Preethi Nair - Gypsy Masala

‘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.