by Zoe May
He starts heading back down.
‘Shall I come down and help?’ I suggest.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He shrugs, with an easy smile as he heads to my suitcase to grab another bag.
‘How long have you been staying here?’ I ask.
‘A couple of months,’ he tells me.
He climbs up the ladder with another couple of bags, one containing a selection of tops and another full of towels and pajamas.
‘I’m staying over there,’ he says, pointing towards another treehouse in an adjacent tree.
It’s practically identical to mine, except his treehouse is even smaller and even higher up.
‘Right… Have you been staying there the whole time?’ I ask, feeling baffled.
Surely, he hasn’t stayed in a treehouse for two whole months?!
‘Yeah, I love it!’ He beams as he reaches the top of my ladder and hands me my bags.
I notice, as I take the bags, that he has a tattoo on his wrist. It looks like something in Hindi. I’m curious as to what it says, but it feels too personal to ask right now.
I want to ask him why he loves it here. The sun’s shining, we’re surrounded by tree and flowers and the beach isn’t far away, but how can you love living in a treehouse? How could anyone love sleeping on a horrible thin mattress for months? What is it about hot guys – this one and Paul – abandoning real life in exchange for weird alternative lifestyles on the opposite side of the world? Am I missing something?
‘So, err, what do you do here?’ I ask, trying to sound tactful and no doubt failing.
He smiles placidly.
‘I meditate. I read,’ he tells me, as he retreats down the ladder.
Meditation is hardly my jam, but he reads. That’s kind of interesting.
‘What do you read? Novels?’ I ask.
‘No. Mostly spiritual texts,’ he replies, hopping off the ladder and returning his attention to my suitcase.
‘So what brings you here?’ he counters, squatting down to contemplate the bags remaining in my case.
Suddenly, a pang of terror hits me. A wave of panic floods through me – cold and icy. I remember something I stashed away at the bottom of the suitcase, right underneath the bag he’s just about to lift up. My vibrator. A Rampant Rabbit Priya bought for me as a tongue-in-cheek birthday present back before I met Paul. I was single and I’d been going through a bit of a dry spell. I’d been complaining about my lack of action and Priya, being the practical problem-solver that she is, thought a vibrator would be the perfect birthday present. But then I ran into Paul on the Tube platform not long after my birthday and, as it happened, I didn’t end up needing her gift. I stuffed it in the back of one of my drawers and forget all about it, but as I was packing for this trip, I stumbled upon it again. There it was, tucked away, neon pink and strange-looking, and yet also kind of intriguing. I figured I may as well pop it in my suitcase just in case I got a bit twitchy during my trip. And now, a random, and let’s face it, rather attractive man, who is apparently my new next-door neighbor, is leaning over my suitcase, about to come face to face with my sex toy.
‘One second!’ I shriek, my voice piercingly shrill, as I spin around and scarper down the ladder.
I look over my shoulder, hoping hot guy (whose name I still don’t know) doesn’t delve into my case.
‘What is it?’ he asks, although he doesn’t seem to fully grasp my panic and reaches for a bag – the bag I placed on top of the vibrator.
Any second now, he’s going to expose a big fat plastic penis. With bunny ears.
‘STOP!’ I shriek, racing down the ladder.
‘What?’ he looks over, startled.
‘Stop! Please!’ I beg, as I jump off the ladder and rush over to the suitcase. ‘I have some…ummm…’
He eyes me quizzically.
‘I have some personal stuff in there. A, erm, chakra aligner,’ I blurt out.
‘A chakra aligner?’ he echoes, still squatting worryingly close to my suitcase.
‘Yep, that’s right!’ I comment as casually as I can, pulling the case towards me.
My heart is pounding. ‘A chakra aligner. They’re great!’
‘Oh wow! A chakra aligner!’ he enthuses, eagerly eyeing my case.
Damn it. I forgot these hippy types love stuff like chakra aligners, if that’s even a thing. Dream catchers, crystal balls, meditation beads, tarot cards, or hemp bum bags. They’re all over that crap. It’s like candy to a baby, crack to a junkie. I may as well have said I have the secret to enlightenment stashed between my mosquito repellent and my socks.
