by Sharell Cook
Sharell Cook was born and brought up in country Victoria. After gaining a Bachelor of Business she moved to Melbourne, where she worked for ten years in the accounting and finance sector of the Victorian government. Then, India called. Sharell now writes about India travel for a New York Times company. In addition, she maintains a popular blog on her life in India called ‘Diary of a White Indian Housewife’. Sharell lives in Mumbai, India, with her husband.
Henna for the
Broken-Hearted
SHARELL COOK
Some of the people in this book have had their names changed to protect their identities.
First published 2011 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Sharell Cook 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Cook, Sharell.
Henna for the broken-hearted / Sharell Cook.
9781742610405 (pbk.)
Cook, Sharell—Journeys—India.
India—Description and travel.
India—Social life and customs.
915.4
Text design by Deborah Parry Graphics
Typeset in 13/17 pt Griffo Classico by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane
Printed by McPherson's Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2011 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
Copyright © Sharell Cook 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.
Henna for the Broken-Hearted
Sharell Cook
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EPub format 978-1-74262-835-6
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To my parents for instilling their goodness into me and always being there
To my husband for creating this story with me
And to anyone who is comforted or inspired by it
Contents
Preface
PART ONE LOST
The Crisis
Alone but not Lonely
New Beginnings
Fork in the Road
PART TWO SEARCHING
Desperately Seeking Sharell
Beach Girl for a Season
Revelations in the Mountains
PART THREE LANDING
Destiny Revealed
Maximum City Mayhem
When Strangers Call
A Social Chameleon
Two Weddings and a Headache
White Indian Housewife
Sink or Swim
Making Mumbai Home
Acknowledgements
Henna for the Broken-Hearted Picture Section
Preface
FROM a hand to a hand, an instrument to a canvas, the henna flows in a deep red thread out of the small pliable cone. The canvas of the hand is blank, ready to be transformed. The woman looks at it, anxious and expectant, as she waits for the design to take shape. At first, it is unrecognisable. Dark, formless and fragrant swirls that will stain her skin. It is hard to understand the significance of them. Yet, the artist has a vision of the end result. This vision guides him as he applies the henna, slowly and gently, like a balm. He's bent over his work in deep concentration.
Gradually, and with precision and patience, the design unfolds. From the challenge of shaping it, it blooms into something magnificent, intricate and exquisite. As the woman continues to observe her hand, she gains clarity. Her uncertainty melts away. She now sees what the design resembles, what it's supposed to be. The design, uniquely conceived by the artist, is the perfect expression for her. Each swirl and bend that he's crafted makes sense to her. She can see how necessary each one has been. How they've contributed to the creation of the bigger picture.
The healing and rejuvenating properties of the henna plant cleanse, condition and cool the woman's skin. Its pungent, earthy smell speaks to her of a mysterious land, eclectic history and rich spirituality. She breathes it in deeply. The henna soothes and inspires her.
A talisman on her skin, the henna bestows blessings, good fortune and protection. A catalyst for change, it colours her skin but reaches her spirit.
PART ONE
LOST
The Crisis
‘I'M sleeping with Kimberly.’
These aren't the words a wife wants to hear from her husband. It was three days after Christmas, early in the morning. I was almost 31 and we had been married for five years. My husband had again been out all night, his phone switched off. I had spent yet another sleepless night, wondering where he was, if he was all right, and why he had chosen not to be with me. It was a relief to find out the truth.
I first met Michael the summer before I turned eighteen. He was the friend of a friend. Three years older than me, he was studying for a degree in applied science at the local university. I didn't see him again until summer was over and I started my business degree at the same university. He found me crying in the library one day, heartbroken and confused. I'd been involved with his friend and it hadn't worked out. I really needed a shoulder to cry on, and Michael offered his. We spent hours together, talking until late in the night. Full of infatuation and possibility, I was drawn to his emotional nature. Here was someone who understood me in a way no one ever had. Inevitably, we fell in love.
Soon, it became apparent that Michael had his demons. They were significant enough to ensure that our relationship was never an unwavering one. A dysfunctional childhood, moving from place to place, and his parents' subsequent divorce had left its mark; his mind was a constant battlefield, pulled one way by his fear of commitment and the other by his fear of abandonment.
Our relationship wasn't exactly what you would call healthy: Michael would smother me with attention, then distance himself. Feeling rejected, I'd withdraw. He'd then feel scared of being alone and come back. It was traumatic, especially as Michael offered no explanation for his cyclical detachment. Some nights I would cry myself to sleep. Cosseted in the stability of my steady upbringing, I didn't appreciate the depth of his mental anguish. The constant ups and downs fed my insecurities.
