MADE IN NIRVANA
Chapter 31
Life is beautiful!
The bus was running and Maria was looking at the fertile Goan landscape, with its bright green fields. She wasn't so sure she had made the right decision; she could have waited another week, after all. Why had she left? To put him to the test? To put herself to the test? She could only send him Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, now that she knew it would reach him, and hope that he would come and join her. She looked around.
The young man next to her introduced himself, he was Swiss-French, travelling with a couple of friends sitting behind them and they were all going to Hampi. It was a consolation to know she had already found some fellow travellers.
As the bus drove further away from the coast and into central India, the lush tropical landscape was gradually becoming more barren and dry. She looked out of the window and pondered; as more and more miles separated her from Goa the more she missed Paul and her friends. Would she ever see them again? She focused on what was going on outside, but this time the children chasing their bicycle wheels, the women washing their pots, the white oxen with long horns, were not enough to dispel the heaviness she felt in her heart; everything seemed to be in black and white. The temperature rose and the dust came in through the open windows, hour after hour of a monotonous, endless journey.
It was already evening when they reached the town of Hospet, where the coach ended its run. With the Swiss friends she went up to a small guesthouse where they could spend the night; it was as squalid as the town. The next morning they covered on foot the few hundred yards that separated them from the coach station and caught a bus to Hampi. The Swiss couple had done some research and they told her that the city had been partly destroyed centuries ago; nevertheless there were two thousand temples still intact, some very big, others much smaller. It took only an hour to reach Hampi, and they were not disappointed.
The barren hills and rounded boulders created a lunar landscape against the deep blue sky. A stone's throw from the square where the bus stopped towered an extraordinary temple at least ten stories high, covered in exquisite sculptures. The Swiss girl read in her guide book that it was called Virupaksha Temple. There were no hotels, just a shabby boarding house on Hampi's only street. The few tourists who travelled here settled in one of the many stone temples, rich in statues and bas-reliefs, mainly images of people and elephants sculpted on the walls, and shared the space with the numerous monkeys. Maria had no desire to be alone and so, when the new friends invited her to stay with them, she gladly accepted. They were looking for a small temple in particular, which had been recommended by a friend and had an unforgettable name: Vishnu Temple Number Two, to distinguish it from Vishnu Temple Number One, obviously.
Their friend had drawn them a map, which they were now faithfully following. They came to the end of the dusty main road and, from there, took a side trail covered in dry vegetation, sprinkled with the same fine dust. A hundred yards below flowed a wide green river, which cut the lunar valley in two and made it look more alive, less unreal. With pea-green fields lining its banks, it brightened up the white and barren landscape, giving some movement and life to that place, seemingly motionless for hundreds of years. As they progressed, out of the dusty vegetation they were walking in, they began to notice an ever increasing number of stone temples, some in ruins, others in reasonable condition. They asked a local man where Vishnu Temple Number Two was. Without hesitation, he pointed north; it was up there, a small temple. They climbed the steep hillside, toward their 'new home'.
It was a lovely temple, decorated with beautiful bas-reliefs, partitioned by elegant stone columns and open to the landscape on the front side. It was deserted, except for a few monkeys roaming idly who climbed on the roof, watching the new arrivals with curiosity. The couple settled at the back of the temple, while Maria laid out her sleeping bag near the front, from where she could see the river. The young man travelling with them put his things next to hers, leaving the couple a little privacy. And now, what should they do with their luggage if they wanted to explore the area? Apparently, their map-drawing friend took his most important things to the chai-shop during the day, while leaving the remaining luggage at the temple, confident that no one would steal them. It was strange not to have a door to close behind them, nothing to cook with; what would they do for food?
She went down to the river to wash off the dust from the journey. As soon as she entered the shallow water she felt a strong current, while the sun was so hot it was like being inside a furnace. She undressed and looked around: there was no one in sight, so she removed all her clothes. She plunged naked into the water, keeping close to the shore, careful not to get carried away by the current. The warmth of the sun on her skin brought back memories of Goa and Paul. Everything would have been so much nicer, had he been there too. Sitting on the river bank's round rocks she washed her body with soap and her hair with shampoo, savouring the wonderful contrast between the cold water and the scorching sun. Clean and refreshed, she slowly climbed the hillside back to her temple. She felt lonely. She took out her colours, paintbrushes and a few sheets of paper. She could paint, there was no shortage of subjects and total peace all around her, but she had no enthusiasm.
They all had a rest in the shade, waiting for the midday heat to relent. As soon as it cooled a little, they ventured out to explore Hampi, taking money and passports with them. In a bag that could be left at the chai-shop, they put other important things, and left their sleeping bags at the temple, to show it was already 'rented'.
The chai-shop was full of westerners eating or drinking chai. They ordered a vegetarian dish and, whilst waiting, looked around. Maria noticed a young man with a guitar, strumming classical music; she thought she recognized him. She observed him a little longer before approaching him. "Fabio?" she asked shyly. He looked up and yes, it was him, a great friend of Ester.
"Mamma mia, what a surprise! What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I'm visiting Hampi. What about you?"
"I'm doing a yoga course. I've been here for weeks. I found a good teacher and I live in his ashram! Are you alone?"
"Yes, except for a small group of Swiss people with whom I travelled from Goa."
Italians liked to travel in groups and it was unusual to find someone travelling alone. In this, they were alike.
"Where are you staying?" he asked.
"At Vishnu Temple Number Two," she replied, and they laughed heartily.
That week Maria spent a lot of time with Fabio. In the mornings she would paint and he did yoga, but around lunch time she was sure to find him at the chai-shop near the ashram, with his beloved guitar. While the owner was preparing bhaji and chapatis, Fabio played; he played as he talked with her, as he looked around absently, and she noticed that he never paid.
"Do you ever pay for what you eat, or for the chai?"
"They don't want me to."
"How come?"
"Because they want me to come here and play. For them it's a good enough payment."
"What do you play to the Indians?" she asked.
"Bach, of course," he replied, making her smile.
She enjoyed his company. Fabio took her to see the ashram where he lived, immersed in an atmosphere of peace and surrounded by a garden full of flowers, unusual in such a dry climate. He took her to see parts of Hampi she would never have discovered on her own and insisted that she go to sleep in the main temple, the tallest building. "It's a unique experience!" he said. "There must be hundreds of pilgrims. You said you wanted to see the real India. In there you'll find it. You've got to go, at least once!"
Maria told him about Paul and of how she'd left Goa, agreeing to meet up here in Hampi. Now, however, she was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of her decision. She realized that what she had found in him was more than special; and what if he wasn't able to come? What if he ran into problems? They had no way of communicating.
Fabio, who had adopted the Indian philosophy of life, told her not to worry: "If he is the right person he will come, otherwise, it means he's not the right person. Have faith in your life and enjoy Hampi, while you're here!"
She postponed day after day but, on the sixth day, she took his advice and went to the temple with her sleeping bag. She took her passport and money with her while the Swiss friends would keep an eye on her other luggage. She entered shyly, wondering whether people would want to know what she was doing there, but no one paid her any attention.
This temple was much larger than any other Hindu temple she had visited before and was as tall as a cathedral. Inside, hundreds of pilgrims had settled as well as they could, some were cooking on kerosene stoves, while others were eating or resting. Maria had had dinner with Fabio who, until the last minute, had encouraged her to come. And here she was! She found a small empty space on the floor where she laid her sleeping bag with her head pointing toward the wall; she was the only westerner there. She pushed her purse with money and passport toward the bottom end of her sleeping bag and slipped inside it. It was hot, but she felt more protected like that.
She closed her eyes and wondered what on earth she was doing there, alone, along with hundreds of Indians. She opened her eyes again and looked up, feeling as small as a grain of sand compared to the dizzying height of the temple. She was tired and tried to sleep, but the floor was hard and there was constant noise: people coughing, talking, snoring, always a new sound that kept her awake. Besides, if she fell asleep wouldn't someone cut her sleeping bag and steal her purse? While these thoughts were going through her mind, she felt a light, but firm, touch on her feet.
She lifted her head and saw an old man with white hair sitting on the floor, looking at her. He patted her feet once again and, moving his hand up and down, as if to say 'don't worry, I'm here', he let her know she could relax. To be even clearer, he brought his index finger to his eye and then pointed it at her feet: 'I'll keep an eye on your things', he was signalling. Then, moving his open hand up and down, he said: "Shanti, shanti!" She touched her forehead, in a sign of respect and gratitude, and smiled at this grandfather, who looked back at her, nodding calmly.
