Henna for the Broken Hearted

by Sharell Cook

  ‘I'm so thankful for you being here. I'd been feeling so sad until you came along. It's like you've been sent from another planet or something,’ Aryan remarked.

  Our relationship did seem surreal. I felt just as grateful to have him in my life. We were healing each other's wounds and filling the emptiness.

  Yet, there were times when Aryan became lost in deep thought and was unresponsive. It troubled me. I wondered how I was going to detach myself when it was time for me to go home. I thought that I might be falling in love with him.

  ‘Why do you think you can't have a future with Aryan, if he treats you well?’ Utsav asked.

  There were so many reasons. How would it ever be sustainable? I just didn't know. I didn't have a job in India and didn't know where to find one. I no longer wanted to live my life in the party scene. And there were so many cultural barriers that stood in the way of us being together.

  Then we found ourselves inadvertently confined to the apartment for a week, which brought us even closer. Daisy had a severe throat infection, while Aryan and I both caught colds after getting drenched in a sudden downpour. We'd been waiting for our masala dosas (thin and crispy crepes made out of rice flour batter and filled with a spicy potato and onion mixture) at a nearby snack shop one evening, when the clouds broke open. The wind whipped up gritty dirt into our faces. The storm was unrelenting and frightening. We huddled in the shop with the roller doors slammed down, the lights flickering on and off, waiting for the worst of it to pass. It was almost May and the monsoon had started brewing.

  Just as we were recovering, a government election was held. The whole of Kolkata shut down and it was unsafe for anyone to go outside while voting took place.

  ‘It's common for people to be killed in elections here,’ Aryan said, as the news flashed reports of rival political parties clashing across West Bengal. The state had a long history of political violence. Party supporters intimidated opponents into not casting their votes. Militant Communist groups, known as Maoists, were a particular threat and aggressively boycotted voting. Doctors and central paramilitary forces were stationed at polling booths in case things got out of hand. In Kolkata, streets were deserted but, unexpectedly, nothing untoward took place. The Left Front, led by the Communist Party of India (Marxist), returned to power with a landslide victory. As the world's longest-running democratically elected Communist government, it ruled West Bengal for three decades until recently when the government was knocked out in an election.

  Uncertainty loomed darkly and heavily in our lives, like the monsoon clouds. Time had flown. Two months had already passed. The reality was that I had to leave India in a little over a month. My visa was about to expire and I was also due to return to work. This time, I didn't know if I would ever come back.

  One night, I went to Park Street to meet Emily, a friend of a friend from Australia. She'd already spent a number of years in India, and was leasing and running a small guesthouse in the beach town of Varkala, in southern India's tropical state of Kerala. I'd emailed her, suggesting that I pay her a visit. Fate had placed us both in Kolkata at the same time. We drank cheap cocktails at a bar called Floriana, affectionately known as Sam's Pub, and talked into the night.

  ‘What is it about India? It's so confronting, takes so long to get anything done, we can't wear the clothes that we normally would in this heat, we're constantly stared at, and many women are treated oppressively, but yet, we're still here!’ We were incredulous. Undoubtedly, India had a special knack of holding us under her spell.

  I filled Emily in on what I'd been doing. ‘I'm seeing one of the DJs from Tantra.’

  ‘Oh, Tantra. A friend of mine got kicked out of there for jumping around too much on the dance floor.’

  It sounded familiar. I also knew an Irish guy who'd been evicted from Tantra for engaging in some vigorous Irish dancing.

  ‘Would you believe there was a drunken flasher in the female toilets there recently, but no one cared to kick him out? Who would have thought that dancing is worse than a guy exposing himself?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘I came to Kolkata to open a vegetarian café. But I got attacked a couple of months ago by a heroin addict who was showing me an apartment. See – the scars,’ Emily unveiled them.

  I was stunned. There were many. And they were deep.

  ‘The police caught the guy, and now I have to wait for the court case.’

  I'd had no idea, just from sitting and chatting with her, that she'd gone through something so horrific. And that she was such a brave person to recover from such an ordeal so well. We vowed to keep in touch.

