Beach Girl for a Season

THE numbness lasted for over two weeks. Gradually, it was displaced by feelings of loss and directionlessness. I couldn't make up my mind about what to do. Did I really want to quit my comfortable job and return to India? It would mean completely separating myself from my old life. There would be no going back. Was I capable of it? I wasn't sure. No matter how much I wanted to reinvent myself, the prospect was daunting.

I returned to work to try and make a go of it. Quickly, I realised that although I earned plenty of money and lived well, it just wasn't enough anymore. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life confined to a profession that didn't inspire me, accumulating possessions and being in an environment that didn't appreciate or understand my growing spirituality.

‘Be careful,’ my boss warned me, when I spoke to him about returning to India. I knew he didn't want me to leave. ‘It could be risky, and you need to be able to continue to support yourself.’ Cutting ties with the place where I'd worked for ten years would be a big change. Yet, I'd been away from the office for six months, effectively putting distance between myself and my job. I'd discovered a whole new world away from it. Plus, the office was going through changes of its own. A new head had been appointed. People were coming and going. It seemed that transformation was taking place everywhere.

I couldn't overlook the fact that I'd been presented with an opportunity that might bring me closer to discovering my life's purpose. I'd be a fool not to take it. My subconscious thought so too. It filled my dreams with scenes of a palm-lined beach. I didn't need to worry about money; I would have free accommodation in India and Emily would pay me a basic Indian wage. Friends would continue to live in my townhouse in Melbourne. All I really needed to do was resign, pack my bags and go.

I spoke to Aryan on the phone almost every day. The conversations were long. We laughed and cried as usual. He'd grown more frustrated at work and was keen to leave. It seemed both our circumstances were pushing us in the same direction.

‘A friend of mine said it's necessary to take chances in life,’ he said.

I decided to throw caution to the wind. This time, he joined me.

*

‘Ten bags, including three large ones,’ Aryan counted and announced.

The essentials of our lives had been compressed into these bags, which now occupied the roof, trunk and most of the interior of the taxi. We were heading to Kolkata's Howrah railway station. There we would take a long-distance Indian Railways train to Varkala in Kerala, a two-night, two-day journey.

As the taxi pulled up at the station, a coolie (porter) swiftly unloaded the luggage from the car and effortlessly hoisted one of the large bags onto his head. Other coolies appeared and did the same, while I watched in amazement at their agility and strength. With a quick glance at our ticket, they adeptly located our carriage and compartment. Our luggage was duly deposited there.

We were travelling in a three-tiered, air-conditioned carriage, commonly known as 3A. These carriages are divided into open-plan compartments, with six beds in each. The beds are stacked vertically in three tiers on either side of the compartments. During the day, the middle beds must be folded down flat against the compartment walls to allow passengers to sit on the lower beds. 3A offered a significant step up in comfort from the raucous sleeper class, which accommodated most of India's thrifty middle class. Nevertheless, the layout was the same. There was absolutely no privacy, and no escape from becoming intimately acquainted with the daily routines of strangers.

Women reached for food they'd cooked and crammed into silver tiffin containers for the journey. Men reached for packs of playing cards. Shoes were taken off and bodies relaxed.

It wasn't long before our excessive pile of luggage and contrasting coloured skin attracted attention.

‘You are coming from where? And are going to where? What will you do there? And for how long? And who is she?’ the questions started.

‘She's a family friend,’ Aryan told the inquisitive interrogators.

I was dismayed. A family friend? His family didn't even know about my existence! Why did he hide the fact that we were together? Was he embarrassed?

When I asked him later, he assured me it was the easiest answer. I didn't know it then, but telling the truth would only prompt even more unwanted questions and perhaps disapproval. Up until then, my relationship with Aryan had felt normal to me, as it would have anywhere else. But the people we spent most of our time with in Kolkata were hardly representative of Indian society in general – most Indians were much more conservative. Indians didn't have relationships with foreigners. And, as I would later learn, according to acceptable social norms, unmarried couples didn't traipse around the country together like we did.

With nothing much to do, people started retiring early for the night. I climbed into my bunk bed on the upper row and prepared to sleep. A stout, moustachioed Indian man lay opposite me, less than a metre away. He punctured the air with a curt fart as he settled himself in for the night. The elderly Sikh gentleman below me carefully removed his daywear turban, and replaced it with a more comfortable night version before reclining. As the lights dimmed, the snoring started. First, it was a solitary sound. Before long, a cacophony of snorers from every compartment joined in. I resisted the urge to leap out of bed and beat them all with pillows.

The gentle rocking of the train did its best to lull me into a slumber. But it didn't seem long enough before the drone of the early morning chai-wala woke me.

‘Chai, chai, chaiya, chai,’ he chanted loudly as he made his way through the carriage, serving the sweet milky tea that Indians so adore.

The morning brought a rush for the handbasins as toothbrushes, soap and towels were retrieved from luggage. A few Indian men had decided to partially disrobe to perform their ablutions, swanning around topless in simple lungis (cloth worn like a sarong).

The train had both Indian squat toilets and western ones. The toilets in 3A were cleaned, although not frequently enough. The theory was, if the user aimed well, the waste would drop directly on the railway tracks through the visible hole. The reality was different though. It was one thing to see, from the window of the train, the smiling brown bottoms of guys openly relieving themselves alongside the railway line. But it was another to be confronted with human excrement in close proximity, all over the toilet bowl. Amusingly, one of my Indian friends likened the display of bare bottoms to the shameless shows put on by dancing male peacocks. Mor nach raha hai (the peacock is dancing), he called it. A lot of peacocks liked to dance early in the morning in India.

