[2012] The Seven Steps to Closure

by Donna Joy Usher

  One of the browsers looked at me and catching my eye pointed to a ‘no talking’ sign.

  ‘Oh for goodness sake,’ I said to Matt, earning me a look that could kill from the browser. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ I shuffled back down the stairs and out the door with as much dignity as I could muster.

  ‘Here,’ I said to the doorman, ‘I’d like you to have these.’ I kicked off the sandals which were beginning to rub. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a good use for them.’

  ‘Oh thanking you very muchly Ma’am. I have a daughter who will love these.’

  ‘Here,’ said Matt, pulling what appeared to be an Australian colouring-in-book out of his backpack. ‘Maybe she’d like this as well.’

  The man went as red as is possible for an Indian man, with very dark skin, to go.

  ‘You are very kind,’ he said. ‘God bless you both and your marriage. May you have many, many children.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and then we headed back out to Fahad.

  ‘We have got to get you some shoes,’ said Matt.

  ‘Will there be anywhere around here I can buy some.’

  ‘T i i,’ said Matt.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘T i i. This is India.’

  ‘Oh right,’ I said laughing, ‘Tii indeed.’

  Fahad was extremely dismayed when I returned without my shoes. As he took us to a shoe shop he kept turning around to apologise, which – while very sweet, was also terrifying as we zoomed blind through the Delhi traffic.

  He pulled up outside a small run-down shop and insisted on haggling for the shoes on my behalf. There were so many pretty sandals I couldn’t make up my mind. In the end I bought five different pairs – at rock bottom price thanks to Fahad – and returned to the tuk tuk with my package.

  ‘I’ve unleashed a machine,’ Matt said, laughing as I ummed and ahhed over which ones to wear.

  When I had finally settled on a pair, Fahad took us to the Lodi Garden Restaurant for lunch.

  ‘I’m starved,’ I said to Matt as we sat down.

  ‘Let’s get thali.’ He rubbed his hands together.

  ‘What’s thali?’

  ‘It’s a tasting plate of Indian food. You get a platter with three or four different dishes, curry puffs and chapatis.’

  ‘Yummy.’ I could feel saliva pooling.

  It turned out thali was the Indian version of an “all you can eat” meal. I ate so much, I considered undoing the top button of my pants, but I didn’t want Matt to think I was a fatty.

  ‘Fancy hanging around the pool this arvo?’ he asked when we had finished.

  ‘Sure. I can work on my non-existent tan,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll get some writing done, and then tonight we can hit the markets.’

  I clapped my hands together enthusiastically and said, ‘Yeah, more shopping.’

  Although the Lodi Gardens had been relaxing, I was happy to get back to the hotel. The heat, the noise, the smells and vibrant colours of Delhi created a huge sensory overload which was tiring. Plus I was sticky and hot and the thought of the pool water was extremely enticing.

  ‘I’m going to get some photos of the hotel so I’ll meet you down there,’ I heard Matt call through the bathroom door, where I was struggling to get my bikini top down my sweaty skin. Finally, I was ready and, grabbing my book, headed down to the pool area. I was delighted to find that I had it all to myself. Using my towel and sarong I bagged a couple of deck chairs before slipping into the water, gasping at the temperature change. I swam a few laps and floated for a while before deciding to read my book. It wasn’t long before the sun’s rays lulled me to sleep.

  Water drops splashing across my skin woke me and I opened my eyes to see Matt towelling himself down. Sunlight glinted off his body showing the perfection of his muscles. I felt my stomach tighten into a knot as I watched him moving and flexing in the act of drying himself. As if he could feel my gaze, he stopped and turned till our eyes met. Flashes of memories from our night together danced before my eyes: him lifting me onto his lap and kissing me deeply, him working his way down my body with his tongue, him pinning me down with the weight of his body and slowly sliding inside me.

  I could feel the heat in my face and every cell in my body was urging me to reach out to him. Only the thought of his rejection enabled me to restrain myself. I didn’t think I’d be able to bear the utter humiliation.

