by Janet Sola
The lively French couple is gone, the hotel is very quiet. My room is the same, the aquamarine walls, the white bed, the chair by the window, the half-built bird’s nest on the book shelf. But it’s darker because the shutters are closed. The shutters are closed. The birds haven’t been able to reach their nest. Oh no. I rush to the shutters and ply them open, letting in a flood of light. I look for them but can see nothing but the hot pale sky and expanse of still water. Did those poor doves panic when they saw the path to their nest cut off? Would they have been able to build a new nest in time to lay their eggs? Did they make it?
Later I think about how to contact Sahil. Come back for the festival he said. That’s three days from now. I don’t want to show up unannounced at his studio. I find the boy who works at the hotel, give him a tip and a message to deliver to Sahil, telling him I’m back. I wait. The day passes. I ask the boy if there is a reply. He shrugs his shoulders and says nothing. I wonder if he has even delivered the message.
Time seems to pass in a series of interminable hours, each one a vast space. I walk the city streets. I look for Amar, but he is nowhere to be seen either. I visit the palaces and the museums and the shops. I talk to the aunties in the garden. I walk near the lake, watching the turtle and the stork trade places on the rock. After a day of basking in the sun, the turtle slides into the murky water, and seconds later the stork flies in on his heavy wings to perch and fish. It’s their dharma, their work, their routine. Every day the same.
That’s what I need. Routine. Work. Focus. I get out my notebook and call on Saraswati. She floats by but I can’t quiet my mind enough to welcome her to her satisfaction. I am the goddess of the arts, she murmurs to me, but I am also the goddess of the river. To flow, I need calm, I need a peaceful place. She retreats before I’ve even opened my notebook.
It’s now two days before the festival. Where can he possibly be? I am tired of waiting. I decide to go to Sahil’s studio myself. His friends are there—Manu, the handsome one, Vijay, the quiet one, and several others, painting, smoking, laughing. They are friendly enough when they see me. Sahil and I have had lunch with Manu several times. His English is not bad. Manu has a fiancé in Italy, and will soon leave to join her, so maybe he will be most sympathetic. I come to the point. “Where is Sahil?”
At first he shrugs and shakes his head. But I keep asking the same question.
“He is gone back to his village,” he says finally.
“Which village?” I ask. Again he shrugs. It’s a futile question. Every province has hundreds, maybe thousands of villages scattered in the rural country side. People don’t know each others’ villages any more than we know the names of streets in our own neighborhoods more than a few blocks away.
“He must go because his mother is sick,” Manu offers.
“But his mother lives here, in Udaipur.”
There is a pause. “Not his mother, his grandmother mother. His mother in Udaipur tells him he must go.”
“Really?” I raise my eyebrows. Why do I feel like he is being evasive? “When will he be back?”
“Maybe today. Maybe one week.”
They all bob their heads and talk to each other in Hindi, gesturing and smirking. They glance at me from time to time. Suddenly, I feel very uncomfortable. I am their friend’s girlfriend. I am also maybe a loose American woman in their minds. I can see it in their eyes the way they look at me. One of the boys has a pack of Marlboros. He flicks one out and offers it to me. “No thank you,” I say in a deliberately arch tone.
Another asks, “Do you want to go on motorcycle ride with me?”
I cringe inside and turn to go. “When Sahil comes back, please tell him I am waiting for him.”
Later, near the bus station, I see Amar, pacing and smoking in front of his taxi, a lost soul. I approach him without knowing what I will say, knowing that nothing I can say will give the slightest comfort. I reach my hand out to him, and then remembering the prohibition on touching, retract it. “I am so sorry,” I say. And then say it again. I can think of nothing else to say. A dozen questions go through my mind. Did he tell the police the entire story? Did the police do anything? I remember how the bully who had run over Sahil’s foot bought off the cop with rupees. Maybe Amar’s wife did the same. But I can’t ask any of these things. I am out of my depth.
Instead, I ask him about Sahil. No, he has not seen him for days. He believes he may have gone to his family’s village.
