One More Time (8 page)

‘Thank you.’

A moan from behind me acknowledged my coins as I sped down the stairs and out into the maze of streets.
My heart was thumping frantically and I felt ashamed and upset. The girl’s innocent face lingered in my mind, and the depth of her sadness when I refused her hand. It was a terrible thing that I’d done.

Alone now and unnoticed in an empty laneway, I found myself leaning against a wall, tears falling from my eyes. What more heartache had I caused? Would I always be running away from something I’d done?

‘Need a tissue?’ The woman’s voice was soft and warm. I looked up.

‘I get like that sometimes too,’ she continued lightly. ‘It can be so upsetting to see, can’t it?’ She shook her head sympathetically.

I nodded and wiped my eyes, composing myself.

‘India can bring anyone to tears! So, what’s your name?’

‘I’m Sean. What about you?’ She seemed composed yet lively, with an impressive array of bright Indian jewellery. In the black fisherman’s pants worn by seasoned travellers in India, she looked more suited to a stylish magazine than the streets of Varanasi.

‘I’m Serena…You’re Irish, aren’t you?’

‘And you’re—’ I paused for a moment, then took a stab in the dark—‘Australian?’

Her face lit up. ‘Most people say American!’

Secretly pleased with my stroke of luck, I asked, ‘How long have you been here for?’

‘Well, I’ve been in Varanasi for two days, but I’ve been stuck in this maze of streets for the last three hours.’

I couldn’t help but laugh.

‘You’re laughing now, but let’s see you get us out of here,’ she joked. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Wherever you want!’ I took her hand and began to lead the way. She didn’t let go, and we walked through the laneways, like sweethearts out for a stroll. There was an odd sense of comfort in walking hand in hand with this complete stranger.

‘So how long have you been in India?’ Serena asked.

‘Only for a few weeks. I ran away from home!’ What made me say that?

‘Hanging out with a fugitive, am I?’ Her easiness was infectious.

After a while she paused. ‘Haven’t we been down this street already! I’m nearly positive I’ve seen that cow before!’

A large spotted cow blocked our path and we edged our way around its backside, getting a slap from its tail as we passed.

‘That’s a different cow, it’s a friend of the other one.’

‘I still think we’re lost,’ she responded, giving me a mischievous grin.

‘Trust me,’ I said coyly. ‘I have it all well under control. I’m bringing you the long way so that we can take in a bit of the scenery.’ There was no scenery, nothing but narrow streets that were long ago forgotten by the sun.

‘Are you here with anyone?’ I asked in trepidation. ‘Yeah. I’m here on my honeymoon!’ A shiver ran down my spine but she squeezed my hand tightly. ‘Only kidding. I’m here alone. I packed my bags, booked a ticket and here I am.’

We entered a street crowded with everything imaginable: people, cars, rickshaws, cattle; it was like trying to enter a football stadium while its last crowd was still leaving. I hung on to her tightly.

‘Do you hear that?’ she asked. ‘Voices—chanting?’

It was low at first, just a hum growing in the distance, but definitely coming in our direction.

‘What is it? A protest, a rally?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘A funeral.’

And from around a corner there suddenly emerged a crowd—a hundred people, all running, and all chanting. Held aloft on a thin wooden bed was the draped body of an elderly woman, clearly on her way
to the Golden Temple. Before we had time to comment, the crowd was passing by, a fleet of runners, their voices raised to the heavens.

‘Come on. Follow the dead woman.’ Serena released my hand. Together we ran among the swarm of mourners, behind their beloved departed, until finally the crowd reached the Golden Temple.

When I looked around, though, Serena was nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t have gone too far, I thought, she had been right beside me.

I searched again. But she had vanished into thin air. As a last resort, I returned to the rooftop and looked down from the balcony for her. Still I couldn’t see her—she had disappeared, just like that.

I turned for the exit and began to walk down the concrete stairs. Near the bottom I stopped, a sense coming over me that I was being watched. I turned, hoping to see Serena. She wasn’t there; instead at the top of the stairs stood the young Indian girl whose hand I’d refused earlier.

‘You look lost.’ Her voice was soft and sweet, her big brown eyes looked at me without judgment, without any anger.

I gulped. Slowly I walked back up the stairs. The little girl watched. She seated herself on the top step
and, on reaching it, I sat down beside her.

‘I think perhaps I am a bit lost,’ I replied. The young girl said nothing. ‘What is your name?’ I asked.

‘My name is Bauna.’ She played with her long black hair as she spoke. ‘What is your name?’

‘Mine’s Sean.’

