The second half of the concert seemed to drag. I feigned interest in the performance while my mind eagerly anticipated what might follow. When it ended, we all gathered outside on the steps of the theater.
‘How were you liking the music?’ asked Santosh.
‘It was wonderful,’ I replied. ‘It’s the first time I’ve heard Gujarati folk songs. They are so spirited. Thanks a lot for inviting me, Santosh.’
‘No mention,’ he said. There was the faintest hint of disappointment in his voice, but he was quick to cover it up. ‘Ramesh will show you the way back to your hotel. It’s not far from here but since you are new to Ahmedabad, you might get lost.’
I followed Ramesh like an obedient servant. When we arrived at the hotel, he went straight to the clerk at the front desk. All the way, I had been pondering how we might get Ramesh past the front desk without the clerk noticing. After all, guests were not allowed in rooms at this time, and I had not paid for a double room.
A flurry of words passed between Ramesh and the clerk. When they finished, I took my key and we proceeded up two flights of stairs to my room.
‘What was that all about, Ramesh?’
‘Oh, I checked if there was a way to get some whisky or beer,’ he said offhandedly. ‘Thought you might like a little lubrication before getting down to business.’
‘Whisky or beer? Isn’t Gujarat a dry state?’
‘Officially, yes, but these guys have ways around that for a few extra rupees.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He told me to give him 15 minutes and he’d see what he could do.’
When we arrived at my room, I tried inserting the key in the lock but it wouldn’t fit. I pushed it up and down and sideways but to no effect. As I fumbled with it, Ramesh slid his hand over mine and took hold of the key.
‘Here, let me try,’ he said.
He gave the key a hard jerk and it slipped into the lock. As it did, his other hand brushed my trousers, as if by accident. But I was beginning to realize that few things happened by accident where Ramesh was concerned. I threw him a quick glance. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘OK, what are you waiting for?’ The room wasn’t much, but what could you expect for 50 rupees a night? The metal bed frame sagged in the middle and the mattress was squishy but at least the sheets were clean. None of this bothered Ramesh, who made straight for the bed and flopped down on his back. Throwing his arms apart, he commanded, ‘Come!’
Rarely had I met such initiative in my Indian sexual partners. They usually expected me to show the way but Ramesh was a different kettle of fish. I threw myself on top of him and we rolled over and over. When I pretended to pin him down, he entwined his legs with mine and turned me over. We were like wild animals in heat, going at each other with unabashed ferocity. For a moment I imagined we were a pair of lion cubs, testing each other’s limits. Out of the depths of my subconscious, a strange voice rose up and called out, ‘Sher-e-Gujarat!’ Ramesh gave a leonine growl and I collapsed into paroxysms of laughter.
In the midst of our little drama, I nearly missed the knock at the door. It was a polite rap at first, then it grew insistent. Ramesh leaped to his feet and stuffed his shirt back into his trousers before cautiously opening the door. After exchanging a few words with the desk clerk, he closed the door, locked it, and produced a large bottle of beer and two glasses. He poured each of us a drink and handed me mine.
‘To wild lions!’ he mocked, raising his glass against mine.
A half hour later, we had finished the bottle and swapped stories about ourselves. The beer had loosened our tongues but not diminished our passion. As I removed his white shirt, my eyes were drawn to the soft, unmarked skin between his neck and shoulder. It was the most delicate, seductive piece of skin I’d ever seen. I drew myself closer to him and gently placed my lips on it. Ramesh remained perfectly still as I plunged into this oasis of delight.
The night passed quickly, as we alternated between bouts of passionate lovemaking and fitful sleep. The following day, seated next to Ramesh on the floor of his family’s modest home, I found it hard to reconcile that we were the same two people who had made love the night before. Now he was the dutiful elder son who had brought home a special guest. He had invited me to meet his family, and although his father was at work, his younger brother was present. From time to time, the boy shot me knowing glances, but I pretended not to notice. In my honor, Ramesh’s mother had prepared a Gujarati thali, one of my favorite Indian meals. This topped off an incredible couple of days.
