Sahed slapped his mobile phone on the table. “They come in ten minutes” he blurted and turned his dark face to survey Anjuna beach. Now all I could see was the dark blue of his t-shirt and the black ponytail draped down his back. I fiddled the smoke between my fingers contemplating the uncomfortable silence that had fallen around the table. Had the twit and I just executed a cultural insult? Or was this merely the silence of the stoned? I contemplated the potential paranoia and decided to turn my mind to the fishing boats bobbing on the waves before the falling sun.
Let me explain how we got this far. Yesterday had begun slowly. After eating lunch at the Mango tree, having been sat between a sleeping red, his head and arms sprawled over the bar, and Jonathan, who was explaining at great length the pros and cons of purchasing a local sim card, we decided to head down to Little Vagator beach to hire a scooter for travel to a party in Anjuna. Meandering the dusty lanes, we took the road to disco valley and decided to shortcut across Vagator beach. The sun was hovering just over the sea line and we chose to rest and contemplate in a private cove of shining black rock formations.
As we took seat on the rocks, three young, well-dressed Indian men stopped and hailed to the twit, “Hello my friend, what is your name?”
Sunjay, decked in Versace jeans and a gold print t-shirt, was clearly the alpha male of the trio. He bounded over the rocks to shake our hands. His eyes sparkled with a wry humour. Nuneb followed, gesticulating beneath his union jack flat cap that he was delighted to meet us. The smallest lad, Alaib, followed last, tapping a pristine hairstyle in a neat white t-shirt.
Quickly they established themselves to us. They worked for Sunjay’s family, a business exporting precious metals to the West. In Goa for business, they spent their days making connections and their nights in a hedonistic flurry of movements across Goa’s beaches. It came to our turn to introduce ourselves, “We were married two weeks ago and we honeymoon for a year in Asia”.
“Married!” Nuneb clapped his hands together in delight, “And why are we not invited to your wedding party?” I laughed, “We did not meet you when we had our wedding party”. “This is not good enough”, Nuneb continued in mock seriousness, “In India, the wedding party is a very big joy, a great celebration. Come with us tonight, we make you a big wedding party at our house in Baga”.
“Yes, we insist we make you wedding party,” Sunjay followed, “I want to introduce you to my brother and we cook dinner for you in our house. Come, come!”
The twit and I looked at each other and shrugged our carefree understanding. Why not? So we picked up our bags and followed them along the beach.
Sunjay opened the door to a neat, new Peugeot car. The five of us clambered in to the bass tones of Bhangra pelted at full volume into the dusk. Nuneb turned down the music so he was audible, “This is a very beautiful love song” he calls from the front passenger seat, “This song is for you two, a beautiful song for a beautiful couple”.
Sunjay revs the engine so that we accelerate to 85km per hour on the narrow winding streets. “I drive so fast the police can never catch me”, he calls back in delight, “Even when I am on a bike they cannot catch me…You know, when the police catches three of us on a bike we have a trick that makes sure we are never in trouble”. “What trick is that?” I ask. “When the policeman stops us, he will always ask to speak to my father. So I call up my friend and I speak to him in code so he knows what to say. Then I tell the policeman, ‘here is my father’. My friend will then say, ‘my son, he is such a bad boy, no respect, arrest him immediately!’ and the policeman will say, ‘don’t be so hard on your son, he is just a boy!” The boys fall about in laughter and we spend the rest of the journey discussing their future marriages. Sunjay knows that he will marry the younger sister of his brother’s wife in two years, until then he plans to live fast. To spend his nights dancing and drinking and making girls love him. Nuneb and Alaib will have marriages arranged one day, for now they learn the trade that will carry them through life and explore all the reasons under the sun to make parties.
