Stories from the Crowd: Bound for India
A short Jacinta story dedicated to ‘Mikey’
It was thrilling to hear the applause as I introduced the band to more than 5000 Robbie Williams fans. We were the opening act for his act, “Take That” at Brisbane’s Boondall Entertainment Center in late 1995. “Eddie on guitar … Gene on bass … Stewy on drums … and my name is Jacinta.” It was decided, the band was relocating to the USA with me. The trip I’d made to New York City some months earlier, was very encouraging. The team that awaited my return the following year worked with big acts including ACDC, TLC and The Pretenders. They liked the first EP, ‘Dedicated To A Stranger,’ as did our Australian audiences. As the band made preparations to replant ourselves in Manhattan, a tasty opportunity knocked on our door … INDIA!!!
It seemed like a crazy idea, until we heard Garjan’s offer. Gene had traveled to India some years earlier as part of a Christian touring band. It had all been arranged by a talented musician, music promoter and video maker.
Garjan Reddy sounded tremendous on the phone. He was excited to know we had accepted his offer to travel to India and spend 6 months touring and creating music videos. In keeping the arrangements simple and timely, we would exchange our touring fees for the video production and sundry costs and in that way, we didn’t require work visas. To hear authentic mantras, sitars and tablas lured us, and I loved Indian cuisine and anything spicy. There were many opportunities for a foreign band in India he explained. We would have the chance to devote 6 months to being a full time original band, a luxury we didn’t yet have in Australia. Writing new songs, rehearsing, touring and creating music videos in exotic and inexpensive India was indeed a unique opportunity. We would be so much better prepared when we arrived in New York City. Brilliant!
The idea shocked our family and friends, and although we appreciated it was indeed a third world country, Gene had enticing and amusing stories of his successful Indian tour previously. As a child, I had spent considerable time living and traveling in Southeast Asia. Surely together, we could lead the way and care for our friends. Gene spoke respectfully of Garjan, an entertainment industry professional and son of a well respected Indian music guru. He was a man who lived by the ‘golden rule’. All the same, India was off the grid, so Gene travelled three weeks earlier to ensure everything was arranged as planned.
Our four piece band had two additional members. Melissa created our visually delicious promotional materials and art, and Jennifer was our ‘MacGyver.’ The remaining five of us would follow three weeks later, once we had the green light from Gene. The chances of anything going wrong seemed unlikely to six naive Aussies destined for an adventure.
Other than receiving word that Gene had arrived, communicating with him proved difficult. After two brief phone calls, he explained that although there had been some delays, and there would be some challenges, the light was definitely green. Since New York City was our destination beyond India, it made sense to finalize our lives in Australia. The remaining five of us proceeded to sell everything we had that wasn’t musical, give away the rest, and prepare the paperwork required to temporarily import our half a ton of music equipment … a ‘carnet.’ Guitars, keyboards, microphones, stands, saxophone, drums, sound modules, samplers, studio effects, processors, computers and their monitors and loads of cables … it was all packed into road cases, ID’d with our band logo and finally padlocked with keys we labeled from A through to T. My first pang of concern occurred when the shipping company operator, in receipt of our payment and road cases, asked if we truly thought we’d ever see it all again. After all, it was bound for India.
We payed handsomely for our excess baggage. Our delayed flight kept us in Singapore overnight, and we arrived in Mumbai at 3:00 a.mm after a further delay through Delhi. The airport terminal felt like an oven and chaos was everywhere. Words were few, greeting Gene and Garjan, and introductions overlooked. I knew something dreadful had occurred. Had there been a fire or maybe an explosion? The stinky haze hanging in the terminal was putrid, and there more frantic people scurrying about than I’d ever seen in one place. We hustled through the crowds, loaded up with our weighty bags to awaiting lofty cars, reminiscent of vehicles from the 1940’s, complete with their drivers. We were bombarded constantly with tragic, limbless people begging for money. Women in dirty sari’s were holding out their frail babies hands, doing the same. Melissa and Eddie were entirely overwhelmed. Stewy and Jennifer were nervous and unusually silent. All very understandable under the circumstances. Again, I wondered what had happened. I gave them each a quick hug as they maneuvered themselves and their hand luggage into the first car. Gene and I traveled with Garjan in a second car. Sitting next to Gene, jammed together with luggage, I noticed that he reeked of Garam Masala.
