The Bikini Prophecy - Part One

by Matt Kyler

  It’s a short-term love affair and I change my mind when the madness begins. Business hours start and cars, bikes and rickshaws arrive en masse, bringing with them a cacophony of horns, construction noise and the footsteps of a million human beings who have no concept of personal space let alone privacy. It is amid this insanity, that my anxiety ratchets up a notch and a sense of personal displacement creeps in. And before long my opinion is this:

  Delhi must be the worst fucking place on earth.

  How anyone lives in this city is a mystery to me. The intrusion is relentless, be it from shop staff, commission touts, rick-shaw drivers, smiling youths, ageing fathers, or any number of random motherfuckers. Even casual conversation becomes a nightmare due to the impossibility of distinguishing between sincerity and bullshit in any given exchange. Each human encounter is exhausting and after half an hour my asshole meter is on high alert.

  It is in this state of distress that I am greeted by another keen conversationalist.

  “Excuse me, where are you going?”

  I wheel around and see a guy who is roughly my age. I note his Armani jeans and Ralph Lauren polo. A heavy gold chain is partially hidden by the popped collar.

  “Just looking around,” I reply.

  “Looking for what?”

  “I’m walking to the Red Fort.”

  “Walking?!” he says in dismay. “What is this always walking with foreigners? You know, in India walking is only for the very poor?”

  “You get to see more.”

  He weighs this up. “Ah, okay. No problem. Red Fort is very good for walking. Lots to see.”

  I do the usual ‘smile and nod’ hoping it will bring an end to our chat.

  “How long have you been in India, my friend?”

  The ‘my friend’ bit is said in a tone that belongs to a particular type of man: one of confidence.

  “One week,” I lie, trying to hide my virgin traveller status.

  “And you have travelled where in India?”

  “Just around Delhi.”

  He eyes me suspiciously. “Just Delhi? In one week? But still you have not seen the Red Fort?”

  “Not yet.”

  He waits a moment before letting my lie slide. “My friend, what is your good name?”

  The unusual question is so common on the street that I’m beginning to wonder if all Indians are christened with a bad name as well.

  “Matt,” I say.

  “I am Surinda,” he says, extending a hand. We shake and an eternity seems to pass before he releases me. “So, what do you think of my country, Matt?”

  “It’s amazing.”

  “More amazing than your country?”

  I hunt my mind for a diplomatic answer. “It’s different to my country.”

  “You are Australian, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Very good cricket team,” says Surinda with a genuine smile. Then with perfect timing, he adds: “Almost as good as India.”

  The comment makes me laugh out loud. “Yeah, almost,” I agree.

  “Are you travelling with wife?”

  “No. I’m not married.”

  Surinda gives me an incredulous look. “You are how old? Forty?”

  “Almost thirty.”

  “Almost thirty and still not married?! Just girlfriends then, yes?”

  I redden at the question, suddenly acutely embarrassed about being a virile thirty-year-old male who is infatuated with the idea of finding true love … via a bikini prophecy.

  “No girlfriends,” I mumble. “I’m single.”

  “Just single good time man! Very good.” He slaps my shoulder. “I think sex is very easy for you, yes? Western women love fucking.”

  “Not always. I’m sure you get to sleep with more women than I do.”

  “Yeah, I am sleeping with many women. Lots of fucking for me.” He quietens for a moment, deep in thought. “Tell me, Matt, where are you going after Delhi?”

  “Somewhere cooler, I hope. And quieter. Probably north.”

  “Manali, perhaps? Very popular with tourists. Or Kashmir. Very beautiful. If you want I can get you best price on a deluxe air conditioned coach to Kashmir.”

  My face widens in a smile at the sudden show of Surinda’s hustle.

  “Isn’t there a war in Kashmir?!”

  “No. Not war,” says the travel tout emphatically. “That’s just for show with Pakistan. Kashmir is very safe. Lots of tourists renting houseboats on the lake. Trust me, it is very beautiful. Matt, my friend, if you want, I can give you best price on this trip.” He thrusts a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and palms a travel brochure to me. “Here, this is my company.”

