by Sharell Cook
‘What about your parents? You're the eldest son. Won't you have to look after them?’
I was curious to know how the information I'd gathered from my Indian workmates applied to real life.
‘My youngest brother lives at home with them, but I guess I'll have to move back there eventually,’ he said.
He seemed lost as he spoke about it; more responsibilities than I could fathom awaited him. I didn't envy him.
‘I really miss being a child sometimes,’ he said.
What I also loved about Aryan, apart from his tenderness and sensitivity, were his sense of humour and fun-loving nature. He was uncomplicated and joyful. We were adults, but we'd behaved like children in Tantra, throwing ourselves onto the beanbags that were scattered all over the floor upstairs. He even surprised me by doing a backflip into one (he'd been an excellent gymnast at school). It had felt so good to play and laugh in an uninhibited fashion.
As we talked, I looked into the dark pools of his eyes, past the surface of his party-scene existence and saw so much depth there. It wasn't like I'd only just met him. I felt like I'd known him for a very long time.
‘I'm going to have to leave soon,’ I told him.
‘Here, take this CD of mine. It's of the music we were listening to last night,’ he handed it to me. ‘Now, let's sleep for a while,’ he grabbed my arm.
Very quickly, he fell into a deep slumber that I couldn't wake him from. I had too much going on in my mind to sleep. I found it hard to believe that I had only hours left in Kolkata.
Dreamlike, I wrote Aryan a goodbye note on a piece of paper, opened the door and walked out into the street. I was thankful I had a dupatta (scarf) with me to wrap myself in. Not only did it protect me from prying eyes in the light of the day, it also served as a barrier against the vulnerability I felt.
I sat in the departure lounge of the airport with a very heavy heart. The moment that had seemed so far away had arrived. I was leaving many people I cared about, people who had shared my life in different ways over the last five weeks.
Claudine and I wept on each other's shoulders. She gave me a framed photo of the both of us with the far from ravishing Raj, who'd been captured leering close to me. Daisy, Miriam and Tess had written me letters saying how much they appreciated me welcoming them and the fun I'd shown them. The women at the centre where I'd worked had given me a silk scarf and signed a card that they'd made. Such simple but touching gestures spoke so much.
During transit in Hong Kong, I looked out the airport window at the plane that was going to take me home. The sun was setting in the background, a fiery ball of red and orange. I didn't know what would await me when I got home but I knew that I had options and time on my hands. And thanks to Kolkata, I had discovered in myself some new skills, too, for dealing with life.
I arrived home to a blistering 38-degree summer's day in late January. My bedroom on the second floor of my townhouse was stifling. The streets were full of cars but curiously devoid of people. My surroundings appeared orderly and sterile. The silence was almost deafening. I tried to remind myself Kolkata was a temporary diversion. I had a life in Australia, one I couldn't keep running away from. Instead of daydreaming about an imaginary life, I needed to appreciate the enjoyable time I had in Kolkata but keep my mind on the present.
Being in India had enabled me to put my real life on hold. Now that I was back, I needed to face it and resolve things. Michael had written to me while I was in Kolkata. Initially, his messages had been frequent and heartfelt about wanting to be with me. Over the course of the five weeks, they had become sporadic and unemotional.
My beloved Nanna passed away the week I arrived back in Melbourne, and it was a day later when Michael called.
‘I'm so sorry, I've been deceptive again,’ he said. ‘I want to be completely honest with you now. I was lonely while you were away and I've been seeing Kimberly.’
It was deja vu.
I was shattered.
Although Michael had told me that he didn't respect her and had decided not to see her again, the same disturbing pattern had resumed. Michael couldn't offer any consolation over my grandmother's death, nor did he show any interest in coming to the funeral. At that point, I realised that I'd rather be on my own than have to deal with the uncertainty and instability that Michael brought into my life. I was done.