“Well, if you see him tell him I’m back.” He looks at me as if he hardly knows who I am, lowers his head and goes back to pacing and smoking.
The city is oddly calm this evening, as if not only Sahil, but everyone has left. I walk and walk, without purpose, near the old part of the city, where the wall of buildings opens occasionally to the ghats that lead down into the water. I almost expect to see Sahil around every corner, his smile flashing like the sun on water, making me laugh at some outlandish tale. In front of a closed shop, I see a group of chuckling people gathered around a man with dark hair. I catch my breath. Sahil. But the crowd parts and I see I was mistaken.
A murky smell wafts up from the lake, the smell of life and death that I am becoming accustomed to. A few people sit on the stone steps of the ghat by the lake, some with food, enjoying an after-dark picnic in the cool of the night. As I slow my steps to look at the scene, a tall figure steps out of the shadows and approaches me. The light is so dim I can’t see him well, but I am quite sure I haven’t met him before.
He says something that sounds like “I have something to tell you.” I ignore him and keep walking. He keeps pace just behind me, his heels clicking sharply on the stones.
“Please stop, madam, I want to talk to you.”
I can feel the tension thrum through me, but I am determined this creep is not going to intimidate me. Near a streetlight I turn around and glare at him. He looks gaunt and shabby in the yellow light. “Who are you?” I ask him. “I don’t know you. Leave me alone.”
“You are friend of that Moslem boy.”
It is odd hearing Sahil described in those words. He is Muslim, at least his father is, even though he doesn’t think of himself in those terms. Suddenly I’m aware that here is a whole other world of categorization, of intricacy and hierarchy in social relationships that I’ve been clueless about.
“What about it?” I shake my head in incredulity.
“Are you looking for him?”
He seems to know about me and Sahil. A chill creeps into my throat and moves up to fill my head. “No, I am not looking for him.” I have to make an effort to get the words out. “In any case he is out of town. In his village.” Why am I even responding to this weird guy, except maybe he has more information on Sahil’s whereabouts.
“In his village. Huh. Do his friends tell you this?” My eyes are adjusting to the weak light and I can see that he has a large Adam’s apple that moves up and down when he talks.
“Who are you?” My mouth feels full of dust.
“Do you not remember me? I meet you in town with your friend. By the clock by the railroad station.”
“Just go away.” I turn my back on him and move into my power walk, trying to look as if I have a definite purpose and know exactly where I am going. But he stays at my side, crowding me. “I want to tell you something. Because you are good woman. I want to help you.”
“Well, what is it?” I sigh as if he is annoying me instead of unnerving me, and slow down to look at him more carefully, trying to remember if I have seen that dusky angular face, the features at odds with each other, the close set intense eyes. Was he one of the people that Sahil talked to on our walks? But then Sahil talks to everyone.
“This Sahil. He is a bad boy. He has many women. He is not in his village. He is with this other woman. I am telling you the truth.”
I stop in my tracks. We are at the entrance to the tunnel passageway. A large car drives by, lights on, revealing the colors in the black and white night world, the soot on the
buildings, this guy’s dirty purple jacket, his black greasy hair.
“I do not believe you. Go away.”
A tuk-tuk drives past, and I flag it down and get in without another word. My veins are thrumming with adrenaline and confusion. I don’t believe him of course. But what if it’s true? What if everything is just a pose and Sahil is really just a hustler, and I am just one of a long stream of women. This “informer,” this sleazy man who stepped out from the shadows is obviously a nefarious character. But why would he lie? And if he were telling the truth what would Sahil’s motivation be for pretending he cared about me? For sex? To hang out with a Western woman to parade in front of his friends? For the possibility of going to America even though he denies that’s what he wants? For all of the above?