About twenty minutes later we pull up into the driveway of a four storey house resplendent with ornate marble and balcony views. We follow the dark stairway to the fourth floor; to live any lower would mean contesting with nightly mosquito invasions. I point out my bare shoulders to Sunjay on the stairs, “Will I be ok at dinner dressed this way?” Sunjay looks me up and down. “You will be ok I think. Normally the girls we cover their arms, but your dress is not unusual in Goa”. “I know!” I exclaim, “All my other clothes I bring cover my shoulders and arms, and the one day I bare my shoulders I am invited to an India home for dinner!” The twit laughed in assertion of wardrobe choices, prudish for Goa but respectful of wider Indian traditions. “Don’t worry”, Sunjay gestures to my full length skirt, “Already you wear too much for the beach. If you looked like typical Westerners we would not have picked you up!” Again the boys through back their heads in laughter and we joined them feeling at ease and delighted by acceptance. However, I do borrow a t-shirt from Sunjay for the evening. He gives it to me as gladly as if he is clothing a long lost sister.
Leaving our shoes at the door we enter a bright white open plan living room, the floor is tiled with intricate blue and white designs. The walls of marble are cool to the touch despite the dry heat that emanates the evening air. On a long bench covered with a rose embroidered throw a serious man in his thirties sat cross legged at a slim line silver laptop. His dark eyes contemplate us and his tied back hair draped over a pressed pinstripe shirt. Sunjay turns to us, “I would like you to meet my brother Daneb”. We exchanged names with Daneb and he enquired after our occupations. Satisfied he clapped his hands together, “How wonderful to have such intelligent people as guests. Now come please, let me show you the balcony. You like Chai?” We nodded our assent. He called in Hindi to the youngest boy who had been in the car. He immediately rushed to the kitchen to prepare for us some tea.
Daneb guides us to the balcony and explains himself to us. “I am a business man. We have shops in London”. He turns directly to the Twit, “If you ever want to impress your lady wife I give you good price, good price”. The business pleasantries over, he leaned back and lit up a smoke handed to him by one of the younger boys who hurries about the apartment. “Now let me tell you about the Indian culture…”, his eyes focused directly on the Twit’s. I stepped back to take in the hierarchical activity of the household. It was clear that Daned was in charge of the operation. Sunjay, Nuneb and Alaib followed Daned’s instructions with seriousness and efficiency, and in turn they would direct two wiry boys we had not been introduced too. These two would jump to attention to complete tasks with complete concentrated obedience.
Sunjay came onto the balcony, “Please, let me show you around my home”. I follow Sunjay through tiled rooms with arching ceilings until we reach a square space, hanging from one wall was a large black marble worktop, at which a young girl in a lime green sari cut vegetables and rolled dough for the evening meal. “If you like, we show you how to make chapattis tonight. If you know of a native dish you would like to prepare then maybe you can do that too”. I jump and clap my delight at the notion. “But now Chai is ready, let us go back onto the balcony and take tea”.
Daneb’s eyes were still fixated directly at the twit’s as we returned, “See what I do not like about Western culture is that it is very cold. My cousins who live in London, I take one of their cigarettes and they say ‘why do you take my cigarette?’, while here, in any Indian home, you must treat it as your home, our cigarettes are your cigarettes, everything we have belongs together”. Sunjay joined the discussion, “Yes, Indian hospitality is very forceful, we say you come, you drink, you eat more – more! But it is warm, it is always the warmest”. “Well,” the twit puffed on the smoke handed to him by Daneb, “not all of England is like that, once you know people as a group then we are similar. If you are in my home you can help yourself to my cigarettes and likewise. I am not sure it is so different”.
“Ah but-“ continued Daneb, “Also Western culture is not willing to learn. People, they come to the beach here in Baga and they go from airport to hotel to beach to tourist restaurant. They do not learn anything about India”. I sat up and interjected passionately, I think surprising the gender strength assumptions of our hosts, “You see the tourists in Baga, they are a very poor representation of our country. Only a specific person comes to Baga and that is the person who wants to drink beer, sit on a beach and not learn. A very specific type of English person” I punctuate the air with my cigarette, “Please do not think that this type of person represents all of Western culture”.