We signed our divorce papers a couple of weeks later. I surprised myself by applying for the divorce jointly; I'd always resisted doing so when Michael had brought it up in the past. Maybe it now meant that I was ready to properly move on. Since we didn't have any children, and had agreed to split our assets equally, we didn't need the intervention of a lawyer or even a court appearance. We'd been separated for more than twelve months. All we had to do was complete a form, get it signed by a Justice of the Peace, and deliver it to the court. It almost seemed too easy.
The day was an extremely emotional one for us. In what seemed like a fitting death to our marriage, the Justice of the Peace who we selected was a funeral director and the meeting took place at her funeral parlour. We both cried.
‘I really do love you,’ Michael said as we were about to go our separate ways. ‘I just lost my way. Thank you for everything that you did for me during our time together.’
His acknowledgement somehow took a little of the pain away. It felt like my role in his life had been to offer him support and stability while he needed it.
‘I honestly hadn't wanted to be in a relationship for a number of years,’ he went on. ‘Kimberly was my way out.’
Michael handed me a book as a parting gesture. I'd given him a gift on our wedding day and now, he was giving me one on the day of our divorce. It was a book titled Embracing Uncertainty. It showed me how far he had progressed.
‘I've been meditating and coming across these books on my own now,’ he said.
Really, that's all I ever wanted. He was at last finding his own way, and it was time for us to move on to the next stage of our lives.
For him, that meant relocating to Queensland. For me, that meant going back to Kolkata on a one-way ticket. I would stay for a few months, until I had to return to my job after my long-service leave was over, and see what happened. Apart from my family and friends, everything I'd held dear in my life was now gone. With all that I'd learned, surely there had to be something amazing for me out there in the future.
Whatever it was, I had no idea.
PART TWO
SEARCHING
Desperately Seeking Sharell
IT remains the most daring and out-of-character thing I've ever done: throwing caution to the wind and returning to Kolkata on a one-way ticket.
A little more than a month after I first left, I was back, with no plans apart from seeing what would happen. I felt I needed to be there, that there was unfinished business I had to sort out. I flew out of Australia the day I turned 32, chosen deliberately as a sign of a fresh start and new possibilities. The plane was less than half full, and the Qantas flight attendants were generous with the drinks. When I mentioned to one it was my birthday, he disappeared into first class and came back with a huge glass of champagne for me. It was a fitting beginning to a new adventure.
Daisy, Tess, Panna and Cliona had decided to stay on in Kolkata, so I'd still be able to spend time with them. But since I was no longer volunteering, I couldn't go back to my old apartment. Rajiv arranged for me to stay by myself at The Saturday Club for a few weeks.
The Saturday Club turned out to be another century-old, colonial-style country club. It had maintained its refined English atmosphere, but was now patronised by prominent Kolkata businessmen and the city's younger elite. Like the Tollygunge Club, only those of appropriate financial and social standing were granted membership. The Saturday Club was a remarkable place to find myself in, and I longed to blend in and observe the interactions. However, I soon attracted attention of the staff – initially due to the colour of my skin, and later because of my late nights, whi
ch often resulted in my getting locked out of the building.
My first priority was to see Aryan and the girls again. Panna and Cliona were away travelling in India but would be coming back. Daisy, Tess and I had our reunion at Some Place Else pub in The Park Hotel. Only a month had passed, but the transformation in them was astonishing. I'd left them still unsure of their surroundings, and trying to make sense of the city. Now, The Park Hotel had become their second home and they had new Indian male friends of their own.
Daisy wasted no time in dragging me to Tantra to meet Aryan. I was reluctant and nervous; so many questions ran through my mind. What if he wasn't so keen to see me again? What if his feelings had changed? What if it wasn't the same between us?
I needn't have worried. He came running down from the DJ cabin, grabbed my hand and pulled me away. It was hard to believe I was with him again. His hand felt so soft on mine, and he was so cute. But I'd forgotten how much taller than him I was! I found myself having to lean down to hear what he was saying over the music. I mentally dismissed the height difference as unimportant. After all, I was in India, and normal notions of what should or shouldn't be didn't matter.
