Gypsy Masala
Preethi Nair

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by Ninefish 2000

Copyright © Preethi Nair 2000 and 2004

Preethi Nair asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007305018

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2010 ISBN: 9780007391479

Version: 2016-12-20

Praise

Praise for Preethi Nair:

‘A little gem of fiction…a mystic and beautifully lyrical book.’

New Woman

‘This book will have you praying for a delayed train.’

Glamour

‘A genuinely moving novel.’

Daily Express

‘She writes evocatively about childhood and there are passages of tight and lyrical immediacy.’

Guardian

‘A warm-hearted tale of survival.’

The Bookseller

Dedicated to you the reader, in the hope that you may follow the African dancer.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

EVITA

SHEILA

BALI

Author’s Note

Keep Reading

About the Author

About the Publisher

EVITA

‘Go away phantom sore throat, untie the muffler and release me so that I may go forth and conquer all that lies before me.’

I have always been a drama queen. I can remember being about seven, scarf tied around my neck, sitting with my Auntie Sheila and her friends listening to incessant banter and clattering coffee cups. Suddenly, I would bolt forth, untie my scarf and ask Argentina not to cry for me. My aunties would stop their slurping and look at me with bewildered eyes. Twenty years later, Evita plays on and the echo of that child resounds deep within me.

I want to bring back this crazy, impetuous child – just for an instant – so I can jump out of my chair at work and tell my boss what I really think of him. And then, maybe, I will stop making excuses and finally escape the mundane routine of a 9-5 existence.

A lot has happened over the past few weeks, and in order to think about things and to locate the little girl I once was, I have feigned illness – the sore throat to be precise – taking a few days off work only to develop the real thing. Cosily tucked up under my duvet, muffler around my neck, my mind wanders.

When I was about eight and played the Virgin Mary in the nativity, I looked at smiling, innocent little Joseph and questioned why he was wearing a tea towel on his head. Indeed, why was I wearing one on my head? The Angel Gabriel and the three shepherds just yawned and accepted the situation, whilst I further contemplated how I had managed to conceive a baby Jesus who was not of ethnic origin.

I took that plastic baby Jesus in hand and threw him into the audience where my Auntie Sheila was sitting. She shared their stern, dismayed looks. It was then I knew that things were going to be difficult.

Not that things prior to that incident had not been difficult. Having lost my own parents in an accident, a long, dusty road had led me to the doorstep of the Vishavans. I’m not too sure about the details of how I arrived there but it was my Auntie Sheila and my Uncle Bali who brought me up. They were a very practical couple and veering away from the realms of reality into flights of imagination was strictly prohibited. The consequences were dire: at best there would be stern looks of disapproval from my Auntie Sheila, and at worst the fear of further abandonment forever loomed around me.

So, like one of those little messages, I have managed to make myself fit into a bottle and have bobbed up and down for a long time now on the crest of other people’s expectations. Desperately yearning for the bottle to break but not quite sure what I’ll do if it does.

Tired of summoning up the courage to try and make my great escape, I closed my eyes on that Sunday evening and fell into a deep sleep. I can’t quite recollect the whole dream but I remember fragments of it, such as embarking on a journey and seeing different people with what looked like huge coals inside of them. These coals were lit by their dreams, their hopes and expectations, and their eyes either glowed or were dull and listless. Someone, I think it was a woman, approached me and asked me what my dream was, and just as I was about to answer I was awoken by the very faint sound of a drum. And then, as my eyes half-opened, I caught a glimpse of a little African figure dancing across my room. He jumped out of my bedroom window.

‘Come follow me,’ he whispered.

Deeply regretting downing half a bottle of brandy the night before to anaesthetise my throat, I dragged myself up, vowing to get a firm grip on reality.

‘Come follow me,’ I heard the voice whisper again.

I know that this is what I heard clearly, but fearing insanity I quickly turned on the radio and made my way into the shower.

It was freezing that Monday morning. I was on the Underground going to work, heading towards Baker Street, willing there to be no further delays due to the forecasted snow falling on the tracks. Luckily, because I had left earlier than usual, the carriages were not as jam-packed as they could have been.

To my right, a couple were seated. He, in his mid-thirties, attempted to read the newspaper, and she, clinging on to his arm, evaporated into him. Not far from them was a man with a beard and a huge coffee-coloured mac and opposite me sat a dark-skinned woman dressed in fine magenta, wearing numerous gold bracelets. I thought not only must she be cold but also brave for exposing them like that, but judging from her attire I figured she must have come from afar and not been aware of the concept of muggings, or snow for that matter. She appeared totally misplaced, sitting amongst all the people in their grey suits. Finding her a strange curiosity, I studied her even more closely. Her eyes looked like still puddles; I could see myself in them. No one I’d ever met had eyes like that. She must have come from a faraway island and been a princess or something. The princess, though, had chipped nail-varnish.

As I looked at her nails and contrasted them to her whole demeanour, it reminded me of the fact that perfection does not exist – everyone has something missing. It was probably best to see things as imperfect, to have no expectations so that things could not come crashing down. This is what my Auntie Sheila had endeavoured to teach me. But why was it that I was incapable of doing this? Perhaps because I am a dreamer; I dream of infinite possibilities because there must be more to life than just this.

Passengers got on at Finchley Road and hunted for space in the carriage. As one of the commuters sat on the end of the bearded man’s mac he huffed in an irritated manner and then shuffled along his seat and sprawled his newspaper across his lap. He then emitted a defiant ‘tut’ as the coat-creaser began freely reading his paper. Being on the Underground in some way seemed to incite the most rodent-type behaviour. People become incredibly predatory over their space. Maybe it is because they want to feel safe and secure.