At this point another young man steps onto the balcony and sits beside us. Sunjay offers the introductions, “Please meet Sahed, he is a very funny man”. Sahed leans forward, extending his hand, ‘And what is your good name?” I give it to him. “Now, what is your bad name?” He leans back and laughs, crinkles corner his eyes and his hands hold his heaving flat stomach, “Very good, pleased to meet me”. At this we laugh together, feeling a relaxed closeness as warm as the night. Sahed spends the next half an hour showing us aged movie clips of Bollywood love songs on his mobile phone. “This” he points to me, “is the story of young gypsy girl who falls in love with young soldier, but they cannot be together. The song is so sad and so beautiful. Together it will make you cry”. And so it goes with each video clip stored on his handset. Each clip begins with a group affirmation of the beauty of the love song, all the young men clap their hands together before their chests like a group of aged Italian grandmothers gesturing grief. “So beautiful! So romantic – this is a very beautiful love story”.
Sunjay leans forward and eyes the Twit and me with sudden seriousness, “Do you not want to learn to make chapattis?” “Of course!” His face lights up with confident delight and he takes us to the kitchen. The young girl, who we have realised is the wife of Daneb is still at work. As we knead the dough between our fingers and the twit and I roll our misshapen chapattis we discuss Nepal. The family has offices and staff there, Sunjay offers us the world of Nepal, a car to meet us, places to stay and boats to float along the winding valleys banked by jungle that teems with the exotic. The girl remains silent and deftly prepares three dishes at once, Dahl, curried potatoes and rice. The twit turns to Sunjay, “We are very privileged to eat with you today”. “No” Sunjay says, frowning at his chapatti effort, “You are not privileged, we are not government or officials, we are just humble people. It is not special”. “Well,” I chime, “I don’t think that it is privileged to eat with important people. If privileged is to eat with warm, open, genuine people, then we are most privileged indeed”. “What she said!” the twit asserts and we fall into laughter amid the sizzling spices.
At this point a red eyed white man stumbles into the kitchen, he wears dark blue three quarter combats and a half open cotton shirt. Sunjay leaps to the man, “This is my good friend Johnny”. I reach out my hand, “Pleased to meet you Johnny”. Sunjay collapses into laughter, “No no, his name is David, but each time I introduce him I give him a new name, Eric, James, Peter and now Johnny!” “Oui” the Frenchman chuckles, clearly understanding only the list of names he has been given and little else of the conversation. Nuneb enters the room and delightfully hugs the Frenchman, “David!” He exclaims and turns to us, “He is my first friend of the new year. He barely understands me but he is good person. What language do you need to share when you know that someone is good?”
Pre-dinner conversation turns serious and the twit and I nod in assent at Daneb’s statements. We are tired and the wait for nourishment is long and laid back. Daneb is angry at many things in his homeland. He is concerned for the poor of India, they have little to eat and yet they produce 5, 6, 7 children in a family. The children cannot go to school and must work or beg from infancy, “And this is crippling our country” he states in earnest. Fiery passion fervours their bellies at the poverty of their homeland. Part of the burgeoning middle classes, they are among the first to realise the benefits of development at first hand. Their expendable income and education frees them to philosophise. To analyse the economics of their country and find it lacking, to feel the fresh rise of passion at inequality. The vehemence of their statements call to mind the innocent fervour of the 1960s revolutionaries, the power of media supplementing the primary witnesses of the atrocity of war. The belief that they can forge the path to an equal India blossoms blazing and vulnerable.
Suddenly the tension snaps like a dry twig as a bell tinkle over the balcony door. “Dinner!” Daneb delightedly shows us into the living space where a long table has been covered corner to corner with china dishes. Eating is a cultural minefield for the Twit and I but we adapt. We learn to drink so that the bottle does not touch our lips, we drink Dahl from small china bowls and struggle through the rice marathon as portion after portion is piled upon our plate with cries of, “Eat more, you must eat more!” We learn that nobody should receive leftovers in India, if you want to feed a beggar it is respectful to buy him fresh food. Over dinner I tell our hosts that it is my birthday the next day. They cheer “We make birthday party! We make you big birthday party!” “Bahut bahut Shukriya!” I cry. “Who tells you this?” They ask surprised. “I have a translation book”. “What you speak is Hindu Urdu” says Daneb, “Proper Hindi language you say ‘Danuwad’”. “Danuwad” I profess and bow, my hands in prayer position.