‘That is very funny name!’ She giggled and her face relaxed, releasing the carefree child from behind her sickly exterior. We sat in silence for a few moments.

‘What is wrong with you?’ I asked sympathetically.

‘I am very sick,’ she replied slowly. ‘My mamma say soon I have to go far away—’ She frowned. ‘And I don’t like to leave my mamma but she tell me she cannot come too!’

I placed my hand upon hers, and held it warmly for some time. She smiled happily.

Finally I stood up to leave.

‘Do you want to see my mamma?’ she asked excitedly.

‘Ah, I better go,’ I replied sadly. ‘Maybe next time. It was lovely to meet you, Bauna, you’re a very special young girl.’ She smiled, bashful. ‘You take care of yourself.’

I walked away from the Golden Temple, stopping once to wave goodbye to Bauna—but she too was gone.

‘Ahhh!’

Quickly I ran to help Mani, as did a kind Nepalese man from a teahouse nearby. Tugging frantically at the backpack fasteners, I eased the load from Mani’s shoulders while the elderly man questioned him in Nepali. Between quiet groans Mani answered.

‘What’s he telling you?’ I asked the man. He didn’t reply. Instead, he shook his head and led Mani towards his teahouse. Once there, he sternly instructed me to remain outside.

‘I want to know what’s going on,’ I cried as the door was shut in my face. ‘What is wrong with him?’

‘He looks very sick.’ I was startled. The words came from behind me and I turned. Instead of one face I met two—a man and a woman, both bronzed.

‘Yeah, he does,’ I replied. ‘He’s been having stomach ache all morning.’

‘He sounded like he was in a lot of pain.’ The girl spoke with concern, then pressed hard on her own stomach and mimicked the moan Mani had made. I found myself smiling at her; she had a comforting, naive simplicity.

‘Maybe he’s just had too much
dal bhat,
’ I replied, and we all chuckled. ‘I’m Sean, good to meet you.’

‘I am Hans.’

‘And I am Greta.’

‘Ah, like Hansel and Gretal,’ I said jokingly.

‘No,’ retorted Hans dryly, adding more slowly than before. ‘My name is Hans and she is Greta.’

Hans was a tall, athletic-looking man with closely cut brown hair and a pair of rimless glasses. Greta was also very athletic looking, wearing a pair of loose khaki shorts and a light t-shirt. They resembled the adventure-seeking models that you would find in travel brochures or holiday documentaries.

‘So, um, where are you trekking to?’ I asked as a silence-filler.

‘Oh, but of course we trek all over Nepal.’

Of course!

‘We have been trekking already, forty-one days!’ He
proceeded to recount each step of their forty-one-day hike as if reciting statistics. Greta remained silent, her eyes downcast, her hands playing with a stone that she must have picked up along the way. I couldn’t help feeling that Greta didn’t share Hans’s enthusiasm for their journey. Hans continued to speak without leaving any opening for me to escape. Greta, on the other hand, found a dry place to sit, where she peeled off her boots and socks and began to massage her tired feet. They couldn’t have appeared further apart if they had tried. I was becoming extremely bored by Hans’s account.

‘Are your feet sore?’ I asked Greta, grabbing an opportunity to interrupt Hans as he paused for a breath. He shot me a look, unimpressed.

‘She is fine,’ he cut in. ‘Girls, they are always complaining about their feet. Men are clearly the stronger sex.’ Hans laughed, as Greta’s face reddened with embarrassment.

‘I think it is time we continue now.’ Hans took a drink from his water flask, tucked it away and, without looking at Greta, heaved his backpack upon his shoulders and faced me once again. ‘Nice to meet you, Sean. We travel the same way as you today, so maybe we meet in Tadapani tonight, yes?’ He reached
out and grabbed my hand. His grip was firm and his handshake strong and definite. Hans turned towards the trek path and started off again.

Without so much as a sharp word uttered, Greta and Hans had just had an argument in front of me, and now Hans was resorting to leaving without her. Within a matter of minutes he was out of view and Greta was petulantly tying her laces.

I felt I had to say something, as though I was at fault for asking after her feet.

‘I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing to Hans!’ Then I felt foolish to be apologising.

She glanced up at me with a wry smile.

‘He always does this!’ she mumbled angrily. ‘I’m sick of everything he does, sick of it.’ She pulled hard on the laces and finished the knot. I stood silently, watching, not sure what to say.

‘Can I help? Do you want to talk about it?’ I finally blurted.

