Abu. To Be Who You Are

light scarves. Everyone was smiling at me, caressing my eyes, with a kind of long-forgotten tenderness.

The pictures quickly changed, and I tried to even blink less often, so as not to miss the frames of the first acquaintance with the magnificent moments of the lingering dream.

Here was a man in a vest with a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth and white patches of paste on his swarthy skin explaining the way to someone. Not far away, the other at the same time across the road was urinating, not hiding and not embarrassed by anyone. “Poor thing”, – I thought, feeling sorry for him, – “quite ill, perhaps, he had to go before everyone”.

Someone from the window of a car, overtaking and clipping our bus, threw empty tin cans and a plastic bottle on the roadside. “Idiots are here, too”, – I muttered. “Black and yellow rickshaws, I’ll have to ride”, – I decided.

Here some Indian man was spitting red-orange liquid on the road. “Perhaps drank too much, and now vomiting, he’s not well”, – I sympathized.

Here a whole bunch of women was carrying loads on their heads, and rags strapped over their shoulders with naked and dirty children in them. “So, there are a lot of gypsies here”, – I observed.

And in the middle of the road there were cows with camel hump. “What strange things, – I observed carefully, – that’s why they are sacred here, maybe they have special milk”, – I thought.

And there was this dog, lying right on the sideway, and everyone was going around it. “Silly dog, someone may tread on you”, – I frowned.

And here was a wide, full-flowing river with two bridges over it, and cars were scurrying along each of them. “Wow! What a beauty, – I thought, – it’s strange, why do they need two parallel motor-bridges and with two-way traffic? “– I was surprised.

Fanciful temples, colorful houses, people and animals flashed before my eyes at the speed of the advertising clip. The sounds of horns, the smells of fish and spices – everything turned my head, and I looked up and started looking at the sky.

A clear, bright November sky, without a single cloud, blinding with the light of the endless space. Suddenly a huge eagle with a wing span of not less than one meter flies into my picture! Oh, prince of the forces of air! We caught sight of each other, exchanged places, and I did not descend from heaven anymore. As though he was specifically sent to me by someone: he flew in circles in front of my eyes, without leaving my sight. He infused a feeling of real freedom into me, encouraging confidence and soaring over all this mundane life. I began to see through his eyes, I became a bird in human form. I understood that in India you need to look at the sky, not to the ground.

The morning dawned as quickly as my hopes. A silver thread of light flashed from the sun, connecting my soul with the body.

It was early in the morning, but the streets were crowded, roadside barbers were already working, they were sweeping and watering near tented camps. “So, we have entered the tourist zone”, – I realized.

All were going, walking, standing, talking, crawling and jumping on the same road, there were no sidewalks. “Dangerous”, – I remembered.

Nearby lay unburnt garbage and ash on the red ground. “What is this red color on the ground, does it become like this after fire?” – I asked myself.

Here, right in front of the bus, a few multicolored piglets ran across the road following their well-fed mother. This animated me so much that I wanted to show them to Polina, but she was still asleep.

Shabby old buses, carrying dark-skinned people and heads protruding from open windows and staring at us with plain curiosity and a smile, rushed past us.

And the children, in chorus, waved their hands at us, smiled and shouted “Hi”. Some perplexed tourists did not know how to react: someone timidly tried to repeat the movement of the hands of children and shout “Hello”, only a pitiful and tired smile came out. And some stared through the window with growing irritation and horror in the eyes. Indeed, beauty lies in the eyes of the

beholder. Candolim, Calangute, Baga – areas of North Goa flashed outside the window. We had arrived.

Our world is a magical and inspiring place. It is enough to believe in it. Instincts did not disappoint me: here, among the exotic sounds and smells, the novelty of the sensations, my “I” showed an amazing response – it immediately acquired a confident sense of direction. So, we settled down.

The only thing that turned out to be difficult for me to adapt to Goa was to have relentless prime-time coverage with the audience and listeners of your individuality. Everything and just everything in real and it does not end with the long-awaited “pack-up” call of the film director. There are no secluded places, nowhere to withdraw, there is no private space either. There are no

distinctions between the stage and the audience. Knowing that India is an overpopulated country, and that there are only 7 women for 10 men, I began to understand the wild need of women among the male population. But for me, there were quite enough of the obvious signs of my real desired existence here, without their heightened intrusion. “Calm down!” – I demanded of myself.

In no other country I have experienced such emotions, nothing like that, it was the first time. Brodsky had said: “Every new aesthetic reality makes one’s experience even more private”. Polina found the environment as punishment by exile, and I landed into my fairy tale. I had already had the experience of traveling with her, a brief tour covering all the cities of Morocco.

Fez, where a Muslim without flinching changed his wife for a camel, and our guide said that this was the order of things, as she herself was to blame – either she was of loose morals or barren. Marrakesh with snake charmers in the central city square. Casablanca with a mosque, where even women are let in for the sake of tourism. Agadir, where I drowned my favorite sunglasses, and where we drank sweet hot tea, that is poured into a small glass from a teapot raised high to form froth. Where we met with two greedy young and beautiful vagabond Arabs who wanted to fuck us and use our money, they spoke three languages, since it is a former French colony. In general, the trip was informative, but the desire to return again had not arisen.

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.

“Everything was in confusion in the Oblonskys’ house…” L. Tolstoy

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.

“Consciously or unconsciously, we are searching for God” Carl Jung.

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.