Abu. To Be Who You Are

The road from the hotel to the beach went through a dump to a human growth. Here it had its own hierarchy, a caste system of fauna. Some of the cows were with unnaturally bloated bellies, drooling and dirty, but not aggressive. They were silently, orderly and diligently chewing everything that could be chewed. Plastic bags, paper from pies and even foil. In the bushes a pack of dogs lay, lazily waiting for their turn for breakfast, left over after the cows. Above on the trees crows were drooling appetizingly. Polina experienced a cultural shock from everything that was happening:

– Where on earth are we?! This is a medieval Russian village among palm trees!

– Not just the palms, look, the Indian tamarind. Evergreen, a family of legumes. Tropical tree. We do not have such, – I tried to distract her from irritating thoughts, but she did not yield:

– Not only that, we have to live three weeks in this shed with cold water, without air conditioning, with shabby furniture, two hangers for two, with pipes from the wall in the toilet, plastic jugs, with candles instead of electricity. And to add, breakfast means toast with tea and jam from a plastic matchbox, or even less! And if that’s not enough, there are ants and flying cockroaches in our hut! And to the beach you have to make your way through garbage landfill stinking of cows and dogs. Some ghetto! Where have you dragged me? I’m even afraid to imagine what awaits us at the sea…

– Polinochka, do not exaggerate. Look around! Trust me. This is the hegemony of natural laws. And we together have a chance to continue smoothening our rough edges of compatibility. Believe me, we will turn all our holiday fantasies into reality, – I convinced my friend.

But I was already thinking that people who have nothing in common with each other, are forced to mingle because of the circumstances, and I felt some incompatibility in myself. I had neglected Hemingway’s advice for nothing: “Never travel with someone you do not like”. No, my attitude did not change towards Polina, but I could not call her my close friend. However, her company was better for me than being alone, and I did not have any choice. In a word, Polia unlike me, was not fascinated by Goa, but rather disappointed:

– Yeah, it’s better to jostle in the metro subways. It’s better to be in a fucking frosty Moscow under the cover of a gray sky with smog and without the sun more than three weeks in this God-forsaken stinking international resort, – she ascertained sarcastically. The paths intertwined around us, twisting like snakes. We reached the beach in anticipation of each of its own seas.

The beach was strewn with pieces of paper, bottles, cigarette butts, and further – a clean caressing morning sea and a bright sun on a cloudless sky. The water was warm and pleasant, calm. But Polia could not swim, like Indians.

Next to her, a whole family was kneeling in the water, dark-skinned people in clothes. Two men, holding hands, were jumping joyously through the crests of small waves, smiling under mustache, shaking with no longer small age-bellies and flashing their bald spot. Adult uncles were building sand castles from wet sand. Some boys were playing cricket.

Out of all the seasonal beach structures, thousands of black eyes were looking at us, and the barkers were running across the sand and each offering their place and a sunbed under the umbrella, each one touting his business in broken Russian. We did not speak English at all, and random words like “hello, look, small business, here -here, later” did not have any effect.

As soon as we had settled, the process of processing customers immediately started. Couldn’t wait to rest from the very first minute. Those very same black eyes followed us since we first appeared on the beach. And the whiter the color of your skin, the more chance is there to divide you into the maximum purchase amount. A fresh guest, who has not yet become a tourist, is the most lucrative target for getting separated from his money.

“I’ve erected myself a monument made without (human) hands. To it, the people’s path cannot be overgrown”, – Pushkin came to my mind. But on the Baga beach pretending to be a monument seems a useless occupation. The first one was a lady with costume jewelry, pestering like a leech. We bought anklets. But it had the opposite effect: instead of leaving us alone, as we decided to buy from her, her desire to sell something else became even more active. The lady began to obtrusively urge us to go see her little nearby shop of her brother – we must help, business was in bad condition, and if we buy now, we will help not only her, but her children and her family.

Next came the traders, right on schedule like the metro: sellers of bookletswith a map of Goa in different languages; discs with Bollywood music and track of “Jimmy Jimmy Aaja”; corn hawkers; ladies with baskets and fruit on their heads; drum sellers with drums hanging on them and beating rhythms in front of you.