A rush of emotion played over her face as she fought some inner demon. It was a battle lost. ‘I’ll tell you, forty-one days and tired.’ She spoke with venom. ‘Forty-one days and I hate this country and I…’ She paused for moment and then looked down at her clothing and began to tug at the jacket that was
wrapped around her waist. ‘And I hate this clothing and I…I hate him, I hate him!’

Oh. Maybe I’d said the wrong thing again. Probably should have minded my own business.

The resentment in her voice was intense. I wasn’t sure what to do. Give her a hug or something? I made an awkward move towards her. She turned before I got close enough, distracted by her backpack, which she now threw angrily onto her shoulders.

‘I’ll tell you something else.’ She faced me again, her fierce blue eyes staring hard into mine. ‘I don’t like walking!’

Then, planting an unexpected kiss on my cheek, she hurried off after her man and was soon gone. I was dumbstruck. Like an unexpected storm, the couple had arrived and left—sudden chaos, and then nothing! It was as though I’d imagined the whole thing.

The late morning sun had begun to settle in nicely over the countryside and the mist that had followed us for most of the morning’s walk had finally drifted away. There was a sense of tranquillity here and I found my mind pleasantly at rest. The meeting with the German couple had distracted me from Mani—and now Mani
heightened my contentment by emerging from the teahouse apparently revived.

‘He give me medicine.’ Mani patted his stomach and indicated his Nepalese helper. ‘I think maybe it starting to work.’

‘You feel better?’ I was relieved.

‘I feel good enough for
dal bhat!’

I wasn’t sure
dal bhat
was the remedy he was seeking. The elderly man attending him seemed to think the same thing and disappeared back into the house, his expression disapproving.

‘He doesn’t seem happy. What’s wrong with him?’ I asked Mani.

‘He fine. He want Mani to rest but I think that maybe I feel good now!’

‘Are you sure? If he thinks that you should rest maybe it’s best to take his advice?’

‘No.’ Mani’s smile retreated, almost becoming a frown. ‘No, I now better. I am fine.’

Once again Mani had made his decision. And when the old man returned with menus and spoke pleasantly to Mani I felt a little more comfortable in his presence.

We remained at the teahouse for a further hour until Mani had finished eating. I argued with him one more time about carrying the bag, but he was adamant about
it being his job, and I knew that if I persisted I would only be insulting him further rather than helping him. As soon as we had left the village and were once again swallowed up by our trek, Mani led the way with renewed liveliness.

‘I think it’ll do you good,’ I remember Mam saying to me as we arrived at the doctor’s house. ‘You’re not getting on top of things. If anything, you’re getting worse.’

At thirteen it was hard hearing those words. Mam was always my biggest supporter, and for her to say I was getting worse was like hearing that in her eyes I was a failure.

‘I’ve started to get into music,’ I pleaded. ‘It makes me feel much better. Takes my mind off everything.’

But she wasn’t convinced.

The doctor was young, probably not much older than thirty—I remembered thinking he was far too young to treat me.

In a lengthy discussion, I awkwardly recounted the many different things that I did, and then said what I thought my mind was doing.

‘Sean,’ he said, ‘you suffer from an overactive imagination, which in your case adversely affects your Obsessive Compulsive Disorder—OCD.’

I had watched enough documentaries to know this already.

‘What you probably don’t know,’ he continued, ‘is that aside from prescribing medication—which, I might add, is something that I am never in favour of, except in the most severe of cases—your only way of dealing with this, probably, is to understand its mechanics.’

I became interested.

‘Most anxieties come in a wave. People like you will feel a desire to do something, brought on by some kind of anxiety. In your case the anxiety can be, for example, that something will happen to your family if you don’t perform a certain ritual. The trick is to not respond to the anxiety, but rather to let it follow its course. Anxiety starts small and like a wave will increase, becoming higher and higher. The thing to remember is that it will always decrease; it can’t stay high forever. If you learn to ride the waves rather than get swallowed up by them, then you’ll start controlling your OCD.’

That day I left the doctor’s feeling invigorated and full of confidence. But it never worked! It never worked because life carries on, and the urge to perform a ritual is greater than allowing yourself to hold on and ride the wave.

Ahead, Mani was struggling up a steep incline.

‘Do you want a break?’ I cried out. An hour of hard walking had passed since we’d left the teahouse.

Mani didn’t answer, simply nodded in an exhausted fashion and plonked himself down on a dry log of wood. We sat without saying a word for a short time. Finally Mani broke the silence.

‘You know,’ Mani nodded his head gently as he spoke, ‘I was very worried!’

‘About what?’