She closed her eyes, smiling. Fabio was right, she couldn't possibly miss such an experience. Her thoughts went to Paul, who should by now be on the road; if he had left Goa that morning he was probably in Hospet at that very moment. Tomorrow she would know. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, she murmured; she'd have to trust her life, there wasn't anything else she could do.
She slept very little, and when she awoke, the white-haired old man was still there, next to her feet. She thanked him and, in the cool hours of the morning, her sleeping bag under her arm, she walked slowly back to her temple. She tried to rest, so the time would pass more quickly, but she couldn't sleep; those waiting hours were endless.
She decided to go to the river to bathe. With her soap, shampoo and towel she descended the steep hill leading to the river bank and noticed, further down on the same side, a couple of women washing clothes. They were beating them with a stick that looked like a baseball bat against a flat rock, absently turning them every now and then, whilst talking to each other, without haste. The women glanced curiously at Maria, who waved at them, smiling; they responded with one of their candid smiles. They kept looking at her and, not to offend them, she kept her knickers and bra on. She lathered and rinsed her body and, when she dipped her head in the river, she noticed once again how strong the current was. She shampooed her hair and decided to immerse herself completely in the shallow water to rinse it thoroughly.
Suddenly she lost her footing on the round slimy stones and slipped. She managed to break the fall by placing one hand on the riverbed but, in that brief moment, the strength of the current scooped her up and, holding her in its formidable grip, swept her away. She tried to find the bottom with her feet, but couldn't, and neither could she stop. The river was pulling her along, in an incomprehensible vortex. She was still close to the shore, but the current was dragging her further away. She looked toward the women, who had seen her fall, and shouted: "Ji! Ji!", while floundering in the ever deeper water, desperately trying not to sink, in the throes of a panic that made her feel faint. She tried to scream, but her voice died in her throat; she spat out the water that filled her mouth as she tried to breathe; she searched for the women with her eyes clouded by water, her arm raised, but her head disappeared ever more often under the overwhelming river. Her lungs were bursting and she wanted to cry. She couldn't die like this.
The young man next to her introduced himself, he was Swiss-French, travelling with a couple of friends sitting behind them and they were all going to Hampi. It was a consolation to know she had already found some fellow travellers.
As the bus drove further away from the coast and into central India, the lush tropical landscape was gradually becoming more barren and dry. She looked out of the window and pondered; as more and more miles separated her from Goa the more she missed Paul and her friends. Would she ever see them again? She focused on what was going on outside, but this time the children chasing their bicycle wheels, the women washing their pots, the white oxen with long horns, were not enough to dispel the heaviness she felt in her heart; everything seemed to be in black and white. The temperature rose and the dust came in through the open windows, hour after hour of a monotonous, endless journey.
It was already evening when they reached the town of Hospet, where the coach ended its run. With the Swiss friends she went up to a small guesthouse where they could spend the night; it was as squalid as the town. The next morning they covered on foot the few hundred yards that separated them from the coach station and caught a bus to Hampi. The Swiss couple had done some research and they told her that the city had been partly destroyed centuries ago; nevertheless there were two thousand temples still intact, some very big, others much smaller. It took only an hour to reach Hampi, and they were not disappointed.
The barren hills and rounded boulders created a lunar landscape against the deep blue sky. A stone's throw from the square where the bus stopped towered an extraordinary temple at least ten stories high, covered in exquisite sculptures. The Swiss girl read in her guide book that it was called Virupaksha Temple. There were no hotels, just a shabby boarding house on Hampi's only street. The few tourists who travelled here settled in one of the many stone temples, rich in statues and bas-reliefs, mainly images of people and elephants sculpted on the walls, and shared the space with the numerous monkeys. Maria had no desire to be alone and so, when the new friends invited her to stay with them, she gladly accepted. They were looking for a small temple in particular, which had been recommended by a friend and had an unforgettable name: Vishnu Temple Number Two, to distinguish it from Vishnu Temple Number One, obviously.
Their friend had drawn them a map, which they were now faithfully following. They came to the end of the dusty main road and, from there, took a side trail covered in dry vegetation, sprinkled with the same fine dust. A hundred yards below flowed a wide green river, which cut the lunar valley in two and made it look more alive, less unreal. With pea-green fields lining its banks, it brightened up the white and barren landscape, giving some movement and life to that place, seemingly motionless for hundreds of years. As they progressed, out of the dusty vegetation they were walking in, they began to notice an ever increasing number of stone temples, some in ruins, others in reasonable condition. They asked a local man where Vishnu Temple Number Two was. Without hesitation, he pointed north; it was up there, a small temple. They climbed the steep hillside, toward their 'new home'.
It was a lovely temple, decorated with beautiful bas-reliefs, partitioned by elegant stone columns and open to the landscape on the front side. It was deserted, except for a few monkeys roaming idly who climbed on the roof, watching the new arrivals with curiosity. The couple settled at the back of the temple, while Maria laid out her sleeping bag near the front, from where she could see the river. The young man travelling with them put his things next to hers, leaving the couple a little privacy. And now, what should they do with their luggage if they wanted to explore the area? Apparently, their map-drawing friend took his most important things to the chai-shop during the day, while leaving the remaining luggage at the temple, confident that no one would steal them. It was strange not to have a door to close behind them, nothing to cook with; what would they do for food?
She went down to the river to wash off the dust from the journey. As soon as she entered the shallow water she felt a strong current, while the sun was so hot it was like being inside a furnace. She undressed and looked around: there was no one in sight, so she removed all her clothes. She plunged naked into the water, keeping close to the shore, careful not to get carried away by the current. The warmth of the sun on her skin brought back memories of Goa and Paul. Everything would have been so much nicer, had he been there too. Sitting on the river bank's round rocks she washed her body with soap and her hair with shampoo, savouring the wonderful contrast between the cold water and the scorching sun. Clean and refreshed, she slowly climbed the hillside back to her temple. She felt lonely. She took out her colours, paintbrushes and a few sheets of paper. She could paint, there was no shortage of subjects and total peace all around her, but she had no enthusiasm.
They all had a rest in the shade, waiting for the midday heat to relent. As soon as it cooled a little, they ventured out to explore Hampi, taking money and passports with them. In a bag that could be left at the chai-shop, they put other important things, and left their sleeping bags at the temple, to show it was already 'rented'.
The chai-shop was full of westerners eating or drinking chai. They ordered a vegetarian dish and, whilst waiting, looked around. Maria noticed a young man with a guitar, strumming classical music; she thought she recognized him. She observed him a little longer before approaching him. "Fabio?" she asked shyly. He looked up and yes, it was him, a great friend of Ester.
"Mamma mia, what a surprise! What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I'm visiting Hampi. What about you?"
"I'm doing a yoga course. I've been here for weeks. I found a good teacher and I live in his ashram! Are you alone?"
"Yes, except for a small group of Swiss people with whom I travelled from Goa."
Italians liked to travel in groups and it was unusual to find someone travelling alone. In this, they were alike.
"Where are you staying?" he asked.
"At Vishnu Temple Number Two," she replied, and they laughed heartily.
That week Maria spent a lot of time with Fabio. In the mornings she would paint and he did yoga, but around lunch time she was sure to find him at the chai-shop near the ashram, with his beloved guitar. While the owner was preparing bhaji and chapatis, Fabio played; he played as he talked with her, as he looked around absently, and she noticed that he never paid.
"Do you ever pay for what you eat, or for the chai?"
"They don't want me to."
"How come?"
"Because they want me to come here and play. For them it's a good enough payment."
"What do you play to the Indians?" she asked.
"Bach, of course," he replied, making her smile.
She enjoyed his company. Fabio took her to see the ashram where he lived, immersed in an atmosphere of peace and surrounded by a garden full of flowers, unusual in such a dry climate. He took her to see parts of Hampi she would never have discovered on her own and insisted that she go to sleep in the main temple, the tallest building. "It's a unique experience!" he said. "There must be hundreds of pilgrims. You said you wanted to see the real India. In there you'll find it. You've got to go, at least once!"
Maria told him about Paul and of how she'd left Goa, agreeing to meet up here in Hampi. Now, however, she was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of her decision. She realized that what she had found in him was more than special; and what if he wasn't able to come? What if he ran into problems? They had no way of communicating.
Fabio, who had adopted the Indian philosophy of life, told her not to worry: "If he is the right person he will come, otherwise, it means he's not the right person. Have faith in your life and enjoy Hampi, while you're here!"
