| Suzanne A. H. | October 2024 | Short Story |

In the second year of college, I decided that I was an adult.   

So, I booked myself a weekend trip to Pushkar keeping in mind its proximity and high praise. “Go once at least, Sarah. Then you tell me. I’ll change my name if you don’t like it!” This or somewhat of an equally empty statement was made to me by a few of the locals in my class. Since I had joined the conference of adulthood newly, I thought it would be wise to take a fellow novice along, my roommate Sheetal. 

We chalked out the itinerary on a weekend shy of workload and booked ourselves into a cheeky little hostel called “Moustache”. I do not think it was much of a coincidence that the boy behind the front desk sported a curved and luxuriously oiled moustache himself. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. A conspicuous affair, that hairless face with puerile eyes hosting such a heavy arrangement of maturity. It was combed and everything!

“Do you think it’s real?” I whispered to Sheetal. She looked like she had just seen a donkey walking on two feet. 

“Never seen anything of the sort, bro.” 

Having reached after nightfall, we decided to dine in the courtyard of the hostel where a feast was taking shape around a spattering bonfire. Bounded by bricks of blue and classic dome-shaped Rajputi windows, we made ourselves warm in a corner. A November chill was slowly creeping in through the desert land. The other guests were friendly enough, making small talk with an awkward Sheetal and slightly overwhelmed me. There was a magnificent tapestry exhibiting a rather psychedelic Mandala under which the moustached boy sat with his guitar. While we hunched over bowls of kachodi drowned in kadi, he entertained us with a soulful rendition of Ajeeb dastan hain ye. After dinner, we were requested to stay back for a ‘specialty.’ As crickets chirped louder into the night, people began to sing to Moustache’s guitar until someone placed a tall ornate hookah in the centre of the gathering.

“We aren’t doing that.” Sheetal hissed. On any given occasion, considering our usual cautious and naive personas, I would agree with my friend. However, I looked around me at the faces of these strangers. Some looked happy, some sleepy, some even melancholic and bland. Yet, not one of them looked out of place. I couldn’t tell if they were truly hunting in the right corners of the woods or if they were hiding behind wolf pelts. But every one of them looked like they belonged exactly where they were meant to be; a choice they made with crystal clarity. No, I didn’t want to stretch my limits. After all, I had never done anything so scandalous, so wildly gratifying but since I did come all this way into the realm of control, why was I so afraid? What was I so afraid of? My parents? They weren’t there; didn’t even know where I was. My warden? I was miles away from the premises of my hostel.

Well, what then? These strangers? They didn’t look like they cared in the slightest. They were gathered around the ornate smoking device, unbothered by anyone else’s existence. That was fascinating to me, to be so in control of my own life that everyone else felt like a complimentary side dish, symbiotic.

I was intrigued. We were adults. We were in control.

We smoked that queer trophy after all. Surprisingly enough, Sheetal lunged for it before I did. I was supposed to be the lion. We each took about four to five drags and stared at the sky that suddenly seemed to have been melting onto green branches mauling it. “I am getting a headache. And that weird painting thing is spinning.”

Sheetal was right, the Mandala was indeed in motion. Round, spiral flashes of orange amidst a sea of blue. We headed back to our room and fell asleep shortly. Except, I couldn’t quite sleep. I tossed and turned till I finally gave up and lay wide awake, eyes fixed on the horizon outside the window. I watched the sun rising slowly, convincing my heavy lids to give up until I couldn’t try any longer. I sprang up from the bed and decided to take my newfound independence by a new storm. I would do something I had never done before, much like everything else so far: I would go on a morning walk in an unknown town. 

I would watch the town wake up. 