Perhaps there is no real security or safety, just a perceived sense of one. Things happen from out of the blue that you cannot account for, random acts of fate. In my case it was my parents dying, so I think it’s pointless trying to control things. This is what I believe deep down inside but this is not how I act; possibly because I don’t want to hurt my Auntie Sheila and my Uncle Bali by going against everything they have tried to instil in me, or maybe this is just my excuse. So I remain cosseted in the life that they have given me, not venturing out of all that I know, except, that is, in the world of my imagination.

I scrutinised the face of the man who huffed and tutted: he looked unhappy. The crumpled end of a coat is not worth that amount of unhappiness. As I sat watching all the different types of people and imagined what their lives were like, I wondered if they were happy, truly happy, and enjoyed what they did; or did they share the same feelings of frustration as me and just waited for their Christmas bonus and then made a whole load of resolutions in the New Year which they knew they would never keep. My Uncle Bali always told me that life wasn’t about being happy, it was about getting a stable routine so that you could be buffered by life’s disappointments. Just as I was thinking this, I remembered more of the dream about the coals. I searched people’s eyes to see if they had realised their dreams or whether they were riding the same beaten track as I was because they were afraid – afraid to do something bold, something different; afraid of disappointing others.

The lady to my right who formed part of the couple had eyes that were completely glazed over. Somehow she had managed to surrender herself to a pair of black stilettos, she squeezed herself into them so that the fragile heels supported the weight of eighty kilos. What did this tall, mousy-blond gentleman have that made her surrender herself not only to her shoes? This wasn’t right either, putting all your hopes and expectations into one person – I had done this too. It had ended disastrously, in fact just last week. I was supposed to be getting married until I caught him with his fingers in the locks of a curly brunette.

‘Will you give me a ring then at lunchtime and tell me how we’ll arrange it?’ stiletto lady asked.

The word ‘yes’ was followed by the word ‘darling’. It sounded as if the passion with which he had first spoken those words had ebbed, leaving the sound of hollow letters that made an empty phrase. Does the passion wane in all relationships after a time?

‘Shall we get in some of those dips and some bites?’ the stiletto lady said, attempting to resuscitate his words.

Mr Mousy continued to read his FT. ‘Hmmmm…’ he mumbled.

‘And a bottle of red,’ she continued.

‘Hmmmmm.’

The art of communication was not one of his stronger points. That was what probably attracted her to him in the first instance, hoping that she could change that. Her friends had probably told her not to settle for less, to leave him, that there were plenty more mousies out there in the big blue sea, but this just strengthened her conviction and made her cling to him tighter. Her coals were probably kept alight by the thought of being with him.

And then amongst the group of random strangers in that tube carriage, there was me. My real name is Molu: Molu Vishavan. I’m twenty-seven years old. I used to be a Cancerian but on arriving at my Auntie Sheila’s house she changed my birthday so I am now a Scorpio. I have had two failed serious relationships, one near-miss at marriage, and I still live at home with my adoptive parents, Sheila and Bali, and still sleep with the light on. I have decided to change my name to Evita because I don’t want to be me any more; I want to leave the security and the safety of all that I know and embark upon a crazy adventure.

Staring at the reflection as I leaned against the tube window, I looked like anything but an adventurer. My hair was longer than it needed to be and swamped my face, and my eyes did not sparkle. The woman dressed in magenta saw me studying myself and smiled at me. Embarrassed, I looked away, wanting to tell her that it wasn’t because I was vain but because I had this dream and I didn’t think I was big enough to realise it.

‘Follow him,’ the woman in magenta whispered.

I looked up in utter amazement.

‘Excuse me, what did you just say?’

‘You have seen him. Just follow him.’

She then got up. I wanted to tell her not to go, to run behind her, but I was too shocked to say or do anything and then she disappeared.

‘Did you hear that, did you hear what that woman just said?’ I wanted to shout to the other passengers in the carriage.

But they continued to ride the train, consumed by their own thoughts. Some nodded off into their papers, eyes shut, mouths half-open. Then, by some miraculous force, once they reached their stop they would suddenly awake. I wanted to close my eyes and wish that the same mysterious force would wake me too. I didn’t want to see what other people didn’t. I didn’t want to do this on my own. The train arrived at Baker Street.

My job is the most uninspiring, monotonous work in the history of economic periodicals. I work as a researcher for the publishers of one.

What I do most of the day is call up heads of Fortune 500 companies and ask them how they invest their money. This is done by a series of questions on derivatives, swaps and the foreign exchange. It sounds complicated but it’s pretty simple really as all the questions are written out on a script which I read through whilst ticking lots of boxes. This is then handed over to Stephen Kolinsky, a nerdy guy with glasses who’s our data analyst. And then I go down my contacts list and begin again. I often wonder how on earth I got into it – perhaps it was the wording on the job advertisement – ‘working with scripts’ – that lured me.

I’d always wanted to be an actress and my Auntie Sheila keeled over when I first told her. Her impressions of what it was to be an actress went something like this: images of an Indian woman with a wet sari clinging to her body in the rain, prancing around like a stunned fairy. In between some kind of sing-song, the protagonist, seeing her lover jumping from behind the trees like a flasher, runs off whimsically, refusing his advances. After a pursuit involving running round and round the same tree, a frenzied disco dance erupts between them. It was that ‘filthy’ love scene etched in her mind that summed up what an actress was, so, understandably, she was having none of it.