She postponed day after day but, on the sixth day, she took his advice and went to the temple with her sleeping bag. She took her passport and money with her while the Swiss friends would keep an eye on her other luggage. She entered shyly, wondering whether people would want to know what she was doing there, but no one paid her any attention.
This temple was much larger than any other Hindu temple she had visited before and was as tall as a cathedral. Inside, hundreds of pilgrims had settled as well as they could, some were cooking on kerosene stoves, while others were eating or resting. Maria had had dinner with Fabio who, until the last minute, had encouraged her to come. And here she was! She found a small empty space on the floor where she laid her sleeping bag with her head pointing toward the wall; she was the only westerner there. She pushed her purse with money and passport toward the bottom end of her sleeping bag and slipped inside it. It was hot, but she felt more protected like that.
She closed her eyes and wondered what on earth she was doing there, alone, along with hundreds of Indians. She opened her eyes again and looked up, feeling as small as a grain of sand compared to the dizzying height of the temple. She was tired and tried to sleep, but the floor was hard and there was constant noise: people coughing, talking, snoring, always a new sound that kept her awake. Besides, if she fell asleep wouldn't someone cut her sleeping bag and steal her purse? While these thoughts were going through her mind, she felt a light, but firm, touch on her feet.
She lifted her head and saw an old man with white hair sitting on the floor, looking at her. He patted her feet once again and, moving his hand up and down, as if to say 'don't worry, I'm here', he let her know she could relax. To be even clearer, he brought his index finger to his eye and then pointed it at her feet: 'I'll keep an eye on your things', he was signalling. Then, moving his open hand up and down, he said: "Shanti, shanti!" She touched her forehead, in a sign of respect and gratitude, and smiled at this grandfather, who looked back at her, nodding calmly.
She closed her eyes, smiling. Fabio was right, she couldn't possibly miss such an experience. Her thoughts went to Paul, who should by now be on the road; if he had left Goa that morning he was probably in Hospet at that very moment. Tomorrow she would know. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, she murmured; she'd have to trust her life, there wasn't anything else she could do.
She slept very little, and when she awoke, the white-haired old man was still there, next to her feet. She thanked him and, in the cool hours of the morning, her sleeping bag under her arm, she walked slowly back to her temple. She tried to rest, so the time would pass more quickly, but she couldn't sleep; those waiting hours were endless.
She decided to go to the river to bathe. With her soap, shampoo and towel she descended the steep hill leading to the river bank and noticed, further down on the same side, a couple of women washing clothes. They were beating them with a stick that looked like a baseball bat against a flat rock, absently turning them every now and then, whilst talking to each other, without haste. The women glanced curiously at Maria, who waved at them, smiling; they responded with one of their candid smiles. They kept looking at her and, not to offend them, she kept her knickers and bra on. She lathered and rinsed her body and, when she dipped her head in the river, she noticed once again how strong the current was. She shampooed her hair and decided to immerse herself completely in the shallow water to rinse it thoroughly.
Suddenly she lost her footing on the round slimy stones and slipped. She managed to break the fall by placing one hand on the riverbed but, in that brief moment, the strength of the current scooped her up and, holding her in its formidable grip, swept her away. She tried to find the bottom with her feet, but couldn't, and neither could she stop. The river was pulling her along, in an incomprehensible vortex. She was still close to the shore, but the current was dragging her further away. She looked toward the women, who had seen her fall, and shouted: "Ji! Ji!", while floundering in the ever deeper water, desperately trying not to sink, in the throes of a panic that made her feel faint. She tried to scream, but her voice died in her throat; she spat out the water that filled her mouth as she tried to breathe; she searched for the women with her eyes clouded by water, her arm raised, but her head disappeared ever more often under the overwhelming river. Her lungs were bursting and she wanted to cry. She couldn't die like this.
Like a film in slow motion, she saw one of the women stand up, take the sari she was washing and, holding one end in her hand, launch it into the water. The five yards of fabric came undone, slowly freeing their whole length along the river's flow. She shouted something that Maria didn't understand. The other woman stood up, too, and did the same with one of her saris. Maria glimpsed one coloured stripe, and then another, coming loose and floating above the green water, swelling with air bubbles here and there. She was approaching them, driven by the current. She couldn't miss the hold. And there were the saris, right in front of her face. She grabbed the first one, and straight after, the second one. While the river dragged her along by her legs, powerful, unforgiving, the two women began to pull the saris toward their rock and, with them, Maria.
She stopped floundering and clung to the cloth with trembling hands, afraid of losing her grip. She let herself be pulled, unable to help, all the way to the boulders. Through water and tears clouding her vision she saw the two women holding out their hands to her. They grabbed her, hoisted her out forcefully and sat her on their boulder. She was a dead weight, shaking, and exhausted. She clung to them, crying, coughing, struggling to recover her breath. They stroked her back and gave reassuring pats on her head, as one did with a child, to say 'it's over, don't worry'. And they laughed, they literally laughed. "Okay, okay!" they were saying.
"Dhanyavad, dhanyavad," thank you, thank you, murmured Maria, spitting water and retching. Streams of tears flowed uncontrollably down her cheeks, violent sobs shook her from inside, unable to stop crying, shaken up.
So close! It had been so close, and she would have gone forever. Those women had saved her life. They spoke in their language, repeating 'okay, okay', comforting her, stroking her forehead, wiping her tears, patting her back and laughing, with those perfect white teeth, as if nothing serious had happened. They wrapped one of their saris around her shoulders, to shelter her from the sun and to cover her semi-naked body, while continuing with the reassuring caresses, stroking her shoulders and head, laughing! They let her cry, and comforted her until she calmed down and was able to return their smile.
Still trembling, Maria stood up and bowed with folded hands to thank them, touching her forehead, many times. Finally she walked away, unstable, deeply shaken, aware of her almost nakedness, to the place where she had left her clothes, a hundred yards up the hill. The women followed her with their eyes, talking to each other. Maria got dressed, continuing to blow kisses on the tips of her hand toward the two women, who laughed.
With trembling knees, climbing with the help of her hands, she made her way up the dusty hill and reached Vishnu Temple Number Two which was, at that time, deserted. She sat cross-legged, looking at the blue sky over the green river and with her hands clasped in front of her heart, her voice still a faint breath, she whispered Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. She wept without restraint, vomiting on the dry grass the little food she had inside, and wept again, unable to control herself. Little by little, she began to calm down and wiped her tears, beginning to feel, at last, grateful. Gratitude swelled her heart to bursting point, and moved her. She was grateful for her life, so precious, fleeting, irreplaceable and, if her legs had been able to hold her, she would have danced. Thank you! This moment was a new beginning; she could feel it in her heart. If Paul was going to arrive, he would be on the bus from Hospet at that very moment, and she was alive, without a scratch. She lay down on the cool stone, closed her eyes and thought of Gemma, her mother. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.
She had a stick of kajal in the bottom of her bag. With her fingers still trembling, she put on some light make up, while her long hair dried in the hot muggy air. She clasped Jean-Claude's silver anklets, put on her earrings and her turquoise necklace. Slowly, she made her way toward the square. There was still time before the bus was due to arrive and she walked past the chai-shop, hoping to find Fabio. He was there, with his guitar and his Bach.
"What happened?" he asked, as soon as he saw her.
She told him what had happened down at the river, but Fabio wasn't easily fazed; he listened in silence. "Thank goodness," he said only. Maria calmed down a little more and ordered a chai.
"Would you come with me to wait for the bus?"
"If you like!"
"Yes, very much."
They walked together in silence, and then sat down to wait, while Fabio played something sweet and relaxing. "Life is beautiful," said Maria. He smiled, without looking at her, and continued to play sweet arpeggios.
Preceded by the noise and the dust, the bus made its entrance and stopped in the middle of the square. Maria's heart didn't dare beat too strong. The people stood up, but she couldn't see him. The passengers began to get off and her mind was completely blank. Finally, at the back of the bus, she saw that blond distinctive head, taller than all the others. Paul looked out and their eyes met. Maria walked toward the bus, excited and, as in a dream, waited for him to get down. Without a word, he dropped his bag to the ground, pulled her to him and kissed her on the lips. Then he picked her up, lifting her off the ground, and kissed her again, laughing.
They spent a couple of days in Vishnu Temple Number Two, which was now their home. The Swiss friends had left and Paul and Maria found themselves within the absolute peace of that lunar landscape, ancient and magical. They started to re-connect, as Paul said, certain that Maria had always been his companion.