The post dinner conversation is released from its brevity as smoke is passed around and around in a dizzying haze of sweet odour. Daneb tells us a joke, “Four men, an American man, an English man, an Israeli man and an Indian man stand on the Eiffel tower. Each one wishes to stand out and be the best. The American man raises his collar and says, ‘I have plenty of dollars in my country’ and he throws them over the edge of the tower. The British man sees this and retracts some pounds from his pocket, ‘I have lots of pounds in my country so I will throw these off the tower’. The Indian man, he stands and thinks awhile. After much thought he picks up the Israeli man, ‘I have many Israeli’s in my country’ he says as he throws him off the tower. Peals of laughter carry from the balcony. Our company show delight that we know they smoke the Bhang at the Shiva festival, and they direct us to the best. They teach us to describe our heady high from the smoke by declaring, “I feel orange!” Listening to the fast flung witticisms and the cascading laughter, we feel we are in the throng of a culture who value the art of conversation. A true appreciation for the value of the mind’s ideas.
At midnight the young girl comes out to the balcony. Having exchanged her sari for a long sleeved striped shirt and denim boot cuts, she sits and takes a beer as if she has finished work for the day. Later on I will discover that she smells of rose and jasmine. “I believe it is your birthday!” declares Daneb looking at his watch. At once, six young Indian man our professing me their hands with cheers of “Happy Birthday!” before the group mingle voices in the traditional song.
Daned then declares, “tonight we make you birthday party for tomorrow is Russian new year in the West End. Now,” He spread his palms open before him, “Lets go to paradise!”.
We take the car with Daneb and Sunjay. David, his stoned amiable silence indicating his fill of the night is taken home by Nuneb on bike. Heading to Anjuna beach, our company knows upon which bay the party of the night is located. Stretching out of the car, we hear the dull thuds of the trance beat that is ubiquitous on the Goan party scene.
To reach the party we must trek 2 kilometres down dirt tracks weaving through the dense green jungle. The sounds of wildlife breathe more melody into the air than any trance party on Goan shores. Scooters slide by in the sand left and right. One pulls and stops by the twits left. We recognize Jonathan, his equilibrium clearly inebriated, “Hey!” he calls, “You’re following an…Indian”, a momentary confusion washes his features. He turns to the twit, “We’re going to Shiva bay to light some fireworks – hope to see you there. I’m just going to get some more and head down”. He wobbled on his bike. The twit shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe, we’re on a random one ourselves tonight”. Jonathan glanced again at our company. Revving his scooter, the Englishman hailed over his shoulder, “Don’t trust them” as he sped off into the Indian night. “You know him?” Daneb enquired. “Er, we’ve kind of seen him about a couple of times, you know, at the Mango bar.” “You mean the Mango tree?” “Ah, yes, the Mango Tree”. “Ha ha, for a minute I think you talk of a bar that sells only Mangos!”
The beach is alive with candle flames illuminating stalls of cigarettes, papers and jewellery. Under the canopy of one bar revelers spasm in union to the unrelenting beat of psychedelic trance. Sunjay leaps straight to the dance floor and proffers an Indian dancing lesson, “the trick is to move only your knees and your arms”.
The twit and I head to the shore exhausted. Our brains are worn from forging neuronal paths required to learn a new language of cultural nuance. A man in a black shirt dances alone on the shoreline, his arms raised primordially to the moonlight shining directly above his path. Occasional he sits, collects himself and gathers energy to continue his primal worship.
