Alone in the big city
We end up in front of the station again, our friends have to leave us. Sadhna makes us recommendations, before the monumental building swallows them. With its dark, thorny roofs, gargoyles, stained glass windows, the relentless clock with Roman numerals, the station looks like an old English matron trying to uphold its solemnity amidst the tropical heat. A warm wave rises from the inside of my body to meet the outside heat: we are alone!
Finally, I feel the excitement of being able to get lost in every bend, of having to read everything without help. I look around for landmarks. A crowd crosses in front of us. We walk away and halt under an archway, next to a second-hand bookstore and a column with hanging suitcases and backpacks.
“I think it’s always straight from here. We want to go to the opposite side of the market” I say, peering down the streets.
“Let’s go!” says Sara. “Let me just smoke first, now that we’re in the shade.”
We lean back so as not to impede the passage of people going by. Sara takes the tobacco out of her waist bag and rolls a cigarette.
“Ah!” she sighs with pleasure, expelling the smoke.
“Is it the first one? Were you embarrassed to smoke?”
“In front of Sadhna, I don’t know… she is so proper.”
I take the break to give her some background context. “That was the old Victoria station, now it has a name that I can’t pronounce. Shivaji something, it’s the same name as the airport.”
Sara blows another puff. “Who was Shivaji?”
“He was a marathi warrior, from Maharastra. Many sites changed the colonial names. Sometimes it’s confusing because they use several different names… “
An old lady stands in front of Sara. I thought she wanted to ask us something, but she starts to fuss. Sara asks her to speak slower and the old woman shouts, points at her, at the cigarette, at the road, the tanned skin of her neck stretched in anger. We run away, the old woman doesn’t shut up until we’re out of her sight.
Sara puts out the cigarette on the floor.
“Finished already?” I ask.
“I don’t feel like it anymore” she says, glumly, putting away the butt.
“Smoking is not very well regarded here…”
“I saw more people smoking, that’s why I did it! Why did she only talk to me? Because I’m a woman?”
“Probably… But you can smoke! You’re not from here, you can make a stand.”
“Oh…”
We stroll along a wide avenue. I point a few more Gothic buildings, the clock tower, the courthouse… Sara prefers the elegant buildings, with smooth lines and pastel tones that contrast with them.
“I didn’t know there were so many Art Deco buildings here!”
In a huge park several groups are playing cricket, some looking very professional, dressed in identical equipment and caps, all white. Tree delineate the park and are absent from the center, it’s a flat lawn. Always walking, away from the sun whenever we can, under the trees or the archways, we proceed slowly down to the sea.
“Hi, where are you from?”
Two young men overheard me asking for directions and approached us. They are students, and without an invitation they start walking alongside us. They ask us questions, recommend us places to visit. Sara is mute, obviously uncomfortable. I want to make up an excuse but I can’t think of one. I try to be as polite as possible: “Sorry, we want to walk alone.”
“Why?” asks one of them, hurt. “We just wanted to help.”
“Thanks, we don’t want help,” I say dryly. “Goodbye.”
We leave them behind without hearing their reply. Sara is still suspicious. “What did they want?” She pulls on the straps of her top, trying to cover herself a little more.
“I don’t know, people like to talk to foreigners.”
“It was just that?”
“I think so.”
Sara straightens her clothes again, still unsatisfied. “This keeps slipping…” She fastens the top to her bra, to keep it from showing through the opening of her arms. She’s wearing baggy black pants and a dark blue top that leaves a bare semicircle on her chest. “Do you think I should be more covered?”
“I don’t think so, but people here are a bit conservative…”
“Do you think I’m not okay like this? It’s so hot, I’m already wearing pants so I won’t show my legs…” Sara looks down to examine her clothes, looking distressed. “Should I buy something to change?”
“No, you don’t need to buy anything, let’s go.”
Shortly after we manage to reach where we intended, an arch of triumph that the English erected to receive the king back in the colonial days. In the square in front of it, many Indian and foreign tourists stroll around, taking pictures and looking at the sea, at the arch and at the luxury hotel opposite. There are many police officers too, and men with cameras who come to photograph us and sell the picture. Sara shuffles along reluctantly, arms crossed over her chest.
“Let’s go… I don’t feel good in this outfit. People are looking…”
“They look because we’re foreigners, don’t think about it.” I point with my eyes to a blond woman in tiny shorts and a tank top. “Look there, that’s an inappropriate cleavage.”
“It’s just like mine, she just has a bigger chest. I want something to cover myself.”
I sigh impatiently. For a moment, it’s like she’s responsible for the distress, for not knowing how to behave, and for us having to stand in the sun, roasting. Since I can’t do anything against millennia of deep-rooted customs, in an impulse I react against Sara. “You’re making a storm… no one is noticing you, and if they do, that’s all there is to it, there are police everywhere.”
“But it’s uncomfortable! I can’t be at ease… The worst is not even the men, it’s the women staring with contempt.”
Luckily everything is sold on the street, as soon as we pass the security barriers and leave the perimeter, we find a lady selling clothes. She has several kurtas scattered on the floor, none particularly pretty. In a hurry to cover herself, Sara chooses a blue one and dresses it right away.
“Let’s go home?”
Sadhna’s family is thrilled to see Sara in Indian attire. They’re sad to see us leaving so soon, we’re going to take the night train with Rahul. After a snack they bring us presents. I get a little pouch for the trip, so I don’t leave empty-handed, but what they really want is to doll up Sara, she gets a set of earrings, necklace, bracelets, anklets. Sadhna’s sister helps her puts on the jewelry and paints a red dot between her eyebrows, a bindi.
“Go, take a picture of your beautiful wife!” she tells me, overjoyed with the result.
Sara regained her joy and enters the game. She ties up her hair to show off the earrings, bends her leg in a ballet pose to push up her pants and reveal the anklets, spreads her henna-painted fingers and shows a silly smile for the camera.
The mother is in a flashy orange and purple sari with gold embroidery, the father wears pants and a shirt, like I’ve never seen him at home. I notice they have dressed for the occasion. I look around for a place to put the camera, we get into position and wait for the shot: in the front row Sadhna’s father, her sister, and mother, seated in the chairs and looking very solemn. In the back row, standing and smiling, me, Sara and Sadhna.
Perpetual Motion is a serial novel. Go to the Table of Contents to read previous posts.