It’s my own fault. What did I expect getting involved with a guy whose culture I obviously know nothing about? What was I thinking? Yet it all seems as if I had no choice, that one event led to another and another like a string of breadcrumbs. Does the pain I’m feeling mean I’m in love with him? My breath comes in ragged gulps all the way home.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Swollen Nose
It’s the day before the festival and still no Sahil. On my way to the internet café, I pass that cliché featured on all the travelogues on India: a snake charmer. I’ve seen him before and ignored him, but now I pause. Indeed, in response to a few notes of a flute, the poor trapped creature emerges from a basket and flares and hisses. He has no fangs. The snake wallah motions for me to give him rupees and I do, before I move on. All anybody cares about is give me, give me, I think. Everything in this country is an elaborate façade, a deception, a toothless snake in the basket performing for anyone who is stupid enough to be seduced.
The usual cast of characters are at the café, but today instead of exotic and interesting, they look just grungy. Who are these people who wander around the world and whose only purpose seems to be living as cheaply as possible, to the end of avoiding any responsibility? Most of them are young, but some are older than me, some have traveled for decades, homeless, wandering the earth like modern day Ishmaels. That’s what happens when the journey becomes the destination. Save me from that fate.
I buy a chai and a sweet. I’m amazed I can eat anything. In the last couple of days, I’ve hardly touched food. The cinnamon sweet taste of chai calms me a bit, but I’m too restless to sit still in the café. I check my email. Nothing.
Time with a capital T takes up residence in front of me, a big fat elephant that won’t budge. The hours to the festival seem unending. I leave the café walk and walk. Eventually I pass the Hindi teacher’s house with its little Ganesh knocker. Ah, something to do to pull me out of my morbid self-pity. I don’t have an appointment, but maybe she’s free. Maybe she would even welcome the extra rupees. She answers my knock almost immediately.
“Oh yes, do come in,” Mrs. Singh says. “I have no more students until this evening.” We sit side by side on her purple velvet Victorian couch as we practice useful phrases for travelers. I want to have some phrases for the aunties, to tell them I appreciate their care.
“Thank you,” she says is Shukriya.
Shukriya, I repeat.
Mrs. Singh tries more complex phrases, but I am having a hard time concentrating. My mind drifts back to Sahil, to the Shadow’s ominous warnings, to my confusion and doubts. And anger. Yes, anger. I imagine how I will confront Sahil when he comes back. If he comes back. “Can you teach me to say . . . .” I want to ask my teacher if she can teach me to say “fuck off” in Hindi but I know that would give sweet Mrs. Singh great offense. I think for a moment. “Can you teach me to say ‘You are a rat,’ in Hindi?”
She raises her eyebrows in shock. “You must not say this to anyone,” she whispers. “This is the worst insult to call a person any kind of animal. Because he or she does not want to have that past life or future life.”
I am not sure Sahil believes in reincarnation, but I let it pass. “What would be an appropriate insult then?” I ask her.
“Oh my, well let’s see. Tum pagal ho. I will suggest that. It means something similar to You are crazy. Whom do you want to insult?” She tilts her head and looks at me curiously.
“Oh, no one really. It’s for . . . a story I’m writing.” I practice saying the phrase several times.
“Come, my dear,” she says, “let us move on to a higher form of language.”
Just then, I hear footsteps and clattering in another room. “My son is a noisy man,” says Mrs. Singh, shaking her head. “He is visiting again from Delhi on his vacation. What to do?” The door opens and the son enters, tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking, light brown hair, probably near my age. He picks up a newspaper from a table, mumbles something to his mother and looks me over, then takes the newspaper and leaves the room.
“I am sorry for his rudeness,” Mrs. Singh says. “We gave him a good education. He has a very good job in Delhi as a computer specialist. We have introduced him to several quite eligible young women from good families.” She shakes her head. “And with excellent dowries too, if I may say so. But as I said, he refuses to take an interest. And that is why I must work so hard.” She sighs then gives me a little sheepish smile and pats my hand. “Not that I don’t very much like teaching such a beautiful language. Well, let us continue our lesson.”
