“Actually, she is seeing someone,” David said.
“Oh.” His father stopped to catch his breath. “Good for her.”
“I just don’t understand why you care.”
His father turned to him and David was startled by the wounded look in his eyes. His father quickly rearranged his face into a smile, but it was a faint one. “What can I say?” He shrugged and carried on walking. “She broke my heart when she left. Never quite got over it, I suppose.”
David stared at his father’s back, the sweat shining on his neck. He had always assumed it was the other way around: that his father had been unfaithful, that whatever happened between his parents had been his father’s fault, that it was his mother’s heart that had been broken.
His father stopped abruptly, hands on his waist, his shoulders rising and descending with his breath. He raised his foot to take another step and wobbled, his hands flailing, grasping at the air.
“Aba?” David grabbed his father by the shoulders, steadying him. “You okay?”
“I need to sit down,” his dad said, his voice calm and measured.
David looked around. He felt a quiver in his father’s body, under his hands. His own heartbeat quickened. There was a single tree a few steps away, its wild, dried branches brushed to one side by the winds, providing little shade. His father leaned forward, hands on his thighs. David’s rubbed his back awkwardly. “Aba.” His voice shook. “We just need to make it to that tree. You think you can do that?”
“Guess I better.” His dad managed a strained chuckle.
“I’ll help you,” David said, first rolling the backpack off his father’s sweaty back and tossing it over his, then wrapping his father’s arm around his shoulder. Every muscle in David’s body was tensed, engaged in the task of supporting his father’s weight. The two of them were breathing heavily now, not talking. When they made it to the tree, David slid his hands under his father’s armpits. “I got you,” he said through clenched teeth, lowering him to the ground, leaning him against the trunk. His father sat with his knees bent, eyes closed, the tan gone from his face. David rummaged with numb fingers through his father’s backpack. He found a water bottle, unscrewed the cap and handed it to his dad, who guzzled it in long sips.
David checked his cellphone. There was no reception. He stuffed it back in his pocket, placed his hands on his hips and scanned the area. He couldn’t see the road from here, the hotels or the village. They were alone. What if his father passed out? What if their water ran out? What if he died? He felt a familiar heaviness, water pressing on his chest. Not now. David turned the volume down on the chatter in his brain. Not now.
“I’m okay,” his father said.
“Are you sure? I could run and get help.”
“I’ll be fine, I just need a minute.”
David squatted and rifled through the bag again, found a plump orange and started peeling it, digging his dirty fingernails into the skin. He handed his father one wedge at a time.
His father opened his eyes to a squint. “I had a heart attack a few months ago.”
“A heart attack?” David repeated dumbly.
“At the swimming pool. Got out and collapsed. Hit myself here.” He drew a line on his forehead, where David could now see a scar. “I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks. They opened me up.” He lifted his shirt; a long worm sliced through the centre of his chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His father shrugged feebly. “You were there. What could you have done?”
“You should have told me.” His father looked old suddenly, his face wrinkled and worn out.
“This is why I moved here,” his father said. “Things had to change. Life is too short.”
David sat down next to his dad, leaned his head back on the tree trunk.
“That is why I invited you here,” his father said.
The sun crawled up their legs. David pulled out another orange, peeled it and offered wedge after wedge to his dad, watching the colour slowly returning to his face, his breathing resuming a normal pace. They sat in silence for a while, the sea lapping at the shore beside them, the sharp smell of oranges permeating the dry air. David thought of Josie and felt a twinge of regret. He wished she were here.
“I’m okay,” his father said. “I’m ready to go.”
“We shouldn’t rush,” David said.
“I’m fine. I’ll take it easy.”
“You thought you were fine before.”
His father chuckled. “Fair enough,” he said. “We’ll stay.”
David shifted his bottom to find a comfortable nook in the dry earth. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. For a few minutes, breathing felt like work, but then everything slowed down: the buzz in his body, the noise in his mind; his breath easing into a rhythm in sync with the desert. Steps away from them, the sea was still and glassy, offering near-perfect reflections: hazy, pinkish mountains and salt rocks, white clouds sailing in blue water.
He glanced at his father, who leaned forward now, looking more like himself as he searched through the pebbles by his feet. He ran his fingers along the edge of one stone and then tossed it over his shoulder, bounced another on his open palm to gauge its weight. Finally he found a flat, smooth stone he seemed pleased with, and he flicked it with a quick snap of his wrist. The pebble skipped twice across the sea, disturbing the silence. David watched the ripples spread and widen, overlap, smearing the reflections like a watercolour painting.
“The water is good.” His father glanced at him while ransacking the earth for another stone. “Doesn’t get too deep around here.”
“Yeah?” David said.
His father brushed the sand off a large stone, blowing on it. “You can go in if you want,” he said. “I’ll wait right here.”
The water appeared calm again, the reflections intact. “You sure?” His father nodded.
David glanced at the empty beach, up at the sky, and then he kicked his sandals off, removed his shirt and pants and flung them on the ground. He jogged to the water’s edge, the stones hot on his feet. When he looked back, his father was watching him and smiling.