Together, they left for their journey, which first took them to the major cities of Mysore and Bangalore, where life was faster and better organized than in north India. Then they spent a few weeks in the mountains of Tamil Nadu, in Kodaikanal, a town six thousand feet above sea level, rich in lakes, waterfalls and green landscapes, impressive and wonderful. It had once housed the British colonists, who went there to spend the summer months when the heat in the cities was unbearable. The settlers had gone, but the beautiful homes they had built remained.
In one of these mansions Maria and Paul were able to stay for very little money and, with it, came also a waiter-cum-butler who was determined to serve them in every possible way. Maria nicknamed him 'Friday', like Robinson Crusoe's friend because, like him, he had appeared out of nowhere and didn't want to leave. His expression was calm, his pace slow. He taught her to appreciate the present, often recommending that she do things in a more relaxed fashion: "Go slowly, Madam, much better," he'd say, with a sweet smile. He'd turn up with local produce, seasonal vegetables and fruits, and refused to take the money they offered him. He'd call Paul 'sahib', which meant 'Sir', a term used in the days of colonialism by Indian people addressing the English settlers, and looked at him with an expression of admiration and affection. He'd appear at his side whenever there was damp wood to dry, the fireplace to light in the cool evenings, kerosene to find, potatoes to peel. They became accustomed to his presence, pampered by his loving gestures, grateful for his help, and 'Friday' became a beautiful part of those two weeks that seemed like a honeymoon. Maria observed how Paul behaved with local people; this man of courteous, thoughtful manners, awakened the desire to be close to him in everyone he met, and she liked him more every day.
They spent a few weeks in Kerala, exploring it far and wide. In this state full of contrasts, there were churches, crosses and lots of communists; it was normal to see protest marches led by banners and dotted with countless red flags. One day, in Cochin, they decided to take a tour of the canals crisscrossing the region. Boats sailed on a course covered in leaves and lotus flowers, effortlessly cutting through them in their advance, revealing the green water underneath.
While waiting for their boat, Maria noticed a little girl of about three years of age, who was playing with stones near the road. Behind her a stray dog was rummaging in the garbage, but it had no luck and didn't find anything to eat. It began to move toward the child; it was dirty, skinny and there was something sinister in the way it progressed, almost crawling.
Maria called Paul's attention: "Look at that dog, doesn't it look weird?"
Standing up, Paul watched it. "I don't like the way he moves; it's not normal," he said.
Just then the dog approached the little girl from behind while she, unaware of its presence, continued to play. It stood on its hind legs, put its front paws on her shoulders and began to lick her. The girl screamed with terror. Paul was already running. He reached the child and picked her up, holding her in his arms, pushing the dog away with his foot. The local people ran over, shouting. There was an exchange of cries in the local language, one of the men got hold of the dog, while others turned to Paul, saying 'rabies, rabies'. A few minutes later, the child's mother came running and took her crying daughter from Paul's arms, thanking him for saving her.
Travelling with Paul was quite a unique experience; his presence attracted the attention of men and women. He stood out as a very handsome man but, more remarkable still, was the charm he exuded, an alchemy of warmth, calmness and kindness, accompanied by a ready smile. He was growing a beard and looked more and more like the images of Jesus Christ that people kept in each store of Kerala. They'd look at Paul, then turn to the image hanging on the wall, of Jesus with a red heart drawn in the open chest, and turn back to look at him, saying 'same same', meaning that they looked alike, and laugh. Maria went unnoticed when they were together and she got used to the fact that Paul was the centre of attention. He had a good knowledge of India and Indian people and with him she began to understand their way of thinking.
A couple of weeks later they were in Kanyakumari, in the state of Tamil Nadu, the southernmost tip of India. It was a sacred place, where the waters of the Bay of Bengal, the Arabian Sea and the Indian Ocean met and blended, among conflicting waves, into a single expanse. It was a point of pilgrimage; many Hindus bathed in the sea, where an ancient temple on the furthest rock marked that important geographical and mystical point. The men wore very little, while the women entered the sea fully dressed in their saris, advancing with difficulty through the waves, where they submerged, doing 'puja', their prayers.
Maria and Paul were staying in one of the small hotels in the area and noticed how some men celebrated the pilgrimage by drinking generous quantities of beer and spirits. That evening they were returning to their hotel after a walk along the beach; it was almost dark and there was no one around, when they saw a man lying in the middle of the road. They approached and understood immediately that he was alive, but completely drunk.
"If he stays here he'll get hit by a car," said Paul, worried. "Give me a hand Maria; let's move him to a safer place." He lifted him under his arms, while Maria got hold of his legs.
"He's so heavy!" she gasped.
"We're doing him a great favour!" Paul said, panting. "Tomorrow, when he wakes up, we'll get him to buy us a drink." And they burst out laughing.
It was hard work moving him to the side of the road, but the man didn't seem to notice anything. They were walking away, when they saw him crawl and lie again in the middle of the road. They looked at each other, shocked, and laughed again.
"Look at that!" Maria said. "What do we do now?"
"We need to do something more drastic, otherwise the first car that goes past will make mush of him!" Paul said, looking around. "I thought I saw a ditch, a few feet from the road; let's put him in there, at least he won't be able to escape so easily," he said firmly.
They retraced their steps, grabbed hold of the man by his feet and armpits and, in the dim light of a half moon, carried him to the ditch, where a bed of dry leaves formed a soft base. Maria went down first, then helped Paul lower the man, who was sleeping soundly, and laid him on the bed of leaves. Paul climbed back out the ditch and held his hand out to Maria, hoisting her up. They stopped to observe him. "Stay there and sleep until tomorrow!" Paul ordered. As if to reassure them he wouldn't move, the man started to snore loudly, sounding like a motorcycle warming up its engine. They laughed for a third time, happy and satisfied to have helped another human being. Paul put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her. Slowly they walked toward their guesthouse.
They travelled up the west coast of India, stopping in a tiny lovely town. In Mahabalipuram there was a huge temple, a stone's throw from the sea, the only one remaining out of seven original temples. The whole town was decorated with bas-reliefs, sculpted everywhere, from the caves to the temples scattered in the surrounding fields. That too was a place of pilgrimage, but less touristy and more spiritual than Kanyakumari. The male population was dedicated to carving the stone and were skilled craftsmen. From morning till night you could hear the tick tick of chisels that, with patience and skill, gave shape to statues, large and small. Students were practicing under the eyes of the elders and carved all the rocks around, turning them into works of art. That background noise accompanied every action and every thought of the day, beating the same slow rhythm that Maria felt within herself; a constant feeling of exhaustion accompanied her from the moment she woke up and throughout the day, but she thought it would pass.
They continued up the coast and stopped in Madras. The city was huge, featuring dozens of high temples, composed of countless floors, each adorned with hundreds of statues of gods, painted in bright colours. They found a boarding house. Maria was not feeling well; maybe it was the April heat, but there was something else, the fatigue was becoming more and more difficult to ignore and was accompanied by twinges of pain in her lower abdomen.
The owner of the guesthouse, a man of about forty, friendly and cheerful, suggested she go to the hospital; they were good, he assured her. Accompanied by Paul, she asked to see a gynaecologist. After half an hour standing at reception she was made to sit in a waiting room; after one more hour, she was shown into a young doctor's surgery.
She explained her symptoms, feeling uncomfortable in front of this young woman who was listening with an openly critical expression. She asked Maria if she was married, if she had sexual intercourse, if she had had more than one partner, and was taking in Maria's answers with an ever more severe, almost hostile attitude. She ordered her to lie on the bed and examined her; then she went back to her desk and told Maria her verdict: she had a venereal disease.
"A venereal disease?" repeated Maria, in disbelief.
"Yes, you western people are very promiscuous," said the doctor. Then, looking straight into her eyes, she added: "Next time you'll take more care!" It seemed as if she was enjoying that moment, with a mixture of satisfaction and anger.
"Which one?" Maria whispered, dazed. "Which venereal disease? There are many!" she insisted.
The doctor took a long pause, staring at Maria, who, with red hot cheeks, was holding her gaze. Eventually, reluctantly, she replied: "Syphilis! You have syphilis."
"What?" she blurted out, shocked.
"Next time you'll be more careful," repeated the young woman with the white coat, standing up and shoving her hastily toward the door, without any advice, without a prescription, nothing.