Aryan loved the train environment. He happily roamed through the carriages, bringing back all kinds of interesting snacks from the vendors. Fortunately for him, he could do it inconspicuously. I, on the other hand, stood out like the proverbial sore thumb and preferred to remain in the compartment. The changing scenery revealed a rural India untouched by progress. Women toiled in fields. Herds of buffaloes and sheep roamed freely. Dung, shaped and dried into perfectly round saucer shapes, was used as fuel and insulation. The appearance of the people on the train also changed as we moved south. The colour of their skin deepened, moustaches became thicker and hair bushier. Many men also donned the traditional Keralan dress, a white mundu worn in a similar manner to a lungi.

At one of the main stations, I got off the train with Aryan to have a look around. There was no hint of what its exterior looked like. Some railway stations in India had glorious colonial architecture, while others were unremarkable. Yet, all platforms looked the same; shabby, soiled and congested with vendors, passengers and porters. Passengers inundated the carriages and all tried to embark at once.

‘Jaldi, jaldi, aage, aage (Fast, fast, forward, forward),’ they yelled, as they carelessly pushed and shoved one another in a rough scramble. Steel trunks full of belongings and heavily laden jute sacks were used as weapons in the battle to board. Eventually, when people and luggage were all on the train, peace was restored. Heads wobbled in acknowledgement of fellow passengers, and everyone unwound for the rest of the journey.

I soon discovered that southern Indians are particularly enthusiastic head-wobblers. This curious gesture, which looks like a cross between a nod and shake, has a multitude of uses. The non-verbal equivalent of ‘accha’, it can mean anything from ‘good’ to ‘I understand’, depending on the speed of the wobble. But most importantly, it's a universal gesture that unites all Indians. Cultural and language barriers miraculously dissolve with a wobble. I'd never seen Aryan wobble his head before but all of a sudden he was doing it like he'd done it all his life. (Actually, it's very difficult not to return the gesture if someone wobbles their head at you.)

In the dark of the night, our train finally pulled into Varkala station. Frantically, we struggled to offload our ten bags in the two minutes that the train would remain there. In our favour, our stop was near the end of the line so there weren't many people to get in our way.

Then the train departed, leaving us standing in a daze on the platform.

We'd arrived.

Aryan and I had easily picked up our relationship where we'd left off. Seeing him for the first time in two months had been overwhelming. He met me at the airport, his heart beating fast. We looked at each other in wonder, incredulous at this crazy-brave adventure we were about to go on. Love gave us courage.

It was only on the windy road to our hotel in Varkala that Aryan and I sighed in relief.

‘This place is just like Goa, but less developed,’ he commented. Perhaps we weren't so crazy to come here after all. Perhaps it would all work out okay. We'd find out soon enough what living here for eight months would be like.

As we discovered in the light of day, Varkala was indeed a beach paradise. Its feature was a long winding stretch of cliff, with views that extended over the Arabian Sea. A paved footpath ran along the length of the cliff, bordered by coconut palms, touristy shops, beach shacks, hotels and guesthouses. Nestled at the bottom of the cliff was an elongated stretch of sparkling beach, reached by steps leading down from the clifftop.

Emily's guesthouse turned out to be three simple but bright and spaciously constructed bungalows on a large block of land set back from the beach. Coconut palms, leafy green plants and hibiscus flowers were in abundance around the property. The ravages of the recent southwest monsoon could be seen everywhere, and quite a bit of restoration work would be needed to make it habitable. The bungalows had to be re-thatched and the long grass cleared. Emily had been in the process of expanding the guesthouse, and there was also a semi-complete outdoor kitchen and eating area that needed to be finished off.

Aryan and I moved into one of the bungalows. Daisy had also decided to join us in Varkala, and would be taking one of the others. That left one bungalow for guests. Most of the time, it would be occupied by a couple from Italy who came and stayed for a few months every year. All I had to do was keep the property clean and manage the finances. It was September, and the tourist season wasn't due to start until December, so we had plenty of time to settle in. Shopkeepers had arrived but the rest of the folk were predominantly locals.

Tess stopped by on her way to Thailand. Cliona and her Indian boyfriend, who were travelling around India together, also visited. Goodbyes had become meaningless as we continued to reunite so many times.

Waking up to the sight and sound of nature every morning was a joy. I actually wanted to go outside, unlike in Kolkata. Aryan and I had leisurely breakfasts at the beach shacks, enjoying the salty sea air and ocean view. Some afternoons, we'd share a beer or two and stroll along the cliff, exploring the shops that sold everything from clothes to spices. In the evenings, candlelight flickered over dinner, as the powerful waves pounded the rocks below in the darkness.

Self-proclaimed ‘God's Own Country’, the state of Kerala is like a world where time and tradition have stood still. Its palm-fringed canals, verdant mountains and fertile farming land offer a tranquillity that's difficult to find anywhere else. Silence and solitude calm the soul. At the same time, the state remains relatively undeveloped and lacks the infrastructure of other parts of the country. Bicycles are a common form of transport. People still grow their own vegetables, catch their own fish, prepare oil from coconut and grind their own sun-dried spices. The people of Kerala also keenly distinguish themselves from the rest of India, particularly by speaking the state language, Malayalam, as opposed to Hindi. Many locals are involved in seafood, agriculture, and handicraft and coir production, while the more enterprising ones have jumped aboard the tourist industry, which has grown rapidly since the 1980s.

