Losing Gemma

by Katy Gardner

  “Where’s he gone?” she said.

  “Who?”

  I started to walk toward Gemma’s bed, adrenaline pumping through my veins. Gemma was gazing unblinkingly ahead.

  “There was an angel. I saw an angel . . .” Her voice was slow and slurred, almost drugged.

  “You’ve got a fever, poppet. There wasn’t anyone . . .”

  “He’s come for me. I’ve been waiting all this time and now he’s come.”

  “Gem, listen . . .”

  But as I reached the bed I stopped, for I suddenly realized that she couldn’t see or hear me, for she was still asleep.

  15

  I was woken the next day by the scrape and fizz of matches and the smell of burning sulfur. I lay without moving for a few moments, not really taking it in, then slowly opened my eyes. The morning was already well advanced, for outside the chant of insects had been replaced by the whoop and squawk of birds and rays of brilliant yellow filtered through the cracked shutters.

  But it wasn’t this that filled the room with dancing light. Looking around I saw I was surrounded by small white flames that hissed and flickered at me like snakes. I sat up, staring around in surprise. A circle of candles formed a halo around my bed; they covered the table, too, and were arranged in an arc around the door. On the far side of the room Coral was leaning over yet another, her eyes closed as if in prayer, her lips forming a liturgy of broken words and phrases which floated unintelligibly on the dusty air.

  “What are you doing?”

  She swirled round, her eyes gleaming. “Puja. The day of transformation has arrived.”

  I stared at her in shock. Her thin body was draped in a red and gold sari tied in an unwieldy knot around her thin waist and pulled loosely across her chest. She clearly wasn’t experienced in sari management for despite a rough effort to tuck the ends in, the material kept falling away, revealing her skinny ribs. Placed on her head was a sparkly rhinestone tiara; around this she had roughly wound one of the sticky jungle creepers that hung from the buttress-rooted trees on the path; its tendrils dangled down her neck and over her face like false hair. Attached to the back of the tiara with a large red bow was what looked like a hair extension, its synthetic black fibers swinging unnaturally down her back. She was sitting cross-legged, staring solemnly through the candles at me.

  But it wasn’t just her strange clothes. Something over the last seven or eight hours had hollowed out her face, making her eyes appear larger and her cheekbones more sharp. She seemed feverish, too, her pupils glinting darkly, her forehead beaded with sweat. She smiled bountifully at me and held out her hands, palms up, as if making an offering.

  “We meet again.”

  “Why are you dressed like that?”

  “It’s almost time. All the signs are here.”

  “All what signs? Are you okay?”

  She shrugged and almost laughed, her eyes flicking distractedly away from my face and around the room.

  “We all have to change, don’t we? It’s all part of the process. Like, I’m not Coral anymore? I’m Sarti.”

  She nodded in the direction of Gemma’s bed and suddenly laughed. “And she’s not Gemma! That’s the miracle!”

  I took a deep breath. Her wild appearance was frightening me.

  “Where’ve you been all night?” I said as calmly as I could. She looked at me coyly.

  “With my master?”

  “Your master . . .”

  She shook her head knowingly. “Can’t you guess? Look at me. I’ve been joined to another.”

  Standing slowly she stepped over the candles toward me. Peering at her more closely I saw that her hands and arms were painted with what looked like henna; she was dressed in a botched imitation of an Indian bride.

  “Be calm and still and everything will be revealed.”

  I stood up, folding my arms defensively. She must have been doing an awful lot of drugs.

  “How’s Gemma?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Has she still got a fever?”

  “She’s calm. She knows it’s nearly over.”

  The way she said this made my stomach turn. Her face was unreadable, her eyes fixed to the candles.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that. She’s, like, been through the worst and now she’s stepping toward the true answer. It’s all connected, don’t you see?”

  I shook my head. I was so tense that my shoulders were virtually touching my ears.

  “Not really.”

  “Then you need to open up and listen.”

  She laughed again, spinning around coquettishly, like a flirty whirling dervish.