The water engulfed him, smooth and silky, like warm honey. He felt a sting where his sandals had cut him on the walk. He advanced deeper, until his feet were pushed up to the surface of the salty water, forcing him to lie horizontal. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t put them down. It occurred to him that he couldn’t drown in this water. He took a long inhalation of rich air, interlaced his hands behind his head and floated, weightless, buoyant.
A SIGN OF HARMONY
Maya sees Ian, pushed along by the crowd pouring out of Indira Gandhi Airport, and her heart starts beating faster. A good sign. In London, up until the day she left for India, they’d been together non-stop, hardly ever leaving the apartment, the bedroom growing stuffy, the windows steamed over, the bedside table stacked with empty plates, an overflowing ashtray, glasses with stale water. She’d missed him these past two weeks, though not as much as she thought she would. She’d enjoyed being back here, on her own.
Ian cranes his neck. A stream of people parts and flows around him. Maya doesn’t raise her arm, just watches him scan the crowd with quick, nervous glances. He wipes his forehead, passes a hand through his hair. Despite his dark skin, long eyelashes and thick eyebrows, he stands out, overdressed in his stiff jeans, his gelled hair, his fluorescent green backpack. He spots her and his face lights up. He hurries toward her, drops his bags and hugs her. She pushes him away and whispers, “No, Ian. Not here.”
“I don’t care.” He slaps a quick kiss on her lips. “I missed you.”
She squirms, smiling and looking around. Two Indian porters stare at them, chewing, checkered lungis wrapped around their waists. One spits paan on the tattered asphalt, adding another stain, blood red, to the blemished pavement.
Ian looks her up and down. “You’re wearing a shalwar kameez.”
Her hand smooths the silky fab
ric on her thigh. “You don’t like it?”
“No, no. It’s just different.”
“It helps sometimes.” She blushes.
“And this.” He laughs, pressing the tip of his index finger to the round red bindi on her forehead.
“Fuck off.” She smiles, her matching bangles jingle as she waves his finger away. She doesn’t tell him that she’s wearing it for him, all of it: the bangles, the bindi, the V-necked top and flared pants, brilliant blue embroidered with green flowers, his two favourite colours. Wearing Indian clothing in public didn’t always help, sometimes it was just the opposite, the locals stared, couldn’t make sense of her: an Indian woman (or so they thought) in traditional clothing and a backpack, travelling alone. Once, while walking with a white guy, German, in a small southern town, she was called names by Indian men who spat at her feet, thinking she was a local woman who’d strayed. She has since learned to navigate between her personas, her borrowed and inherited identities; she only wears a shalwar kameez when she’s alone in markets and cities, trying to blend in, and opts for a loose skirt and T-shirt whenever she travels or walks around with tourists.
By the curb, an army of taxi drivers surrounds them, calling Ian “sir,” gesturing toward their Ambassador black and yellow cabs. They are closing in, touching Ian’s forearms. “Bloody hell,” he says, lifting his arms over his head, revealing circular sweat stains. One of them picks up Ian’s backpack and marches toward his cab. “Hey,” Ian yells.
Maya puts a firm hand on Ian’s shoulder. She follows the driver and bargains with him, sneaks in a few words of Hindi. Ian gets into the cab and lets out a long sigh. “What a gong show.”
She smiles. “Welcome to India.”
He leans back and stares out the window, his hand clutching hers.
The New Delhi night is heavy with moisture, burnt-garbage smoke and car exhaust. Traffic is congested yet moving: rickshaws, bicycles and cars; brightly painted Tata trucks, adorned with shiny tassels like decorated temple elephants; entire families on the backs of motorbikes, the women sitting sideways, holding on to the free end of their saris. Passengers hop off buses while others hop on, the bus never quite reaching a full stop; some hang onto the bars from the outside as the bus drives off. Cows saunter in the middle of the roads. Ian watches the chaos with huge eyes, forgetting to blink. Then he leans his head against the headrest and closes his eyes, his eyelids fluttering. She understands how he feels. There was no reason to assume it would be different for Ian simply because he is Indian. He grew up in London, after all.
Maya had been fresh out of the army when she first arrived from Tel Aviv. She had started planning her trip in the last few months of her service. All her friends talked about going to India, it was the thing to do after the army, but she was the first one to make enough money to do it, working six days a week, twelve-hour shifts as a waitress on Mango Beach. She went about planning her itinerary as she had her army office work: circled places on the map, placed sticky notes in her travel guide.
Two weeks into her trip, her backpack was stolen on a train to Varanasi: her passport, her traveller’s cheques, her address book, her clothes, her travel guide. Gone. She had nothing but the clothes on her back. It was as if someone had erased her. Not that anyone was looking for her. Her father had refused to talk to her since she had joined the army—no place for good Orthodox girls—and her mother had never been strong enough to fight him.