Regrettably, I had to leave Ahmedabad later that afternoon for Baroda, 100 kilometers south. The experiences of the last few days had lifted me up and launched me like one of the thousands of kites flying high above the city. Back in the privacy of my hotel room, tears rolled down my cheeks. What had I done to deserve such friends, who welcomed me so unreservedly into their city, their homes, and their arms? I was reminded of something written by the Australian novelist, Gregory David Roberts: ‘This is not like any other place. This is India. Everyone who comes here falls in love—most of us fall in love many times over. And the Indians, they love most of all.’
Ramesh insisted on accompanying me to the railway station to make sure I had no trouble getting a seat on the train to Baroda. It was a short journey, so I was prepared to stand all the way if necessary. I’d stood over much longer distances in India in buses and trains under much more strenuous conditions. But Ramesh wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted on buying me a first-class ticket to ensure that I got a seat. I was embarrassed by his generosity and protested vehemently, but he thrust the ticket into my hand. I was speechless. I stood there on the station platform, longing to fling my arms around him, but I knew this would draw attention. For a moment, we just stood and stared at each other. Then he broke the silence.
‘I have one other thing for you. You might like to meet someone in Baroda. He’s a really sweet guy.’
He pushed a scrap of paper into my hand. ‘Vilas,’ it said, along with a phone number.
‘Thanks so much, Ramesh. That’s very kind of you. But I couldn’t imagine meeting anyone sweeter than you.’
He blushed and turned his head away. When he faced me again, I could see the moistness in his eyes. At that moment, the sound of screeching metal announced the arrival of my train. Ramesh grabbed my hand and led me down to the front of the platform where the first-class carriages would be.
‘You wait here,’ he ordered me.
As soon as the train came to halt, he elbowed his way into the carriage and claimed my seat. Then he shoved his head through a window.
‘Come!’ he yelled, and I grinned.
I jumped on the train and dumped my case under the seat. The first whistle blew so we walked to the end of the carriage where passengers were still getting on and off. Ramesh pulled me back to the closed door on the side away from the platform and gave me a quick peck on the cheek.
‘Please write,’ he said, as he disappeared into the crowd and headed off down the platform.
The second whistle blew and the train gave a shrug before gathering momentum. I went back to my seat in a daze and watched the city slither by. I never returned to Ahmedabad but it had carved a special place in my heart that remains there still.
* * *
When I arrived in Baroda an hour and a half later, my mind was still back in Ahmedabad, trying to comprehend and distil all that had happened. I did not feel ready to begin another adventure, and decided to focus on the several appointments I had lined up. I was also scheduled to meet a colleague from Bombay who was in town on other business. We were to share a room at the Bank of Baroda guesthouse.
When I arrived at the guesthouse, the spacious accommodations lifted my spirits. They were in stark contrast to the cheap rooms I tended to use because of limited resources. Guesthouses, whether government or private, were an exception to this. Due to our work in rural development, we were often granted free access to these establishments. The servic
e was good, the food was fine, and the rooms always clean. The only drawback was their lack of privacy. Foreign guests were a rarity and paid a lot of attention, so you needed to be careful when inviting friends over. In this instance, there was also my young colleague to deal with.
I resigned myself to several tedious days of routine work and polite talk, but was glad to settle down after the rollercoaster ride I’d just been on. Over dinner the first evening, my roommate surprised me by announcing that he had to go to another city the next day and would stay overnight, before returning to Baroda the following day. I immediately began to fantasize how I might make best use of this unexpected opportunity.
Straight after dinner, I went to the phone in the lobby and dialed Vilas’s number. No answer. I waited an hour then tried again. An older woman picked up. She had a gravelly voice but it was her Gujarati that troubled me, so I tried my limited Hindi. I gathered that Vilas was out so I promised to call back later. I replaced the phone and returned to my room where my colleague was reading a magazine. He asked me what I’d been doing, so I told him I was trying to contact a friend of a friend from Bombay.
‘You seem to have connections all over this country,’ he said.
‘When you travel as much as I do, it’s hard not to. You know how curious people are about foreigners. Sometimes I wish I weren’t so damn obvious.’