She stopped floundering and clung to the cloth with trembling hands, afraid of losing her grip. She let herself be pulled, unable to help, all the way to the boulders. Through water and tears clouding her vision she saw the two women holding out their hands to her. They grabbed her, hoisted her out forcefully and sat her on their boulder. She was a dead weight, shaking, and exhausted. She clung to them, crying, coughing, struggling to recover her breath. They stroked her back and gave reassuring pats on her head, as one did with a child, to say 'it's over, don't worry'. And they laughed, they literally laughed. "Okay, okay!" they were saying.
"Dhanyavad, dhanyavad," thank you, thank you, murmured Maria, spitting water and retching. Streams of tears flowed uncontrollably down her cheeks, violent sobs shook her from inside, unable to stop crying, shaken up.
So close! It had been so close, and she would have gone forever. Those women had saved her life. They spoke in their language, repeating 'okay, okay', comforting her, stroking her forehead, wiping her tears, patting her back and laughing, with those perfect white teeth, as if nothing serious had happened. They wrapped one of their saris around her shoulders, to shelter her from the sun and to cover her semi-naked body, while continuing with the reassuring caresses, stroking her shoulders and head, laughing! They let her cry, and comforted her until she calmed down and was able to return their smile.
Still trembling, Maria stood up and bowed with folded hands to thank them, touching her forehead, many times. Finally she walked away, unstable, deeply shaken, aware of her almost nakedness, to the place where she had left her clothes, a hundred yards up the hill. The women followed her with their eyes, talking to each other. Maria got dressed, continuing to blow kisses on the tips of her hand toward the two women, who laughed.
With trembling knees, climbing with the help of her hands, she made her way up the dusty hill and reached Vishnu Temple Number Two which was, at that time, deserted. She sat cross-legged, looking at the blue sky over the green river and with her hands clasped in front of her heart, her voice still a faint breath, she whispered Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. She wept without restraint, vomiting on the dry grass the little food she had inside, and wept again, unable to control herself. Little by little, she began to calm down and wiped her tears, beginning to feel, at last, grateful. Gratitude swelled her heart to bursting point, and moved her. She was grateful for her life, so precious, fleeting, irreplaceable and, if her legs had been able to hold her, she would have danced. Thank you! This moment was a new beginning; she could feel it in her heart. If Paul was going to arrive, he would be on the bus from Hospet at that very moment, and she was alive, without a scratch. She lay down on the cool stone, closed her eyes and thought of Gemma, her mother. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.
She had a stick of kajal in the bottom of her bag. With her fingers still trembling, she put on some light make up, while her long hair dried in the hot muggy air. She clasped Jean-Claude's silver anklets, put on her earrings and her turquoise necklace. Slowly, she made her way toward the square. There was still time before the bus was due to arrive and she walked past the chai-shop, hoping to find Fabio. He was there, with his guitar and his Bach.
"What happened?" he asked, as soon as he saw her.
She told him what had happened down at the river, but Fabio wasn't easily fazed; he listened in silence. "Thank goodness," he said only. Maria calmed down a little more and ordered a chai.
"Would you come with me to wait for the bus?"
"If you like!"
"Yes, very much."
They walked together in silence, and then sat down to wait, while Fabio played something sweet and relaxing. "Life is beautiful," said Maria. He smiled, without looking at her, and continued to play sweet arpeggios.
Preceded by the noise and the dust, the bus made its entrance and stopped in the middle of the square. Maria's heart didn't dare beat too strong. The people stood up, but she couldn't see him. The passengers began to get off and her mind was completely blank. Finally, at the back of the bus, she saw that blond distinctive head, taller than all the others. Paul looked out and their eyes met. Maria walked toward the bus, excited and, as in a dream, waited for him to get down. Without a word, he dropped his bag to the ground, pulled her to him and kissed her on the lips. Then he picked her up, lifting her off the ground, and kissed her again, laughing.
They spent a couple of days in Vishnu Temple Number Two, which was now their home. The Swiss friends had left and Paul and Maria found themselves within the absolute peace of that lunar landscape, ancient and magical. They started to re-connect, as Paul said, certain that Maria had always been his companion.
Together, they left for their journey, which first took them to the major cities of Mysore and Bangalore, where life was faster and better organized than in north India. Then they spent a few weeks in the mountains of Tamil Nadu, in Kodaikanal, a town six thousand feet above sea level, rich in lakes, waterfalls and green landscapes, impressive and wonderful. It had once housed the British colonists, who went there to spend the summer months when the heat in the cities was unbearable. The settlers had gone, but the beautiful homes they had built remained.
In one of these mansions Maria and Paul were able to stay for very little money and, with it, came also a waiter-cum-butler who was determined to serve them in every possible way. Maria nicknamed him 'Friday', like Robinson Crusoe's friend because, like him, he had appeared out of nowhere and didn't want to leave. His expression was calm, his pace slow. He taught her to appreciate the present, often recommending that she do things in a more relaxed fashion: "Go slowly, Madam, much better," he'd say, with a sweet smile. He'd turn up with local produce, seasonal vegetables and fruits, and refused to take the money they offered him. He'd call Paul 'sahib', which meant 'Sir', a term used in the days of colonialism by Indian people addressing the English settlers, and looked at him with an expression of admiration and affection. He'd appear at his side whenever there was damp wood to dry, the fireplace to light in the cool evenings, kerosene to find, potatoes to peel. They became accustomed to his presence, pampered by his loving gestures, grateful for his help, and 'Friday' became a beautiful part of those two weeks that seemed like a honeymoon. Maria observed how Paul behaved with local people; this man of courteous, thoughtful manners, awakened the desire to be close to him in everyone he met, and she liked him more every day.
They spent a few weeks in Kerala, exploring it far and wide. In this state full of contrasts, there were churches, crosses and lots of communists; it was normal to see protest marches led by banners and dotted with countless red flags. One day, in Cochin, they decided to take a tour of the canals crisscrossing the region. Boats sailed on a course covered in leaves and lotus flowers, effortlessly cutting through them in their advance, revealing the green water underneath.
While waiting for their boat, Maria noticed a little girl of about three years of age, who was playing with stones near the road. Behind her a stray dog was rummaging in the garbage, but it had no luck and didn't find anything to eat. It began to move toward the child; it was dirty, skinny and there was something sinister in the way it progressed, almost crawling.
Maria called Paul's attention: "Look at that dog, doesn't it look weird?"
Standing up, Paul watched it. "I don't like the way he moves; it's not normal," he said.
Just then the dog approached the little girl from behind while she, unaware of its presence, continued to play. It stood on its hind legs, put its front paws on her shoulders and began to lick her. The girl screamed with terror. Paul was already running. He reached the child and picked her up, holding her in his arms, pushing the dog away with his foot. The local people ran over, shouting. There was an exchange of cries in the local language, one of the men got hold of the dog, while others turned to Paul, saying 'rabies, rabies'. A few minutes later, the child's mother came running and took her crying daughter from Paul's arms, thanking him for saving her.
Travelling with Paul was quite a unique experience; his presence attracted the attention of men and women. He stood out as a very handsome man but, more remarkable still, was the charm he exuded, an alchemy of warmth, calmness and kindness, accompanied by a ready smile. He was growing a beard and looked more and more like the images of Jesus Christ that people kept in each store of Kerala. They'd look at Paul, then turn to the image hanging on the wall, of Jesus with a red heart drawn in the open chest, and turn back to look at him, saying 'same same', meaning that they looked alike, and laugh. Maria went unnoticed when they were together and she got used to the fact that Paul was the centre of attention. He had a good knowledge of India and Indian people and with him she began to understand their way of thinking.
A couple of weeks later they were in Kanyakumari, in the state of Tamil Nadu, the southernmost tip of India. It was a sacred place, where the waters of the Bay of Bengal, the Arabian Sea and the Indian Ocean met and blended, among conflicting waves, into a single expanse. It was a point of pilgrimage; many Hindus bathed in the sea, where an ancient temple on the furthest rock marked that important geographical and mystical point. The men wore very little, while the women entered the sea fully dressed in their saris, advancing with difficulty through the waves, where they submerged, doing 'puja', their prayers.
Maria and Paul were staying in one of the small hotels in the area and noticed how some men celebrated the pilgrimage by drinking generous quantities of beer and spirits. That evening they were returning to their hotel after a walk along the beach; it was almost dark and there was no one around, when they saw a man lying in the middle of the road. They approached and understood immediately that he was alive, but completely drunk.
"If he stays here he'll get hit by a car," said Paul, worried. "Give me a hand Maria; let's move him to a safer place." He lifted him under his arms, while Maria got hold of his legs.
