought when he read my note. Did he call me a traitorous bitch or did he, as I suspect is more likely, shrug off my departure, get on the phone to some little friend in his next port of call? Was he sleeping now, or wakeful in some plush hotel suite in another city, taking his dildo out of his case, handing it to his companion with that commanding yet needy gleam to his eyes? Has he even given me a second thought since I’ve gone?