‘My stomach! I tell you once all my family deaded, my sister, my mother, my father, everybody!’

How could I forget?

Mani continued, ‘They all bleeded from their stomach, from their inside.’

‘All
of them?’

Mani’s voice dropped to a lamenting whisper. ‘Very sad for Mani, no family, all deaded.’

‘But you feel much better now, don’t you?’

‘Now,’ Mani spoke softly, his big eyes gleeful, ‘yes, I am much better. Medicine working, I think.’

After a pause, Mani bowed his head. ‘But still I am frightened whenever I am not feeling so well. Make me
worry a lot. Make me think that maybe it is my time to be deaded too.’

The despair in Mani’s voice moved me, though I was taken aback that he was telling me such personal details. What could I say to him?

‘You’re not going to die!’ I tried, in a chirpy voice, ‘Everybody gets stomach pains now and then. You’re no different. It doesn’t mean that we’re all going to die, though. Only the other day I had a stomach ache myself. I was doubled up with pain.’

Mani looked at me, confused. ‘Doubled…up…What is this?’

‘It means…really bad pain.’

‘Ah,’ his voice rose. ‘Really bad, I understand.’ He mulled over this for a second. ‘So you, too, had pain in your stomach?’

‘Yeah, terrible—turned out I had a serious case of gas!’

‘Gas?’ Again he was confused.

‘Yeah, you know, I needed to let out a massive fart, and then I was cured!’ Animatedly, I demonstrated what I meant and could tell that Mani understood by the bashful look on his face. But his bashfulness was quickly replaced by worry once again. Mani was
frightened. Too many hours with your own thoughts can be hazardous. I knew.

‘You see,’ he continued, ‘maybe stomach pain okay for you, but here in Nepal, sickness sometimes very bad, even small sickness many time kill. For a man like me, guide-porter, not always long life, not so much money for medicine.’ He broke off suddenly, collecting his thoughts. ‘I want to find wife, I want to make good life for my family, I not want to be deaded.’

Where was the window that I could climb out of? I didn’t think I was the right person for this job. Still, sometimes it’s best to tell people what they want to hear, even if you know it mightn’t be entirely true. Mani needed something to raise his spirits not sadden him further.

‘Didn’t you say that the medicine is making you feel better?’ Mani nodded. ‘And the rest of your body is feeling okay? No other pains?’ He nodded again. ‘Well, then maybe you’ve nothing to worry about at all, you’ve nothing but a stomach bug.’

‘Bug?’

‘Yes,’ I continued. ‘A bug in your stomach. One that’ll soon go away.’

Mani stared at me inquiringly, his brain slowly deciding whether or not to believe me. ‘You sure?’

‘I promise you!’

He looked relieved. Was I right to make promises about things I couldn’t control?

‘Maybe you are right. I think Mani still alive for time much more.’

I returned this optimism with a gentle nod.

‘But,’ he became serious again, ‘if I stay living, I not want to live here in Nepal. Life no good here.’

This had surfaced out of nowhere.

‘I have some friend in Israel and she say I can go there. I want to do that.’ Then, slyly looking in my direction, he added, ‘And in your country, maybe I can get job there too, maybe you help Mani also?’

My jaw almost dropped. Where was this discussion going? Had Mani just pulled a fast one on me—a sales pitch through sympathy? This had happened before in my travels.

But I tried not to show annoyance, unwilling as yet to rule Mani out so fast.

‘When I try to go to Israel I write letter to my friend for sponsor. She send me letter that say she will give me job and house and she will help me in Israel.’ He opened his wallet and drew out a piece of paper, neatly folded, from one of the pouches. We looked at it together. The letter had been written to the Nepali immigration office.

‘So what did you do?’ I asked, handing it back to him.

‘I think maybe I am unlucky. I go to immigration with letter and ask if I can leave. They say no. They say I have to pay two hundred lakh as present to immigration manager.’

‘As a present!’ I exclaimed. ‘As a bribe, more like it.’ Two hundred lakh—two hundred thousand rupees—was more money than Mani could save in a lifetime. But bribery was normal in Nepal. And immigration officers believed that if a Nepalese can afford to leave the country, then they must be very wealthy and should share some of that wealth around. As Mani talked about it, I realised I’d never met a Nepalese outside Nepal, in all of my years of travelling.

It was a beautiful country but poor. Who wouldn’t want to try for something better elsewhere? Mani was just a man trying to make good—an honest guide who struggled from one week to the next to make a living. If I could give him some ray of hope what did it hurt me?

After a few minutes of riffling through my backpack, I found a scrap of paper and a pen.