‘Don’t you remember?’
Liana shrugged. ‘I remember laughing a lot when you told me everything made you sick. The rest is a bit of a blur. Oh dear, what did I say? Was I horrible?’
‘No... well, you became terribly upset. Don’t you remember?’
She shook her head. ‘Probably the drink. Take no notice, I often get a bit stupid when I’m drunk. Whatever I said or did, it’s nothing to worry about.’ She reached across and took my hand: ‘Really, Michael.’
I sighed, rather too loudly I suspect, and held her hand more firmly. This really didn’t ring true at all. She had not been drunk on that first night, and her reaction had not been all that different under the influence of the cognac. I did not know what to think.
We held hands and stared out across the lake until Liana’s breakfast arrived. She devoured the lot in about five minutes, exclaiming how famished she was. Her mood was light, normal, and in the early morning sun Liana looked as beautiful, as ravishing, as the day I met her. She bore no resemblance to the frightened creature who had scuttled into the corner of the room the previous night, and if anyone had seen us sitting there they would never have guessed that we were anything other than a young, happy, loving couple.
When Liana had finished eating, she let out a small, satisfied sigh.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘What shall we do first? Go for a walk or make love?’ She slipped her hand out of mine and laid it gently on my thigh. She gave me her best “come-on” look, and applied a little pressure to my groin.
There was, as my American friends would have said, no contest.
I have nothing against marriage. Some of my best friends are married. So, for that matter, am I.
Adam and Emma have been married for five years. I went to university with them, and we have been close friends ever since then. They did the usual travelling/loafing about/finding themselves bit after graduating. They went their separate ways for a while, but eventually came back to each other and decided to live together for a year before taking the plunge. Adam started up his own business, Emma went into management consultancy. They made a packet. They bought a beautiful home in Gloucestershire. Adam sold his business, took a less stressful day job, banked the profits. And after three years, having found emotional and financial security, they did the only thing that two intelligent, attractive, well-balanced people could do.
They had a baby.
Daniel is now two years old. I have watched him grow from being a beautiful blue-eyed, blond-haired, chubby-checked bundle of fat and dribble, into a beautiful blue-eyed, blond-haired tearaway. Emma took to motherhood in a way that surprised everyone who knew her. She now has no wish to go back to work, and seems disgracefully content to spend all her time with her little pride and joy. Adam often leaves work early, or takes a long weekend so that he can play with his charming son.
They are wonderful with him. He has inherited his father’s brains and stamina, his mother’s good looks and temperament. He will receive love, attention and care in abundance. He will have the smartest clothes, the flashiest toys, the best education. Adam and Emma will take him abroad on his first holidays, and he will never be short of money. As soon as he is old enough to drive, Adam will buy him his first car (I know) and look forward with eager anticipation to the day when he brings home his first girlfriend, of whom, no doubt, Emma will disapprove, but say nothing. He will pass all his scholastic examinations with flying colours, secure a place at the university of his choice, and never have to struggle with his studies. Men will wish to be seen in his company, and women will swoon as he walks by.
Then, one day, he will turn around to his parents and tell them that they are complacent, middle-class capitalists with no sense of community and a value system that is both vacuous and selfish. And Adam and Emma will - whilst suffering the torment of rejection - torture themselves with the question, “Where did we go wrong? ”, to which, of course, there is only one answer.
I look at young Daniel, his brilliant golden locks and sparkling sky-blue eyes, running around the living room, and a twinge of something like envy settles on me like an invisible shroud. I watch the way he climbs over the furniture on his little adventures, pursuing imaginary monsters that cannot scare him, cannot harm him, because he has magical powers, because he is safe. I watch the way Emma coos over him, revels in his company, and I think of the years of sacrifice ahead, of the oodles of love she will give to this little human being.
And I see the look in the boy’s eyes when Adam walks in the room; the excitement, the adoration, the complete, unquestioning trust as Daniel runs towards his kneeling father and throws his arms around his neck. And when I hear him say, “Kiss me, Daddy,” a lump comes to my throat, and all I want to do is cry.
The following week passed without incident. Pushkar was such a sleepy, pleasant town that we did not feel inclined to move on, and had it not been for the imminent arrival of hordes of people we might have stayed for weeks. As it was, during the following few days Pushkar began to gear up for the forthcoming
mela
, an immense festival known familiarly as the Cattle Fair. We talked to a few of the locals about the fair, and they all said the same thing; we should stay, it was an amazing sight, there would be thousands coming.
The idea of a cattle fair did not sound particularly inspiring, and I could not at first understand why it was such a huge attraction. The gathering of the Rajasthani clans was, however, more than just a chance to trade a few camels. According to Hindu belief, bathing in the lake during
Kartik Purnima
, the full moon, absolves one from a lifetime’s accumulated sins. Hindus would be making their way to Pushkar from all over Northern India, and the population would swell from three thousand to over two hundred thousand.
Sure enough, the town soon became more crowded, prices started to soar and, although the fair was to be one of the most colourful events of the season, neither of us felt we could cope with the crowds. We decided that we would move on the eve of the fair. In the meantime we took advantage of Pushkar’s many pleasures; we ate and slept, went for long walks, watched the sunset, played card games, told stories, made love.