Instead, I tried to get her to take me to the theatre but she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to dress up and pretend to be someone else. My Auntie Sheila is firmly grounded in reality and the only flights of fancy she has is going to Tesco’s and picking up a deluxe chocolate gateaux, or ‘ga-tux’ as she pronounces it. So there was no persuading her to send me to stage school. Instead, she sent me to a private school and selected the appropriate course for me to study at university. It sounds weak now to say I just went along and did what she wanted, but I did it to keep the peace: it was a household fraught with tension.

Sometimes at work, to vary my script-reading technique, I read the questions with different accents. The American one seemed to go down quite well, as did the Italian. CEOs weren’t so hot on the Nigerian one as it seemed to take me forever to get through: I had to keep repeating things and eventually they lost their patience. But sometimes the heads of these corporations would flirt outrageously with these fictitious characters and I would create whole lives that didn’t exist – and that, sadly, is how I got through my days. That, and going to the cinema and theatre at every possible opportunity and envisaging myself on stage.

My boss caught me doing the accent thing last week. He reprimanded me in front of everyone, saying we were not running some sleazy call-service, and asked me to think very carefully about my career. He didn’t realise that thinking about my career was what I had been doing ever since I started three years ago. That very same lunchtime I caught my fiancé, Avinash Kavan, with his fingers in the locks of a curly headed brunette. It was time to face facts – hence my hasty retreat into bed and the sore throat that followed.

That Monday morning as I walked into work, I didn’t know what to believe. Confused, I sat at my desk and pulled out the script along with the list of contacts to call for the day. A few friends at work asked if I was feeling better. ‘Yes, a whole lot better,’ I replied, hoping not to give away any signs of mental instability.

What had happened to me? Was it real? I sat staring out of my window.

The office had two large windows. Sitting next to one of them was one of the perks of the job. I had bagsied it when my friend Elaine, who was sitting there previously, plucked up the courage to leave. My colleagues only let me have it because they fell about laughing at the word ‘bagsie’ – ‘bagsie the window’ to be precise, said just as her office stationery was being redistributed. However, the windows were kept firmly shut. I had tried to un-jam mine at various times but to no avail. As a result, all the tension collected during the day, and left with the staff at home-time when the doors were opened.

The primary source of this tension emanated from my boss, a bald-headed man who backcombed the four remaining strands of his dyed hair and who strapped himself into some ill-fitting trousers by using a pair of antiquated braces. He would pounce from behind us when we were on the telephone and do a post-mortem on the things we got wrong, never praising us for the things we got right. After I had put the telephone down last week he had begun swearing at me for pretending to be Onsawawa Bonumboto.

‘Feeling yourself again?’ he sneered when he saw me back at work.

‘Yes thank you. Everything is under control,’ I replied politely.

‘Back to it, then.’

I opened the script, switched on my computer and began gazing at my screensaver.

What if the coal thing was true; what if people were ignited and called to adventure by listening to their dreams? What did a burning flame inside you feel like? Did it get rid of all the doubts, the fears? Who was this little man who jumped out of my bedroom window? Why did the lady in magenta say she saw him? Did she mean him? What if I was going crazy? Was this covered under my medical protection plan?

The sounds of the fax machines and telephones seemed to get fainter and fainter. One resounding thought was beating like a drum in my head. Who was he? The sound of the drum grew louder and louder. I could no longer control it. The thought bounced out of my head and manifested itself in the shape of a dancer. It was the same African dancer from this morning. He ran along my keyboard and across the screen, unravelling himself before me.

A slight tremor of a rhythm took a hold of my fingers and I began to type out my resignation letter. It was almost as if my fingers worked automatically, requiring no thought from me. After I’d typed it, I reached for an envelope, stuffed the letter inside and walked over to my boss’s desk. The dancer followed beside me.

The tension which had knotted in my throat during the last three years diffused into the air as the letter landed on his desk. An enormous smile spread across my face. My boss stared at me; I looked at the dancer next to me but he was heading off towards my closed window.

‘No, don’t go,’ I wanted to scream.

But it was too late; he had somehow managed to jump out.

I grabbed my coat and ran out to find him but he had gone.

Frantically running up and down Marylebone High Street, I searched for him. He was nowhere to be found. It was insane; I’d left my job on the basis of a figment of my imagination. I sat in a doorway and began to cry. What was I thinking of? What was happening to me? As I held my head in my hands, I felt someone touch my shoulder. I saw sandals and toes with pink chipped nail-varnish. I did not dare look up.

‘Follow the African dancer, my child; take your heart in your hands and follow him. As you walk, tread firmly on fear, clear the path and let the African dancer dance; dance his way into reality.’

When I managed to glance up, she had disappeared.

Once the decision had been taken to follow the African dancer, the laws of nature somehow conspired and I found myself riding on the crest of a tidal wave that propelled me to a faraway land.

It was a similar sort of journey to the one that I had made as a small child, in the sense that I don’t quite remember the specifics of how I got there. All I know was that one moment I was living happily with my grandmother on her farm in rural India, playing with calves, chickens and goats. Then, suddenly, on a flip of a coin, I had to exchange all that for a battered merry-go-round, swings and slides, and this couple called the Vishavans whom I had never met before.

Twenty-two years later it was a similar scenario: one moment I was crying on the pavement in Marylebone High Street and the next I was on a beach, far off the beaten track.

I woke up confused and dazed, trying to find my bearings. The sun dazzled my eyes, my head was throbbing and my hair was covered in sand. As I hauled myself up, an old man approached me.

