by Anne Wheeler
The woman is still looking at me. “There are so many good things about being a man, don’t you think? They have so many advantages.”
She has been reading my mind. “Excuse me?” I say in disbelief.
“Men have so many advantages, yes? Those who don’t see that are delusional. It’s not really a level playing field, is it?”
Her question has jolted me. “No, it sure isn’t. But it should be.” I didn’t expect to be having a gender equality discussion sitting on the lip of a gutter, across from the Dakar taxi station, but here I am.
She smiles and nods. “Yes. It would be a better world if the feminine and the masculine were better balanced. I think, long ago, it might have been so — but today, the world has become unnatural, tipped. What women do is not valued.”
I nod. I accept the tea that she is still offering. I take a sip. It is delicious and I hum with pleasure.
She is pleased that I like it. “Very good. And you came from where, please?”
“Canada. Western Canada.”
“And all women dress like that there?”
I am amused. “Not quite like this, no. But it is winter there now, so when I left ... I wore this to the airport.”
“I see! Of course. You have other clothes in your bag? Yes? Dresses?”
“I have a dress. Yes.”
“Only one dress?”
“Yes, one,” I confess, “and some pants and shorts....”
Shaking her head sadly, she gets up. “You are a confused young woman. You have no idea where you are. Please, come with me.”
“Where? No, I can’t. Sorry. I’m waiting for the taxi to Pune.”
“The taxi comes every hour on the hour. You can catch the next one. This will not take long. Believe me, you will expire in that outfit — it is totally wrong. You have come to India, so be in India!”
I promised myself when I left Canada that I would do what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted. I would choose my own course, with no need to find consensus, open to anything. Shockingly, having just landed, this encounter seems predestined. She’s like a fairy godmother, appearing from nowhere, sensing my needs.
The truth is, I don’t have to be anywhere, today or tomorrow. No one knows I’m coming. No one is expecting me anytime soon. I told my friends in Pune, I would come in February, or March, or maybe never. I could accept this woman’s offer, take this detour, and no one would care. For some reason I completely trust her — she is delightful and very enticing. On impulse, I grab my bag, “Okay, let’s go!”
She pulls me across the busy street, intricately choosing our way through bikes, cars, motorcycles, cows, camels, trucks, and rickshaws that are brushing past us — moving at different speeds, in every direction, some crossing over and between us. Her timing is perfect. There can be no hesitation, no indecision in this rush of traffic. Either you are totally aware and synchronized, or you are wiped out. The most important rule soon becomes clear — “The bigger you are, the more rights you have.” It’s always the little one’s fault.
We leave the lively road and enter a narrow alley, choked with humanity. I stay close to her as we snake through the crush of people, some setting up their stalls, others performing their daily bathing and grooming. I call out to her over the din, “What’s your name?”
“Jyoti. And yours?”
I think my name is too short in most languages, so I automatically tell her, “Anna.”
Completely turned around and lost, I dare not lose sight of her, as I try to take it all in. I’d never find my way back.
The air is thick with the stench of stale cooking oil, burning dung, rotting vegetables, urine, and body odour. These people have no privacy. They are the street dwellers — some young and beautiful, some ancient, some close to death. We duck under cloth awnings, dull with age and bird droppings, and cross through a laneway, lined with men sitting on the ground with fabric all around them, sewing with their hand-cranked machines. Some of them stop what they are doing and stare at me with interest. Women, crouched in corners, cook over open fires, and others feed their babies; a lone cow drinks soapy water from a drain that flows from what must be a laundry. Fascinated, I stop to look around, but am immediately pulled away by Jyoti, who has looped back to get me.
She pulls me through a back gate under the low archway of a three-storey building and enters a small, quiet courtyard.
“Here you can have a shower,” Jyoti announces.
Tucked in a corner, behind a single wall, is a pipe sticking out of the cement. Over the end hangs a tin can with holes punched into its bottom, effectively creating a shower.
Jyoti pulls a curtain across the open side. “Nobody will disturb you. Get refreshed, I will take care of everything.” She hands me a bar of soap and a thin cotton towel.