After about an hour, I excused myself and went downstairs to try Vilas again. I was in luck. There was a tinge of curiosity in his voice. He no doubt guessed I was a foreigner. I told him who I was, what I was doing in Baroda, and my referral from Ramesh. At the sound of Ramesh’s name, an eagerness came into his voice. ‘When can we meet?’ was his only question. We settled on dinner at a nearby restaurant the following evening.
Sandwiched between a dairy stall and a tailor’s shop, the Moti Sagar was easy to miss. The downstairs was filled with wooden tables and chairs and faded pictures of Krishna bathed in an eerie blue glow. An overpowering fragrance of musk enveloped me as I walked in the front door. I glanced around and didn’t see anyone corresponding to Vilas’s description. I was early so decided to step outside and wait for him. As I turned to go out the door, a voice called from the reception desk.
‘Excuse me, sir. Would you be Mr. John?’
‘Yes I am,’ I replied.
‘Mr. Vilas said to look out for you. He is waiting for you upstairs.’
A steep staircase led up to the Family Room with its low ceiling, private booths, and chilling air conditioning. I looked around and saw a hand waving at me from the last booth. Its owner was one of the most beautiful looking men I’d ever seen. He beamed a welcoming smile as he extended his right hand to shake mine. His skin was warm and moist.
‘Mr. John, I’m so glad you are coming.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine, I assure you.’
‘I was worried you may have trouble finding this place.’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I’m pretty good at finding my way around. I have developed a rule of thumb in India—ask three people, then use my best judgment.’
He laughed and his eyes sparkled. I was hooked. It wasn’t just his spotless, honey-colored skin, the symmetry of his finely chiseled face, or the gentle cajoling tone of his voice. Something more intangible drew me to him.
‘So you and Ramesh are friends?’ I asked.
‘Yes, we are knowing each other for about five years. We met at a party in Ahmedabad. He sometimes comes to visit me in Baroda.’
I was drooling to ask about more details of their visits, but propriety held me back.
‘Ramesh is a very nice guy,’ I said. ‘We got to know each other rather well these last few days.’
I tried to keep my attention focused on Vilas but it was deflected by the arrival of the waiter. I asked Vilas to order for both of us by choosing his favorite dishes. He hesitated a moment, then looked straight at me.
‘You eat veg?’
‘It’s about all I eat, Vilas. And I love it.’
He chose several Gujarati dishes including my favorite dessert, srikhand with sweet puris. The food did not disappoint and neither did Vilas. As far as I was concerned, he was on the menu as well and I couldn’t wait to taste him.
We demolished the food with few interruptions for conversation, as Indians are prone to do. Vilas did make one comment though.
‘You eat just like an Indian,’ he remarked, noticing that I avoided the spoon and fork in favor of my right hand.
‘When I lived in villages Vilas, I had no choice. And the more I used my hand, the more I liked it. It makes eating a more sensual experience, don’t you think?’
He didn’t reply, but his approving smile communicated delight in my choice of phrase. When we had finished our meal, Vilas indicated to the waiter to bring the bill. I offered to pay but he wouldn’t think of it. He led the way downstairs and out the front door.
‘Would you like to come back to the guest house?’ I inquired.
‘You are staying alone?’ Vilas asked.
I explained the situation but he still appeared a little nervous.
‘You know, I work for the bank that owns this guesthouse but I have never been to this place. Only top brass go there. I might need to be careful.’
‘It’s okay, Vilas. I have been staying with my Indian colleague, so people are used to seeing me come and go with someone else.’ It was only a 15-minute walk from the restaurant to the guesthouse. As we passed through the front gate, I waved at the chowkidar and he waved back. The front desk was closed for the night so we proceeded straight to my room. Once inside, Vilas locked the door behind us and asked if he might use the shower. When he entered the bathroom, he didn’t make any effort to close the door. I stretched out on my bed, from where I had a full view of the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of him disrobing, first his shoes and socks, then his light blue cotton shirt and vest. His upper body was a feast for the senses with its firm contours and hairless skin. My eyes riveted on him as he slowly removed his belt, unzipped his trousers, and let them slip to the floor. For a second he stood silhouetted against the bathroom light before stepping into the shower. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I jumped up from the bed, tore off my clothes, and joined him. When I pulled back the shower curtain, he didn’t seem the least surprised to see me.