We decide its time to leave. Daneb insists we take his scooter, there is room for Nuneb in the car. We begin our protests but they will take nothing but an affirmation of their offer. Nuneb walks us to the scooter. “I promise I will drive very slow and carefully” I say, to assure myself over my company. “There is no traffic, there will be no problem”, Nuneb replied, then his face broke into a ripple of laughter, “And if you break it – well, start selling yourself!”
The ride home is soothing. For the first time in a week cool air whisps over my skin bring calm. The only point of concern is that I can’t find the horn, the national tool to signal that you are arriving around a corner. We make it to our room with no event, and as I lean forward to take myself off the bike, a short sharp hoot fills the air making us both jump with fright. The twit bent over double with laughter, “At least we found the horn!”
Our arrangement is to arrive at Anjuna flea market the next day and call Daneb to return the bike. The market road is grid locked and numerous horn blasts add fire to the heat waves rippling off the dusty road. We park and head into the market. Anjuna flea market is according to the Lonely Planet “An essential part of the Goa experience”. I call it an assault on the senses. No sooner than had we passed the first stalls on thee market did two Indian men appear with metal rods insisting that they were ear cleaner. Without time to respond, I found my head flung to one side as the second man reached into my ear and retrieved a lump of yellow gunge from my ear with his surgical instrument. A young Israeli couple immediately screamed in unison for me to get away and not to trust them. Not entirely believing them, but fearing the raucous I tried to move my head, but the young Indian man held me fast as he delved into my ear again. I looked at the twit pleadingly and he stepped between us. I knew his strong sound exterior was not the complete picture of his cognitions and inside I thanked him. We hurried on past the stalls of silver, wood carvings, drums and saris. Young children rushed barefoot to us offering necklaces and thread metal baskets, “It is not business, I am starving” they cry as we shake our heads and move away. To our side, an aged Indian man sits propped in the dirt. His body below his torso has long been absent, the stump of his waist is now in permanent contact with the earth.
We weave our way through the endless myriad of pathways and find a bar on thee beach. Sitting cross legged in a patch of sunlight I find refuge in the relative calm underpinned by the driving beat of trance. The twit finds that the barman is happy to lend us his mobile phone and we call Daneb. He instructs us to wait ten minutes, so we sip San Miguel and share disbelief that Western girls feel free to expose their breasts to the sun in a country of conservatism, where respect is the true recognized currency.
Ten minutes later Sunjay and Nuneb skip over the beach and drop to our sides. They have slept only four hours and bounce like kittens chasing twine. “So many beautiful girls” Sunjay waves his hands at the bars clientele, “So little time”.
After a few minutes Sahed arrives with his girlfriend. A Dutch girl, blonde, tall and withdrawn. Sahed greets us with his arms open and takes us to the bars roof terrace. We stretch back and watch the world drift in the scattered sunlight. We ask Sunjay and Duneb if they will party in the West End. “No, no party, I don’t think I will play tonight”, Sunjay states, “And what about you?”. “I take my beautiful wife for a romantic dinner and a walk on the beach” he smiles, taking my hand. They rock their heads on their necks in Indian affirmative motion. Suddenly, Sunjay and Nuneb rise to their feet, “We are off!” they cry and head into the market.
Sahed rolls a smoke and hands it to me beaming, “Happy Birthday!”. The conversation is relaxed and Sahed reels at great length the history of the Anjuna flea market. The twit tells him, “We would like to have a look before the sun goes down,” he nods to the burnt red perfect sphere hovering over the crashing waves, indicating that our time was running out. “Can we show you where the bike is so we can go?”. Sahed looks over the ocean and then back of us, “Keep it with you”, he says, “Give it back tomorrow”.
The twit and I exchange glances. We both recognize the seeds of panic sowing sweat rivulets down our spine. So grateful for the abundance of hospitality we had received, we did not wish to offend, and the sudden cold snap to Sahed’s tone indicated that something lay amiss. At the same time, to keep the scooter was to be indebted to this family for longer than we wished. Why the sudden reluctance to let us go?