Leaving the airport, bodies were lying by the roadside and I didn’t know if these ‘casualties’ were alive, dead or injured. When I enquired as to what had happened that night, Garjan was confused. Nothing had happened. Everything was apparently normal and just a taste of the months to come. The experiences I had traveling through the slums of Jakarta and living in Manila as a child wouldn’t come close to what we’d witness daily in India. In that car ride to our hotel, Garjan was obviously irritated and Gene made an effort to lighten the vibe and bridge conversation between us. When Garjan finally spoke, he was already disappointed with us and our ‘reaction’ upon our arrival. I explained how busy we had been in preparation and that we were all exhausted. We’d be fine after some sleep. We arrived at our Mumbai Hotel. It overlooked the Bay and it was spectacular as the first light of the morning was just beginning to change the color of the sky. I wasn’t sad that Garjan left us quickly, and his abrupt demeanor was in contrast with the thoughtful gentleman I had expected to meet.
Two sounds awoke me shortly after; sounds we would hear every morning. Ancient melodies of soul stirring prayer, along with loud snorting sounds made by showering men clearing their nasal passages in the rooms next door. The former was etherial, the latter a necessity in the dusty cities of India in the dry season. After a few more hours of sleep, our breakfast of eggs arrived, and like everything we ate in India, it was loaded with spicy heat. Yep, even breakfast! Bombay had only just been renamed Mumbai, and boasted to have more millionaires than New York City. However, the poverty was far more evident throughout the city’s maze of roads, side streets and narrow alleys. Despite political tension with forthcoming general elections, the sheer volume of people everywhere gave Mumbai a festive feeling, like we had all gathered together for some major event everywhere we went. The afternoon was hectic as Garjan took us to meet record company executives from three major labels. I don’t think he’d made appointments though, as it seemed we were ‘cold calling.’
Overlooking the bay from our hotel room in the early evening was peaceful, and the sun sinking into the Arabian Sea was exquisite to see. In awe, I watched as probably a thousand people, mostly men, dressed in robes, walked to the Haji Ali Dargah Temple to pray their evening prayers. Surrounded entirely by sea, it’s long pathway was only accessible at low tide. It was truly a magnificent image. I wondered how many people had become stranded leaving the temple too late, missing the tide. Wouldn’t that be awful.
Garjan invited us to have dinner with several members of his family later that night. Although we were exhausted, he was insistent. The seven of us were placed into three auto rickshaws, and without having the exact address, Garjan vaguely explained directions to our destination to the drivers and us. Couldn’t he tell, as we could, that the drivers weren’t understanding him? We certainly couldn’t visualize the landmarks he spoke of as he explained how to get there, “the bend in the road … once you’ve travelled five minutes … ten minutes … off to the left … up a small hill.” Unless we all traveled together, I suggested we shouldn’t go. Garjan again insisted that we would indeed go, and his advise was that we simply follow each other for the 45 minute journey each way. His family had made dinner for his guests, and eagerly awaited our arrival.