  My stay at Hiland Park neared its end. I'd found a furnished apartment of my own to live in for my remaining month in Kolkata. It belonged to an Indian friend of Panna's, who had quite a few apartments that he leased out to foreigners. Refreshingly, he was open-minded and didn't care if Aryan stayed with me. Located in south Kolkata's Deshapriya Park, the place was only fifteen minutes from Park Street.

  Moving into the apartment was bittersweet. On our first evening there, Aryan and I bought small clay statues of a Hindu god and goddess from a pavement vendor. For me Saraswati, the goddess of learning and creativity, and Ganesha for him. Fresh from our showers the next morning, we carefully set them up on a silver tray.

  ‘It's necessary to be clean in body and mind when doing this,’ Aryan explained. He lit some incense and placed the sticks in the incense holder I'd given him on my last night in Kolkata. Then he performed a small puja (prayer) with his hands together to give thanks. The spiritualism of the ceremony, modest and humble as it was, was touching to see.

  My time in Kolkata was running out. Emotional at the prospect of my departure, and enveloped in the warm glow of candlelight at night, Aryan said, his dark eyes intense with feeling, ‘You're the best girl I've ever met. A sweetheart. Everything you do and the way you do it is wonderful. I could see myself marrying someone like you. Of all the things to love in this world, I love you.’

  His words touched me deeply. He'd been my constant companion for the last two months. We'd shared so much together, emotionally and physically. I'd been worried he didn't feel as I did, but he must.

  ‘You're so different too. I'm so comfortable around you, and I've shared things with you I've never shared with anyone,’ I whispered.

  We both had tears in our eyes. Neither of us had imagined this for ourselves. It was so far beyond our expectations.

  ‘Shh, no more crying now. We can do that before you have to leave. Let's make the next month the happiest time possible,’ he said.

  Being happy was easier said than done. The challenges of living in India, away from hotel rooms and swanky residential complexes, soon interfered. It was well into summer. As the days became hotter, the apartment became more uncomfortable. It was located on the first floor, at the back of a whitewashed art deco-style building. Unlike the apartment at Hiland Park, this apartment didn't have air conditioning. I sat under the fan, waiting and hoping for a cool breeze to flow through the window. The temperature soared above 40 degrees Celsius, and the humidity ensured that I was constantly bathed in a layer of sweat. Coming from a dry climate, I was unused to such high humidity. The locals were less affected by it, having lived with it all their lives. They sweated less, but it still sapped their energy. Adopting Aryan's nocturnal habits, I went to sleep when the sun rose and woke up mid-afternoon. There was no point being awake during the day because it was too unbearable to move around.

  Fortunately, I didn't have to do any housework. Aryan's maid from his apartment came for an hour every day to clean and wash our clothes. I found having a servant around awkward, and was ill at ease in her presence, especially if I was still in my pyjamas when she came. She must have thought I was so lazy! I was used to doing housework myself, using fancy equipment such as washing machines and dishwashers. In India, most households employed staff to do it by hand. Home help was cheap – Aryan's maid cost him less than $20 a month.

  Doing
the grocery shopping at the local market was another challenge. The Big Bazaar may have had its quirks and frustrations, but at least I could get what I wanted in a cool environment, no matter how much time it took. In the fresh food market, where fruit and vegetable sellers were clustered tightly together, their produce piled high on worn wooden trestle tables, dozens of eyes followed me wherever I went. It was impossible to browse for groceries because the stock was kept behind the counter of the ramshackle, hole-in-the-wall outlets. Everything had to be asked for by name. Vendors couldn't understand me.

  ‘Sorry, madam. Not available,’ they'd tell me when I asked for items that Aryan had previously purchased from them.

  Vegetable vendors would try and charge me double the price. Shops that sold alcohol were usually located down dim, dirty alleyways, and considered disreputable places that only men could visit. On one occasion, not wanting to stand alone in the street, I waited in the vicinity of one for Aryan while he bought the wine.