The twit took control of the conversation, “No no, we might leave for Agonda tomorrow. Can we give it to you now?”
“Sahed shook his head, “Bring it tomorrow to our home”. “Why don’t we bring it now?” The twit replied, “How do we get to yours?” Sahed looked again at the dancing shimmer of the ocean reflecting the sun. “You won’t find it, it is too difficult”.
The twit and I brought our heads together as Sahed’s company debated whether she would have chocolate brownie or ice cream. “What do you think?” asked the twit. “I don’t think I like this. I want them to take it back”.
“The twit leaned forward with earnest, “Can you call Sunjay so we can take him to the bike? We really want to look at the flea market”. Sahed snapped up his phone and dialed. After a brief conversation in the rhythmic tones of Hindi he put down his phone. “They come in ten minutes” he said and turned to face the ocean.
A cold aura settled. I waived between confusion, fear and the smoke induced laziness. My mind settled for the later, fear breeds misunderstanding. The only solution was to let the events unfold so that our slight may become transparent. And yet no clues came. The joyful exchange had frosted, unthawed by the furnace that was the day.
Sunjay and Nuneb soon returned and rolled a smoke. “We go after this”’ he says. My English soul, rooted in the traditional lemming style rush, fought to stay patient and take things the easy way. I nodded and closed my eyes, facing the perfect sphere of the sun. I felt hair brush my face and Sunjay’s voice vibrate the hairs by my ears, “You see my brother, he gets special food for your birthday party. That is why Sahed acts unhappy”. I open my eyes and meet Sunjay’s. I must look downcast and confused. In my head a whirl of thought fragments rolled like waves as I remained unsure how to feel. Last night I had been told that tonight was Russian new year party, and that last night had been the celebration of my birthday. Feeling delight that strangers would make such efforts, I felt my rebellious core kicking at the forcefulness. I remained wedged between juxtaposed decisions. I could take the hospitality with a nagging unease that this was not my choice, or I could turn my back on their warmth and spend my day sorry to my soul that I had offended them. I sighed as the complexities of India washed through me again. This country to me is a writhing mass of contrasts, that I seem ill equipped to navigate without sadness. And yet, how could I experience the joys and beauty of India without sadness and know India at all? To experience day without night in India is to taste a fraction of a chapter.
We waited and with heavy feet we walked Sunjay to the bike. Himself remained upbeat, as if solar powered by the never ending warmth of the environment. Nuneb tried again to extend evening hospitality to the twit who politely sidestepped the advances. “Ignore him!” cried Sunjay, “He knows not what it is to be married – am I right? Am I right? I will be calling his mother soon and say ‘marry him quick – he is too busy disturbing young love’!”
We arrive at the bike and I bow deeply as I say goodbye to Sunjay. I hope my eyes convey some of the conflict I am feeling inside. As Sunjay and Nuneb speed off in a ripple of laughter, they wave goodheartedly as they pass. We head back into the sensory confusion deflated and downhearted.
On our way to the beach we find one of the sari sellers from Vagator beach. “Ah hello!” she hails, “You remember me?” We laugh our hellos. “You look at my stall now you are here at Anjuna flea market”. She runs her hands over her goods, “You need a blanket? Or I have pretty trousers? Here, take a silver anklet – 50 rupees, good price!” “Where do you get your stuff?” I asked. “It is made in a factory in Hampi. There are two, three men who bring everything to us, we buy and give them money on market day”. I looked again at the girls stall, the mass produced history tarnishing the shimmer of her bright fabrics. “please, you buy anything? 50 rupees. I need some good luck before the man comes”. I looked down at the factory produce, mass volumes of stock for Goa’s essential experience. Again the nagging notion that I would be doing something because someone else wished it pervaded my fibres. I shook my head, “I’m sorry – I really don’t want anything”. She turned her eyes downcast. “Ok, no problem”. We shake her hand and say goodbyes. The twit and I turn hands held into the night, feeling the brevity of complexity upon our shoulders.
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