Twenty minutes later, we stepped out of the shower, dripping wet. I grabbed two towels and threw one to Vilas. He began drying me so I did the same to him. Then, something from my Australian childhood triggered my memory. I took my towel, drew it back and flicked it at him, catching him on the buttocks. I raced out of the bathroom, Vilas in hot pursuit. We did several rounds of the bedroom before collapsing on the bed. It was the beginning of a long night of little sleep.
I was awakened next morning by the aarghing of crows and the honk of an auto rickshaw horn in the driveway. Vilas was not in the room. I checked the bathroom but it was empty. I was puzzled and felt abandoned. Then I glanced at the top of the dresser and found a note written in fluid handwriting with a fountain pen.
My dear Mr. John,
Thank you for such a wonderful evening. It was the very best time I have ever had with another friend. I am liking you so much. I hope it is the same with you.
I am sorry I had to leave but as I told you I live with my mummy, who is alone since my father expired last year. I did not tell her I would stay away all the night and she would worry a lot about me.
Mr. John, I don’t want that you should go back to Bombay so soon. We must meet at least one time before you go, even if it is not in the bed. Just to see you and talk with you again would make me so happy. Please do visit me at my work when you have a chance. I am there by 10 in the morning.
We can at least take tea together and share some more. Looking forward soooooo much to seeing you,
With warm love,
Vilas
PS. My office is Bank of Baroda, Bendi Bazaar, Lokmanya Tilak Marg, opposite Masheshwari Talkies
. Ask for Vilas in foreign transfers section.
As I put down the note and brushed away the tears streaming down my cheek, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. My colleague wasn’t planning to be back until late morning at the earliest. Then I heard the key turn in the lock. My god, it was him! I grabbed the note and stuffed it in my pocket, as I raced for the bathroom and closed the door. Fortunately, Vilas and I had only occupied my bed, so there was no evidence that anyone else had been in the room. We had done our eating and drinking at the restaurant, thank goodness. The only evidence of company was two wet towels in the bathroom.
I turned on the hot water full blast and pretended not to notice my colleague’s arrival. How lucky I was that Vilas had decided to leave early. I realized how perilously close I had come to a major catastrophe. I vowed to be more careful next time. But I would not have missed last night for anything. Given half a chance, I would risk everything to relive the experience.
After breakfast, I packed my case and left it at the front desk to collect later in the day. I had only one appointment and that wasn’t until noon. I decided to ignore the pleas of the rickshaw-wallahs and walk into town. As I ambled along, my mind tried to catch up with me. It was brimming over with images of last night and expectations of meeting Vilas once more. But the horrible thought that it might be the last time kept weighing me down. Within hours, I would step on a train and walk out of his life, never to return. No doubt I would meet other young men who would satisfy my desires, and so would he, but the ‘us’ we had become in our brief time together would be a fading memory. What would he be doing 10 years from now? Married with children, I’m sure, given the good Hindu son he was. What would I be doing? Still scouring foreign lands for beautiful young men?
I found the bank with little trouble, using the tried-and-true Indian method of asking and following landmarks. I had been in many banks in India and came to loathe the experience. Banks epitomized so much of the bureaucratic tedium that riddled government and stifled business in the country. Hordes of people perfunctorily engaged in their own tasks hovered around desks and sat behind grilled windows. Boundaries of responsibility were like prison walls. To ask someone to venture outside his or her confined arena was demanding the impossible. In these pre-computer days, each entry was written meticulously in longhand in gargantuan ledgers, which a peon then took to the bank officer’s supervisor for his signature, before being returned to the officer, who then gave the customer a chit to be taken to the cashier for payment. The cashier also had her own maze of procedures to navigate in order to issue money.
The Boatman Page 15