‘It’s, erm, a personal chakra aligner. VERY PERSONAL,’ I insist, pushing my suitcase further along the paving stones, out of his reach.
I slap the lid down and turn back around, meeting his gaze. He looks shocked and slightly bemused.
‘Sorry, it’s just… It’s a very personal item. It’s for, erm, connecting with my spiritual self. You know, it’s kind of sacred,’ I babble. ‘It’s just one of those things.’
‘Of course,’ he comments, smiling politely, with only a tiny hint of awkwardness.
He rises from his squatting position and stretches, while I remain hunched on the ground, shielding my suitcase. I look up at him as he flexes and I have to admit, he’s hot. Really hot. Like chakra-aligningly hot. His body is perfect. He’s muscular but not too muscular. He’s toned and tall and his skin looks so silky and smooth, his arms and legs adorned with fine golden hairs. His physique is so good that he could model, but his face is gorgeous too. He has a few slightly questionable tattoos – the scrawling Hindi across his wrist and a couple of others too: I spot a peace sign on his ankle and a tattoo of a sun with swirling rays peeking out from under his top, but his tattoos don’t detract from his sex appeal. In fact, they almost add to it. They add a slight quirkiness as without them, he might be too attractive, stereotypically so. I imagined the hippies at the ashram to be weird-looking, dressed in Jesus sandals and tie-dye clothing, with smelly dreadlocks, but this guy is nothing like that. He looks cool.
‘Well, thanks so much for your help!’ I say, still reeling from my near-miss with total humiliation.
‘No worries,’ he replies.
‘I can take the rest of my stuff up.’ I tell him. ‘I’d better be settling into my room,’ I add.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Room?’ he echoes.
‘Well, you know, treehouse,’ I clarify.
He laughs, a wry twinkle in his eyes. I’ve always assumed that people who like meditation and spiritual texts and chakra stuff are weird and humorless, but I pick up on a teasing side to this guy, a sardonic edge.
‘Okay… Maybe catch you later then?’ he suggests.
‘Sure!’ I reply, smiling brightly.
‘I’m Seb, by the way,’ he tells me.
‘I’m Rachel!’ I reply, rising to my feet and without thinking, I reach out to shake his hand.
He raises an eyebrow, glancing at my outstretched hand. I look at it, extended between us, and cringe, realizing how formal shaking hands appears. Who shakes hands in an ashram? I’m not in the corporate world right now. I’m not at a networking event or meeting a new client. I’m in an ashram in India, for goodness sake!
But nevertheless, Seb reaches over and shakes my hand.
‘Nice to meet you, Rachel,’ he says, pumping my hand as a smile twitches at the corners of his lips.
‘Nice to meet you too!’ I reply, feeling his warm palm against mine.
His hand is so much darker than mine, which is pasty from hours spent indoors tapping away at a keyboard. His tan isn’t the kind of light caramel hue you can pick up from five minutes in a booth at the Tanning Shop on Borough High Street, it’s a proper deep brown glow gained from hours spent basking in the Indian sun.
‘Maybe catch up later?’ Seb suggests, with a friendly smile. ‘We all tend to hang out and have dinner together.’
Having let go of my hand, he gestures towards an outdoor
seating area by the guesthouse.
‘All?’ I echo.
‘Everyone from the guesthouse,’ Seb says.
‘Cool! Sounds good,’ I reply, wondering who else is staying here.
Could I have miraculously found myself in a remote corner of the world where I’m surrounded by hot hippies like Seb or is he a one-off? Could the secret appeal of the ashram be that this is where sexy travelers hang out? Did I miss some kind of memo informing me that this is where the free-spirited cool people congregate?
‘Great, see you later then.’ Seb smiles and turns to head back to his treehouse.
‘Cool! See you later!’ I reply.
I turn back to my suitcase. I reach for the handle and yank it up, forgetting, in my jet-lagged, disorientated state that I forgot to zip the lid closed after slapping it shut. The lid flies open and the contents of my case start spilling over the ground. My eye-popping pink Rampant Rabbit tumbles across the paving stones, bouncing a little in Seb’s direction.
My heart flips. I jump forward, diving after it, but it keeps bouncing, ricocheting off the stone slabs like a bouncy ball.