  I smiled stiffly and said, ‘Get what you wanted?’

  ‘Not really,’ he answered and his eyes travelled – for a second – down my body. Did his voice sound a little husky? I’m sure my fevered brain was imagining it, trying to create a situation in which it could have what it wanted: Matt, inside me, again.

  Shit, if I didn’t stop thinking about it I was certainly going to do something embarrassing. I hopped up and headed for the pool.

  ‘I’m hot,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ he replied.

  Whoa. Did he mean gorgeous, sexy, desirable hot or sweaty, sticky, uncomfortable hot?

  I glanced at his eyes but they were dark and unreadable. After diving in, I swam the length of the pool under water, still feeling aroused and confused when I finally came up for air. A few laps later, my frustration had eased. When I finally felt I had myself under control, I headed back to my chair.

  Matt was already asleep, my sarong bunched under his head as a pillow. I stopped to admire him lying there like a golden god. So perfect, so funny, so sexy, so desirable, so sweet – so out of my league. I sighed and, hopping into my chair, was finally able to release my sexual tension enough to slip back into sleep.

  * * *

  After our afternoon nap, we headed to the markets. I took a little longer than 15 minutes to get ready, applying foundation, lip gloss and the Kohl around my eyes. I had picked up some colour at the pool and my skin had a healthy glow about it.

  Initially, things were a little strained between us.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I finally asked him.

  ‘Sure. Why?’

  ‘You seem a little distracted.’

  ‘Just thinking about the article.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bugger. I had been starting to think that maybe I hadn’t been alone in my fantasising that afternoon.

  We were half way down the markets when we found the rug shop.

  ‘Right,’ said Matt. ‘We’re going to play good cop, bad cop.’

  ‘Am I the bad cop?’ I asked hopefully. I’d always wanted to be a bad cop.

  ‘No, you’re the good cop. We’re married and I’m a tight arse.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. I was disappointed at having been allocated the good cop role, but sadly excited by the prospect of pretending to be Matt’s wife again.

  The shopkeeper – Sahir, a tall, skinny man – was happy to educate us about rugs. The most expensive were the silk on silk. They were soft and shiny; I was fascinated by the way they changed colours. One end showed you the soft muted colours, and the other the strong vibrant ones.

  Finally, I found one that I loved. Pointing at it I said to Matt, ‘That one’s not too awful.’

  Matt screwed up his face as he walked around it and said, ‘It’s all right, if you like that sort of thing.’

  Sahir clapped his hands and a young boy emerged from behind a rug. I started to laugh at the absurdity of the boy standing behind the rug waiting to be summoned. When he disappeared behind the same rug and returned with a tray ladened with different assortments of beverages, I realised it hid a doorway leading to another room.

  Coffee, Marsala tea, beer?’ Sahir offered us.

  ‘Beer,’ Matt said.

  We sat with our beers while Matt commenced negotiations over the rug. It took him thirty minutes to bargain Sahir down to half his starting price and throw in free shipping to Australia.

  After that, I bought Matt dinner to thank him for saving me so much money, and then we returned to our room to try and get a good night’s sleep before our early morning train.


  It was the crack of dawn when Matt shook me awake the next morning.

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I hope I didn’t hurt you. You’re so hard to wake up.’

  ‘S’all right,’ I mumbled as I stumbled into the bathroom to splash some water on my face.

  Once I had woken up sufficiently, we grabbed our backpacks and walked to the train station. Compared to last night the streets were empty. It was eerie.

  When we got there, the train station floor was scattered with bodies covered in sheets. Christ, I thought, there’s been another terrorist attack. I backed nervously out of the building; searching for men with guns.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Matt asked.

  I indicated the bodies with a look of terror on my face.

  Matt burst out laughing and said, ‘They’re just sleeping.’

  ‘Last time I saw bodies lying in a train station with sheets over them it was on the news,’ I replied tersely, feeling like an idiot.

  ‘Sorry, I should have warned you,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Come on or we’ll miss the train.’