Grinning, she takes my backpack. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal your blue jeans!” With that, she disappears.
What about my passport? I momentarily panic.
Oh well. I have surrendered to her plan. Why? I don’t know. She’s gone and I’m keen to get clean. I peel off my sticky clothes. Looking up, I realize that hundreds of people live here. Above me I see stairways, doorways, and open corridors. I quickly duck out of sight.
The water is cool and the soap is scented with sandalwood. I feel so good, I start to sing, a bit giddy with jubilation.
“I’m gonna lay down my heavy load, down by the riverside, down by the riverside, down by the riverside....” I hear a titter from above and look up. Two toddlers lean over a railing, looking down at me, unblinking. Such eyes they have. I wave. They wave back.
By the time I finish my shower, a pair of beaded sandals and a robe have replaced my clothes and boots. I get dressed and Jyoti reappears, holding my one dress.
“This is too short. You cannot wear that here, no, no, no. You come with me.”
I follow her down a hallway to a small room, a dressing room, with several short-sleeved sari tops hanging on one wall. “Please, put on the blue blouse and yellow slip for now.” She closes the door for privacy.
I struggle to fit into the tiny top. There has been a mistake. I call out to whoever may be there, “Excuse me. I think the blouse is about ten sizes too small!”
“Let me see!” Jyoti whips open the door and takes a look. “No, no, no, that is very good!”
My bosoms are squashed up so high that they brush against my chin when I look down. This can’t be right. The seams are so stretched that each stitch looks like it is about to pop.
But Jyoti is pleased, “I love the colour. Perfect.”
Two young women squeeze into the tiny room and wordlessly begin to spin me around, folding and tucking and wrapping me in cloth.
“No, really no ... I can’t wear this....” It’s so ridiculous, I start to giggle. They are delighted with my full figure and ample bosom. The shiny silk cloth is wildly colourful, tie-dyed with arcs of overlapping colours like the tail feathers of a peacock — teal, purple, yellow, pink, and gold!
Completely draped, I am shuffled out into the hall. “This is much too bright for me!”
“Not to worry!” says Jyoti. “We have many, many ... you can try more!”
“I cannot afford this ... I’m not rich.”
“It is not so expensive. Come see.”
Leading me down a hallway, they open a big door to the main room. It is a huge sari shop with its front windows facing a wide, busy street. The walls, at least fifteen feet high, are stacked to the top with magnificent and extravagant fabrics. Customers sit on large cushions as bolts of cloth are pulled from the shelves and unravelled, cascading before them with shimmering finesse. I see a dazzling display of silks and satins, cottons and linens, hand-sewn with sequins and other fine stitchery, all of it breathtaking.
“You can see the finest saris here. Some have taken years to complete,” explains Jyoti. “Very expensive — but yours, not so much.”
Thrilled, she ushers me toward a well-lit, full-length mirror.
“See what a beautiful woman we have with us today!”
The whole room turns. “Ah!” they exclaim.
This woman, me, moves into the picture that is the mirror. Bangles and earrings, toe rings and ankle bracelets appear from nowhere and are placed upon me, as I stare at myself, framed in such glory. I have never considered myself pretty — I was the tomboy and a bit chubby.
Inexplicably, tears well up in my eyes. I cannot speak. The unearthly being before me must be some kind of illusion. I don’t know her. She is stunning, sexy, and shimmering with life.
I take a few steps closer, amazed — and trip on my own hem. Immediately, six yards of silk, the whole sari, collapse onto the floor. The women squeal with surprise. Thankfully, the simple slip keeps me modest.
“You can’t walk like that, in big steps!” Jyoti laughs, “You must walk with grace — smoothly — not like a truck driver.” She imitates me — “Boom, boom, boom, boom!” Everyone laughs, as the young women put me back together again in a jiffy.