  ‘You shouldn't be anywhere near here. It's not good for women,’ a man warned me in passing.

  Aryan, ever perceptive, asked me after a few days at the new apartment if I was happy. I couldn't complain that I wasn't happy. After all, I was living the life that I'd chosen for myself. However, I was beginning to realise that I couldn't live with fewer liberties and under the peculiar brand of strictures that India imposed. Indian culture lacked not only privacy, but also equality. Sure, I could learn to negotiate it but at the time, I wasn't sure that I wanted to.

  ‘What do you like most about living in India and what do you like the least?’ I asked him.

  ‘Hmm, people are too interfering here. But I like the freedom that being a guy offers. As a guy, I can do most things. It's not the same for women.’

  Perhaps I didn't belong in India. I would always stand out as a foreigner, no matter what I did, trying to be a part of a culture that wasn't mine. While I felt relatively normal around the progressive upper-class Indians, with their western dress and lifestyle, at the end of the day, despite their cultural bilingualism, they were still Indian and India was their home. I was neither upper class nor Indian. I didn't belong. When I stepped outside their privileged bubble, my foreignness was often a bane. Life was gruelling. Society was conservative and restrictive. Western comforts were rare and expensive. I didn't have the means to support that kind of lifestyle. The common perception among Indians was that white skin equalled wealth, but it wasn't true. Constantly having to fend off people who asked me for money, or who lied and cheated to try and get it, was draining and irritating.

  The upper class certainly didn't care for my attempts to try and be Indian. ‘Why learn Hindi? We all speak English. Why dress in Indian clothes? We all dress in western clothes.’ They appreciated my foreignness for what it was.

  In the evenings, as the sun set, Aryan and I sat on the plant-filled rooftop where it was cooler. We gazed at the moon and stars, drank beer and told stories about ourselves and our past, the good and bad things in our lives.

  ‘Of course, you're the best thing in mine. If it wasn't for you, I'd be wasting money trying to make myself happy. I'd also be spending a lot of time alone, not wanting to be around people.’

  I understood all too well, having done these things myself.

  ‘Most likely, I'll go back to Mumbai after you leave. I'm feeling frustrated at work. I don't get to play the music I like at the club. Most of the time, we have to play commercial stuff. The same tracks over and over again,’ he sighed.

  It was true. I could accurately predict which songs I would hear and when.

  ‘I miss my old friends. I also need to sort out the situation with my parents. I feel sad that I haven't lived up to what they expected of me,’ he continued.

  ‘Oh no, what did they want you to do?’ I was curious.

  ‘My dad makes furniture and wanted me to be an interior designer. I always wanted to go to music school. My parents didn't allow it because they didn't think it was an honourable profession. I started studying interior design at college and hated it. So I left and joined my friends who were DJs. I'd met most of them at school. We all went to a Catholic school together.’

  I knew that Aryan going back to Mumbai would be the end of us. How could it be any other way if he had to try and please his parents?

  ‘My mother tried to arrange a marriage for me once. She insisted I go with her to meet a girl from the village. I wasn't interested at all and didn't want to be there.’

  I was enthralled. ‘Tell me more. What happened?’

  ‘My mother introduced me to the girl's family and talked about me to them. I just sat there and didn't say a word. Afterwards, I told her there was no way that the wedding would take place.’

  I couldn't picture Aryan in a village, meeting a prospective bride. He seemed so western to me, I sometimes forgot he was actually Indian. It even surprised me to hear him speaking Hindi. I had to remember he was completely Indian, from a hardworking family full of expectations of him. A family where his mother no doubt compared notes with the other mothers, and was disappointed by her son's choices in life.

  ‘Wouldn't she be aghast if she knew you were with me?’ I asked.

  Aryan nodded. ‘I don't think we could ever be together in Mumbai. My parents would never accept it. They're conservative because they come from a village in Orissa. My brother had a love marriage with a Maharastran girl. They didn't approve and it took over a year before they accepted her.’