While Varkala Cliff was undeniably picturesque, Varkala Town was a different matter altogether. Located a ten-minute drive away from the Cliff, it was dusty, noisy and nondescript. The town had a few small supermarkets, strings of small specialty shops and numerous roadside fruit and vegetable vendors. Right in the centre of town was the only alcohol store. Depending on the time of day or night, a queue of eager men could stretch around the corner. Of course, no women were in sight.

The difficulty of finding what I wanted in the town meant that it didn't take me long to develop a dislike for it. Staff unnervingly followed me around in the supermarket and constantly interrupted my attempts to browse. Once I scoured the shelves looking for roll-on antiperspirant.

‘Oh no, madam, you will have to go to a Fancy Store for that,’ one hovering employee informed me. A fancy store? What was a fancy store? Tramping from store to store to look for supplies in the heat and crowd quickly made me wilt.

The lack of infrastructure was apparent back at the guesthouse too. There was no municipal water supply. Instead, water had to be pumped from a well. There was no hot-water heater, so we had to bathe under cold water. The electricity supply, while inadequate, was at least predictable. It would go off daily at around 9 a.m. and return at around 5 p.m. The term given to this government-imposed power cut, as a means of dealing with the shortage of electricity, was ‘load-shedding’. Since the tourist season was yet to start, load-shedding was at its peak.

As was to be expected, washing machine facilities were non-existent. The local dhobi-wala (laundryman) came to everyone's homes on his bicycle to collect dirty laundry. A couple of days later he would return it washed, ironed and folded. I couldn't justify paying him to do all our washing, so I decided I'd wash our clothes by hand myself and only give him the bed linen. Without a laundry sink, it was time for me to get intimately acquainted with the many uses of the Indian bucket.

In Varkala Town, I bought my own bucket collection. Five large buckets. Besides soaking clothes in buckets, I'd need a few for washing dishes.

From Aryan, I learned the special way of washing clothes in India. Laundry detergent comes in the form of a soap bar. It's smeared onto the clothes, and rubbed in with a brush. The clothes are then picked up and repetitively bashed on the floor or any other hard surface, sometimes rocks, to dislodge the dirt. It was a tiring process that I undertook in our wet bathroom.

Two workers came to cut the grass around the bungalows and the kitchen. By hand, I might add. The kitchen was similar in structure to the shacks along the Cliff. Made mainly out of bamboo, it had a tin roof, painted concrete floor and no water supply. Inside was a fridge, TV, stove and bench. The stove, a portable silver cooktop with two burners fired by gas from a cylinder, and standard in most Indian kitchens, reminded me of a piece of camping equipment. I was to discover that it was necessary to learn how to predict when the gas would run out, or end up with a half-cooked meal.

On another trip to town, Aryan and I stocked the kitchen with utensils. Armed, I decided to celebrate by making us a fish curry for dinner. Living by the ocean meant that fish was plentiful. The daily catch was sold fresh at the local fish market every morning.

Aryan and I returned with three whole fish, complete with heads, tails and fins attached. Having only ever cooked scaled and filleted fish, I was at a loss at how to prepare it. I randomly chopped off body parts and attempted to extract organs. It was gory and disgusting; more of the fish ended up in the scrap pile than could be cooked. After watching me massacre the first fish, Aryan took over.

‘Here, do it like this.’ He started cutting the fish into pieces crosswise, the way he'd learned to do it from his mother.

The curry ended up tasting surprisingly good.

As well as feeling a little at sea domestically, I was also experiencing some difficulty dealing with the guesthouse owner. She, and a male relative who'd been deployed to take care of the day-to-day running of the property, seemed intent on extracting as much money from us as possible. Not only did they demand that we pay a premium for rethatching the bungalow roofs, they expected us to pay the property tax.

‘Legally, it's not our responsibility,’ I told the landlady.

‘But Emily paid it in previous years,’ she insisted.

‘It doesn't matter. Emily was mistaken. It's your responsibility as the property owner.’

I refused to budge.

Then the water pump seized up.

The relative, who we called ‘Uncle’, as per Indian custom, was supposed to pump the water for us every day. When he was unable to come, we had to do it ourselves. Inevitably, we forgot to turn off the pump and the motor seized up.

‘You have to pay for it to be repaired. You've maliciously damaged the pump and it's intolerable,’ the landlady ranted at me down the phone.

I was offended.

‘It's not fair to blame me for this. The pumphouse isn't on the lease and it's not our responsibility. If Uncle had come to pump the water like he was supposed to, it wouldn't have happened. I'm not paying you anything. Emily has already invested so much money in developing this property. Come and discuss it with me when we finalise the lease,’ I argued.

Later, as Aryan and I lay in the hammock between the coconut trees at the guesthouse, I asked him what he thought my best and worst characteristics were. He contemplated a while.

‘You believe in your views and think about the big picture. But you lack commonsense.’

The commonsense that Aryan referred to was Indian commonsense. He often found my inability to think in an ‘Indian manner’ exasperating. Only recently, I'd become upset over an announcement for a special Saraswati puja (prayer) at one of the beach shacks. I rushed there with high hopes, only to find nothing happening.

‘You should have known it was just an advertising strategy,’ Aryan chided me when I objected.