It’s true — my steps are heavy, long, and flat-footed. My legs are short. For most of my life I have been trying to keep up with “the guys.” I often scurry, sometimes breaking into a run. My three older brothers didn’t wait up for me — I learned not to expect any favours from them. They accused me of being spoiled because I was the youngest and a girl. Maybe I was.
Working in film, I have had to prove that I can carry as much as any man. I swear my arms are longer by several inches after five years of hauling equipment and my legs are even shorter than they were.
This time, the dressers secure the sari at my waist with a large safety pin. “Let’s see you now, Anna,” says Jyoti. “Move like a woman carrying a sleeping child.” She demonstrates, and I follow her slowly around the room, becoming increasingly less awkward and wooden. The fabric brushes back and forth against my legs, swinging with each footstep, and eventually I find a gentle rhythm. It’s a decidedly sensuous experience, and I like it.
“How many rupees is it?” I venture.
“I will trade you for a pair of blue jeans,” Jyoti quickly replies. I laugh.
“That seems more than fair,” I agree.
February 11, 1976
Dear Mom,
Mailing this from Bombay en route to Pune. Going to visit Maureen McFarland for a few days. You remember her? You know her mother, Nancy. Maureen is living in Pune. I will stay with her for a few days before heading to Goa, then go by boat to Karachi and, hopefully, find your old house. Everyone is very polite here, just as you described. The people are beautiful, especially the young women with their thick dark hair and glorious decorated eyes.
Your loving daughter, Anne
WITH THE SARI VEILING MY FACE and body, I blend into the textures of India. Nobody notices me in the back seat of the taxi, ploughing its way out of the city, heading south. The driver keeps looking in his rear-view mirror, perplexed by me. I am an anomaly, I suppose, dressed up like this and all alone. I stare out the window, watching snippets of India flicker by like scenes from a disjointed movie. Beautiful Bollywood movie stars smile down on me from giant billboards, like gods. Children run in packs, scrounging in ditches — dangerously close to the trains that rattle past, churning up clouds of dust and smoke.
It’s so intense and shocking that I cannot fully digest what I see. The heat, the smells, the colours, and the noise — life goes on like this all day, every day, forever…. I’m grateful for this privileged ride, shielded by a window from this overwhelming explosion of humanity.
And I am exhausted.
Eventually, the road widens into a two-lane highway and we pick up speed. An old Bentley, black and immaculate, passes us silently, carrying a load of tropical birds on its roof. Pedestrians give way to bikes, bikes to scooters, scooters to cars, cars to trucks, trucks to buses — and everyone gives way to the cows. The driver swerves left and right, zigzagging through the continuous maze of movement. With one near miss after another, I have no choice but to put my life in his hands.
As we break into the countryside, the stench of diesel fuel and human excrement diminishes, and I take a deep breath. The driver, an older man, rolls down his window. “Would you like some music?” he asks, respectfully.
“That would be lovely,” I hear myself say, sweetly. Where did that princess voice come from? My little sandals dangle from my toes. I am done up like a Christmas candy in this fancy wrapping, feeling far too delicious and downright vulnerable. I cover my bosoms with my long scarf and avoid his gaze. If I had to run, I would not get very far. Nor would I be able to defend myself.
The cowgirl within me raises her voice, “What in hell are you thinking, girl? Here you are again. Nobody in the world knows where you are and yet you decide to doll yourself up, with your boobies popping out of your blouse, as you head into the night with a driver you don’t know, to a place that you couldn’t find on the map. You are as dumb as an ox!”
On the other hand, I like the disguise. We pass through small towns and stop to get gas. Even with my blonde hair and pale blue eyes, I am hidden in the shadows, and go unnoticed. No one comes up to my window begging, holding up a half-dead baby, like a woman did at the airport. In a way, I’m invisible.
“Sure, you are,” says my inner cowgirl, “like a tropical bird, ready to be plucked.”
I find my Swiss Army knife in my sack and, for lack of a pocket, shove it down my cleavage. It diminishes the rush of anxiety that has been messing with my sense of adventure.