Despite what some would call an idyllic childhood in the country, full of climbing trees, flying kites, chasing butterflies and catching tadpoles, I grew into a shy, closed and introverted teenager. I wa
s a sensitive only child, used to spending time by myself among nature and absorbed in books. As a result, I didn't find it easy to relate to people. I found being at a large school uncomfortable. I was scared of what to say, so I chose not to say anything at all. The usual teenage growing pains of crooked teeth, braces and bad hair didn't help. Later, at university and during my twenties, I was determined to reject that unpopular person, and outwardly became the opposite. On the inside, I remained scared that people would still see the old me. I cared too much about what they thought, and feared their judgement and rejection, not believing they would find me attractive or amiable. I'd always been a conscientious student who did very well. My parents had devoted a great deal of time to helping me learn when I was young, and had been generous with my education. They sent me to a private school and encouraged me to get a degree – the first person in my family to do so. I started to develop control-freak tendencies towards the end of secondary school, when it felt like my whole future rested upon my grades. I had very high expectations of myself, and thought that I had to complete everything to perfection. I felt as though I had to do everything myself for it to be good enough, and was terrified of failure or anything going wrong. The sheer magnitude of life ahead overwhelmed me, and made me to want to control all aspects of it. It didn't work out, of course.
After we graduated from university in 1995, Michael and I moved to Melbourne together. I wanted to spread my wings and experience the freedom of the city. He agreed. We started work on our respective careers, mine as a financial auditor. It was the first job that I was interviewed for, and I got it. Never mind that auditing had been one of my least favourite subjects at university; I was gainfully employed.
Like many women, all I wanted was a big wedding and to look like a princess in a billowing white dress, long flowing veil, a huge bunch of long-stemmed red roses to match my red lipstick and a sparkling tiara. I desperately wanted to belong to someone, to have the security and the status of being a ‘Mrs’.
Michael didn't want to get married at all. To him it was a constraint, and could go wrong like his parents' marriage had. He became restless and wanted to travel the world. I found the idea daunting and at first dismissed it. Then one morning, tired of the daily work routine, I agreed. We left for a six-month overseas trip. Tears trickled down my face at the airport as I waved goodbye to my parents. It felt like I would be away for an eternity.
Michael and I spent a month in America, three months working in London, and the remainder of the time travelling around Scotland, Ireland and western Europe. On the way home, we stopped over in Bangkok. We both enjoyed visiting new places and sharing new experiences, but it was overshadowed by my unsettling feelings about wanting to get married. I wasn't satisfied with our relationship. I wanted more commitment and didn't see much point in staying together if I wasn't going to get it. Even during the trip, I complained bitterly about not being married, while my friends from school and university all experienced that joy. In the end my persistence and Michael's fear of abandonment won. He proposed to me in Munich, despite his concern about the impact marriage would have on his life.
‘It doesn't have to change anything,’ I reassured him. ‘We can still keep having fun and going out.’
Secretly, I hoped it would bring more stability into our lives.
Seven years after we met, with me at 25 and Michael 28, I had the wedding I wanted, in the same church my parents were married almost 30 years earlier. I was elated.
If I thought marriage would solve all of Michael's problems, I was wrong. An injurious cloud of nightclubs, parties, drugs and alcohol constantly intruded on our life. My initial curious participation gradually gave away to resentment, and I struggled to keep my emotions and life in order. There was no place for such a lifestyle in the accounting office I worked in. Neither could I share it with my conservative friends and family. I felt torn. Who was the real me? Where did I fit in?
Surprisingly, Michael and I continued to do well at work. Another of his fears was not having enough money, which drove him to great lengths to succeed. He was constantly stressed about work, and pushed himself very hard. We had a classic double-income-no-kids lifestyle to match: outwardly, we were successful and on track to achieving the conventional Australian dream. We travelled and dined out frequently. We moved into a brand-new townhouse in Melbourne, and accumulated two investment properties in sought-after coastal towns in Queensland. We talked about moving into the property near Noosa and living a simple life. I dreamed of our two kids and carefree, sun-drenched weekends spent at the beach.
It was hardly reality, though. A couple of years after we were married, major cracks began to appear. I spent Friday nights at home alone while Michael partied with his single friends. He went straight from work and didn't come home until late on Saturday morning. Then he spent the rest of the weekend recovering.
‘Why do you keep doing this?’ I begged him.
‘I just don't know,’ was his usual reply.