  The train to Agra was luxurious compared to what I had been expecting. (Being jammed into the carriage like a sardine in a can, while the locals groped my arse and tits.)

  ‘Oooh,’ I said, reading the card in the seat pocket, ‘we get a six-course breakfast.’

  ‘Don’t get too excited,’ Matt warned me.

  ‘A six-course breakfast is a six-course breakfast,’ I insisted.

  An hour later, I was trying to work out what the six courses had been.

  ‘Do you think they count the milk that goes on the cornflakes as a course?’ I asked Matt.

  ‘Possibly. And I’m assuming that the orange juice was a course of its own.’

  ‘That still only makes it four. Maybe the tea or coffee?’

  ‘Or if you count the egg as one course and the sausage as another you’ve got your six.’

  ‘That must be it,’ I agreed, relaxing back into my seat and looking out the window as the sun rose. The passing fields were slowly becoming visible. I peered into the shadows perplexed. The fields were covered with men. Some squatting and others arriving and departing.

  ‘What are they doing?’ I asked Matt. ‘Is it a morning prayer ritual?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Matt, sounding amused.

  I watched as field after field slipped by. As it got lighter I realised what I was seeing. ‘They’re going to the toilet,’ I said aghast. It raised a whole series of questions. ‘Where are the women?’

  ‘They aren’t allowed to go during the day.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What if they can’t go when they’re meant to? What if they have to go later?’ I was thinking of my own very irregular needs.

  ‘They’ve been doing it like this since they were children. I think they’re pretty well trained.’

  ‘What if they get an upset stomach?’

  ‘I’m sure they’re allowed to go if they need to.’

  ‘Do they do it in the fields for the fertiliser aspect of it?’

  ‘They don’t have a sewerage system.’

  ‘Hmmmmmmm.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘No, I’m thinking.’

  ‘Take your time.’

  ‘Do they have a set rule of how close they can be to each other?’

  ‘I’m sure they have their own etiquette.’

  ‘Where do they wash their hands?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do they use toilet paper?’

  ‘Tara, sometimes being with you is like being with a small child.’

  The part of my brain that was hoping to get laid by him again one day – 99.9999 per cent – shuddered to a halt. The other 0.0001 per cent was still asleep or it too would have been shuddering with the want-to-get-laid-by-Matt group as well.

  ‘That doesn’t sound very good,’ I said, grimacing.

  ‘No, it’s refreshing.’

  Refreshing? Not a bad thing surely?

  ‘Frustrating, but refreshing.’

  Oooops, frustrating. That wasn’t good.

  I lapsed into a slightly depressed silence.

  ‘What no more questions?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, reaching out to touch my arm, ‘I was kidding about the small child thing. I enjoy being with you. You make me laugh more than anyone else I know.’

  He thought I was funny. That should have made me happy, but I had a flashback to school when I was the fat funny girl all the guys liked to hang around with, the fat funny girl who they told their girl problems to, and the same fat funny girl who would sit alone and watch while the pretty popular girls got asked out.

  (I know I hadn’t told you I was fat when I was at school. It’s something I try not to share. Of course at my twenty-first birthday party all the fatty photos came out – something everybody but me found hugely amusing. And of course the old nickname came back to haunt me. But I guess that’s what twenty-firsts are all about so I tried to take it in good spirits. I admit though that I had to restrain myself from punching Tash as she had danced around me chanting, ‘Ten tonne Tara,’ over and over again. I wish now I had have given into the urge.)

  Realising what I was doing, I gave myself a mental shake. I was on the way to the Taj Mahal and here I was choosing to let myself slump into a pool of self-pity. Pulling myself together I said, ‘Thanks, while you’re nowhere near as funny as me, I enjoy being with you too.’

  Matt smiled, looking relieved.

  We sat in a companionable silence watching the fields slipping by. Gradually they turned into villages and then we were entering the city.

  ‘We’re here,’ I said excited.

  Matt had organised for a guide to meet us at the train station. We were escorted to a waiting car and bustled off to the Taj Mahal.