‘Ma’am, a watch for your beautiful wrist, or perhaps a necklace?’

I looked towards my wrist and found I was still wearing my suit. I shook my head, and when I finally managed to speak I asked if he knew where I was.

‘It’s not so important to know this now – just know your call for adventure was heard.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was relentless. Every day, all we heard was, “Please get me out of here. I don’t know how, but please do it.” You never stopped and now you have taken a leap of faith and come here of your own accord.’

‘But where am I? What’s going on?’

‘You are wherever you want to be.’

Surely half a bottle of brandy could not have this effect a day later. I looked around and panicked at the unfamiliar surroundings. There was no one on that empty beach, no big umbrellas, no sun-beds, nothing except two sets of footprints that belonged to the old man and me. Trying to gain some sense of perspective, I turned around and my breath was almost taken away. There behind me, as far as the eye could see, was lush green foliage and the peak of a glorious purple mountain.

‘It’s beautiful, truly beautiful, but I…’

‘Just breathe, breathe very deeply.’ The old man inhaled slowly through his nose.

And so I did, trying to calm myself, allowing my breath to flow in unison with the waves and allowing the sea air to empty my head of all thoughts.

‘Good. Do you feel better now?’

I nodded. ‘Please can you help me? I don’t know how I came to be here; I came in search of an African dancer.’

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘Many come in search of him.’

‘So he’s real and you know what I’m talking about.’

The old man laughed. ‘Suspend your disbelief, Evita.’

How did he know that I had decided to call myself Evita?

‘How do you know that I call myself Evita?’

‘I know many things about you – I know that in the mornings you like two sugars in your coffee, that you stir the spoon endlessly, dreaming about ways of escaping the confines of your reality.’

I looked at him with disbelief.

He continued, ‘I know that at the end of the day you write down three things that you are grateful for, and you do this to remind yourself how lucky you are – even on the days you don’t feel lucky.’

And as he spoke, giving me the intimate details about myself that nobody could have known about, a horn sounded, piercing the calmness with its odd tune. An engine roared and a taxi pulled up beside us.

‘Good,’ the old man said, ‘José is here. He will look after you from here on – anything you need, you ask him.’

‘You can’t leave me. I have so many questions for you.’

‘Save them. Be patient, Evita. Time is your friend and you will find the answers to all of your questions. Trust in the adventure.’

With that, he turned and walked in the opposite direction.

‘Please don’t leave me,’ I shouted.

He continued walking.

A thin man got out of the taxi and approached me. He was wearing a white shirt which was obviously too tight for him; the buttons looked constipated and miserable and the trousers were supposed to match but made him look like a straw. A bushy moustache rested upon his lip and looked as if it had been stuck on.

‘Allow me to present myself, Miss Evita – my name is José Del Rey, King of the Taxi Drivers,’ he said proudly. ‘I am your host and at your complete disposal.’

This was getting stranger but I felt reassured because his taxi reminded me of my grandfather’s old car and also because there was a picture of Jesus and a wooden crucifix dangling from the rear-view mirror. As I climbed in the back, I noticed that the seats were done up in what appeared to be leopard-skin upholstery.

‘Good fashion, no?’ José Del Rey asked as he spotted me eyeing it.

‘Doesn’t it get a bit hot and sweaty?’

‘I have air-conditioning for you,’ he replied. At which point he blasted it on full fan.

‘You couldn’t turn it down just a bit? It’s only because I suffer from sore throats.’

‘Here you won’t suffer from anything. The air will cure everything. Where you want to go?’ he asked.

‘Up into the mountain, I think.’

‘This is a good idea, this is where I was going to take you. You’re here for nine days I’m told.’

Was I? Was it some package tour?

‘It is enough to experience it all,’ he added.

For the first time, I began to feel slightly excited. It didn’t matter how I had got there. The fact was I was there, and would endeavour to make the most of it.

The significance of the crucifix came to light as José Del Rey attacked the emerging hairpin bends with the vigour and ferocity that belonged only to someone who did not fear death. The crucifix swayed from side to side as he accelerated round the corners.

‘You all right back there, Miss Evita?’ he asked.

‘Clutch control,’ I shouted.

‘What?’

‘You couldn’t slow down just a bit? I don’t think I am in any hurry.’

He looked at me through the rear-view mirror and patted his moustache. ‘You are safe with me, miss. This is why they call me King of the Taxi Drivers. I know these roads like I know my own mother.’

Perhaps it was a phrase that didn’t translate well into English. I lingered on the thought of how well he could know his own mother. If she was anything like my Auntie Sheila, who had no-entry signs bobbing up all over the place, then we were in grave danger.

José Del Rey appeared to slow down as we got higher into the mountain. The air felt lighter, the greenery was dense; it was cooler and fresher. As I rolled down the window I could hear a faint drumbeat. I watched women with huge urns move as if they carried the rhythm within them, and children were dancing barefoot on the road. José Del Rey sounded his horn as we passed them, at which point they began running after us.

As we approached a plateau, the drumbeats grew louder and louder.

‘Two minutes,’ José Del Rey indicated with his fingers. There were houses painted in pastel colours dotted about. I could see a village square – it wasn’t a defined square with a focal point such as a church surrounded with benches or anything like that, just a simple open space where people congregated.

Both young and old were listening to the musicians who had brought out their drums and most people were dancing to the rhythm. As the taxi pulled up, a few people stared and smiled – welcoming smiles. Some of the boys who had followed us asked José if they could sit in his taxi. He shook his head defiantly.