Then it was the turn completely unexpected services: ears cleaners; ladies with threads, offering you instant depilation right on the beach; masseurs of any parts of the body or the whole body.

Next, the guys with mountain like hairdo, shaking different sized bed-sheets of Indian gods. Boys with metal-bucket selling masala tea in tiny disposable cups. Sellers of figurines made of stone, wood, glass, plastic, metal; tattoo-masters with catalogs of designs; girls in sari with henna tubes offering mehndi.

As soon as one was sent off, the next ones came to replace them: “Ma’am-ma’am, look”. Neither the closed eyes, nor the disregard, nor the shouts of “no-no” – absolutely nothing helped. There were even roving acrobats with performances evoking pity. Everything happened compulsively, unceremoniously and, most importantly, without break.

Even in Indian cinemas there is an intermission, but not on the beach. I have never seen such a thing and never got tired of being surprised. Polina was irritated to the limit and did not want to stay at the beach for a minute. And we moved to the pool of our hotel.

I had to adjust and compensate her in everything. Besides, she was very limited in means, and I helped her not to be frugal on vacation. But everyone has different understanding of leisure. I so much wanted to see everything possible in this amazing country, to learn a new world, culture, religion, customs, rituals, people’s way of life, attitude to life and death. But, alas – I could not impose my interests for a simple reason – I paid for all the entertainments, I was also the initiator of the trip. I had to pay for Polina. Clubs, hangouts, parties, restaurants, discos, revelry are not interchangeable with something else, but with each other. We tasted and become addicted to quite popular and cheap rum “The Old Monk”. Sometimes it would hit me, and I would remember my intentions, saying :

“Despite some personal discomfort, we are already here in Goa, and let’s not just find the minuses in our abode, but also the blessing. It’s a privilege for me to be here. Let’s go somewhere”. Polia replied categorically: “Was the bus ride across the country to Morocco not enough for you? Relax”. And we continued to hang out. And explored the state on our own in local buses.

The independence of judgments is the privilege of a few. The rest are led by authority and example. I tried to be calm about everything, as I already knew that time will put everything in its place. I’ve had enough of examples around me in my 40 years, and I did not want to follow any of them. I was looking for myself, I was looking for my Way. In this atomic age, with its secret fears, man seeks guidance.

In India, thanks to the tolerance to faiths in the country, there are millions of Gods. Representatives of all confessions of the world coexist together. But Goa is a predominantly Catholic state, since the Portuguese brought and forcibly imposed Christianity.

We got to Old Goa. The mass of parishioners in the church was the first thing that struck me in Goa. Crowds of dark-skinned people flashily appearing in bright satin shirts and dresses, branded shoes, carrying shiny bags and haughtily marching along the dusty roads cutting through the resting cows and the chaotic movement of everything that can move. Mario Miranda, a local cartoonist, became the most popular for the accuracy of the displayed farce. Even without comments.

To my surprise, Goa turned out to be an Asian Vatican, the center of Catholicism throughout Asia.

But in the churches, garlands of fresh orange flowers were hanging on the statues of saints and near the entrance you can see dozens of pairs of slippers lined up by pure memory, Indians tourists, entering any temple, take off their shoes or footwear, be it Hindu temple, Sikh gurudwara or Muslim mosque and, according to their usual customs, go inside barefoot. Therefore, there is synthesis of religions at every step. Despite the pathos and the endeavor of the Goans to look Christians, they are more like Mario Miranda’s parody of believers, masquerades, clowns. The fragile Christian traditions of 451 years of colonization, imbibed historical Vedic roots.

Comicality began with the naming of the Basilica of Bom Jesus and ended with Saint Ignatius of Loyola, a holy libertine, to whom the phrase “the end justifies the means” belongs. It is enough anecdotal. It seems that this is the Russian 101st-kilometer, where all the “undesirable elements” were exiled, or Portuguese Australia, where the condemned Englishmen served their sentence. However, the city of Tula is famous not only for samovars, gingerbread, gunsmiths and harmonics. Here, 101st km from Moscow, Peter the Great sent the famous Lefty, “who nailed the flea”. I’m used to it. But the analogies amused me.