  ‘This is my wife Tara,’ Matt told the guide. ‘She decided to come with me at late notice.’

  ‘Managed to find a babysitter,’ I informed the guide.

  ‘How many children do you have?’ he asked me. His English was very good.

  ‘Six.’ I had the pleasure of hearing Matt make a choking little gurgling noise.

  ‘That is a lot of children for one so young.’

  ‘We started really young,’ I said, patting Matt on the arm. ‘I was still in school wasn’t I honey?’

  Matt had a timely coughing fit, which conveniently prevented him from having to answer.

  The driver stopped the car next to a long walkway leading down to a huge arched gate. ‘That is the south gate entry to the Taj Mahal,’ the guide informed us. There were long queues of people at the beginning of the walkway. ‘You will have to queue in the women’s line,’ he said, gesturing to the far line.

  The woman’s queue was miniscule compared to the men’s. I admired the arching gate to the Taj while I waited for Matt and Daha, our guide. After that, we had a bag search. I was amused when they found my iPod and insisted that Daha take it to a cloakroom from where we would pick it up later.

  ‘But why?’ I asked Matt, confused as to what threat my iPod was.

  ‘Tii baby,’ he replied, smiling at me.

  I couldn’t help remembering my poor late departed shoes and hoped that my iPod didn’t suffer a similar fate.

  Finally we were approaching the South Gate; a red sandstone structure inlaid in areas with the same marble and semiprecious stones as the Taj Mahal. Daha informed us that it was also inscribed with verses from the Koran. I was thinking how beautiful the gate was when through the arch I glimpsed the snowy whiteness of the Taj Mahal rising mystically before us. I felt a tingle run over me as my breath caught in my throat.

  ‘It’s amazing isn’t it,’ Matt said, stopping beside me to admire the contrast of the red sandstone arch against the distant marbled building.

  ‘Awesome,’ I whispered.

  We continued through the arch until we could view the whole of th
e Taj Mahal. The hazy air cloaked the building, amplifying its majesty. I gazed at it, soaking up the atmosphere while Matt took numerous photos.

  ‘I’m expecting copies,’ I informed him.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, without taking his face away from the lens.

  ‘Let me take one of the two of you,’ said Daha.

  We looked at each other and shrugged.

  ‘You stand here,’ he said, lining us up in front of the pools of water leading to the Taj Mahal. Looking through the lens, he indicated for us to move closer. We shuffled towards each other a little. Daha flicked his hands again to move us closer still. We shifted until our bodies were touching.

  ‘Now put your arms around each other,’ he said.

  Matt looped an arm over my shoulders and I put mine around his waist. It felt really nice.

  Daha took a photo and then looking over the top of the camera said to Matt, ‘Now you kiss your wife. It’s very good luck for your marriage.’

  I looked up at Matt. We had told the man we were married with six children, he was going to think it mighty odd if we didn’t want to kiss for the camera. Matt shrugged a little and then leant down to kiss me. I thought he would go for my cheek so when I felt his lips touch mine I responded a little too ardently, arching up against him and tightening my hold.

  ‘Very nice,’ I vaguely heard Daha say, as I pressed my lips to Matt’s.

  Unaware of the effect he was having on me Matt abruptly let go and, stepping away from me, reached for his camera. I felt dazed and disorientated by the loss of contact.

  I could hear Daha begin his tourist guide speech and tried to concentrate on what he was saying. I caught the part about the central Taj structure being made from marble inlaid with 43 different types of semiprecious stones. And then I vagued out for a while hearing only random words. Emperor’s second wife. Died in childbirth. Heartbroken. Token of his love.

  I started as I realised that Matt and Daha were walking towards the Taj and hurried after them. Matt stopped to take a photo of it reflected in one of the pools. And then Daha was talking again. I tried to listen, I really did. But all I could think about was that kiss; the feel of Matt’s arms around me and his rock hard body pressed against mine. I wandered around the Taj Mahal admiring it, but thinking about Matt. I was frustrated by my patheticness.