We had fallen, if not into a routine, then certainly into a pattern. There seemed to be no question that we were going to carry on travelling together, that we were partners, that we would stay together. These things were all naturally assumed. Liana was my new girlfriend. We were in love. Simple as that.
These were easy, relaxed days, with no pressures, no external restrictions. We did not feel obliged to sightsee, or do anything specific for that matter. We would sit for hours at restaurants and just talk about this and that. We probably learnt more about each other’s backgrounds during that week than in any period that followed.
As I had already gathered, Liana had had a pretty conventional middle-class upbringing. The eldest of two children - she had a brother two years her junior - she had been educated at an undistinguished comprehensive school in Surrey (her parents, whilst well off, were committed quasi-socialists). She had taken ‘A’ levels in Art, English and History, before going on to study Fine Art at Kent University. She was not, she said, either academically bright or especially talented - she often referred to herself as run-of-the-mill - but felt she made the most of what little she had.
Her closest friend was a girl called Anne; they had attended the same school together, pretty much grown up in each other’s homes. Anne had not gone on to further education, but taken a secretarial course and was now working as a P.A. to the managing director of a small publishing company based in Surrey. They were still very close and saw each other as often as time and circumstances allowed. Liana believed Anne to be the kindest and most honest person she had ever known. There wasn’t an evil bone in her body, said Liana; she was “very together”. She knew what she wanted, knew how to get it. She was wonderful.
Other friends were mentioned, but it was obvious that none held the same special place in Liana’s affections. Oddly, she didn’t mention any friends from her univer- sity days. When I questioned her about this she just shrugged her shoulders dismissively and muttered something about the students not being her sort of people. She didn’t want to elaborate, so I didn’t push her.
Liana was very fond of her mother and father. They sounded like model parents. They had been loving without smothering her, encouraging without being pushy, and generous without ever spoiling her. She had a great deal of respect for them. Where other people’s parents would have balked at the idea of their only daughter going to India, her folks had been very supportive. They were, naturally, a bit concerned, and they had asked a lot of questions; her father had even done some “independent research ”, just so that he knew what Liana could expect. They had even given her some spending money so that she could have a little comfort now and then. They sounded like lovely people.
An objective listener might well have been a little suspicious of this all-too-perfect background - the supportive, loving parents, the delightful best friend, the easy untroubled schooldays - it was all so normal.
Not like real life at all.
On the eve of the fair We decided to see what was happening in the valley beyond the town, as this was supposed to be its main site. We walked around the far side of the lake, away from the town, through some nondescript fields, past a few of Pushkar’s several hundred temples, and up a shallow rise that hid from view the valley that lay beyond. Such was the peace and simplicity of this area that we were quite unprepared for the sight that greeted us as we hit the top ofthe rise.
‘My God,’ said Liana. ‘It’s like something out of the Bible.’
‘The book or the film?’
Liana poked her tongue out at me. ‘Film, silly; who reads books these days?’
The nomads and their camels had arrived. Not hundreds, not thousands, but tens of thousands; in fact, as far as the eye could see, camels of every size and colour from off-white through grey, brown, khaki and black, stretched to the horizon. This was truly a sea of camels. And in between the mélange of desert hues one could pick out the brilliant flashes of red, yellow and orange, the luminous turbans of the rakish Rajasthanis. In the distance, an endless line of tents had been set up, a new village especially for the visitors. And beyond, being put through their paces for the days that followed, camels raced across the flat, sandy plains. An awesome spectacle.
That night I dreamt of snake charmers, dancing wenches, and fires in the desert.
I have always been puzzled by pain. There are too many things that I do not understand about it. We are told that physical pain is the body’s way of telling us that something is wrong. Pain is a defence mechanism. Okay, I’ll buy that. I know what a toothache’s like, that if I don’t get my teeth fixed the damage could get worse. That’s fine. What is less clear to me is: what, exactly, is it that’s hurting? I say “My tooth hurts”, but that’s nonsense. It isn’t the tooth that is hurting, it’s me. I am in pain. Not my body; me.
It seems to me that pain is not so much a defence mechanism as Nature’s way of telling us that, however rational we’d like to think we are, no matter how much we try to dismiss the idea, we all have a soul, something that is not corporeal, the essence of self, something that hurts when there is pain. This is why painkillers and anaesthetics are such amazing things. Somehow they manage to insert a barrier between body and soul so that, whilst the body may be still damaged, the soul does not have to suffer.
You’re not convinced by this argument. Okay. Let’s go back to the first idea. Pain is a necessary function to ensure we don’t fuck our bodies up completely, to stop us walking on sprained ankles or accidentally setting fire to ourselves. Like I said, I’m prepared to accept that.
But what about the other sort of pain; the pain of heartbreak, the pain of loss, of disappointment? We’ve all suffered that pain. It hurts like hell, and there are no really effective painkillers to ease the hurt (although copious amounts of alcohol may effect temporary relief). This time though, there’s nothing external we can point to. We can’t say “My tooth hurts, not me”. We can only say “Me. Me.
I’m
hurting,
I’m
in pain”.
And whenever this happens, whenever I suffer that sort of pain, I’m faced with the same question. What purpose does it serve? What use is this pain? The hurt I feel when someone I love passes away does not stop others close to me from dying. It is no defence, no early warning system. All it does is make me feel awful, miserable, tearful, depressed; it makes me cynical and hopeless. It makes me feel that life, after all, is not really worth living.