  I wave the offer away. “I’m not going to Kashmir.”

  “No problem. I can give you the best deal to anywhere. Come—” He grabs my shoulder to lead me. “It is too hot in this fucking street. Too much shit and smell. Not like Kashmir. Please, come with me.”

  I gently shake free of his grip. “No, thanks. I’m just going to do the Red Fort thing today.”

  Surinda pauses, seemingly hurt by my rejection. “We can drink chai in my office then I will get you a rickshaw to Red Fort. Very cheap. Better than walking.”

  “It’s all good. I really just want to walk.”

  He nods, seeming to accept his fate. “Tell me, Matt, what is your work?”

  “I write television,” I say with an insecure self-importance I can never rise above.

  “Wow, man! This is very good money for you, yes? You are rich?”

  “I wish. I’ve only saved enough money for this holiday.”

  “But you are still richer than most people in my country, I think.” His comment gives me pause. Surinda continues: “Have you heard of Bollywood?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “You should visit Bombay, man. They make lots of TV and movies down there. And always looking for westerners like you. I can get you a cheap bus ticket.”

  “Can you throw in a sexy Bollywood actress too?”

  Surinda plays along. “Yeah, yeah, of course, man!”

  “You’ll probably bus me off to a porno film set,” I say in jest.

  He slaps my back again. “Acha cha! You know these blue movies, yeah?! Man, Indian men love porno.”

  “What… more than cricket?!”

  The tout laughs out loud. “In India, just two loves for men: sex and cricket!” Again he grabs me by the shoulder. “Come. Matt, I want to show you some DVDs.”

  I hold firm. “Look, mate, I like chatting but, seriously, you’re wasting your time with me.” I point to some passing backpackers. “Opportunity is passing by.”

  Surinda weighs my words for a full minute. Suddenly, any trace of warmth vanishes and he gives me a cold stare.

  “You walk to Red Fort now,” he spits. The order is then followed by a string of words in Hindi. I’m unable to translate but I know exactly what is going on.

  I’ve just been christened with a bad name or two.

  I should have taken a rickshaw.

  I’ve been lost in the backstreets of Old Delhi for three hours. I have no idea where I am. Every street and alleyway looks like the next. There are no signposts, maps or street names. Just a mass of people walking through labyrinthian laneways. Everywhere I turn I find something that shocks me. There are disfigured beggars seated beside goats, cows or dogs. There are tiny children with ragged clothes and shoeless feet hunting through waste heaps. There are elderly people clinging to the earth, fast asleep or near death. There are sickly mothers splayed on concrete, filthy babies by their hip. There are food carts, shop staff and people yelling shit I don’t have the capacity to understand. And it’s all taking place in a heatwave that has me convinced that Delhi is the sister city to Hell.

  In desperation, I decide to ask for directions. It’s a previously unthinkable notion because, well, I’m a male. Meaning, I have zero experience at this. I swallow my pride and approach several street vendors. I ask a seller
of leather goods, a cigarette wallah and even a barber, for help. Not a single person understands me and after an hour of charades all I have to show for my efforts is a new wallet, a haircut and a packet of smokes. The purchases ensure I’m suaver, more sophisticated and worldly than ever. But still lost.

  Thankfully, Delhi has landmarks. Big ones. So even a vague backpacker will eventually bump into something of national significance. Like, say, a giant mile long monolith called the Red Fort.

  It is this very vision that looms large as I finally shuffle down the famed market street of Chandni Chowk. The sight of the imposing 400-year-old citadel fills me with relief. And even the army of touts, snake charmers and rickshaw drivers near the entrance fails to dampen my spirits. I approach the tourist attraction—ignoring pleas to purchase hats, sunglasses, balloons, water pistols and, incomprehensibly, fake beards—and join a long entry line that snakes its way toward the fortress gate.

  I take my place in line and, like every other poor suffering bastard around me, count the minutes as the midday sun fries the shit out of us. In fact, the heat is so sweltering that I even hear Indian tourists complain like their westerner counterparts. I also hear something else: Australian accents. The familiar tones emanate from a couple two spaces in front. The woman turns and I catch her eye.