I got out of the car feeling very self-conscious in my suit.

‘My wife is somewhere here, but if you want to go to the house first, I take you there.’

‘Is that where I’m staying?’

‘Yes, in our humble abode. Unless you want me to take you somewhere else?’

‘No, thank you. I’m very grateful.’

He patted his moustache and held out his elbow as a gesture for me to take it.

I marvelled at the people dancing so freely. They carried a different rhythm in them, one that was so passionate and carefree. It could not have been more different to the sounds of North London – the drone of the traffic; people locked away in their houses.

José introduced me to his wife, Delores, who was holding her son’s hand. She looked about the same age as I was and her son José could not have been more than seven or eight.

‘Welcome,’ Delores said. ‘José, welcome our guest.’

The little boy pulled a face and I pulled one back at which point he laughed.

‘You must be tired. Come, have something to eat.’

As I sat down in the square, plates of food were thrust forward from nowhere, and because I was so hungry I did not sit and savour the flavours, colours and aromas, eating so fast, like I had never been fed.

The night owl called bedtime like last orders, but people took no notice of the fact that night beckoned. Fires were built in a bid to keep it at bay. People stopped dancing and sat in a circle to talk and eat.

There on the mountain, mouths filled with food and conversation. Hot chillies gave fire to the blood and propelled words out with vivacity. Elders told stories whilst youngsters sat in their laps. It took me back to my early childhood when my grandfather would tell me stories in an attempt to put me to sleep.

Little José’s grandfather was recounting the tale about how the rains came. José went to sit next to him.

‘So the old lady, Emelda, who was against the union, shouted, “If you marry my son” (for he was her only son), “nobody here will ever dance.”’

Although it appeared as if the little boy had heard the story a thousand times, he sat even closer to his grandfather and urged him to continue.

‘So the spell was cast as the couple married. The old woman did not realise that she was part of the land that grew arid. She became cynical and twisted until death took her. There in the skies, she wandered aimlessly, lost because there was no one to love her or to shout up silent prayers that they missed her. The burden showed markedly in her posture, her stomach folded and her footsteps became heavy. Totally alone, she could bear it no longer and she cried and cried, begging forgiveness as she did so. The tears, sour at first, lost their bitterness as they touched the ground, bringing new life to all. Those tears were the rain that provided fertile lands on which the people celebrated and danced. From that, the rain came every year.’

Little José battled unsuccessfully with nightfall. He fell asleep on his grandfather’s lap, and I, also exhausted, took a stick and under the night stars wrote the words ‘thank you’ into the ground. I was truly thankful to be here, wherever here was, feeling for the first time in a long time completely free and myself amongst the company of generous strangers who did not make me miss home, understanding that home could be anywhere you wanted it to be.

The next morning Delores stormed out of the house. She was going to find her husband, José Del Rey, King of the Taxi Drivers. When she eventually tracked him down, she would rip off his moustache, the fake symbol of his manhood, and then toss it into the river. Mother Earth would surely know it was his and would then castigate him in some way for having polluted her in such a distasteful manner.

It was alleged late last night that José Del Rey had been giving lifts freely to women of a more rounded figure. Delores slept on what she had heard, trying not to give it importance. During the course of the night, the anger simmered inside her until she could take it no more.

They had been married ten years. José Del Rey had been sent to her in his crisp white shirt just eight days before she was due to marry someone else. He came from nowhere and she knew instinctively that he was the one she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

I’ve always believed this kind of scenario to be made up, having talked to my Auntie Sheila and Uncle Bali about it and having never really experienced it myself. But I believed Delores Del Rey when she told me that it was possible to love someone in the moment of meeting them.

Taken aback by his charm, his vision and his passion, Delores left her fiancé in a storm of scandal which she never quite managed to live down. At times like this, she regretted having made such a decision. Life was not easy with José Del Rey, but it was different. And despite the drama, anyone could see that they loved each other, from the glances they shared to the way he called her name and touched her fingertips when he thought no one was looking.

Delores returned later that morning with a look of relief. Reports that afternoon suggested that José Del Rey’s moustache had been seen floating along the river, face down.

It was really quite unfortunate that Encarna had not heard the news. Encarna was one of those women with a more rounded body who had accepted a free ride or two from the King of the Taxi Drivers; in fact, rumour had it that she was the one who had enticed him into giving her rides.

Whilst Encarna was collecting water from the river, the moustache had somehow managed to crawl its way into her urn. She placed the urn into her stone-cladded bathroom, undressed and then proceeded to soap herself. Whilst rinsing away the soap with the water from the urn, at the most inappropriate moment the moustache pounced out at her. She hollered in fright at the thought of the rat-infested waters. In so doing, she slipped and crashed to the ground.

That afternoon’s event resulted in a broken ankle. The moustache was laid to rest. Encarna sat by the river that whole evening, bathing her leg in the hope that the magical waters would restore it to its former beauty.

As the main aorta, the River Aynia ran from the top of the mountain into the sea. There were several tributaries, some of which had dried up. Aynia brought life to people, she ran through them; and in return, people brought life to her. Generations bathed, drank, washed their clothes and urinated in the same well. Then, as a customary parting gift, their ashes were sprinkled into her.

I was informed by Delores Del Rey that if I followed Aynia for exactly four kilometres I would come to an enormous bougainvillea tree, and on turning left and following this path it would lead me to the Gypsy. Delores said the Gypsy could answer all my questions for she knew everything. She could tell what the significance of the left eye twitching frantically was; she could cure ailments and see the past, present and future.