Goans give away the satanically suspended upside down five-pointed stars, for the Bethlehem star, indicating the birthplace of Jesus. Christmas installations on dirty dusty roads and in the doorways don’t go well with the widespread signs of Swastika and Om. It reminds the Catholics that there is no need to wait for the judgment day, it takes place every day.

Darwin discovered that the plant and animal world does not exist by themselves but adapt to each other. St. Francis Xavier, and then the Inquisition converted the heathens into Christianity, not hesitating in the means as long as the goal was justified. Likewise, the Goans, opportunists, took the European names for themselves and decided that this was enough for a demonstrative change of faith in order to get their privileges from the colonialists.

Before the arrival of righteous Catholics, local residents of Goa managed to live peacefully under the Islamic Sultanate of Yusuf Adil Shah. Local residents since 1510 migrated, others died, while others descended from barren money trees, like the Darwinian dryopithecines, and adapted to life on earth under the names of others. It is not surprising that now Muslims, in particular, have fun at the expense of modern local Catholics.

Catholic Goans funnily, they look like colonial atavists. After all, in Goa, no one speaks and more so does not think in Portuguese. And the native language is considered the one in which you can think. By the way, the services in the temples are held according to the schedule: either in Konkani, local Goan language, or in Marathi, the language of the state of Maharashtra, or in Kannada, the language of the neighboring state of Karnataka, and even in English.

In fact, the first visit to Goa, apart from delight, surprises and a lot ofimpressions, brought me the first scars on the body. One of our Indian acquaintances, speaking fluently in Russian, volunteered to show us the northern beaches of Goa. We were delighted and agreed.

In the darkness, the full moon was shining brightly diluting the darkness so that one could feel like a cat, since visibility remained good for the human eye. We bewitchingly looked at the moon. Suddenly something like a black velvet curtain blocked the moonlight along with the moon itself. Eclipse. It was a bad sign, so I felt. Polia did not attach much importance to this. But I became anxious for some reason. The moon had nowhere failed to influence me.

Suddenly the Russian-speaking Indian returned, but not alone. Explaining to us that we will go on two motorcycles, so he had invited a friend. Polia liked the friend – big-eyed, with long thick black eyelashes. And she jumped decisively on the seat behind him: “Excellent! Let’s Go! A new adventure! The northern beaches of Goa in the night”.

I agreed in silence. Where? Who cares! This was an opportunity to see something new. On the way we came across a Hindu temple, where the service was going on. This I could not miss: “Stop-stop. Give me some time. I want to see this pooja”.

For the first time, I actually saw the Hindu temple from inside. There were people sitting on the floor, a pleasant aroma from the visible smoke swirled from the entrance doors into the night, the brahmin was at the center, the only person facing the entrance. I sat down next to everyone on the floor. I caught the sounds of pleasant meditative and at the same rhythmic music and started swinging alone everyone to its beat. I wanted to mew, like a valerian cat, inhaling the aromas of incense. I did not understand a single word, just got some information from outside. Well, sound waves and aromas do not need a sense or translation. I was always very perceptive to such rhythmic streams of sounds.

For the mystic, the world has two grades: the sacred (sacral) space and the space of everyday life. The mystic connects these two worlds with some sacred action. He is between these worlds, at the crossroads of two worlds. I got there where I had longed to be.

But then Polia appeared in the doorway, started to grimace and waving her hands at the exit. I had to obey again.

It happened on the way back, somewhere in Anjuna. Already considerably high on the Old Monk rum, I insisted on driving the motorcycle. As a result, my speed did not go well with the turn and I left imprints of half of my face and part of the right side of the body on the lateritic sidewall. My passenger, the Russian-speaking Indian, who was sitting behind me, jumped in time, unhurt. My friend Polina with the second guy stopped dumbstruck. While I was lying unconscious, my co-passenger panicked and went hysterical with flabbergasted eyes and waving his hands like a propeller: “Everything is over. We need to scoot, urgently! We have to get out of the scene, otherwise we will be in a lot of trouble, problems with the police. I can lose my job and respect. Let’s just sit on the bike and get out of here! Someone will soon notice her, identify her and deal with her. We cannot stay here, they will drag us to the police. This is a huuge problem!”