"He's so heavy!" she gasped.
"We're doing him a great favour!" Paul said, panting. "Tomorrow, when he wakes up, we'll get him to buy us a drink." And they burst out laughing.
It was hard work moving him to the side of the road, but the man didn't seem to notice anything. They were walking away, when they saw him crawl and lie again in the middle of the road. They looked at each other, shocked, and laughed again.
"Look at that!" Maria said. "What do we do now?"
"We need to do something more drastic, otherwise the first car that goes past will make mush of him!" Paul said, looking around. "I thought I saw a ditch, a few feet from the road; let's put him in there, at least he won't be able to escape so easily," he said firmly.
They retraced their steps, grabbed hold of the man by his feet and armpits and, in the dim light of a half moon, carried him to the ditch, where a bed of dry leaves formed a soft base. Maria went down first, then helped Paul lower the man, who was sleeping soundly, and laid him on the bed of leaves. Paul climbed back out the ditch and held his hand out to Maria, hoisting her up. They stopped to observe him. "Stay there and sleep until tomorrow!" Paul ordered. As if to reassure them he wouldn't move, the man started to snore loudly, sounding like a motorcycle warming up its engine. They laughed for a third time, happy and satisfied to have helped another human being. Paul put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her. Slowly they walked toward their guesthouse.
They travelled up the west coast of India, stopping in a tiny lovely town. In Mahabalipuram there was a huge temple, a stone's throw from the sea, the only one remaining out of seven original temples. The whole town was decorated with bas-reliefs, sculpted everywhere, from the caves to the temples scattered in the surrounding fields. That too was a place of pilgrimage, but less touristy and more spiritual than Kanyakumari. The male population was dedicated to carving the stone and were skilled craftsmen. From morning till night you could hear the tick tick of chisels that, with patience and skill, gave shape to statues, large and small. Students were practicing under the eyes of the elders and carved all the rocks around, turning them into works of art. That background noise accompanied every action and every thought of the day, beating the same slow rhythm that Maria felt within herself; a constant feeling of exhaustion accompanied her from the moment she woke up and throughout the day, but she thought it would pass.
They continued up the coast and stopped in Madras. The city was huge, featuring dozens of high temples, composed of countless floors, each adorned with hundreds of statues of gods, painted in bright colours. They found a boarding house. Maria was not feeling well; maybe it was the April heat, but there was something else, the fatigue was becoming more and more difficult to ignore and was accompanied by twinges of pain in her lower abdomen.
The owner of the guesthouse, a man of about forty, friendly and cheerful, suggested she go to the hospital; they were good, he assured her. Accompanied by Paul, she asked to see a gynaecologist. After half an hour standing at reception she was made to sit in a waiting room; after one more hour, she was shown into a young doctor's surgery.
She explained her symptoms, feeling uncomfortable in front of this young woman who was listening with an openly critical expression. She asked Maria if she was married, if she had sexual intercourse, if she had had more than one partner, and was taking in Maria's answers with an ever more severe, almost hostile attitude. She ordered her to lie on the bed and examined her; then she went back to her desk and told Maria her verdict: she had a venereal disease.
"A venereal disease?" repeated Maria, in disbelief.
"Yes, you western people are very promiscuous," said the doctor. Then, looking straight into her eyes, she added: "Next time you'll take more care!" It seemed as if she was enjoying that moment, with a mixture of satisfaction and anger.
"Which one?" Maria whispered, dazed. "Which venereal disease? There are many!" she insisted.
The doctor took a long pause, staring at Maria, who, with red hot cheeks, was holding her gaze. Eventually, reluctantly, she replied: "Syphilis! You have syphilis."
"What?" she blurted out, shocked.
"Next time you'll be more careful," repeated the young woman with the white coat, standing up and shoving her hastily toward the door, without any advice, without a prescription, nothing.
Maria found herself out of the surgery, where Paul was waiting. Seeing her altered face he worried: "What did she say?"
She looked at him. "She said I have syphilis," she murmured, with a faint voice. After a short pause, she added: "If I have it, you have it, too."
She didn't expect Paul's reaction. He held her gently by her shoulders, pulled her close to him, and embraced her. With her head resting on his chest, she heard the sound of his words echoing inside her head: "If we have it, we'll treat it," he reassured her.
"But if we have it, it's my fault! You have been with the same woman for five years; I instead have been in several relationships," she said.
"I don't care Maria, we're together now," he replied, moving her away from him a little and looking into her eyes. "This is something that can be solved, and I love you."
In that moment she knew that this was the man she wanted to be with. 'I'm going to marry this one', she thought, her head leaning on his chest, the beating of his heart clear, comforting.
Unable to speak any further, her throat closed by a knot caused by the shock, they went out into the heat of the day and walked hand in hand. Maria was speechless, unable to emit any sound, despite Paul's attempts to get her to talk; she could only respond with a nod of her head. They found themselves outside the walls of Madras's largest temple. "Do you want to go inside?" he asked. She nodded. They entered the courtyard where a huge elephant, its head and trunk decorated with brightly coloured drawings, stood quietly. His keeper, wearing only a sarong wrapped around his waist, stood next to it. The man waved his arm, signalling them to come closer. "Blessing," he said, "blessing." And why not? It came just at the right time.
He told Maria to stand in front of the sacred elephant and remain still. The big animal lifted its trunk and slowly lowered it, resting it gently on her head; it felt like a very big hand, of considerable weight, covering her whole head. She laughed, excited, looking at her enormous friend's grey and wrinkly feet. The keeper said to Paul: "One rupee". Paul pulled out a one-rupee note and handed it to him, but the man shook his head, he had to give it to the elephant. Paul brought the bill next to the tip of the trunk, which the elephant bent slightly. With this, it grabbed the bill and, with a large swinging motion, swept its trunk to one side, lifted it into the air and lowered it again behind it, handing the note to its guardian. It was then Paul's turn, and the same ceremony was repeated. The open end of the trunk dropped carefully over Paul's blond head, covering it completely. Maria gave a rupee to the elephant, who took it gently from her hand.
They left the temple, in silence, smiling, holding hands. Vendors sat on their mats along the perimeter of the temple walls. They offered their wares, with a wave of their hand: "Madam stop, look Madam." Maria shook her head, still unable to speak. "Ishstones?" offered an old salesman with a white turban, pointing to the stones on display on his carpet. The notorious word, pronounced in the same way as the man who 'removed' the stones from people's ears in Delhi, had an overwhelming effect: Maria and Paul looked at each other and burst out laughing. She laughed to tears, finally letting out the trauma that had struck her dumb. Even the old salesman chuckled with them, infected by her irrepressible laughter.
Back at the guesthouse, they relayed the doctor's verdict to the owner, who had considerately asked them what had happened at the hospital. He reacted cheerfully, waving a hand in the air and saying: "Oh, syphilis! It's not a problem, I had it too! With penicillin it goes away." However, he reflected, how could this doctor be sure of it? Without a blood test it couldn't be diagnosed, and he advised them to go to a private clinic close to their hotel. They did so immediately and two days later, when they had their results, they discovered that neither of them had any syphilis. The lady doctor had vented on Maria her disapproval of western women's free culture! At the same time though, she had done her an unexpected favour: the way Paul had responded to the situation had convinced her that she couldn't possibly find a better man.
She wrote to Luna, she needed to open her heart and share what was going on in her life. She described the relationship with Paul, she was happy. In those months spent together she had become convinced, as he often told her, that they were made for each other, but she felt a great sadness at the thought of writing to Jean-Claude. She loved him, she knew he loved her and was sure she had created problems between him and his girlfriend. What could Luna tell her, was there a point of view in the Buddhist philosophy that could inspire her? She dropped the aerogramme with her sorrows and anxiety in a mailbox in Madras Post Office.
They continued their long journey that took them up the coast to Puri and then to Calcutta. Here Maria saw more poverty than in any other Indian city, but this was accompanied by a lightness of spirit and humour, unexpected in such extreme circumstances. They stopped only a few days, but she could easily have stayed longer; there was an intriguing atmosphere in this tough city where people were carried on rickshaws by skinny men running barefoot. They arrived in Varanasi in May. Paul had never been there and the temperature was so high it was impossible to walk in the sun for more than a few seconds; after that it seemed as if their brain might explode! They spent the hottest hours of the day resting in their guesthouse, lying under the ceiling fan that turned continuously, and going out only early in the morning and after six in the afternoon. They talked about everything, they laughed, they loved each other and, little by little, Maria's energy started to come back.