Delores asked me to make my way to the Gypsy’s cabin before José got back from his call-out or he would insist on taking me there, which was pointless because the walk down was equally important as it would give me the clarity to formulate the right questions.

‘Remember, Evita, it’s not necessarily the answers that are the most important—it’s the questions,’ she said as I left.

After walking steadily down the mountain, following the path alongside the river, I heard the horn of José’s taxi making its way up and dived behind some bushes in case he caught a glimpse of me. After the car roared past me I continued walking and finally came across the tree. It had a magenta blossom and a truly regal presence. Bearing left, I found the wooden cabin and, nervously, I knocked faintly on the door and entered.

Inside, the cabin appeared much bigger than on the outside and resembled a doctor’s surgery. There was a waiting room holding an array of people with a multitude of problems—broken bones, twitching eyes, burning ears, and also problems that were not visible to the eye. As the morning came and went, the waiting room emptied.

Encarna was the last one before me to see the Gypsy. I glanced at her leg propped up against the chair.

‘Slight misfortune,’ she gestured.

‘Next,’ someone shouted from behind the door.

Encarna hobbled to the consultation room and came out walking perfectly ten minutes later.

‘It was not what everyone was thinking,’ she said, looking at me. ‘There was a therrible, therrible mistake and the Gypsy understood this.’ Feeling incredibly anxious and not finding it to be the appropriate time to delve further into the ‘therrible mistake’ as I would have wanted to, I nodded.

‘She’s waiting for you,’ Encarna shouted as she left.

‘Welcome, Evita,’ the Gypsy said, turning around to greet me.

I gasped, completely taken aback.

‘I’ve been expecting you. In fact, I thought you’d come sooner,’ she said, coming towards me.

‘It’s…it’s you,’ I mumbled incredulously. It was the woman dressed in magenta with chipped nail-varnish. I went over to touch her to see if she was real. Her hands were soft and elasticy like my grandmother’s. I gripped them tightly.

‘Would you like some coffee? Two sugars, endlessly stirred?’ She smiled.

All the questions that I had silently formulated with poised composure on my way down were forgotten and something completely different came blurting out. ‘How did I get here? Where am I? What’s happening to me?’

‘One at a time, my dear. This is the land of possibility where intentions are set and dreams manifest into reality,’ she replied, putting her hand over mine.

‘Where’s that then?’

She laughed. ‘You know the answer to that.’

‘So how did I get here?’

‘By leaving all that you know to be true behind—the safety of your home, your family, your routine—you took a leap of faith.’

‘It was only because I knew I saw him. I’ve never seen something like that with such clarity. I’ve come in search of him you know.’

‘I know,’ she replied.

‘Do you know where he is and how I can find him?’

‘He’s not as far as people think but few really find him. Some make it their life’s work, some come so close but then for reasons that appear mysterious only to others decide to turn back. There are even many who know his exact whereabouts but decide to leave him be, because they know that life can never be the same once they are touched by him. You do know that, don’t you? When you follow your dream, your fears will follow you.’

Life would never be the same after this whole episode, regardless. My fears were the least I had to worry about.

‘Is he near here somewhere? Am I on the right track?’

‘Have patience and all will be revealed to you when you are ready. Focus hard on your intention and then let go. If you do this, he will surrender himself effortlessly.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Just one more thing. Do not stand in your own way by having a fixed set of outcomes, for there is beauty in the adventure of not knowing—of not being certain.’ With both hands, the Gypsy clasped my hand so tightly that I wanted to cry. I knew that grip well; my grandmother had done that same thing to me before she sent me off, and I never saw her again.

At that moment I was desperately trying to think of the last thing my grandmother said to me. Many times I have tried to remember.

‘When you are unsure of what to do, just be still and listen in here,’ the Gypsy whispered, tapping against her chest.

Tears rolled down my face.

‘And if you are still unable to hear, just breathe.’

As I walked back to the village I focussed hard on my intention to see the African dancer in whatever shape or form he decided to present himself, and then I attempted to let go by surrendering my desire, thinking that if it didn’t work out, another fate, perhaps a better one, would be presented to me.

The boys were all playing in the square as I made my way to the Del Reys’ house. A little figure was puffing his way towards them in an attempt to be fully incorporated into the action, if not to become the centre of it. It was little José. The schoolmaster had kept him behind at school for his impertinence.

‘Will José be late again in the morning?’ inquired the maths teacher.

‘Will the maths teacher draw water from the well for his mother every morning?’ retorted little José.

It was something I would have said as a child, not fearing the consequences, but as I grew older I understood the complex web of emotions that makes us a prisoner of our own fear.

Little José ran towards the boys, unable to contain the many rumours he had heard that afternoon. There existed something called a Super Information Highway. Yes, that was right, it was called something like that. It was also suggested that the Gypsy was in possession of a modem.

‘A modem,’ gasped all the boys.

‘That was what gave the Gypsy her powers,’ continued little José proudly.

He revelled in this piece of information that made the older boys gather around him. Making up whatever he could, he had them all in the palm of his little hand.

It was getting late and Delores left the house to call her son. I watched the look of a mother’s angst as she went to go and get him; it was only then I understood the significance of that same face my Auntie Sheila had had when she came to get me.

Little José was also blissfully unaware. He had aspirations ten times higher than himself. They made him grow. All four foot of him just believed. Living in the land of tooth fairies, pixies and magic Kings was effortless. Delores, his mother, was afraid. In just a few years her warrior would be entering adolescence. The world inhabited by eight billion would soon become a battlefield for just one. All alone he would have to confront the battles between dreams and practicalities; the possible and the impossible; the mundane and the extraordinary; the insignificance of the individual placed amongst the significance of the masses. The list went on—and of course, the final conflict, never quite resolved, would be carried through into adulthood. If only I had understood this sooner then things might have turned out differently.