Used to western standards of conduct, I readily believed what people told me. I was always punctual and expected that others would be too, unfamiliar with the concept called India time. Five minutes often meant thirty. Ten minutes meant an hour. And an hour commonly had no fixed duration.

‘I'll come at 9.30 a.m. to sign the rental agreement and discuss the money,’ the landlady informed me. The appointed day and time passed. She didn't turn up or tell me that she wasn't coming. Aryan, on the other hand, was relaxed about such things. Nor was he surprised at all. It was clear that I had a lot to learn.

Aryan had had no problem getting work at the shacks on the Cliff. Two beach shacks, the Groovy Beach Café and Dolphin Bay, dominated the party scene.

‘Make friendship in the night, like sea waves at Groovy. Get yourself free and enjoy yourself with your unknown humans’, a party flyer from the Groovy Beach Café invited everyone.

I loved dancing under the stars until the early hours, with the surf only metres away at the bottom of the Cliff. It was such a world away from the craziness of Kolkata, and even Melbourne. Neither alcohol nor late-night parties were permitted on the Cliff, but the police were appropriately persuaded, usually with money and boxes of beer, by the shack owners. The shack owners seemed charming but were divisive under the surface. It soon became apparent there was a lot of competition for business and foreign women on the Cliff.

The afro-ed Kama, owner of the Groovy Beach Café, was the smoothest talker I'd ever come across. From humble beginnings as an auto-rickshaw driver, he'd built a small empire. Besides the Groovy Beach Café, he also provided travel services and lodging. He was friendly, exceedingly helpful and knew how to please customers as well as women. Most of the tourists who visited his beach shack left with the impression that he was a delightful, genuine guy. What he really excelled at, however, was bedding the foreign women who visited his shack. It didn't matter that he had a wife and two children secreted away somewhere, he could frequently be seen leading a gullible woman by the hand up to the second floor of his shack.

‘I am the master of sex. I love wild animal sex,’ he boasted to us one night. The thought of it left me reeling.

The local men wasted no time in getting acquainted with Daisy. Kama lured her in by giving her an opal ring, then pretended to be extremely hurt when she rebuffed him in favour of a waiter named Vincent from Dolphin Bay. Vincent, a tall and brawny Malayalee man, was one of the best-looking guys on the Cliff. It wasn't long before he was practically living with Daisy in her bungalow. It was a more appealing alternative than the benches that the staff used for beds at the back of the beach shacks.

Most of the guys who worked in the shacks quickly found out that I was with Aryan and kept a respectful deference. It didn't stop them from following in Kama's footsteps and doing their best to snare as many other western women as possible. I soon came to realise that they didn't have to try very hard. There were many single white females looking for a good time on Varkala Cliff.

‘Have you heard about Kama and his beach weddings?’ Vincent asked us one night.

We hadn't.

‘Last year, he held four of them with different girls who he'd met.’

‘What, real weddings?’

‘No, mock ones but with a proper ceremony on the beach.’ Maybe the wild animal sex was better than it sounded.

To make it easier to get around, Aryan and I purchased a second-hand moped. Riding home on the back of it, with the wind whipping my hair, I felt so vibrant and content. We took a trip to nearby Kappil Beach, located a short distance north of Varkala Beach where the backwaters met the ocean amid swaying palm trees and a rocky shore. Kappil wasn't as developed as Varkala.

After the break in the rain from the departing southwest monsoon, the northeast monsoon arrived with a vengeance, delivering unpredictable downpours. Unlike many regions of India, Kerala received two monsoons a year. The southwest monsoon travelled up the west coast of India from June until September. Then, the heavier northeast monsoon made its way down the east coast, covering Kerala from October to December.

The monsoon rain made me melancholy. Mould grew everywhere in the humidity. Intermittent heavy downpours flooded the guesthouse grounds and caused shops to close. The neighbours' children came running over to our place holding plastic bags over their heads for protection, and with sticks to clear drains for the water to escape.

Caught on the moped at another time during a downpour, Aryan and I were saturated in less than 30 seconds. The rain was so heavy I could open my mouth and drink the water. A local river burst its banks, and two of the streets near the Cliff turned into rivers, complete with fish. I got another dose of viral fever, the second in as many weeks. Again, I was bedridden for three days.

To help myself recuperate, I went to see a Reiki master on the Cliff for a healing session. Reiki, the Japanese word for universal life energy, is an alternative therapy developed by a Japanese Buddhist named Mikao Usui. It involves the channelling of universal energy through the hands to the body's energy centres, known as chakras, to unblock and rebalance them. Each chakra vibrates at a different speed, and has a different function in a person's wellbeing. When we react to negative experiences by blocking out our feelings, it also blocks the energy flow to the chakras. I'd been interested in Reiki for quite a while and wanted to study it. I was still waiting for the right opportunity and teacher to come along.

‘The energy in your solar plexus chakra is very strong, indicating that you have great willpower,’ the Reiki master proclaimed after the session was complete. ‘However, the energy in your heart and root chakras is weak. This indicates that you don't feel connected with life and your environment, and haven't found what you want to do with yourself yet. You have the capacity to achieve whatever you want because of your willpower. But you need to learn how to control your emotions, so that you're less giving and won't be taken advantage of. Lastly, you need to focus your beliefs only in one religion. This will strengthen your aura. You should find a guru. One will appear when the time is right,’ he concluded.

My religious beliefs had always been confused. Born to a Catholic father and Anglican mother, neither of whom much practised, I was left to make up my own mind about what I wanted to believe in. I grew up feeling that Christianity didn't really have all the answers.