A cobbled pathway downhill from the hostel opened into a typical bazaar; the kind you see in every touristy hill town. Except, this market was devoid of the usual hubbub and horror. It was still fast asleep, drapes of yellow plastics covering most shop fronts. I promenaded across the one-kilometre stretch with my heart surprisingly absent within my chest. I felt strangely calm for someone who didn’t know which narrow alley led to an unprecedented folly. Ever so rarely I spied a sign of civilisation in the form of middle-aged men walking with brass lotas and a curious look towards me. They were all heading towards the same way it seemed. I silently followed. We ambled through meandering streets with yellowing buildings and tiny temples under trees. As we neared the end, bells began to chime and the snicket opened to the famous Ghats of Pushkar.

The large, grey Pushkar Lake, surrounded by a total of fifty-two sacred Ghats—a little history knowledge I learned during my trip—swayed lazily in front of me. Devotees were crawling out of the hundreds of cavernous temples around it and walking a series of steps that led to holy redemption. I was surprised by the number of Westerners clad in orange with golden bells and puja thalis in their hands. The slight racing of my awakened heart was allayed by the sight of their blonde hair and fair skin. If they can swim within these shores, I, Sarah Hussain, surely don’t have to feel like a fish out of water. 

For a good few minutes, I sat on the stone stairway and observed. The freshly risen sun was beating silver scales down on the dancing water. Annoying flocks of pigeons flapped as far as the eye could see in an attempt to destroy every ounce of peace I was feeling. Even the schools of well-educated white ducks looked agitated as they swayed their tails across the lake in graceful judgment. Those with superior hearts were tossing grains to these pigeons. Others were removing their footwear upon reaching the last few steps. 

I too imitated them and clutched my sandals in my hand. The floor felt tepid, its sandstone rough under my heels. I walked down till I was at the deck, the holy water only a few steps of bravery away. I was gaining momentum. I began walking along the lake, still a few moments away from the shore. The lake was choking with fish, I saw, mostly blacks and greys, not anything a fisherman would rather keep alive for its beauty. But every few seconds, a glistening golden one would come slithering out to the surface as if to say ‘there’s still hope after all.” On the other side, an Aarti was sounding from the largest temple within the perimeter, a white stoned structure that boasted royalty. I was so taken with the ominous vibrations resonating from there, having never experienced the culture from so close before, that I was caught off guard when a man beckoned to me from the Ghat straight below. 

Looking behind to ascertain I hadn’t been mistaken, I pointed to myself and yelled back, “Me?”

“Come come, beta. God is kind.” The Pandit said. Slightly intimidated, extremely confused, I began walking towards him, unsure why exactly he was calling me. However, the man probably had God’s home number so I didn’t want to offend him.

“Yes?”

He waddled out of the water, orange dhoti sticking to his legs. He plucked out a red dhaga from his puja thali and thrust it toward me. I thought to myself, this is the day Pandit Ji and I alone will solve the complication of cultures, decades of border violence and years of political unrest. I was immensely touched by the gesture of this kind Pandit simply offering me a blessing. Smiling ear to ear, I reached out to accept the offering but what followed next can best be described as being a fish out of water. He naturally took to believe that my outstretched hand was an act of permission to perform an extremely intimate ritual that I was absolutely unversed with. He began tying the red dhaga around my right wrist while I began to worry about the marked increase in the speed of my pulse. Would Pandit ji feel the tachycardia?

He began chanting with his eyes closed. Cold sweat trickled down my spine as I realised I was too deep into this to back out now. My inner voices of reason began shouting all at once.

“He doesn’t even know you’re Muslim!” I thought. Would he mind? God was God no?

Sure, I was born yesterday. Rolling my eyes at myself, I tried keeping a porcelain face. Popular culture says India is not for beginners, I believe India is not for people who assume the best. Leaving behind one’s prejudice at home when exploring this incredible country is like bringing a knife to a gunfight. Mind numbingly foolish. Nothing must get through. My eyes aren’t the mirror of my soul. They aren’t.

What would you do if he found out? Would he be mean? Did I just despoil a holy man’s day? My head was spinning. My throat felt dry. It was all happening so fast. The Pandit ji stopped chanting now. He placed two leaves of bougainvillea in the palm of my hand and said in accented, broken English, “Repeat after me, child.” 