We spent the night in a corner of Tantra, discussing what we liked and disliked, and what made us happy.
‘Having someone to come home to at the end of the day is what would make me the happiest,’ he said.
I agreed.
‘So, when are you planning on getting married?’ he innocently asked.
I swallowed. It wouldn't hurt to tell him the truth. After all, there was nothing at stake. I had no reason to hide it from him. It wasn't like I needed to be a ‘suitable girl’. We had separate lives in separate countries, and there was a limit to the amount of time we'd be spending together.
‘I've already been married and have no plans to get married again soon,’ I admitted.
‘Oh, really?’ he was surprised but didn't appear to be bothered. No doubt it was because he didn't see his long-term future with me either.
It seemed I'd timed my return to Kolkata well. Aryan needed me as much as I needed him. His circumstances were also less than ideal and he felt alone. He was getting over the break-up of a relationship with a girlfriend he loved a lot. He had to find a new place to live. And his close friend Lloyd, another DJ, had returned to Mumbai to take up a residency at a new club called Poison.
‘I've been really quiet and retreated back into my shell,’ he said.
The next day, Aryan came to collect me from The Saturday Club. He took me to a friend's house to eat Kolkata mutton biryani (a fragrant rice dish) for lunch. The friend, Manny, came from a wealthy family and lived in an old colonial mansion. Its white walls looked pristine, fresh from a recent repainting. Kolkatans claim their biryani is the best in the country, due to the rich combination of spices (saffron, nutmeg, cumin, cloves and cardamom), soft meat and potato. My unaccustomed tastebuds certainly appreciated the fact that the spices weren't as heavy as many other styles of biryani.Yet, the majority of Indians will tell you that nothing can beat the original biryani from Hyderabad, prepared in the kitchens of the Mughal rulers, because of the more involved cooking methods and intricate layering of flavours. Afterwards, we walked back to Aryan's apartment. The afternoon air was balmy. I hardly noticed the chaos in the streets or the staring as Aryan boldly held my hand. The fears that I'd had about being back in Kolkata melted away.
My reintroduction into Kolkata's social circle was swift and surreal. This time, I didn't resist it. Although I had no real desire to go partying again, I wanted to meet new people. After all, it was the friends I'd met during my previous five weeks in Kolkata who had had the greatest impact on how I viewed myself. People who knew nothing of me or my past. Just people who saw who I was in the here and now.
For me, self-discovery in India wasn't about ashrams and meditation. I wasn't a stranger to meditation, and I'd already done enough introspection over the previous year. Instead of closeting myself away in a confined environment, I wanted to spread my wings, see where life would take me, to say yes to whatever came my way. And if I was to spend time with Aryan, I needed to do so in his nocturnal world.
Rajiv invited me to a whirlwind of parties. In Melbourne, I had partied destructively with a need to fill various voids. This time, the element of neediness no longer existed and was replaced by a curiosity to see how people would react to me if I was myself, rather than the over-the-top person who snorted tequila off the bottom of a shot glass. And curiosity to see how people from all levels of society lived in Kolkata. India's poverty was all too obvious, but what about the other extreme? What were their lives like?
I soon discovered that Kolkata had plenty of rich residents who partied every bit as hard, if not harder, as people back home. They lived a lavish lifestyle replete with expensive cars, body parts emblazoned with designer labels and the latest consumer gadgets. The parties started at someone's spacious home, progressed to two or three lounge bars and clubs, and ended at another abode well after the sun had come up, just like anywhere else in the west. Some people had personal issues, some people had too much time on their hands, some just wanted to enjoy themselves.
Psychedelic trance had just found its way to Kolkata and was the genre of choice for the hardcore party people. In the early hours of Sunday mornings, Aryan dominated the dance floor at Tantra with his psy-trance sets. People went there especially to hear them. I felt an incredible energy and danced tirelessly until the last track was played at 6 a.m. It was like I was sharing part of him through his music.