One day Paul returned carrying a tray with two chai and a plate of samosas that he had bought from a nearby restaurant. They were hungry and sat on the bed devouring them. Wiping the crumbs from her mouth, Maria said: "I almost almost marry you," translating literally into English an Italian phrase that one would tell a friend in a moment of harmony: 'quasi quasi ti sposo'. The English sentence sounded quite clumsy.
In the same awkward style, Paul replied: "I almost almost accept."
There was a moment of silence, in which they both digested what they had just said.
"Are you saying we get married?" enquired Maria.
"Yes, if you'd like. I do want to marry you. You were made for me… in Nirvana!" he said, grinning.
She laughed: "What a beautiful thing to say! And you for me. All right, then! I'll wear red, as Indian women do. How about you?"
"I'll wear creamy white! It's the colour that suits me best."
And so the decision was made! They continued to plan where they'd buy the fabric for the dress: in Jaipur, suggested Paul; where they'd get married: in Venice was Maria's first idea, with gondolas. They discussed the British passport that Maria could then request, giving them the possibility of living in India together, without visa problems, as British people didn't need one.
The next day, running from one shaded area to another, avoiding the scorching sun as much as possible, she went to the Post Office. She had given Luna that address and, to her delight, she found the answer she was longing for. She opened the letter in the nearest chai-shop, where she had rushed to sit down and ordered a chai.
"Dearest Maria,
Thank you for your beautiful letter, which I read many times. First of all, some news from London: I have just finished a television commercial and Harry is working in a theatre on a play about South Africa, just as he wanted. When we don't have acting jobs I work in a restaurant and he in a pub. The pay isn't brilliant but it gives us the flexibility we need. I have started a course on massage and want to eventually set up my own business, while Harry is still deciding between different options. We are both writing and are very happy. In a couple of months we'll be moving in together. I'm excited! It will be the first time I live with my partner.
We are delighted for you and Paul. From what you've told me you have a very deep relationship. I remember that, from the first time you met him, you felt there was a strong bond between you. I can't wait to meet him.
I understand you feeling sorry for Jean-Claude but I think that, if these two men have appeared in your life so closely one to the other, there must be a reason, and you shouldn't feel guilty. Jean-Claude helped you realize that you are beautiful and deserve to be loved. There must have been problems with his girlfriend before he met you; after all, he chose to come to Venice, didn't he? Don't forget that you gave him a lot, too. I think you should just accept that he was very important in your life. You've described him as a bridge between your past and your future; your dream of him in Venice taking you to Paul said it clearly. Was it a karmic relationship? I have no doubt about it, as was the meeting between us, as are all the important encounters that, in one way or another, change our lives.
We practice this philosophy of life to become stronger, learning to accept and use the suffering that life brings us. By the same token, we must also learn to accept happiness, when it comes. Jean-Claude has helped you find love with a man that's not him. Trust that what is right for your happiness, is also right for his. Thank him and help him become completely happy. How?
Buddhism teaches that we have nine levels of consciousness, the first five being our senses (sight, hearing, smell, touch and taste); the sixth consciousness processes what we perceive with the first five and helps us come to our own conclusions; for example if something is too hot, we realise quickly that we should stop touching it! The seventh is our sense of individual identity, of who we think we are; the eighth consciousness is the storehouse of our karma, which is connected to that of our families, country and environment. For this reason, any internal change we make, affects not only our life but also that of our family, society and ultimately, the whole of humanity.
But what I find incredibly exciting is the ninth consciousness, our deepest level, free from any 'karmic impurities'. It is the force of the universe itself, which we possess too and of which we are part, the world of Buddhahood. When we chant we nourish ourselves with this pure energy, extracting infinite life force, drawing it directly from the universe, becoming one with it and activating our inner Buddhahood. Then, the way we perceive everything around us is transformed; what before made us suffer becomes an opportunity, a springboard to become happier. It's not that our karma disappears but, as the light of the stars and the moon seems to fade when the sun has risen, so when our enlightened state rises it illuminates our lives and we are no longer controlled by our karmic tendencies. We can transform them in a positive way and create value from every situation.
We perceive how we are intimately interconnected with everyone and everything, with Life itself, of those who are alive and those who were. We sense how, fundamentally, we are all equal and every living entity is worthy of respect. It is much stronger than our karma. When we chant daimoku it's like entering the 'palace of Buddhahood' from which we can purify and enlighten the other eight consciousnesses in the light of our compassion, wisdom and courage. It's like putting on the right glasses and, all of a sudden, we see everything clearly.
I have this image of the ninth consciousness as being a sea, where there are no walls and no divisions. My Buddhahood and yours are like two drops of water in the same ocean. For this reason, when I chant for your happiness, my wish reaches you. That's why my chanting makes a difference to the collective energy and contributes to peace, because everything blends in the same great sea, and feeds it.
You can imagine how, from one heart to another, especially when there is love, we can feel this connection, even if the distance is immense. Let him know you'll be doing this, so that he can feel it clearly and recognize it. Isn't it amazing just how much we can do, and give?
Be happy Maria! Don't be afraid of deserving happiness. Continue to chant and learn more and more about this philosophy. It will give you so much, and you will be able to give ever more to others.
I can't wait to see you, and meet Paul. Harry keeps telling me to send you a big hug from him. He says that, without you, he'd still be waiting for the right time to kiss me!
A warm embrace from your dear friend Luna.
PS. I love you."
Before leaving India she wrote to Jean-Claude, posting her aerogramme from Varanasi, the very place they had met. She still felt as if a cloud was obscuring her heart's clear sky. She would have been completely happy, had she not felt so sad for him.
They spent a wonderful month in Nepal. In Kathmandu they were joined by Betty, Margo and Rossana for a week. Her friends were delighted to see her and Paul so strong and happy. Rossana kept reminding them that it was all thanks to her, and she was right. The five of them travelled to Pokhara and, after a few days and a magic mushroom omelette each, the girls took their leave. A few weeks later Paul and Maria went back to India. In a few weeks she would have to go back to Italy. Before leaving Nepal she had had to visit the Indian Embassy, where they had given her a new visa to re-enter India. All was well. They still had time.
She looked at him. "She said I have syphilis," she murmured, with a faint voice. After a short pause, she added: "If I have it, you have it, too."
She didn't expect Paul's reaction. He held her gently by her shoulders, pulled her close to him, and embraced her. With her head resting on his chest, she heard the sound of his words echoing inside her head: "If we have it, we'll treat it," he reassured her.
"But if we have it, it's my fault! You have been with the same woman for five years; I instead have been in several relationships," she said.
"I don't care Maria, we're together now," he replied, moving her away from him a little and looking into her eyes. "This is something that can be solved, and I love you."
In that moment she knew that this was the man she wanted to be with. 'I'm going to marry this one', she thought, her head leaning on his chest, the beating of his heart clear, comforting.
Unable to speak any further, her throat closed by a knot caused by the shock, they went out into the heat of the day and walked hand in hand. Maria was speechless, unable to emit any sound, despite Paul's attempts to get her to talk; she could only respond with a nod of her head. They found themselves outside the walls of Madras's largest temple. "Do you want to go inside?" he asked. She nodded. They entered the courtyard where a huge elephant, its head and trunk decorated with brightly coloured drawings, stood quietly. His keeper, wearing only a sarong wrapped around his waist, stood next to it. The man waved his arm, signalling them to come closer. "Blessing," he said, "blessing." And why not? It came just at the right time.
He told Maria to stand in front of the sacred elephant and remain still. The big animal lifted its trunk and slowly lowered it, resting it gently on her head; it felt like a very big hand, of considerable weight, covering her whole head. She laughed, excited, looking at her enormous friend's grey and wrinkly feet. The keeper said to Paul: "One rupee". Paul pulled out a one-rupee note and handed it to him, but the man shook his head, he had to give it to the elephant. Paul brought the bill next to the tip of the trunk, which the elephant bent slightly. With this, it grabbed the bill and, with a large swinging motion, swept its trunk to one side, lifted it into the air and lowered it again behind it, handing the note to its guardian. It was then Paul's turn, and the same ceremony was repeated. The open end of the trunk dropped carefully over Paul's blond head, covering it completely. Maria gave a rupee to the elephant, who took it gently from her hand.