 He thinks I am a Foreigner. The thought spread through my chest like respiratory poison. 

I always knew I did not have typical Indian features. My eyes were narrow, my hair too fair and the bones under my skin held robustness, unlike most Indian women. However, my appearance usually fooled eyes that haven’t seen many foreigners before, so this man, who probably spends days speaking to Caucasians and African Americans alike, should have known I was no different from him. His countryman. Born and raised in India’s tuberculosis-laden soil just like him. We probably shared the same strain of mycobacterium.

“I, tell your name…” 

Why did I just forget every Hindu name I have ever heard in my life?

“I…I….Sheetal…” I stammered, holding my hand from shaking. 

“Am hungry for your blessing and beg for your mercy.”

“Am hungry for your blessing and beg for your mercy,” I muttered.

“I pray for your holy light to shine upon my father, what’s his name?” 

I felt like I was going to faint. I scrambled my mind for a name that wasn’t Mohammed and all I could come up with was, “Shree….shree…shree Ba—“

“My father Shree and mother?”

“D..Deepika.”

“I hope you will grant me the blessing of a good husband and beautiful children.” I repeated after him. “And a peaceful life under the guidance of your light.”

He might have said something about good friends and a safe full of jewels, but by then I was entirely spent. I stared at the far end of the lake where little kids were diving into the water, guiltless and free. Seemingly in control of their lives. When he was done, he raised his bowed head and looked into my eyes. I squirmed. It felt as though both Almighty Allah and Lord Shiv had come down from the sky to condemn me for never taking them seriously. I stammered a quick thank you, grabbed my sandals from the ground and hopped up the stairs. I was already three steps on top when I heard his voice through the ringing in my ear. “Wait, Devi! You forgot my reward?”

“Reward?” I was incredulous. I had been to Dargas when I was younger and allowed my parents to dominate my beliefs. I did understand the concept of donating to a place of worship. However, it took a while to register in me that people, no matter how pious, cannot survive solely on goodwill. God’s air wouldn’t fill their belly, a livelihood would, no matter how much it corrupts the spiritual. I hadn’t carried any cash along with me, having only gotten out intending to walk. When I told the Pandit ji about my situation he looked at me with shaded repulse that seemed to declare my existence a waste of time. Panicked with deepened guilt, I promised I would be back this way shortly to pay him what he was due. I nearly jogged back to the hostel, the heat of an ageing sun getting to me. Sheetal was up finally, eyes rimmed red. She was still a little loopy, with a nasty craving for ‘train wali chai’. I dragged her along with me to the Ghats, narrating the incident on the way with the added promise of a great cup of cardamom tea. She couldn’t stop laughing, which, in retrospect, I had found quite vexing. I made her do the entire ritual with Pandit Ji as well.

He didn’t get to know, but I will always remember that prayer. I gave the man an offering of five hundred rupees, perhaps as an attempt to make myself feel less miserable about lying to a man I had no business lying to. We found a darling little tea shop nestled illegally inside a broken pillar of some ancient fort. An old man with a snowy beard, donning a turban with red motifs was playing the ravanhatha and sucking on the end of a cheerot. Sheetal asked me if we should light up a cigarette as well to honour our successful registration into adulthood. I said why not. So we sipped tea and passed around a single cigarette that we barely knew how to smoke, while the old man, named Ghanshu Meena, began telling us stories about the famous Ghats of Pushkar and how they came to be. Perhaps that did cheer me up for the rest of the day.

I am older now, and I find the incident more humorous than alarming like I did back then.

But even today, when I am surrounded by people I think are open enough to accept a story as what it is, a story, I find myself reaching for the time I went to the holy Ghats of Pushkar and sinned.

***

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Suzanne A. H. is a 23 year old writer from Assam. She explores the themes of realism mingled with surrealism. “A sonnet to make a wish” and ‘grown ups’ are two of her pieces that have been published in the Borderless Journal and Muse India respectively.

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Feature image by Suzanne A.H

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