I was always attracted to New Age spirituality – palmistry, tarot, crystals. In my twenties, I dabbled in Buddhism and meditation. It greatly changed my outlook on life, but I was no closer to figuring out its meaning and forming concrete beliefs. In India, I'd begun exploring Hinduism.

The Reiki master's assessment of my character was accurate. I readily went out of my way to please people, seeking approval and reassurance. A lot of the time, I felt like I didn't receive as much consideration as I gave. I also felt detached and disconnected from life. Despite the progress I'd made, I was still trying to accept how my life had turned out. And I had to find my way.

It appeared I was no closer to uncovering the right path. Until I felt grounded, I'd likely struggle with my self-image and be unable to move on from the past. If my self-doubt turned my desire for Aryan into a need to control him, it also had the potential to affect our relationship. I needed to find my destiny, preferably soon.

It wasn't easy to develop a sense of belonging on the Cliff. I met many travellers but struggled to relate to them.

‘What? You live here?’ they invariably expressed their shock. I had work responsibilities while they were simply out to have fun. I found their views about India, often discussed in a haze of hash, as a destitute but spiritual country limiting.

‘I'm having a “real India” experience in this market,’ an Israeli guy proudly informed me in Varkala Town.

But what was the real India? To me, it was all real. Dual, but real. India was as rich as it was poor. Some people consumed a plethora of desirable brand names, while others struggled to consume one proper meal a day. A luxury hotel was just as much a part of the ‘real India’ as a vendor selling vegetables from his wooden cart. My time in Kolkata had proven that.

The foreigners living long-term in Varkala were a motley bunch. Most infamous and intriguing was a middle-aged Englishman who was on the run with his wife and eight children. He believed he'd uncovered a secret government and religious conspiracy, and could usually be seen sitting in a beach shack warning some hapless traveller about it. He'd even documented his questionable evidence in a self-published book called Little Book, Big Secret.

Aryan and I connected best with another young foreigner–Indian couple, Faye and her boyfriend, Michael. He was a talented chef from Darjeeling in north India. They ran a restaurant on the roof of their nearby home. It was there that I finally got to experience the pleasure of eating a variety of ghar ka khaana (home-cooked Indian food). On days that wine was available at the shop in Varkala Town, we lay on cushions under the stars, and drank and ate until we could barely move. Those moments of bliss were what we'd hoped living in Varkala would be.

As more tourists trickled in for the season, however, a range of untoward incidents started taking place. It began with a power outage at the Groovy Beach Café while Aryan was at work one night, just as the party got under way and everyone was dancing.

‘Sulfi from Dolphin Bay has cut the power line,’ a murmur arose.

Next, we heard a fight had broken out in Dolphin Bay. A foreigner had his passport and money stolen in the fracas.

Just when it seemed like matters had settled down, the situation took a more sinister turn. Once, Aryan and I were woken by a phone call from Daisy at 3.30 in the morning.

‘There is a group of guys outside. They were at my window and have opened up one of the shutters,’ she whispered in alarm.

We rushed out of our bungalow to see what was going on.

‘I think I saw them standing near the kitchen but they have disappeared now,’ Aryan said. The darkness made it impossible to distinguish anything from the shadows of the trees.

When we returned to our bungalow, we discovered the guys hadn't gone far. My phone and handbag, which held my camera and purse, were missing. A wave of shock and dread hit me. I felt sick and dizzy. How could we have been so foolish?

In the morning, the neighbours saw us sitting outside, looking distressed.

‘Check over the fence. A similar thing happened last year,’ they informed us after we told them what had taken place. Aryan scaled the high concrete fence that bordered the adjacent vacant land and looked over it. Much to my surprise, my bag and purse were there, minus the valuables.

I hit a new low. Who could have done it? I didn't want to live among thieves.

‘How do you feel about being here?’ I asked Aryan uneasily. I was waiting for him to say that he wasn't happy so we could pack up and leave.

‘It's been great until now, and I still want to stay. I don't want to let this bother us.’

Reassured by his attitude, I resolved to be strong and get over it.

A trio of moustachioed policemen came to investigate the theft but did nothing of use. One of them made himself at home in the hammock. The other returned to the car. The remaining one snooped around. He checked out our moped and asked irrelevant questions.

‘So, what do you do back home? Do you work or study?’ he asked me.

Then he proceeded to tell us off. ‘You shouldn't have left your bungalow in the middle of the night. You should have called us instead.’

After learning of the policemen's movements for the rest of the night, however, I doubted that would have been useful either.

‘The police came to Dolphin Bay and collected a couple of boxes of beer to drink. They found one of the waiters drunk on the premises and also took him with them,’ Vincent told us. ‘I had to go to the police station this morning and pay a bribe to get him out.’

Sulfi, the owner of Dolphin Bay, remained in trouble with the police. They sent him a court order that required him to go to jail for seven days for serving alcohol. It didn't matter that they'd taken two boxes of it for their own consumption. Sulfi's solution was to call a friend from Kochin, who was a Malayalee actor, to come and deal with the problem. In status-driven India, this friend had the power and the contacts to get things amicably resolved.

After the strain of the robbery, I started noticing small positive changes in Aryan's behaviour. He was drinking less and helping me out more.

On the other hand, Vincent was driving Daisy to distraction. A huge power struggle was going on between them. She packed his belongings for him to move out of the bungalow but he refused to go.