They left the temple, in silence, smiling, holding hands. Vendors sat on their mats along the perimeter of the temple walls. They offered their wares, with a wave of their hand: "Madam stop, look Madam." Maria shook her head, still unable to speak. "Ishstones?" offered an old salesman with a white turban, pointing to the stones on display on his carpet. The notorious word, pronounced in the same way as the man who 'removed' the stones from people's ears in Delhi, had an overwhelming effect: Maria and Paul looked at each other and burst out laughing. She laughed to tears, finally letting out the trauma that had struck her dumb. Even the old salesman chuckled with them, infected by her irrepressible laughter.
Back at the guesthouse, they relayed the doctor's verdict to the owner, who had considerately asked them what had happened at the hospital. He reacted cheerfully, waving a hand in the air and saying: "Oh, syphilis! It's not a problem, I had it too! With penicillin it goes away." However, he reflected, how could this doctor be sure of it? Without a blood test it couldn't be diagnosed, and he advised them to go to a private clinic close to their hotel. They did so immediately and two days later, when they had their results, they discovered that neither of them had any syphilis. The lady doctor had vented on Maria her disapproval of western women's free culture! At the same time though, she had done her an unexpected favour: the way Paul had responded to the situation had convinced her that she couldn't possibly find a better man.
She wrote to Luna, she needed to open her heart and share what was going on in her life. She described the relationship with Paul, she was happy. In those months spent together she had become convinced, as he often told her, that they were made for each other, but she felt a great sadness at the thought of writing to Jean-Claude. She loved him, she knew he loved her and was sure she had created problems between him and his girlfriend. What could Luna tell her, was there a point of view in the Buddhist philosophy that could inspire her? She dropped the aerogramme with her sorrows and anxiety in a mailbox in Madras Post Office.
They continued their long journey that took them up the coast to Puri and then to Calcutta. Here Maria saw more poverty than in any other Indian city, but this was accompanied by a lightness of spirit and humour, unexpected in such extreme circumstances. They stopped only a few days, but she could easily have stayed longer; there was an intriguing atmosphere in this tough city where people were carried on rickshaws by skinny men running barefoot. They arrived in Varanasi in May. Paul had never been there and the temperature was so high it was impossible to walk in the sun for more than a few seconds; after that it seemed as if their brain might explode! They spent the hottest hours of the day resting in their guesthouse, lying under the ceiling fan that turned continuously, and going out only early in the morning and after six in the afternoon. They talked about everything, they laughed, they loved each other and, little by little, Maria's energy started to come back.
One day Paul returned carrying a tray with two chai and a plate of samosas that he had bought from a nearby restaurant. They were hungry and sat on the bed devouring them. Wiping the crumbs from her mouth, Maria said: "I almost almost marry you," translating literally into English an Italian phrase that one would tell a friend in a moment of harmony: 'quasi quasi ti sposo'. The English sentence sounded quite clumsy.
In the same awkward style, Paul replied: "I almost almost accept."
There was a moment of silence, in which they both digested what they had just said.
"Are you saying we get married?" enquired Maria.
"Yes, if you'd like. I do want to marry you. You were made for me… in Nirvana!" he said, grinning.
She laughed: "What a beautiful thing to say! And you for me. All right, then! I'll wear red, as Indian women do. How about you?"
"I'll wear creamy white! It's the colour that suits me best."
And so the decision was made! They continued to plan where they'd buy the fabric for the dress: in Jaipur, suggested Paul; where they'd get married: in Venice was Maria's first idea, with gondolas. They discussed the British passport that Maria could then request, giving them the possibility of living in India together, without visa problems, as British people didn't need one.
The next day, running from one shaded area to another, avoiding the scorching sun as much as possible, she went to the Post Office. She had given Luna that address and, to her delight, she found the answer she was longing for. She opened the letter in the nearest chai-shop, where she had rushed to sit down and ordered a chai.
"Dearest Maria,
Thank you for your beautiful letter, which I read many times. First of all, some news from London: I have just finished a television commercial and Harry is working in a theatre on a play about South Africa, just as he wanted. When we don't have acting jobs I work in a restaurant and he in a pub. The pay isn't brilliant but it gives us the flexibility we need. I have started a course on massage and want to eventually set up my own business, while Harry is still deciding between different options. We are both writing and are very happy. In a couple of months we'll be moving in together. I'm excited! It will be the first time I live with my partner.
We are delighted for you and Paul. From what you've told me you have a very deep relationship. I remember that, from the first time you met him, you felt there was a strong bond between you. I can't wait to meet him.
I understand you feeling sorry for Jean-Claude but I think that, if these two men have appeared in your life so closely one to the other, there must be a reason, and you shouldn't feel guilty. Jean-Claude helped you realize that you are beautiful and deserve to be loved. There must have been problems with his girlfriend before he met you; after all, he chose to come to Venice, didn't he? Don't forget that you gave him a lot, too. I think you should just accept that he was very important in your life. You've described him as a bridge between your past and your future; your dream of him in Venice taking you to Paul said it clearly. Was it a karmic relationship? I have no doubt about it, as was the meeting between us, as are all the important encounters that, in one way or another, change our lives.
We practice this philosophy of life to become stronger, learning to accept and use the suffering that life brings us. By the same token, we must also learn to accept happiness, when it comes. Jean-Claude has helped you find love with a man that's not him. Trust that what is right for your happiness, is also right for his. Thank him and help him become completely happy. How?
Buddhism teaches that we have nine levels of consciousness, the first five being our senses (sight, hearing, smell, touch and taste); the sixth consciousness processes what we perceive with the first five and helps us come to our own conclusions; for example if something is too hot, we realise quickly that we should stop touching it! The seventh is our sense of individual identity, of who we think we are; the eighth consciousness is the storehouse of our karma, which is connected to that of our families, country and environment. For this reason, any internal change we make, affects not only our life but also that of our family, society and ultimately, the whole of humanity.
But what I find incredibly exciting is the ninth consciousness, our deepest level, free from any 'karmic impurities'. It is the force of the universe itself, which we possess too and of which we are part, the world of Buddhahood. When we chant we nourish ourselves with this pure energy, extracting infinite life force, drawing it directly from the universe, becoming one with it and activating our inner Buddhahood. Then, the way we perceive everything around us is transformed; what before made us suffer becomes an opportunity, a springboard to become happier. It's not that our karma disappears but, as the light of the stars and the moon seems to fade when the sun has risen, so when our enlightened state rises it illuminates our lives and we are no longer controlled by our karmic tendencies. We can transform them in a positive way and create value from every situation.
We perceive how we are intimately interconnected with everyone and everything, with Life itself, of those who are alive and those who were. We sense how, fundamentally, we are all equal and every living entity is worthy of respect. It is much stronger than our karma. When we chant daimoku it's like entering the 'palace of Buddhahood' from which we can purify and enlighten the other eight consciousnesses in the light of our compassion, wisdom and courage. It's like putting on the right glasses and, all of a sudden, we see everything clearly.
I have this image of the ninth consciousness as being a sea, where there are no walls and no divisions. My Buddhahood and yours are like two drops of water in the same ocean. For this reason, when I chant for your happiness, my wish reaches you. That's why my chanting makes a difference to the collective energy and contributes to peace, because everything blends in the same great sea, and feeds it.
You can imagine how, from one heart to another, especially when there is love, we can feel this connection, even if the distance is immense. Let him know you'll be doing this, so that he can feel it clearly and recognize it. Isn't it amazing just how much we can do, and give?
Be happy Maria! Don't be afraid of deserving happiness. Continue to chant and learn more and more about this philosophy. It will give you so much, and you will be able to give ever more to others.
I can't wait to see you, and meet Paul. Harry keeps telling me to send you a big hug from him. He says that, without you, he'd still be waiting for the right time to kiss me!
A warm embrace from your dear friend Luna.
PS. I love you."
Before leaving India she wrote to Jean-Claude, posting her aerogramme from Varanasi, the very place they had met. She still felt as if a cloud was obscuring her heart's clear sky. She would have been completely happy, had she not felt so sad for him.
They spent a wonderful month in Nepal. In Kathmandu they were joined by Betty, Margo and Rossana for a week. Her friends were delighted to see her and Paul so strong and happy. Rossana kept reminding them that it was all thanks to her, and she was right. The five of them travelled to Pokhara and, after a few days and a magic mushroom omelette each, the girls took their leave. A few weeks later Paul and Maria went back to India. In a few weeks she would have to go back to Italy. Before leaving Nepal she had had to visit the Indian Embassy, where they had given her a new visa to re-enter India. All was well. They still had time.
To go to chapter 32 click here: Chapter 32
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