Delores wished that her son would come out unscathed.. She hoped that he would retain his vision, his humility and compassion, and would emerge a proud but not arrogant man with the humour and the smile that would continue to melt a thousand hearts, and that the right heart would find him.

But deep down she feared adolescence would take her little boy. Things that she had said or hadn’t said; things that she had done or hadn’t done. Blaming the inadequacies of his mother would be a way of comprehending the imperfections of adulthood. But Delores continued to hope. The anxiety left her as she laughed at the thoughts that entered and played inside a mother’s head.

She took her little boy’s hand. Embarrassed that his friends could have witnessed such an act, he let go and walked behind her.

Staying with the Del Reys gave me an insight into the ups and downs of a truly passionate relationship. Since the Encarna incident, José Del Rey knew that he was skating on thin ice. He put a cigarette to his mouth and was about to light it when Delores pulled it out and trod on it. There was no moustache to hide behind and the frustration was evident. My Uncle Bali would probably not have even dared to light up a cigarette in front of my Auntie Sheila in the first place. Not wanting to aggravate her in any way, he skirted around her, making his presence barely felt.

Days passed, and as I really got to know the Del Reys all thoughts of finding the African dancer seemed secondary. If I returned home with just the experience of being with them, it would be enough. However, as I woke up one morning my instinct was telling me to climb to the top of the mountain and complete my journey.

José Del Rey argued with me, saying he wanted to accompany me, and added that very few who didn’t know the terrain made it safely to the top. Having been cushioned and cosseted for most of my life, I knew it was a journey I had to make on my own. Knowing all the consequences of making this trip alone, I set off early, laden with all the necessities José had put together for me. I did not even bother to ask where he had found a miner’s helmet complete with built-in light, but he smiled as he put it on my head and patted it.

It was a long, hard walk as the track was undefined. My little toes rubbed against the sides of the boots; pain invaded my feet and exhaustion saturated my body as the pack felt heavier and heavier. The trees grew even denser and brambles cut my hands. As night began to fall my heart leaped with the slightest noise and I feared what bugs would be landing on me. When I felt I couldn’t go on and wanted to turn back, I stood still and just breathed and breathed. As I did this, I knew it was up to me to complete what I had begun, and in order to distract my mind I began formulating various questions.

It began to rain. The ground turned slippery, making me feel even more unsure as to whether this was what I was supposed to be doing. But I imagined reaching the top and focussed on my questions as, wearily, I carried on. It was pitch black and freezing when I finally reached the summit. Exhausted, too tired to be frightened by the dark and all the unfamiliar sounds, I stumbled to the ground. With the helmet’s light still on, I fell asleep.

When I awoke, the sun shone brightly, turning the mountain-top into a shimmering gold. It was the most breathtaking view that I think I will ever see in my life; an expansive blue sea surrounded by dense green forests with the beginning of the River Aynia glistening against the sun. My body ached all over and I lay there with the sun beaming against my face. After a while I got up, and waited and waited, not quite sure who or what I was waiting for but knowing that I could not leave. And as I closed my eyes, half-dazed, I saw some of the things that I had chosen to forget in my life: the death of my parents, my Uncle Bali taking me from my grandmother, the journey to my Auntie Sheila’s house. I understood how everything pieced together and had led to this moment—sitting there, alone on the mountain-top.

As these images passed in front of me, I let them go one by one. I sat with my head resting between my knees and I just cried and cried, a limitless fountain of tears, and then I felt a deep sense of release.

Later that evening, when the mountain-top drew breath, birds and other little animals joined me. They brought with them their anticipation and leaned forward in the hope that they could release it into the air and that life would take care of the details, throwing up some crazy concoction.

The light was dim; my own light was turned off. The moon focussed on the blackened stage. And then he appeared from nowhere—the image of perfection, slender and masculine. The naked torso leaned backwards as his feet took him forward. Then his feet began to tap, slowly, monotonously, to the tempo of everyday life: the commute to work; the nine o’clock start; the commute home. The tapping grew heavier and louder, waking his arms from their deep sleep. In one brusque moment his hands invited the audience to listen, listen to life.

Then, in one almighty move, life exploded and the African dancer danced in front of me. A torrential rain swept across us. The rain fell so hard, washing away all the fears and the doubts as he danced and danced. And at some point late into the night, the dancing stopped and his spirit dissolved slowly into me.

I had found him—anything was possible.

It was freezing cold when the plane arrived at Heathrow airport. Even more so because of having to leave the warmth of that place and the people. As I got off the plane and into the arrivals lounge I noticed that everybody was looking at me. Perhaps I had been beautified by my new aura with the belief that anything was now possible and my look of exhilaration would be attracting only positive things. I was met at the airport by a bag lady who pointed out that the wheels on my suitcase could do with an oiling. ‘Too noisy,’ she said as she wiped her nose.

I asked her if she knew where the taxis departed from. The bag lady smiled and said she would take me to the stand. She was petite with scraggly grey hair which was housed in a dark brown hat that looked like a tea cosy. She wore a green coat and boots that were two sizes larger than her feet and so as she moved forward her feet tried to make up the gap between the end of her toes and her shoes.