  I felt miserable, but I knew Aryan had to take responsibility for his life. I couldn't interfere. I just hoped the good times we'd shared would be enough to sustain us through the challenges we'd face in the future by ourselves.

  Yet I couldn't help but marvel that, halfway around the world, I'd found the one person who was so like me, who even had a similar background to mine. Although Aryan was born in Mumbai, his family came from the country. Mine were still in the country. His dad was a talented carpenter who could make anything. Mine, an electrician who could fix anything. One from the east, one from the west. Would the twain meet?

  A few nights later, Aryan came home early from work just as I was finishing one of my infrequent meditations. I was concerned he'd think I was strange and mock me. When I told him, he surprised me by asking me to show him.

  ‘After you've gone, I'm going to spend six months alone reading as much as I can. You've taught me so much and left such a positive impression on me.’

  I was taken aback.

  ‘But I haven't even been trying to.’

  ‘It's your energy. You have this amazing light around you,’ he explained. ‘And I keep hearing about it from so many people. Everyone comments on your good energy.’

  I felt a rush of emotion. I didn't think I was the only one with such remarkable energy though. Aryan had the calmest, gentlest, most loving soul. When he slept, he sometimes wrapped himself around me, his lips touching my skin. With him, I'd experienced a love I never thought possible, a love that came from feeling safe. In turn, his lack of inhibition and unconditional acceptance of me meant I didn't have to hide anything from him. It freed me from my fear of judgement and rejection. The nagging insecurities that used to bother me had been replaced by an acknowledgement that people liked me for being me. The real me, not the attention-seeking me. Instead of feeling like I had to prove my worth, others naturally saw it for themselves.

  People really do come into our lives when we're ready and when we need them. Apart from destiny, there was no way of explaining how we'd found each other. Aryan's unexpected presence, at a time when I was struggling, had proven to me that there was a greater power looking after me. His acceptance of me had healed me.

  ‘You've been given the gift of making people feel good with your smile. I'm so glad to have met you,’ one of the DJs at Tantra told me. It was a humbling thing to hear – no one had ever put it so eloquently.

  I'd been much blessed in this soul-searching journey of mine; it's nice to know I'd also been
a blessing to others. Just a few months ago I'd arrived in Kolkata, terrified and knowing not a soul. My white skin may have opened doors but people consistently looked past the superficiality of my skin colour to see me as a person. They'd welcomed me and touched my life in special ways, as I'd touched theirs.

  As May progressed, the weather became more and more unsettled. It matched my moods. There was a thunderstorm every few days. It cooled everything down, then the humidity built, and another thunderstorm happened. The coolness was refreshing, but the humidity was dreadful. I felt dizzy, nauseated and dehydrated. Rivulets of sticky sweat ran down my face during the day; the back of my neck was always perspiring and clammy. A wet facecloth became my constant companion.

  Sometimes I wanted to leave India. Other times, I wanted to stay. Some days, I felt so serene alone in the apartment, surrounded by incense and candles. Other days, I felt lonely and stifled. The indecision was unsettling.

  As my departure date loomed closer, Aryan started to pull away. He would get lost in his music, then announce he was going out with the boys. Afterwards, he'd come home drunk. I felt rejected and sought the company of my friends. But I took comfort in the fact that we were all facing ambiguous circumstances, none of which offered us any stability or security.

  Panna had returned to Kolkata. I went shopping at the street market in Gariahat, a suburb of Kolkata, with her. She was also feeling displaced and uncertain of what was to come. Cliona now had an Indian boyfriend who practically lived in their apartment, so she had less time to spend with Panna. She thought she might leave Kolkata and go travelling again.

  Daisy, Tess and Krista also decided to leave India temporarily in the wake of their tumultuous liaisons. People were talking – things had come to a head after a frightening encounter with the bar staff at Venom whom they suspected had spiked their drinks. They were fleeing to Thailand to renew their visas and have some time away.

  We said our heartfelt goodbyes at our usual Sunday recovery session at Flury's restaurant, on Park Street.