  Turning my back on her I leaned over Gemma’s bed. She was clearly still very sick. Her eyes were surrounded by dark bruises, her cheeks speckled with the rash which had spread onto her face in angry red blotches. She was soaked with sweat, too: her short hair stuck up from her head in wet clumps and behind her head her pillow was damp. Very gently, I placed my hand on her forehead.

  “Christ, she’s burning up!”

  I started to tug at her T-shirt, pulling it up and away from her skin.

  “Calm down, sister,” Coral intoned from the other side of the room. “Heat is good. It’s cathartic.”

  “We have to get her cooler . . . it’s like an oven in here . . .” I glanced up at the ceiling. “Have you turned off the fan?”

  “The electricity’s gone. It’s another sign.”

  “Fucking great.”

  Biting my lip, I looked around the room. I was trying to remain calm, but I was beginning to panic. Why of all the people who could have rescued Gemma’s money belt did it have to be Coral?

  “Is there anything left to drink?” I said. “What about that P J Wallah bloke? Can’t we get him to bring us some tea or something? We need to get some liquids down her . . .”

  “He’s not here. It’s like, a festival? Relax, sister. Today is going to be a great day.”

  I breathed in the stuffy air, my chest tight. From the corner of my eye I saw Coral bend unsteadily, her hands pressed together in prayer. I suddenly desperately wanted to get away from her. It had been a disastrous mistake to come here, I thought. We should never have got off the bus.

  Coral was now attempting a complicated yogic position, standing on one foot with her hands held aloft. I glanced across the room at her and wanted to scream. However outrageously she behaved, we would have to stay in this stifling place until Gemma was better and I didn’t think I could stand it. Striding toward the door, I kicked the candles out of the way with my foot and threw it open.

  Sunlight flooded the room. Coral suddenly sat down, her hands folded in her lap and her head bent in apparent supplication. Her eyes were tightly closed.

  “At least that should get a breeze through the place,” I said brightly. “Now let’s put these stupid things out. They’re just making it even hotter.”

  Walking toward the bed I pushed past Coral, who had started her interminable chanting once more. When I reached the candles around Gemma’s bed I bent down and, one by one, started to blow them out.

  “No!”

  I jumped and turned around. Sitting up in bed, her hands clasping the covers, her eyes dark with anger, was Gemma.

  “Gem! You’re awake!”

  “Stop it! I want them here!”

  “But they’re making the place so hot . . .”

  “I don’t care . . .” She glowered at me for a second longer, then dropped back onto the bed.

  My forehead flooded with pain. I felt unexpectedly sick, too, as if I had the deadliest of hangovers, the sort that creep up surreptitiously as the morning progresses. It was the heat, I thought with growing desperation; if only I could cool down. I swallowed unhappily, unable to prevent myself from picturing my parents’ garden as it would be now, the cold dawn dew spread like jewels across the grass, the spiders’ webs sparkling translucently in the hedge. From the other side of the room I could sense Coral watching me.
I took another step toward Gemma’s bed.

  “How are you feeling?” I said gently.

  “It’s all because of you . . .” She started to shake her head vigorously, hitting it hard against the stiff pillow, then she sat up again, her eyes wide. “He’s gone! You made him go!”

  My gut clenched.

  “Who?” I whispered.

  Gemma snorted, her hands flailing weakly in the air.

  “You know who,” she said, and fell back onto the bed.

  I blanched, feeling my cheeks grow scarlet, then reached out and picked up Gemma’s hand. If now was the time that she wanted to talk about Steve, I thought grimly, then that was what I’d have to do.

  “I know you must be feeling pissed off, Gem,” I said slowly. “But I didn’t mean it to work out the way it did, I promise you . . .”

  But she didn’t want to hear.

  “Why can’t you just stop meddling?” she muttered as she turned her head back to the wall. “All I want is for you to leave me alone.”

