I took myself off to India in search of a small slice of
happy. I thought I could do it without hair mousse. My hair looked consistently
crappy.
I travelled all over the country on the sleeper buses for
which India’s renown. I found it quite thrilling. Whizzing about. On a flat bed.
Sprawled out. Lying down.
I stayed in shacks and shitholes, which were cheap but a far
cry from cushy. And every night, I became a mosquito’s delight and was devoured
just like human sushi.
I visited temples and ashrams. Met sadhus, swamis and sages.
I stopped eating meat and got back on my feet by doing more yoga than I had
done in ages.
I studied Vedic Dharma and had a go at silent meditation. But
then I got sick with severely bad shits and needed hospitalisation.
I splashed about in the Ganges and I scaled Himalayan
mountains high. I lolled lazily about on
white beaches until my pale skin started to fry.
I met some incredible people and I made a great many
friends. I dated some dudes. Drank too much booze. And I had a colonic cleanse.
Then six months ago I met Max. He was handsome and kind. A
real treasure. He captured my heart. Right from the start. I thought he would
be mine forever.
I moved into his place in South Goa. Looking back, I wish we’d
gone slower. Because living together
isn’t that clever, when you’re with someone who don’t really know yer.
A few weeks later I became ill. I discovered I had a stomach
tumour. Then things went downhill, when blood started to spill and near death
led to my lost sense of humour.
It took a good few months to recover. And I wasn’t much fun
to be with. But by the time I was fine, Max was no longer inclined, to have me in
his life as his lover.
I came home without further ado. My Indian dream’s now a
thing of the past. Why slum when I really don’t have to? When I’m happy with
life at long last?