The Indian music coming out of the speakers behind my head slides seamlessly up and down, high and low, like a swing, lulling me to sleep. I can’t help it. I’ve been awake for almost two days and my battery is dead. Against my better instincts, I drift off into a deep sleep.
“EXCUSE ME, MEMSAHIB?” The driver has pulled over to the side of the road. “We are in Pune now. Where are you going exactly? Do you have an address?”
Groggy, I burrow into my backpack and pull out a letter from Maureen with an address beneath the logo of the ashram. “Seventeen Koregan Park,” I read. Taking the letter from me, he holds it under the light from the street and reads the whole thing.
“Rajneesh!?” he exclaims. “You are going to see this Rajneesh man?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
The driver shakes his head in disbelief. “This man? They call him the sex guru. He used to give talks in the park — close to where I kept my taxi in Bombay. When he came, the whole area would turn into a zoo! Full of hippies having sex everywhere. Like wild animals!”
“No!” I laugh, unbelieving.
He turns around in his seat and grabs me with his look, so serious. He sees no humour in my response. “They all wear orange,” he says, scowling. “We call them ‘the orange people.’ Some live like sadhus, nearly naked. I am glad you are wearing blue. Blue is good.”
“Well,” I try to calm him, “I am visiting an old friend from university. You don’t need to worry about me.”
He is not convinced. “Do not go near this man. He will steal your mind, make you do things you do not want to do, make you wear orange.”
I can’t help but be amused and shake my head, dismissing his warning.
He barks at me now, grabbing my arm. “Don’t trust him. We got rid of him — ran him out of Bombay. He’s a dangerous man.”
“He’s not dangerous. Radical perhaps but —”
He cuts me off. “Do you believe in free love?”
I don’t like the look in his eyes; he has lost his gracious fatherly charm. He grips my arm tightly. I try to pull away, getting angry.
“Well,” I venture, “I think love should be free, people should be free to love whomever they wish.... I don’t think a woman, for instance, should need a dowry.” I have crossed a line now, by speaking my mind. I am not the helpless young woman he needs to protect.
I could not stop myself from mentioning the dowry — the tradition of a bride’s family having to give a groom’s family a substantial amo
unt of money or gold or property (which is sometimes more than they can afford), to ensure that the marriage will happen. A family with many daughters can be cursed by this burden. The value of the dowry, especially in an arranged marriage, can determine what kind of life the woman will have within her new family. I think it is insulting to all women to be measured in this way.
He is infuriated by my audacity and turns off his car. His voice goes cold and gruff. “This is the central taxi stand. Please pay me the fare. With tip.”
“But I gave you the address —”
“Get out of my taxi please! You can take a rickshaw from here.”
Feeling strongly chastised and discombobulated, I pay, gather up my things, and leave without a backward glance.
As soon as I shut the door, a three-wheeled motor rickshaw pulls up beside me. The young, snappy driver hops out, grabs my backpack, and tosses it into his tuk-tuk. This is good because my sari has shifted, and I feel like I must hold it together with both hands as I climb into his back seat.
“My name is Veda,” he says with a friendly smile. “You are going to ashram, yes?”
“Yes, please!” I answer, relieved.
His little scooter is decorated with images of Hindu gods, prayer flags, and blinking lights. I hang on as we make a quick U-turn and join a stream of rickshaws, all of them stuffed with “orange people,” heading toward Koregan Park.
He turns up his sizeable stereo and I hear, “In the early morning rain, with a dollar in my hand ... with an aching in my heart and my pockets full of sand....”
“Hey!” I yell over his shoulder. “That’s a Gordon Lightfoot song.”
He grimaces, “No, it isn’t. It’s Bob Dylan! You don’t know Bob Dylan?”
I’m not going to argue — it’s a song by Gordon Lightfoot, the great Canadian songwriter. It’s his song and it has reached out to me from the other side of the world. Veda sings the phrase, “I’m a long way from home, and I miss my loved ones so ...” and I add the harmony. “In the early morning rain, with nowhere to go!” We both hold onto the last note and burst into laughter. I feel welcomed by the music, by the connection.