Sensing commotion behind him, Seb turns as I leap onto the ground, plunging on top of the dildo.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, looking alarmed as he takes in the sight of me lying on the ground in an awkward spread-eagled position.
‘I’m fine!’ I insist, the vibrator pressed between my stomach and the paving stones, just about concealed from sight.
‘Did you trip?’ Seb asks, holding his hand out for me, to help me up.
‘Oh, it’s alright!’ I bat his hand away. ‘I’m good,’ I tell him, while remaining plastered to the ground.
‘You’re good?’ He frowns incomprehensibly, clearly wondering why I’d want to lie belly-down on the ground next to my half-unpacked suitcase. ‘You don’t want to get up?’
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I insist, smiling enthusiastically as though lying on the ground is the best thing ever.
I find myself extending my arm and prop my head on my hand in an effort to look casual.
‘Thought I’d just chill for a minute.’ I affect a yawn. ‘Jet lag.’
Seb gives me an odd look, as though not quite convinced.
I’m worried he’s going to try to help me off the ground again, and nervously, I reach for a nearby plant and start stroking one of its leaves.
‘Just connecting with Mother Nature,’ I hear myself saying, dreamily.
Surely if I appeal to Seb’s hippy side, what I’m doing might somehow make sense to him, right?
‘Okay!’ he laughs.
I feel a strange rumbling against my stomach. Twisting to reach for the plant must have set the vibrator off and I realize it’s buzzing under my belly. It makes a low rumbling noise and I cough loudly in an effort to cover up the sound.
‘See you later then!’ I say, my voice high-pitched and strangulated.
‘Erm, see you!’ Seb replies, eyeing me strangely as he edges away towards his treehouse.
I hum a weird tune to cover the sound of buzzing and continue stroking the plant, until Seb has climbed up the ladder and slipped into his treehouse. Once I’m confident that he’s inside and not about to reappear, I peel myself off the ground and furtively scoop the vibrator up. I twist if off and stash it in one of the bags in my suitcase, cursing under my breath.
I carry the rest of my stuff up to my treehouse and finally take up the empty husk of my case. Then I lie down on my flimsy bed and silently die of shame.
Chapter Eight
I wake up, blinking at the mosquito net above.
Confusion floods through me. Where am I? I wonder, feeling completely discombobulated, and then it hits me – oh, yeah, I’m in India. I’m in a treehouse. I’m miles away from everything.
Great. Brilliant. I roll over, pulling the mosquito net aside. I look around for my phone. The light in my treehouse is soft, neither day or night, and I have no idea what time it is. I grab my phone and peer at the screen: It’s 8pm. I’ve slept the whole day. So much for adjusting to the local time zone.
I want to check my notifications, read my messages, scan my emails, and scroll through Twitter, like I usually do when I wake up, but of course, there’s no WiFi and I have no data over here, so I can’t. I haven’t gone so long without internet for ages. Probably for years. World War Three could have broken out since I left England and I’d be none the wiser.
Sighing, I place my phone down and realize I need the loo. I contemplate the outdoor toilets Meera showed me earlier, my heart sinking. I really don’t feel like having to squat over a hole in the ground.
Voices from outside distract me. I think about Seb. Is that him? I creep over to the doorway of my treehouse and furtively pull back the curtain to take a sneaky look. I spot a few other guests, sitting around one of the tables by the guesthouse, but I can’t see Seb.
I must have conked out the moment I lay down earlier. I’m still wearing my jeans and t-shirt and so fortunately, I’m dressed appropriately for venturing out to the loo.
I climb out and descend the ladder. I glance across towards Seb’s treehouse, but there are no signs of life. I look beyond, at the tips of the palm trees, the gardens, and the rooftops of other guesthouses in the distance. The sky has a gentle orange, reddish tinge. Dusky. I realize I’ve stopped climbing down the rungs of my ladder. I’m just perching on it, gazing. But the fullness of my bladder snaps me out of my reverie, and I scurry down.
A few of the other guests look curiously in my direction as I head to the loos. I smile and wave. They wave back, looking like a friendly enough bunch. As it turns out, the ashram isn’t an enclave of hot men like Seb and the other guests appear to be your standard bunch of travelers – people of all ages, races, heights and shapes.