Polina, standing in a silent stupor, at this time was having other thoughts. How will she tell my mother and son about what happened, how will she take my coffin, or will I be cremated according to Indian tradition? And only the second friend turned out to be sane and adequate. He came up to me and began to feel my pulse. And when I opened my eyes and even stirred a little, then Polya calmed down and exhaled: “We take her with us, – she decisively gave orders to her friend. – We are going straight to the hotel”. The driver and Polina’s hands encircled me so that I would not fall along the road like a roly-poly. My co-passenger was still a bit upset about the scratches on the motorcycle, shaking his head, clucking, lamenting, and after calculating how much repairs would cost him, he followed us.

I was lucky. I just lost a little blood. Shattered, but not broken, I laughed at myself and my recklessness. Well, for the first time in my life I had sat on the pillion seat of a motorcycle, without a helmet, drunk, in the night, after a two-minute briefing, where the gas was and where the brakes were. But I drove this iron horse through speed breakers, pits and potholes, as if all my whole life I was not driving electric cars in the park or even my cars with right-hand drive, but like a real biker-girl racer. This led to the tragedy, when I did not want to be overtaken and accelerated without knowing the road, but the sharp turn left no choice: either directly into the ditch with a hot stream and snakes, or risk completing the maneuver. I chose the second one. And, of course, there was no time to choose. Obviously, I could not manage the controls and did not even slow down.

Fools should be taught. I got off easily. But even two weeks had not passed under the sun, I was already living a nocturnal life. The proximity of the hotel from the famous and most popular street of northern Goa – Titos lane – made things easy for me. It’s like the Arbat street in Moscow. At every step, there are hangouts, cafes, bars, restaurants, pubs, clubs. The street ends with an exit to the sandy beach of Baga with its shakes and music.

All day long, sitting alone in a hotel room by the windowsill, gazing at the beauty of nature through the window, in entangled thoughts, with fresh wounds, I remembered my childhood on the windowsill of the hospital in anticipation of my mother. Only now everything was fine with me. Everything was put to good use. It was a forced retreat this time for me, vipassana, meditation period. I do not know what else to compare it with, but I silently thanked fate for its outcome. This experience gave me the opportunity to reflect on my whole life. Circumstances seemed to be striving for this only. The days were followed by clear, fragrant nights with looney smile of the Cheshire Cat smiling at me.

By the end of our three-week vacation I already knew not only Titos lane, but also the Dudhsagar waterfall, Anjuna Flea market, two Saturday Night markets, Arambol, Morjim, Mandrem, Vagator, boat station at Sinkerim, Fort Aguada and much more. The main conclusion was – I fell in love and appreciated my life, because it is love of life that effectively helps me moving forward. Now I was convinced of the correctness of my choice and I knew exactly what I wanted and what I deserved.

In India, at last, I learned to trust myself and my own feelings, to live my own life!

For years, I have been waiting for my life to change, but now I know that it was life that was waiting for me to change myself. If you think that for happiness you need another person, you are mistaken. For happiness you yourself are enough. Another person is needed so that you can share your own happiness with.

Never and nowhere else in my life I have felt more at home than in Goa. Many people do not even have a homeland. This may sound strange, but it’s a fact. Someone may object, they say, I was born in Russia or in Ukraine, which means that my homeland is Ukraine or Russia. But this is just an illusion, my dear readers. The fact that you were born in a certain country or you have

the corresponding citizenship, as well as a passport, does not mean that you have a homeland.

Now I understand that God saved me for something, gave lessons and showed that we must learn to read signs. I began to understand the degree of danger from which I was saved. It could have been worse. You need to listen to your intuition and not be led by circumstances, to think about yourself and not deviate from your goals. In Russia it would have taken another 20 years, but in India I was completely transformed within 20 days. Every person creates affliction for himself. My former self flowed out of me, along with the blood and scabs of healing wounds, leaving only scars on my skin as a reminder. Inside there was a creative process of growth, filling each and every level inside me. The change of darkness and light ceased to matter.