‘My last boyfriend did everything possible for me and treated me like a queen. Vincent is controlling and picks on everything, but then sulks if I hurt his feelings. Now, I've discovered that he's been in contact with an ex-girlfriend, and has made up all these lies. I don't know what to do with him!’

As December progressed, and the northeast monsoon finally dispersed, the tourist season started to get busy. A friend of Aryan's visited us from Kolkata and the Italian couple moved into their bungalow. The German proprietor of the Skylark Art Garden organised a sunset parade, complete with elephant, along the Cliff to promote unity between businesses. She wrapped me in a red foil dress, painted my upper body and face in fluorescent colours, and plonked a huge hat adorned with doves on my head. I was a creature of her imagination.

The after-party was held at Coconut Grove, near the black sand beach. Aryan was the DJ. Almost everyone from the Cliff was there. But it wasn't enough to conquer the mounting tension between the locals and the outsiders. The buffet had different prices for foreigners and Indians. The bar staff refused to serve Aryan's friend vodka shots because he wasn't a local. And the festivities came to an abrupt halt with a fight on the dance floor.

A group of local guys had been drinking Michael's beer. When he refused to give them any more, one hit him. The fight continued near the parking lot, where they beat Michael up quite badly. Faye came to see us the next day in a state of distress.

‘Please tell me what happened,’ she begged as she tried to make sense of it.

Not long after the incident, Faye and Michael decided to leave for Goa. He didn't feel safe in Varkala anymore. It was such a shame, as we were just starting to get to know them.

Between the fights and the robberies, I didn't feel very good about staying in Varkala either. Fortunately for us, Aryan's profession made him popular with many of the locals. He had some disreputable but influential people on his side, and was never bothered.

The thief returned. Aryan and I had been to the opening party of the Skylark Art Garden. After coming home, we relaxed in the hammock for a while before going inside our bungalow. We'd had a few drinks and foolishly fell asleep with the light on and the door unlocked. I woke up around 45 minutes later, only to notice that the shutters on the window were slightly ajar and my handbag was again gone. In it was my iPod and money. The thief also took Aryan's phone and an umbrella. Once again, I found my empty bag outside the bungalow. I was in a state of disbelief. The feeling of knowing that someone had been watching us so closely and had so boldly invaded our privacy was awful.

All of my electronic items had now either been stolen or broken in India. The thought of it made me crazy. What more could go wrong?

This time we didn't even bother reporting the incident to the police. The last thing I wanted was another rebuke for being careless. Besides, we weren't the only ones suffering. Michael had found his expensive yellow motorbike pushed over and badly damaged one day. It was another sign of the simmering tensions on the Cliff.

The parties continued on the Cliff amid altercations between shack owners. Kama had a new lust interest, a sweet Belgian girl called Julie. When she wasn't hugging Kama in one of the hammocks, she joined me on the dance floor. We were trying our best to imitate a tall moustachioed Indian man, whose curious combination of dance moves was a cross between John Travolta and the Karate Kid. He executed them wearing the facial expression of David Hasselhoff, and at one point sang into a banana-leaf microphone.

He wasn't the only source of entertainment. A bespectacled officer from the Indian Navy, who had come to Varkala Beach to study the movement of the tides, had an impressive repertoire of Bollywood dance moves. Regrettably, he directed them all at me and in very close proximity.

‘You're incredibly special. Are you sure you're not a Punjabi girl?’ he kept asking, until Aryan called me away.

Soon, it would be Christmas – my second away from home. This year, being away didn't feel so monumental. The fancy stores in Varkala Town had started stocking decorations, and rows of huge brightly coloured paper stars adorned shopfronts, along with Santa masks and flashing lights. Aryan and I bought a small Christmas tree and decorations for the guesthouse. The neighbours built a nativity scene, and Aryan and I went around handing out Christmas cake. On Christmas Eve, ten of the local boys dressed up in masks and Santa suits, roaming from house to house, chanting loudly and singing Christmas carols. Even the dog ran for cover.

Daisy, who had been renewing her visa in Kathmandu, and Vincent arrived back on Christmas Day, and we treated ourselves to the buffet at the luxury Taj Garden Retreat Hotel on a grassy hill overlooking the Arabian Sea. Swathed in the sari that Aryan had bought me in Kolkata, it was another Christmas where east met west.

Tess returned to Varkala to spend New Year's Eve with us. Dolphin Bay promised a ‘sleepless nite of thunder and lightning’ from 5 p.m. until 5 a.m. The substantial crowd sprawled out onto the footpath, unable to be contained within the walls of the shack, as sweaty bodies danced together. A guy from Australia hoisted me up onto his shoulders, spinning me around as we jubilantly heralded in the new year.

Gallingly, the new year began with further visits from the thief. Soon after Daisy gave her dog to one of the shack owners on the Cliff, Aryan and I awoke to find the shutters on our bungalow open. That made it not once, but three mornings in a row.

Daisy, Tess and I resolved to uncover whoever it was. We came home early from a party and took up strategic positions. After waiting hidden in the shadows of the fence for over an hour, I grew tired and went inside to sleep. It was 4.30 a.m. and there was still no sign of the thief.

‘He came to my window and peered in at around 5 a.m.,’ Tess announced the next day. ‘I was awake but couldn't see anything in the dark and was too scared to move.’

We sighed. Again, the person had managed to avoid getting caught.

The police raids continued on the Cliff, however.