On my way home I’m cheering myself by thinking of the shock on Sahil’s face when I tell him off in Hindi when a motorcycle pulls up alongside of me. I turn to see Mrs. Singh’s son. He’s wearing a leather jacket, smiling as he guns his gleaming, growling piece of machinery. “I’m sorry I was rude. I am in a dispute with my mother. She tries to control my life in every way.”
“Quite all right. No need to apologize.” It seems in India, there is no such thing as simply walking down the street to get from point A to point B without being interrupted by men appearing from nowhere. I keep walking.
“My name is Wally by the way. My parents wanted me to have an English name.”
I nod.
“Are you from California?” he asks. He’s wheeling his motorcycle along with his feet.
I remain silent.
“I am going up the hill to catch the sunset. Would you like to go along?”
“No thank you,” I say in Hindi.
“Very good,” he says. “Good pronunciation. We could practice over a Taj beer and see the sunset. There’s a very nice restaurant at the top of the hill.”
“No. I really have to go home. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye then.”
But I walk another block and there he is again. “It will be a really excellent sunset,” he says. “A shame to miss the view of it from the hill.”
I glance at him, and suddenly, the sun glints off his hair and his teeth are gleaming white and he looks something like those heroes I’ve seen in Bollywood movies. I change my mind. Why am I making myself miserable over this player Sahil? My anger gives me energy. To get mired in misery is the stupidest possible choice. Why shouldn’t I do something fun instead of stewing in my room alone?
“All right,” I say. “Let’s catch the sunset.” I hop on. I have learned a thing or two from Sahil about being reckless.
He takes off on the long curving road that snakes up the hill. As I put my hand on the only available support, his shoulder, I see how his brown hair curves over the edge of his leather jacket. It smells like expensive leather. I wonder, absurdly, if it is all right for people to wear leather if their religion forbids eating cows.
We stop at a posh-looking restaurant with an outdoor deck that looks out to the valley below. He orders beers. The view is spectacular, but in a different way than from the mountaintop where I had been with Sahil, the mountaintop of the Monsoon Palace. There, I felt as if I was in an enchanted world inhabited by just the two of us, a world of monsoons and magic and the ghosts of maharajahs and maharanis. This feels glamorous, with its gleaming chrome tables and patrons in designer clothes, almost like bein
g back in California.
Wally talks about his apartment in Delhi and how much money he makes and will make and how his mother is trying to marry him off to various women that he does not like. I listen politely. But the more he talks the more I don’t want to be here. He asks me nothing about myself. He poses. He brags. He studies me for my reaction to him. There’s something about his arrogance, his driving manner that reminds me of my ex back in San Francisco, not a memory I particularly want to have.
“Tell me. Do you like me?” Wally suddenly asks me, staring at me in a way that is blank and intense at the same time.
I don’t know what to say. “Yes, of course. You seem like a nice person.”
“I would like to take you the festival tomorrow.”
“Oh, I don’t know even know if I’m going to the festival,” I lie, remembering my vow that it’s the last thing I’ll do before I leave this crazy, beautiful city, whether or not Sahil comes back.
The conversation wanes. I try to talk about India, its history, its philosophy, and whether people really talk about each other in terms of their religious or ethnic background as the man I think of as the Shadow talked about Sahil. Are people really identified by the religion of their parents? But Wally’s one topic of enthusiasm is himself. Without much of a response from me, his eyes glaze over and he falls into a moody silence. The sun moves slowly in its crystalline sky. When the sunset finally arrives, a show of corals and mauves, I tell him it’s time to leave. Wally lifts his glass, “A toast to sexy American women.” He smiles what seems like a fake smile, then drives me back down the mountain. “You really don’t want to miss the festival,” he says as he drops me in front of my place.
“I think I won’t go at all. I’m not really feeling well.”
“You will feel better tomorrow. You will enjoy it.” I can see that whatever I say will make no impression at all, so I say nothing. “I will pick you up. Five o’clock.” Suddenly I feel very tired, too tired to argue. When he looks around to see if anyone is looking, then leans in for a kiss, I turn my face away and offer my cheek.