After six months, I decided I had no choice but to join him if I was to share his life. I made new friends and spent nights and days with them, mostly in clubs. I also discovered shopping. Until then, I'd had little interest in fashion or expensive clothes, the legacy of growing up in rural Australia. I soon discovered that new clothes and expensive haircuts did wonders for my self-esteem. I could mould myself into someone else. Without these material thrills, my life seemed bland and stale. I was paying the price for pressuring my husband to marry me, but I loved him and dreamed of a better future together.
My job suited the control freak in me but totally quashed the creative person I'd been when I was younger. Unfulfilled and unmotivated by it, I nevertheless put up with it because it paid well and I didn't have the courage to try anything different. Change made me uneasy. Besides, my job had other benefits. I was home in time to prepare dinner, and was never stressed. I dreaded people asking me how work was, because I never had anything positive to say. I was hardly doing my life's passion.
On the weekends, our partying reached a peak. The more wretched I felt inside, the more compensation I required outside. I constantly sought attention from others, hoping they'd see me as different and worthy of approval. This me was bold, daring and pushed boundaries. I hardly recognised myself anymore, and I didn't like this new person I'd become very much.
I first met Kimberly (not her real name) at drinks with Michael's colleagues. Michael used to work with her and they became friends. She started to party with us, and even came to our house. Like Michael, she'd had a dysfunctional childhood, and this drew them to each other.
‘I think I'm developing feelings for Kimberly,’ Michael confessed one night.
I felt besieged and yet powerless to do anything about it.
‘Those feelings don't have to progress,’ I naïvely replied. ‘You obviously understand each other, but it doesn't mean you're meant to have a relationship with each other.’ I'd also sought emotional support and closeness from other people, so had some idea of how he was feeling.
We had divested ourselves of the responsibilities of marriage, and were living separate lives, yet I never really thought it would end. When he finally told me about their affair a couple of months later my stomach felt heavy and hollow, my heart pounded and my head spun. It was a strange feeling of knowing that my life had irrevocably been altered in that one moment. While I'd been searching for reasons for Michael's distance from me, I hadn't been particularly suspicious of an affair due to the ever-present state of flux of our relationship. Now that I had tangible evidence of what was wrong, I wasn't sure what to do with it. Neither was Michael. Our pain over the situation strangely united us. We wanted to cling to the remnants of our marriage, but at the same time we couldn't. Underlying issues prevented it.
‘I just don't know who I am,’ Michael said. ‘I need to discover who I am.’
Having been with me since he was 21, he'd never had the freedom or independence to make that discovery. D
espite our problems, we'd spent most of our adult lives with each other.
‘I don't know what to do,’ Michael continued. ‘I think I need to move out for a while, but I don't know if I can do it.’
So many different emotions flew through my mind. Anger. Disbelief. Despair. Shock. I cried. I raged. Yet, I never told him not to leave. Deep down, I understood his need to find himself and grow. I didn't want our marriage to end, but neither could I cope with it the way it was. We both needed space to sort ourselves out.
‘You must stop seeing Kimberly – you can't focus on yourself while she's in your life.’
He agreed. I believed him.
We decided to live apart for six months. I helped him look for an apartment. The weekend that he moved out, I fled to a friend's house in the country.
He called me in tears. ‘This is so difficult. I really don't know what I'm doing. This is all so much harder than I thought.’
I consoled him, even though my heart was in tatters.
Michael continued to call me often, usually in an overwrought state. ‘I've lied to you so much and I'm still lying to you, but I can't stop it.’
Our friends knew we were having problems, but we kept up appearances for a while. We went to a stage show together and even a wedding. Once I picked Michael up from his apartment. There were two dirty wine glasses next to the sink in his kitchen. Seeing that confirmed my fears.
I felt raw and tender. I couldn't sleep, and nothing made sense anymore. My life as I knew it was disintegrating, and I was powerless to do anything about it. I became obsessive, trawling the Internet for information on midlife crisis, which I was sure was Michael's problem. My husband was only in his early thirties but he wasn't behaving normally. Only people in pain do such painful things. I had to try and understand what was happening.
While Michael relied on antidepressants, a prescription of sleeping pills and Valium was my only comfort. Some nights, alone in our bed, I was so disturbed that even the strongest of sleeping pills didn't work. I had no appetite. I'd always been slim, but my weight started dropping alarmingly. My clothes began to hang on me, and I had to buy jeans two sizes smaller. Surely, I wasn't that thin? Concerned friends insisted that I eat dinner with them every night.