  “Bit warm, hey?” I say, desperate for simple conversation.

  The woman nods. “Worse than back home.”

  I sidestep the Indian couple between us in an effort to maintain eye contact.

  “You guys been in India long?”

  “About a week.” She takes a swig of water from a plastic bottle then passes it to her partner who acknowledges me with a nod. “Lloyd’s dad is over on business so we tagged along.”

  “But it was Melissa’s idea,” adds Lloyd. “You backpacking?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s that been?”

  “Bit of a culture shock.”

  “Place is fucking crazy, isn’t it?!”

  His comment triggers a back and forth that highlights every crazy thing we’ve seen. Eventually, the casual exchange ends at the entrance gate and we go our separate ways into the fort.

  Inside, the temperature is a thousand degrees warmer and I begin to bleed rivers of sweat. With few places to hide from the midday sun, I stride quickly over the numerous paved pathways, stopping briefly at each example of ancient Mughal architecture that rises from the hundred acres of manicured lawn. Like a dutiful tourist, I snap photos of exquisite sandstone turrets, columns and domes. Then I take a moment to appreciate every alluring apartment, pretty pavilion, beguiling balcony and pristine pool on show. Collectively, the experience is both stunning … and unbelievably fucking boring as well. And before long every architectural detail merges with every historical fact until every agonising second feels like an eternity in hell.

  But it’s not just me who feels this way. The Indian tourists must be bored out of their minds too because the only thing drawing their attention is the shade. I decide to follow their lead and search for an isolated haven of my own. When I spot the perfect place, I find it already occupied by a couple who are drenching their heads with bottled water.

  “Man, I’m not looking forward to the walk back to my hostel,” I say, nearing my compatriots.

  “We can give you a lift back,” says Mel, wringing her hair with her hands. “We’ve got a car and driver out front.”

  “Nah, it’s all good.”

  “It’s no drama, mate,” says Lloyd, soaking his Newcastle Knights footy cap. “We have to kill a few hours before we fly out tonight.”

  “You can come on a drive-by tour with us if you want.”

  “I don’t want to put you guys out.”

  “You sure?” Mel asks with a grin. “The car’s air conditioned.”

  Relief washes over me as I climb into the back of the Ambassador. The refrigerated cabin is perfect for Mel’s proposed tour. She wants to see as many tourist attractions as possible without leaving the car or interacting with people. Given Delhi’s heat and insanity, I think it’s a brilliant plan.

  Lloyd and I shut our doors and stare though the sedan’s heavily tinted windows. I feel like a gangsta with a drive-by bullet-list. Our driver edges the vehicle into the manic traffic and chauffeurs us towards our first mark. It’s the scene of an assassination. Silently, we drift past the crowd paying their respects to the murdered Mahatma Gandhi. We cross him off our hit-list and aim for bigger targets - India Gate, Raj Ghat, Parliament House and Christ knows what else. Not once do we exit the car.

  Eventually, the sense of cultural aversion begins to niggle me. But I let it go because Mel and Lloyd are easy company. Both are laid-back and fun. And every travel yarn they tell is recounted with just the right amount of awe, horror, lack of pretence and plenty of self-deprecating laughs. Unlike me, they’re on a vacation with no higher purpose. There’s no social angst, no ego and no search for self. These guys are strictly in it for fun. That’s not to say they haven’t been ‘touched’ by India. They have. But as spiritual travellers, they’re totally ‘mainstream’. Which means no bed-bugs, tight budget or public buses. Just clean sheets, credit cards and plane flights. Lucky pricks.

  I usually mock these type of people back home. Sneer at their white picket fence, mundane career, married-to-a-mortgage outlook. But recently I’ve been having doubts. Because right now, a regular income and an annual vacation seems pretty attractive. As does having someone to share the journey.

  Of course, I’m not good at any of that stuff. At least not according to Claire. But I’d like to try again. This time with a more confident partner. Someone without baggage. Someone who understands my career. Someone who needs family. Someone like Emma, for instance.