  I turned slowly round. It was just the fever talking, but the exchange had winded me. For a moment I stared at Coral, who was now sitting cross-legged in a circle of candles, mumbling. Then, as evenly as I could, I said, “Coral, I’m going down to the village to find a doctor or get some medicines or something. Can you please make sure Gemma keeps drinking that water?”

  She ignored me.

  ONCE outside, I strode quickly down the hill. I should have carried an umbrella or even a giant tropical leaf to cover my head from the sun for only the most desperate would consider walking without protection in the middle of the day, but nothing would induce me now to return to the bungalow. I tried hard to keep to the edge of the path where the trees cast their deep green shadows, but kept being forced into the angry glare. Even when the sun drifted behind the watery tropical clouds I had to shield my eyes against the light.

  But it was good to be outside; at least I was no longer cooped up in the oppressive heat of the bungalow. I trudged down the hill, trying to calm down. It was bad enough that Gemma was so ill. What was really frightening me, though, was Coral. In Calcutta she’d seemed just like any other backpacker but now she seemed to be spiraling out of control in a way I’d never experienced before and couldn’t hope to understand. I swung my arms high in the air, clicking my fingers at the insects which flew blindly into my face. How did we get so involved with her? Despite my bluff we were innocents who knew virtually nothing about how the world worked, and we had somehow picked up this woman who had God knows what demons to deal with. We were sharing a room with her, taking her food and her drugs, and trusting her like little children taking sweeties from strangers in the park.

  I started to jog down the hill. I’d wanted to be open to new experiences and people, but not like this. I couldn’t handle it, I suddenly realized, my eyes smarting with tears; I was too young and too inexperienced. This wasn’t the India I’d wanted to discover and now I yearned for Gemma and me to be out of Agun Mazir and as far away from Coral as possible. In fact, I wanted to be at home, to be back in my old bedroom, opening the curtains onto another cool, calm English day. I blinked back the tears. What I wanted, more than anything, was my mum.

  Turning the final corner in the track I saw the roofs of the village houses, the low ridge of domestic smoke drifting above the trees. I should try to be practical, I resolved: get medical help for Gemma, then, as soon as she was able to crawl onto a bus, return to Bhubaneshwar. I would tell Coral politely that we didn’t want her around; perhaps I could make up some story about meeting other friends. After all, just because we’d hooked up with her for a few days it didn’t mean we had to stay with her for the rest of the trip. She would understand, she knew the score. I shouldn’t get in such a panic. It was all going to be fine.

  16

  Gemma lay on the bed staring at the wall. She could hear the others discussing her, but was no longer interested in what they said. Her head was too heavy to lift, her skin on fire. She tried to scratch at it, her fingers tearing at the burning rash, but she was too weak and her hands kept flopping back onto the bed. She needed water and medicine, she knew, but could no longer be bothered to ask.

  He was with her for much of the time now, but only when Esther was away. In the fractured shards of her dreams she could hear his words; when she opened her eyes he was there. There was calm in his voice and as they lightly touched her head, his palms were cool.

  But it was his face which pulled her back, his smooth, quiet face. The more she stared into it the more she understood; she wanted him to never leave, for his eyes gave her hope and with his mouth he promised endings and beginnings and so much more.

  WHEN I reached the main road at the bottom of the hill, I stopped, staring at the scene ahead of me in amazement. A day earlier the place had been just another sleepy hamlet, apparently existing only to service the interstate buses that sporadically roared around the bend. Now it was transformed into a sprawling mass of vehicles and people. Crowds spilled over the sidewalk and into the road; spreading down the hill was a temporary shanty of canvas tents and hastily erected stalls. Where previously a couple of listless vendors had sold onions and shriveled potatoes to the intermittent traffic, now a veritable marketplace had sprung up, the incoming traders squatting behind piles of oranges and pineapples, prickly pears and giant, succulent jackfruit. Other stalls were selling robes and prayer caps, rugs illustrated by scenes of haj, religious books and tapes. Immediately opposite me was the source of Coral’s candles: sitting meditatively on the pavement, an old man in pebble glasses was selling them for a paisa each. Next to him a turbaned, thick-bearded mullah was preaching into a makeshift sound system, his pious, wavering voice crackling tremulously with religious ecstasy and electric static. It sounded like Arabic. I dodged past, not wanting to be caught in his accusatory stare.