‘The owner of the supermarket next door complained about the music, so the police came and took away my CD player and ten of my kitchen staff so I couldn't serve any food. My business is ruined,’ Kama said dramatically.

His lust life was also creating problems.

‘Kama's wife turned up looking for him on New Year's Day. She was insane with anger,’ Julie told me. ‘I had a huge fight with him and ran off. He didn't even bother to come after me, and sent two of his kitchen staff instead. Now he's being so affectionate with me again, I just don't know what to do. I don't want to believe that he's a bad guy.’

It was almost time for her to return to Belgium. If she didn't realise what he was really like before then, I feared that another mock beach wedding might eventuate.

There was only a month left of the season. What would happen to us after Kerala remained unasked, and unanswered. My visa was about to run out. It seemed that the best option would be to get a new visa from Kathmandu, like Daisy did. Aryan agreed to come with me.

The four-day journey from Varkala to Nepal via Delhi and through India's poor heartland of Uttar Pradesh was arduous and tested us in every way possible. Poverty-stricken, overburdened and uncivilised, most of Uttar Pradesh isn't welcoming to visitors. The state is home to the Taj Mahal and Varanasi, two of the most popular tourist destinations in India. Yet, most of it consists of rural farming land that is unable to support the largest population, of almost 200 million inhabitants, in India. Crime, lack of education, unemployment and ‘eve teasing’ (sexual harassment of women) plagued the state. Colleges banned girls from wearing jeans to stop men from being aroused. It was seen as the only way to curb crime against women.

We arrived at Gorakhpur, a few hours from the Sonali border crossing, on a train from Delhi. It was 5 a.m. when we disembarked, only to discover that a bandh (closure) was in place due to political unrest. As dawn broke, we snuck out of town via the back roads in a solitary escape vehicle. It was one of the very few local bus services running. I had little understanding of the situation, including the violence that apparently would have ensued if we'd been caught.

The conductors on the bus were particularly lecherous and uncouth. I couldn't help noticing that one of them had a large hole in the crotch of his pants, which he freely used to access and scratch himself. The male passenger seated in front of us enthusiastically chewed paan and regularly opened the window to let out a stream of tainted red spit. Blasts of chilly air slapped my face each time.

The conductors decided to have some fun by asking Aryan about me and making lewd remarks.

‘Chup rao! (Be quiet!)’ I shouted at them in rage.

They looked at me in surprise.

‘Shhh, don't say anything and don't acknowledge them,’ Aryan ordered me.

Later he told me that they were discussing taking both of us away, beating him up and playing games with me. It made me feel sick.

Twelve hours later, after taking another bus from the border, we arrived in Kathmandu. I was exhausted but filled with aggression towards the crude Indian men who could get away with behaving so offensively.

The atmosphere was noticeably different in Nepal. Despite being a very poor country, a certain dignity was apparent. People greeted me with a ‘Namaste’. Staring was minimal. And there were no rude comments even though Aryan was often mistaken as a Nepali. At worst, they thought he was my Nepali guide. We had encountered similar assumptions in India as well. It was frustrating and demeaning, but there was little we could do about it. People did not expect Indians, or Nepalis, and white people to have relationships with each other.

Foreigners in a foreign country together, the maze of narrow winding streets and Kathmandu's medieval architecture enchanted us. We wandered around aimlessly, getting ourselves lost and discovering something new at every turn. Afterwards, we hired a motorbike and explored the surrounding temples. More than 300 steps on a hill to the west of the city led us to Swayambhunath Stupa, the oldest holy shrine in the Kathmandu valley. Its piercing eyes looked out in all directions (north, east, south and west), symbolising the all-seeing nature of the Buddha. Its nose was the Nepali character for the number one, symbolising unity and the ‘one’ way to reach enlightenment – through the Buddha's teachings. In a rare display of his roots, Aryan was also overwhelmed to visit Pashupatinath Temple, the oldest Hindu temple in Kathmandu and one of the most significant Hindu temples of Lord Shiva in the world. ‘My mum would really appreciate me doing this. She would love to come here,’ he explained to me as I waited outside. Unfortunately, only Hindus were allowed to enter. It seemed so mysterious to me, and I wondered what went on inside. In the evenings, we drank wine and listened to live music in the bars of the pulsating tourist district known as Thamel. One day, I got an unexpected taste of home when we discovered an Australian exhibition, complete with didjeridu-playing Aboriginals. The fact that Aryan loved the barbecued meat confirmed to me that our blend of cultures seemed to merge relatively effortlessly. I'd never had a problem eating Indian food, and now he was enjoying the food from my home. I suspected that he'd fit in well in Australia.

On the return train from Delhi to Varkala we found an unusual man seated opposite us.

‘I'm Lokesh,’ he introduced himself. Aged in his mid-twenties, Lokesh was a recent but ardent devotee of Lord Krishna. He was also deeply into astrology and claimed he could predict the future.

‘If you give me your birth details, I'll prepare your charts,’ he offered, to pass the time during the journey.

The results were intriguing. He said some surprisingly accurate things as he addressed Aryan.

‘Your family's financial situation was difficult in the early years but is okay now. Although you're emotional, you often keep your feelings to yourself. You didn't plan your career, it's just something you fell into. You're loyal in relationships, and it's always been the girls who have created doubt in the past.’

Turning to me, he warned, ‘You need to be more forthright in giving Aryan guidance. But I believe you will both marry next year, around March,’ he concluded.

It was a bold prediction but one that Aryan and I both found comforting. The future of our relationship had been on our minds a lot. Whether or not Lokesh's prediction eventuated, it gave us hope that we would remain together.