As we were leaving Tantra one night, Aryan grabbed some coloured powder and smeared it all over my face. Outside, remnants of bonfires littered the streets, bathed in full moonlight. Winter had turned to spring, and I was about to experience my first Indian festival. It was Holi, the festival of colours.
During Holi, India turns into a gigantic, over-enthusiastic playground. Those who venture outside can expect to be covered in coloured powder and drenched in water. Children become miniature snipers, armed with high-powered water guns and water bombs. No one is spared. Bhang, a substance that's derived from cannabis and is sacred in ancient Hindu scripture, is widely consumed as the traditional Holi drink. Nothing is off-limits, as restrictive social norms are gleefully discarded for a day. People throw Holi parties for their friends especially to indulge and have fun.
On this occasion, it's Lord Vishnu (the Hindu god of preservation) and his much-loved human incarnation Lord Krishna who are being worshipped. Legend has it that Lord Vishnu intervened to save the life of an ardent devotee by making it possible for the demoness Holika to be set on fire and destroyed. Bonfires are lit on Holi eve to mark this victory of good over evil, and to burn evil spirits. It also presents the opportunity to burn away bad feelings that may be lingering from past events, and to let bygones be bygones. For me, it was a time to forgive and forget, and put the previous year behind me.
The next day, everyone emulates the pranks of mischievous Lord Krishna, who liked to drench the village girls in water and colours. There can be no half-hearted participation. Those who don't want to get grimy hide in their homes for the day.
I couldn't wait to be a part of it. I rushed out and bought myself a cheap 150 rupee ($4) salwaar kameez, ready to be ruined.
The owner of a bar cleverly called B.E.D. (the acronym for Bars Entertainment Dining, which always produced a smile when someone invariably said, ‘Let's go to B.E.D. tonight’) threw a Holi party in a farmhouse on the outskirts of Kolkata. No expense was spared. A band and DJs provided entertainment. A substantial selection of alcohol flowed liberally. We drank shooters and bhang lassis all day, ran around drenching each other in colour, and danced until we dropped. It was a crazy day. When I got back to my room, I was shocked to see myself. Unrecognisably covered in bright red colour, I looked like I'd been bleeding profusely from a severe accident.
That night, I scrubbed my face until it was raw. The colour still refused to budge. It had stained
my pale skin a vicious crimson. Even worse, a patch of flesh had come off the side of my nose where I'd overdone the scrubbing. Everyone's aversion to the red colour suddenly made sense. As did their glee in putting it all over me. Naïvely, I hadn't applied hair oil to my face beforehand to prevent the dye from absorbing. Now, I'd have to stay inside for a few days.
Luckily, Aryan was going to be too busy moving into a friend's apartment to meet me. He had caught up with his ex-girlfriend at the Holi party and clearly wasn't over her. Startlingly, she reminded me of a younger version of myself, the one who ran around entertaining everyone, getting people drunk and doing zany things.
Even though it hurt a little to see him like that, I knew what he was going through. It was becoming obvious that the universe had brought us together for a reason. Some may, unflatteringly, refer to it as a rebound relationship. At that stage, neither of us expected to remain together forever. We would simply be there for each other, and bring fun and laughter back into each other's lives, before moving on to whatever the future held.
Utsav invited me to his apartment for dinner one night. I accepted. The conversation was interesting and insightful. An investment banker aged in his mid-twenties, he was mature beyond his years.
‘A guy's mind revolves around three categories of women: friends, flings and relationships,’ he explained to me. ‘And the categories don't overlap. For a guy to want to have a relationship with a woman, he must see some special quality in her that makes her different. Otherwise, it will only be about sex, and he'll move on once he's had enough.’
I couldn't help wondering which category Aryan placed me in. No doubt, part of the reason why he was attracted to me was because I was a foreigner. But would he see beyond that?