While she was stranded in New Delhi, sorting out the passport and traveller’s cheques, sleeping in random travellers’ rooms, she met Vijay, who ran a travel agency from a small glass cubicle in the Krishna Guest House. He and his wife, Amrita, took her in, letting her sleep in the back room, leaving homemade food in stacked tin containers by her mattress. Maya, in return, babysat their daughter, manned Vijay’s office while he was out for lunch, arranged his files in a system she had learned in the army. Amrita gave her one of her shalwar kameez to wear, stamped a bindi to the middle of her forehead, and when Maya looked in her small hand mirror, moving it over her body to try and construct a full image, she was stunned by her reflection. Her small frame, her dark skin, her straight black hair. “Like Indian girl,” Amrita gasped, wobbling her head from side to side, in that gesture Maya later adopted, somewhere between yes and no. Even her name was Hindi, Vijay said. In Hindu philosophy, Maya was the illusion we veiled our true selves with. Maya thought back to who she was before India, at the Orthodox girls-only high school her father transferred her to after he’d found God, then in the army, where she’d slept alone in an empty dorm room while the other girls went home for the weekends.
Now, when she walked the streets of New Delhi, the city made space for her, letting her in. She had never expected to experience a spiritual revelation in India, had thought it a cliché, yet here she felt she was unveiling her true self, stripping off the illusion. “Maybe you were Indian in past life,” Vijay offered, and she smiled at that, pleased.
The Krishna Guest House attendant grins as she walks in. “Namaste, didi.” He shakes his head, eyeing Ian.
“Namaste, bhai,” she says, calling him brother in return. She passes Vijay’s old office; he recently made enough money to move to Goa, where he opened an office in Panaji. She leads Ian up the dark staircase, stops at a wooden door, fumbles with a large key. The green tiled hallway is poorly lit, and she can hear the echo of conversations, Bollywood music playing from the reception area, the attendant singing along. Ian twists his nose at the smells she has become accustomed to: damp air sweetened with burning incense, Lysol, fried oil, urine.
It is bigger than the single room she usually rents, her home in New Delhi, and has a window facing the hallway. It even has hot water in the shower. Ian walks through it with a wary look, touches the sheets, squints at the ceiling fan, peeks into the washroom with its ceramic hole in the ground.
“It’s clean,” she says. “I’ve been staying in this guest house since my first trip.”
“I think you’ve been spending too much time in India.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
He kisses her, pushes her onto the bed. She squeals. The ceiling fan grunts above their heads.
They spend the next day walking up and down the main bazaar, a narrow street lined with shops and filled with backpackers, scooters, cows and emaciated dogs. The shopkeepers all know her; they invite them for chai, laugh when she speaks Hindi. Ian watches her inquisitively while the shopkeepers fling open embroidered bedspreads, urge her to feel wrap skirts and silk scarves, open boxes filled with jewellery, packages of incense and bindis. She smiles at their sales pitches. “Today, no business.” It’s too early to start shopping for the European festival season, during which she sells things from India every summer. This is her fourth time going through this cycle: she spends the fall and winter travelling through India, stocks up on merchandise during spring, and come summer—the unbearably hot monsoon season—leaves for Europe. She met Ian a few months ago while couch surfing in London. They were at a party in a huge artist loft in Soho, on the top floor of an old school. The place was bare: a record player on a desk, a stack of paintings in the corner, a double mattress and an L-shaped cream leather couch. She mistook him for an Israeli, maybe of Yemeni heritage, like her. Later he told her he’d thought she was Indian.
The real party was in the washroom, which was the size of an average bedroom, with brick walls and exposed pipes running along the high ceilings. She found herself standing beside him, crowded up against the raw concrete counter where people bent over, one at a time, to do lines of coke. He was small, compact, only a bit taller than her, his body defined and masculine. Later, when she touched his arm in conversation, she noticed his skin tone matched hers. He told her his father had left Rajasthan at sixteen with his parents and never returned. He’d met Ian’s British mother at a house party in London—Ian smiled telling her this—and married her against his parents’ wishes. Ian had never met his grandparents, and now they were both
dead.
She told him she hadn’t been on speaking terms with her father either, found herself sharing details she usually was reluctant to expose, describing the double life she had led all through high school, how she carried a pair of jeans and an eyeliner in her bag and changed in the bushes before heading off to parties in Tel Aviv. She was high and a little bit drunk, just enough to feel daring and sexy. When the party died out, the house emptied, and the grey morning poured in through the large windows, she sat straight up on the couch and said, “Let’s not go home yet.” They went to a café and ordered espressos, and the young, perky barista smiled at them and said, “You look like brother and sister.”
“Ew.” Maya twisted her face.
“No, it’s a good thing,” the barista hastened to add. “It’s a sign of harmony.” Maya and Ian laughed, looking anywhere but at each other. Outside the café they kissed. They flagged a taxi to his apartment, and by the time they made it to his front door, her bra was unfastened, his zipper undone and their lips raw and swollen.
She had moved into his apartment within three weeks. He had three other roommates, so they rarely left his room, spending days in bed, making love, drinking coffee, watching TV, ordering in. In the evenings, when Ian went to work, she’d visit him, sit at the bar and drink fancy cocktails he’d make especially for her.
The Best Place on Earth Page 14