I pick my way across the garden towards the toilets. Or should I call them latrines? They’re outdoors. They don’t have roofs. They don’t even have cisterns. They’re just holes in the ground, next to rusty old taps, with a bucket. Meera explained earlier that you ‘flush’ the toilet by filling the bucket with water from the tap and chucking it down the hole. Feeling a sense of dread, I step into one of the toilets and appraise the hole in the ground, scattered with leaves. A lizard darts across the ground, making me jump. I check out the next toilet along instead, but it’s just the same, minus the lizard. I don’t know what exactly I’m expecting to find. A dazzling toilet with a bidet? Luxury padded toilet roll?! A hidden jacuzzi? As if. I’m going to have to just bite the bullet and squat over the ground.
I close the cubicle door behind me. I feel weirdly shy about pulling down my jeans and look up at the dusky sky. The color’s rapidly changing, the edges of the sky blurring, taking on a gentle blueish hue. A blackbird flaps its wings and perches on the wall of my cubicle. I hesitate before pulling my trousers down, feeling awkward, even though it’s not like the blackbird is going to be checking out my butt.
Shrugging off my discomfort, I pull my jeans down and squat over the ground. I can’t go at first. It feels too weird and my body tenses up. I miss my lovely cozy bathroom back home, but I take a deep breath and concentrate. The pee starts trickling out of me, making a high-pitched tinkling sound against the ceramic hole. I think of the other guests outside and hope they can’t hear. This is why toilets have roofs.
Once I’m finished, I look around for some toilet roll, but I can’t see any. There’s none. Damn. I shake a little and stand up, pulling up my jeans so I’m just about decent. I open the toilet door and check the coast is clear, before waddling to the next loo along, but there’s no toilet paper in there either, or the next. There’s simply no toilet paper. At all.
Suddenly, I remember what Priya said about how in India, people wipe with their left hand and eat with their right. I thought she’d been winding me up, but could she have been telling the truth? Is that really a thing?
Groaning, I squat back over the hole and shake a bit more, but I can’t bring myself to wipe with my h
and, not as my stomach is now rumbling too and I’m going to have to get some food soon. I don’t care if I wipe with the left hand and eat with the right, it’s still not happening.
I give up. There’s a jug and a rusty old tap by the loo. I fill the jug with water and pour it down the hole. Then I stand up, buttoning my jeans, and head out of the toilet. At the end of the row of cubicles are two sinks with a mottled mirror hanging above them. I check out my reflection.
My hair is mussed up and askew and the pillow I slept on has left an imprint on my face, probably thanks to the thin mattress and the lumpy treehouse floor. I don’t look my best and even though I’m hungry, I could do with sprucing myself up a bit, especially as there’s a chance I might run into Paul this evening. The way I’m looking doesn’t exactly scream, ‘Take me back’.
I wash my hands and head back up to my treehouse. The other guests are wrapped in conversation and barely notice me. There’s still no sign of Seb. I sit on the bamboo floor of my treehouse, still unable to quite believe I’m here. I crawl over to my suitcase and sift through the bags by the wall, cringing at the memory of stroking an aloe vera plant while lying on the ground, humming to myself like a crazy lady in front of Seb. I’m torn between wanting to see him again and being utterly mortified at the thought. I root through a few of the bags until I find one containing gifts the girls gave me for the trip. They felt I needed hippy stuff so bought a collection of tie-dye hareem trousers and wacky tie-dye vests. I find a matching azure tie-dye vest and trousers. I’d never normally wear anything like this and take them in, feeling a little unsure. But I’m in India now, aren’t I? And this is the kind of thing you wear when travelling. I want to jazz them up a bit though, so root through my suitcase until I find a pouch I filled with jewelry. I pull out some gold hoop earrings and a gold choker-style necklace. They’ll give my hippy outfit a glamorous feel.
I get changed into my new outfit and put the jewelry on, before slipping on my Prada wedges. I grab my washbag, towel and make-up bag and head back to the toilets. There are still a few guests hanging around by the kitchen area, but I can’t stop and chat. I need to get ready quickly before the sun sets and ashram life shuts down for the evening.