  I wandered down the sidewalk, gazing around as I tried to take it all in. At the farthest end, where only the day before rickshaws had aimlessly cruised and pigs rooted in the dirt, a line of brightly painted buses was disgorging yet more pilgrims. There were beggars, too: a long line of emaciated and broken bodies squatting by the side of the road with their sticks and bowls and dreadlocked hair. Some were moaning and calling out for Allah and alms, their reedy voices rising and falling in an orchestrated wail. I could smell incense and frying oil and the thick scented stench of human urine.

  I must have been standing and staring gormlessly around for at least five minutes. Shaking myself into action I stepped tentatively into the road. I would have felt better had there been more women, or even children in the place, but, with the exception of the beggar-women whose pleading eyes I didn’t wish to meet, I could see only men. Crossing my arms and turning my face away from the gazes I was attracting, I hurried across the road. I passed the beggars, shocked at how strongly they repulsed me, and, focusing on the medical dispensary opposite the buses, pushed my way along the sidewalk, my head down. I’d buy some stomach medicine for Gemma, I thought, and inquire about doctors. Then, as soon as possible we would leave.

  “Where are you going, young lady?”

  I stopped abruptly, almost colliding with the old man who had stepped into my path. He was a bulky, kindly looking person, dressed in a safari suit and sandals, a few oily hairs scraped hopefully over his balding head. He’d been wearing dark glasses, but now took these off and peered at me thoughtfully.

  “Mr. Sanjiv Chakrabarty, M.A. in archaeology, University of Calcutta, at your service.” He held out his hand. “And yourself?”

  I shook my head, my arms still crossed. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “You have come to see our mela? Perhaps you are a student of Indian culture?”

  “I just want to get to the chemist’s,” I said tensely. “My friend is sick . . .”

  “But all our shops are closed today. It is a holiday . . .”

  He smiled expansively. I stared at him. The tangle of tension which all morning had been knotting in my
chest was pulling tighter.

  “The dispensary is closed?”

  “Of course. Today is the celebration of our great Pir Nirulla.”

  “But how am I meant to get medicines for my friend? She’s really ill!”

  “For that, you must visit another village. Where are you and your friend staying? May I offer you my personal services?”

  I glanced at him, noticing his fleshy lips and the hair sprouting from his ears. I didn’t have the time to be exchanging niceties with an old buffer, I thought impatiently; I wanted to be doing something, taking some sort of positive action.

  “No, no, it doesn’t matter . . .”

  “But this is not a good time to be a young lady alone . . .”

  Given what was to happen later, I am ashamed to say that I ignored him. Turning on my heels, I jogged across the road into the crowd. For a moment I was disoriented. I glanced in the direction of the buses, yet couldn’t see the junction for the turning that led up the hill. From the other side of the road, and with so many people, the place looked completely different. I could still hear Mr. Chakrabarty calling something at me, but not wishing to listen, walked quickly back in the direction of the preacher. His lecture had reached a pitch of emotion now, and as he ranted spittle sprayed the crowd like the first drops of an oncoming storm.

  I was sure the turning was opposite the National Bank. Skirting the edge of the preacher’s generator I came out by the bolted post office and found I was standing directly next to it. I started to cross the road again, planning to buy some bananas and bottles of water, and then noticed a silver four-wheel-drive Suzuki, parked in front of the bank at the bottom of the track.

  I stared at the vehicle, my eyes screwed up against the light. On the other side, facing the track, the driver’s door was open. As I peered across the road, I could just about make out the tall figure of a man standing with his back against the jeep. He was dressed in the maroon robes of a Buddhist and his head was shaved. At first I assumed he must be one of the pilgrims, but as he moved to one side I saw he had the pale complexion of a European. He was also not alone.