  I know Emma and I would be a great fit. We could trek the globe once or twice a year. Book spur-of-the-moment jaunts paid with income from TV. Stay at lavish resorts with air conditioned rooms, free massages, horizon pools, spa baths and an all-you-can-eat buffet. That’s the life I could have with Emma. Well, if that was her thing. Truth is, I don’t really know if it is her thing.

  Truth is … I don’t really know Emma.

  Finally, a tourist attraction we can’t dodge appears. It’s distinctive logo rises like a phoenix above Delhi’s central business district of Connaught Place and Lloyd instructs the driver to pull over.

  The three of us spill onto the pavement and quickly find shade under a circular shopping colonnade filled with fast food chains, department stores and fashion boutiques. It’s an India I never knew existed because the stereotype I’ve been fed via mainstream media is a life of squalor, disease, disaster and under-privilege … with an occasional cricket match thrown in.

  Within minutes, the familiar golden arches that advertise our final destination come into view. The unmissable logo dominates the smoked-glass frontage like dog balls on a goldfish. As a cultural symbol, it stands for the very antithesis of spiritual travel in India. But for shell-shocked western tourists, McDonalds’ familiar menu and ice-cold air conditioning mark it down as an absolute must visit.

  As we approach the shop front, a legless leper drags himself near the door. His desperate pleas stir instant discomfort within and I begin to wonder if there is a shittier example of human ignorance than me walking by a disfigured human to toss cash at a faceless multinational fast food joint. For a moment, the sting of that privilege weighs heavily … right up until the moment Lloyd opens the door and a blast of refrigerated air evaporates my guilt.

  The three of us pass the leper without missing a beat.

  Once inside, the injustices of the world are quickly forgotten. The familiarity of the red and yellow surrounding reassures and sedates me; the lighting, the menu boards, the laminate tables, the billion little logos subconsciously screaming ‘happiness in sameness’. If I was to close my eyes I could be anywhere in the world - London, Paris, New York, even Sydney. Anywhere but here.

  Lloyd and I approach the serving counter a
nd stare at the menu board like health retreat escapees. Both of us order a Maharaja Mac (sans sacred beef) and a half dozen other coronary-blocking treats. Mel orders whatever the hell it is that satiates the appetite of a woman - apparently, a burger the size of a hockey puck, a handful of skeletal fries and a thimble of juice. Once done, the three of us find a table and do the inevitable - we compare the food and prices to what’s on offer back home.

  There are high hopes on the food front since Indian cuisine is renowned the world over for its distinctive flavour. Unfortunately, it’s the usual McDonalds fusion of bland meat, local spices and an after-taste from the unknown. Which is, to be fair to McDonalds, consistent with the crap they offer the world over.

  In fact, the food is so average that Lloyd and I donate our burgers mid-meal to the nearest bin. And as we do, I remember the beggar. Suddenly, that switch inside me flicks and an inexplicable, but familiar, sensation overwhelms me. In an instant, my world slips from under me. My spirits plunge and I want to be alone.

  I sneak a glance at Mel and Lloyd and wonder who the hell these people are. And why I’m with them. They look like every other middle-class suburban couple I’ve seen in life. Normal. Happy. Oblivious. And I can’t bear it.

  Maybe Claire was right. Maybe this type of travel is too sanitised and unchallenging. Just like McDonalds. Maybe the real recipe to a better life is found in experiences that can’t be simplified and duplicated. Or franchised.

  With my sunny disposition long gone, an awkward air envelops us. Our conversation becomes stilted and my voice turns monotone. Eventually, we decide to bail out of Macca’s and go our separate ways - my countrymen to the airport and me to Hotel Shithole.

  I sidestep the beggar once more and follow Mel and Lloyd down the shaded colonnade. I feel more lost than when I left for the Red Fort. I’m confused about relationships, travel and life in India. Plus I’m wracked with guilt about buying a stupid burger.

  With mixed emotions, I say goodbye to the guys. It’s obvious they’re eager to leave thanks to the sudden arrival of my anti-social sadness. And as they walk away, I finally understand where I went wrong: I should never have bought that fucking Maharaja Mac.