Our relationship was always going to attract a great deal of attention, and at times scorn, in India. How would it affect us? Could I cope with the challenges and disapproval? Living in Varkala without the facilities that I was used to had shown I was adaptable, but it had also revealed that there was no utopia.

Life slipped into a peaceful pattern in Varkala upon our return. Daisy had fled with Tess to Kolkata to escape from Vincent. The ongoing police raids had subdued the Cliff. There were no parties to tempt Aryan into staying out late and over-indulging. Days were long and slow, and ran on Indian time. The weather was warm and breezy. I sat around reading books and studying Hindi. Aryan devoted his time to learning new music production software. Without interference from anyone else, our relationship moved to a new level of contentedness.

Our reverie was unexpectedly interrupted by a phone call from Aryan's mother.

‘She was again asking me if I'd met a girl. She really wants me to get married and is keen to arrange a wedding.

‘Do you think it would be possible for us to be together forever? If I don't marry you, I'll probably give in and have an arranged marriage. It'll be easier that way. I don't want to love anyone like this again.’

So many thoughts flooded my mind.

‘Do you really think you could be a good husband?’ The prospect of being locked into another party lifestyle wasn't appealing.

‘I can. I'm willing to learn,’ he assured me.

When he looked at me, I could see the love in his eyes. His whole facial expression changed with it. And the way he held and kissed me was so tender. There was so much potential in the life we could build together. Yet, I felt scared about giving up my nondescript life in Australia. Concern about subjecting myself to a life where I would be regarded so differently, and as an outsider, tormented me. At the same time I didn't want to slip back into a life of comfortable monotony.

I needed to see where this journey would lead. Thoughts of the future eluded me. Aryan and I were effectively jobless and homeless; we'd have to create a whole new life for ourselves. Where would we live? Where would our kids go to school? How often would I get to see my family? And how could Aryan be so confident he wanted to spend his life with me? I didn't doubt Aryan's sincerity, but his confidence felt so alien. All I could do was take one step at a time, and believe that things would fall into place if we were meant to be together.

My thirty-third birthday came and went. It was another dry day, so the alcohol shop was closed. Every year, the Indan government announced a list of days prohibiting the sale of alcohol. The dry days usually fell on certain festivals, elections and religious occasions. Added to this, the first day of every month was a dry day in Kerala. It was the day that most employees received their salaries, and the Kerala government wanted to discourage them from drinking. (I could hardly imagine what would happen if the Australian government did such a thing.) We spent the afternoon consuming cocktails at Dolphin Bay and gazing out over the ocean. Thankfully, dry day laws weren't followed on the Cliff, where they served alcohol without permission anyway. I couldn't help feeling I was getting old and that my life was still directionless. It was a new and unpleasant feeling. At the same time, I recognised that I was learning so much. It wouldn't do me any good to be impatient.

The season was drawing to a close. Ken, the African drummer who lived nearby, was keen to know if we intended to keep leasing the guesthouse. If not, he wanted to take it on for the next five years and develop it.

I could see the potential in Ken's plan. In reality, it would be difficult for him to make any money, given the huge capital investment required. What's more, the owner was getting greedy with the amount of rent that she wanted. I didn't see much point in renewing our lease under the circumstances. Emily agreed with me. She was now living in London and didn't have any plans to return to India.

With five months remaining on my visa, Aryan and I were left wondering what to do with ourselves. The weather was getting hotter and humidity levels were building every day.

‘Let's go north to Manali,’ he suggested. ‘Some of my friends have been there. It's a beautiful place in the mountains.’

The thought of fresh, crisp air really appealed, so I agreed. We'd take the train to Delhi, and from there the overnight bus to Manali.

You would think I was now a whiz at packing and leaving, but preparing for our departure brought back feelings of trepidation about moving on, and of leaving the ease of the known for the uneasiness of the unknown. After the relative calm of Varkala, I dreaded being in the deluge of humanity in a large city again – the pushing, shoving, staring and people wanting to sell me things. I felt tense just thinking about it.

‘I can only be strong if you are. I don't think we can do this trip with you like this,’ Aryan looked at me, worried.

I took a walk along the Cliff to fortify myself. After eight months together, Aryan and I knew we made a good team and complemented each other well. I was useful at planning and he excelled at implementing. He packed our bags while I finalised our travel arrangements. We were in this adventure together.

We said our goodbyes to the people we'd befriended on the Cliff. Most of them weren't emotional; everyone was used to the transient free spirits passing through. Shack owners were packing up their belongings for storage. Many of the seasonal workers also had plans to head to the hills. Sulfi from Dolphin Bay had started to grow a moustache.

‘It's the end of the season. Plus, it will help me to be taken seriously by the police around here. It looks like I'm out of my caste without one,’ he explained.

Such was the pervasive power of the meesha (moustache) in Kerala.

Kama was looking forward to Julie's return from Belgium in a week. No matter how much Daisy and I warned her about what he was really like, she didn't want to believe it. She felt she needed to come back and make up her own mind about him.

Our last meal in Varkala was the most delicious fish tikka we'd ever had on the Cliff. I surprised myself by stringing together a sentence in Hindi.

‘Varkala me, yeh machi sabse achhi hai (this fish is the best in Varkala).’

Perhaps my long hours of study had started to produce results after all.

The next morning, Aryan and I threw our eleven bags aboard the Kerala Express and headed north.