Preethi Nair - Gypsy Masala

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.