The second time I came alone. Now I was more circumspect. I should not have taken the risk. I rented a charming little house and lived for my own pleasure. “To suffer is a lot easier than change. In order to become happy, one needs to have courage” Bert Hellinger. I realized: nothing will happen until one experience is replaced by another. Until new impressions are gathered, their critical mass will not push everything else out of memory. For me, India definitely has healing properties. To each his own. I managed to find in myself the much needed potential, perhaps at the very last moment.

By the time of my second visit, I was no longer afraid of an exotic uncertain life, because I knew that no matter what happened, it would only make me stronger and more confident. Self-study of English was not easy, there was no one nearby who could help, even though I was in the language environment that I needed. But I was not going to part with my dreams just because there are some difficulties. I was striving to fulfill my dreams and not forget about them.

I was returning home via a wild beach in that part of Baga, where a river crosses it, when a friend called me. I took the mobile phone out of my pocket and focused on the conversation when a bunch of Indian kids shouted to me: “Snek! Snek!” (which means in Russian “snow” – editorial). I paid no particular attention to them and continued the conversation, going to the stairs with columns to the second floor of the building.

“Snek! Snek!” – children were screaming with startled eyes even louder and no longer alone, but with an adult woman running out onto the balcony “Strange children, – I thought, – where did they see the snow?” Perhaps it would be there in a February Russia, and not a piece of ice from the refrigerator. Or they have seen animation “Ice Age” enough. But the woman already were hanging from the balcony, leaning forward pointing at my feet: “Snek!” The behavior of an adult woman was startling. And I looked down at my feet. A large snake was wriggling before me. One more step, and I would have stepped exactly on it.

My reaction was lightning fast, although I was disoriented in the direction, but I jumped so far that I could be envied by an Olympian long-jumper. And the shrill shriek that I let out was probably heard all over the Western Ghats. My veins around my neck were swollen, but I was out of danger. Thank you, dear children and kind woman, for your concern. It turned out that the word they were shouting to me all this time was not “snek (i.e snow)”, but “snake”. Peculiarities of studying English not only in the language environment, but also in tropical Goa are taught quickly. From that day I stopped mixing-up the pronunciation of “beer with a bear” and “bag with a back.”

Being on the beach, among the palm trees, under the sun, I lay and looked up at the sky. In general, I was absolutely happy, no matter what. I was unfailingly moved forward by my dreams. Thoughts about moving became more and more real and clear. I counted my savings.

In the end, I was not the bewildered heroin e of “Eat, pray, love”. Because I had already two marriages behind me and a son, I just wanted to have the right to live carefree, without any plan and calculation, without any constant thought about how to find stability.

I decided that the most important thing is to try as much as possible to do what you like. And try everything that I once wanted. Where I will do this, it was decided. Goa, India. Probably, if I had not known myself so well before, I would not have achieved anything in life.

And I had nothing to complain about, to cry, nothing to regret. And there were no thoughts that it could pass very soon, like everything else passes. There was no thought that if you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans. I decided to go through everything, absolutely everything that mother India would offer me.

Only after my arrival in India I did suddenly understand what was happening to me. The long-awaited period of freedom was here for me. I want to be a child. To study the world again. I want to get that experience that was lacking, because I was born an adult. Because it was always necessary to be reasonable, hard-working, rational, to rely only on yourself. Because at that time, the hungry and terrible time of the beginning of the 90’s in Russia, I gave myself the word that till my son becomes mature I will live for him, forgetting about myself, I took this responsibility. And in my forty years I finally got my right to bright clothes and irresponsible behavior. Refreshing gulps of freedom greedily fed my imagination. I can be myself. Without obligations, work, children and other complexes and attachments.

I, myself, had always been my own enemy and struggled all my life with myself. And now the struggle with self was over, it has transformed into love. You cannot argue with your needs and desires. And if for some reason my thorny path was needed, it was so that all my desires now are accepted as the only correct ones. All this became clear from my first visit to Goa. The state that gave me my female rebellion, showed me firmly: denial and vanity are over. All the doors are open, just push, do not look for the key.