What empty, broken dreams did she carry in those bottles that clinked in her bag? We walked into the lift and she pressed the basement button. Panic filled me as I knew that there was nothing in the basement and I remembered a conversation I had had about bag ladies. Navi, my best friend, had told me to beware of the bag lady. She had heard many a story of men posing as bag ladies only to reveal themselves as knife-wielding maniacs.

We were in the basement and no black cabs were in sight. I could foresee the headlines plastered all over the Heathrow terminal car parks: ‘BASEMENT MURDER. DID YOU SEE THIS GIRL OR WOMAN?’

‘I just wanted to introduce you to some friends,’ said the bag lady.

Friends? I didn’t want to meet her friends, I just wanted to find a cab and face my Auntie Sheila.

Somewhere behind the huge metal bins, the happy gang sat, swaying their bottles and singing. I sighed with relief, thinking that they were totally inebriated and could not even pick up a Stanley knife.

‘This is Evita,’ shouted the bag lady.

How did she know that?

‘Evita,’ they sang together.

Their group was called ‘Resignation’. They were resigned to their fate as bag people; that life had dealt them a cruel set of cards. Life’s pathetic failures, bundled up in the basement, out of sight. I turned to walk away from them.

‘We heard you’ve seen him. We’ve seen him too you know,’ said a dead-beat version of Father Christmas.

I stopped in my tracks.

‘And we weren’t hallucinating,’ he added.

Is this what seeing the African dancer led to? A life of picking up passengers from Heathrow airport in a half-intoxicated state? Is this what the Gypsy meant when she said to follow a dream is to follow your fears?

The man read the horror in my face and laughed. ‘To achieve, Evita, is to be happy, to stay happy and to make others happy.’

Yes, but happiness for me wasn’t sitting in a basement, singing with the happy gang. I wanted more. ‘Although the cards have already been dealt,’ he continued, ‘people have a choice in the hand they play. It is all a matter of choices—make your choices with a full heart and an open mind and you will never go wrong.’

Right. So was this not going wrong?

Then the bag lady went into a monologue as if she were on Broadway. ‘Change your perceptions. Do this, and then you’ll change your reality. You’ve got your reality, I’ve got my reality. Who’s got objective reality? The lives of others are different from the perspective you have of them. See the whole picture. Take Mal here, a Forex trader. Pressure, recession, depression, gambled it all away, but he’s better than he’s ever been. The Ace of Spades—found his pack,’ she said slapping him on his back. ‘When you reach your height you have to make sure you’ve got some place else to go, move sideways and take things as they come. We’ve still got our limos,’ she said, looking over at the trolleys filled with plastic bags.

‘What happens to me now?’ I asked her.

‘Whatever you want to happen,’ she replied. ‘When you break it to your family, be gentle with them,’ she added. ‘All they have ever wanted for you is the best.’

‘I have come to realise this,’ I replied. And this was the saddest part of it; that it had taken me so long to understand this.

The happy gang no longer appeared to me as bag people but as a chorus of voices that would do battle with the preconceived ideas that continued to invade my head. I was escorted to the taxi stand to continue the rest of my journey.

The taxi driver lacked the passion of José Del Rey. He stopped diligently at each set of traffic lights. Waiting for the amber light to flash, he would slowly pull away. Every time he stopped, my stomach churned. This was the part I was dreading: returning home and facing the ‘Mob’—the extended family of aunties. The problem was the ‘best’ that they wanted for me wasn’t what I had wanted. As we drew closer to the house, all that had happened on that mountain seemed a distant memory.

I recollected leaving a message hastily on my Auntie Sasha’s answer-machine saying that I was going away for a few days and needed time to think. I asked her to inform my Auntie Sheila as I didn’t have the courage to do it myself. Asking my Auntie Sheila not to worry about me was like asking the Pope not to be Catholic and she would have somehow managed to persuade me not to go, to come straight back home, for that was the power she had: she could persuade anyone to do anything. Anyone except Sasha, her sister, who invented her own rules away from those of the Mob. She was somehow able to do this whilst pretending to participate wholeheartedly in their antics.

As the cab got closer to our street, my heart began thumping. ‘Breathe,’ I kept telling myself, ‘it will be all right.’ But I knew it wouldn’t. How could I tell her what. I had done; what I was planning to do—that I had no job to go to, that I was going to move out and be an actress? I thought about what the bag lady had told me, to see things from different perspectives, but the facts were clear. My Auntie Sheila would be truly mortified. And then there was the rest of the ‘Mob’ that she would have to break the news to. They had already been dealt a heavy blow six months earlier when Navi (Auntie Asha’s daughter) decided to go travelling for a year. Secret talks were conferred in a bid to dissuade her, a deposit for her own flat was even offered, but to no avail. Navi went. What I was now going to do, especially after my broken engagement, would most probably lead to Auntie Sheila’s downfall. Auntie Meena had her eye on the top job and was waiting for an opportunity to step in and take over.

Auntie Sheila was head of the Mob. She drove around in a tinted black BMW with a personalised number-plate that read SHEILA 1. My Uncle Bali had bought this car for her for their thirtieth wedding anniversary last month and the comment she muttered under her breath was ‘Sheila didn’t win anything.’ My uncle had very selective hearing and so he didn’t hear this and continued to undo the big pink bow he had put on it as he handed Sheila the keys. Shortly after, Auntie Meena pulled up in our driveway with a new silver Saab convertible—there was no way she could be outdone—and the outside of our house would have looked like a show’room had it not been for my Auntie Sasha’s clapped-out Mini Metro, which Sheila insisted she park on the road, although Sasha didn’t.

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