Within moments of setting off, it was obvious this couldn’t work out. Auto rickshaws were everywhere you looked, dodging and weaving between us, competing for road space. From behind, they all looked exactly the same! Only from the sides, could you get a glimpse of the passengers. It was too late. We were separated, lost in a sea of little unmarked ‘yellow cabs’ in the labyrinth that was Mumbai. I was panicked and our driver was looking to us for directions. We repeated to him what we knew, but it was hopeless. Eddie and Melissa’s despair and anxiousness was noticeable since we’d arrived. This is why I thought it was smart they travelled with Garjan that night. They were the only guests who made it to the dinner party. They were upset and concerned for the rest of us, compounded by their culture shock. They had no tolerance for spicy foods at this early time either. Their distress and Melissa’s tears was perceived by Garjan as behaving disrespectfully as his guests. He yelled at them all the way back to the hotel. When we finally reconnected, Garjan spat his disdain to the remainder of us for not finding our way. He was completely unreasonable, and his anger disturbing, fueled with liquor. “How could you disrespect me?” he repeated. Was he an idiot to have not foreseen the ridiculousness of his expectations? His behavior throughout the day had been erratic, his moods hot and cold. In wanting to believe in his good nature, I second-guessed myself. Everything was so very foreign. Perhaps it was my perception that was off and this was just an example of our cultural diversity.
After Garjan left us that night, the band discussed what we should do. Gene and Garjan had already secured our home base in Secunderabad, a township adjacent to Hyderabad and also its sister city. This is where we’d live when we weren’t touring. We decided to proceed with our plans and travel with Garjan to his hometown of Hyderabad the following day. Somewhere in the Indian Ocean our music equipment was aboard a ship and headed there as well. On the flight from Mumbai to Hyderabad, I continued reading my Lonely Planet book. I attempted to rekindle my enthusiasm, but was worried about the man with whom we had entrusted our Indian plans. I couldn’t understand his hostile disappointment with us. It seemed he was being manipulative. Gene too had witnessed a different man, and put it down to the demon that alcohol can be. People didn’t drink where we were going and although that was disappointing, it was now a relief. We descended into Hyderabad, the capital of the Indian state, Andhra Pradesh in the south east. Its arid landscape with its splattering of grey rocks and sparse vegetation was uninviting. I missed the ocean. On so many levels, we were far away from home.
Our house in Trimulgherry, Secunderabad was brand new. The front door of ornately carved wood required a very large brass key. In keeping with Hindu tradition, the walls were graced with henna handprints, a blessing I suspect. It had a gorgeous alcove off the sunken living room dedicated to prayer, featuring Hindu deities encrusted with colored stone within it’s walls. The ceilings were high with wrought iron openings way up high in the walls for air circulation. The roof was flat and contained a concrete square reservoir where water could gather from rain, or pumped from a nearby well for the homes water supply. Alas, it was dry season and our pump didn’t work. Water was our biggest concern at the outset, and the boys got to repairing the pump with the help of neighbors somewhat successfully. It was hot, really hot, and there was no local convenience store. None of us had experienced a thirst like this. We had no stove or oven, but we found one implement we could cook with, a bunsen burner. Once we acquired a gas cylinder, Jennifer cleverly rigged wire coat hangers to create a cooking platform.
We began boiling the discolored water we were able to pump, but even our neighbors were not inclined to drink it. We had added our ‘special drops’ from the ‘India kit’ prepared by Jennifer, but our self invented ‘water purification system’ couldn’t nearly produce enough water to keep up with our thirsts. It looked and tasted awful, and it wasn’t cooling down in the refrigerator (which turned out to be broken) and served as a cupboard only. We must have purchased hundreds of bottles of ‘Bisleri’ water.
The owner of our new house was a stern man named Raj, so we nicknamed our home “Raj’s Taj.” We saw him all but briefly, just once after our move in, so making repairs and figuring out how things worked, became our tasks alone. Garjan was unhelpfully scarce too.
Trimulgherry was off the beaten track without sealed roads, and in a developing estate. Even today, the population is quite small. Our address was 7 lines long and contained the words “Near Petrol Pump” and “Pass by Shree Veer Haniman Temple.” Nearby homes included tiny, impoverished shacks as well as grand abodes built of wood, concrete and stone. What they had in common were crooked wooden frames. It was interesting to note, that there wasn’t a perpendicular corner in site! Our suburb was also inhabited by wild, scrawny dogs. They scrounged whatever scraps they could find. Every locale had it’s ‘scroungers,’ whether they were animals or people. As a result, there wasn’t much litter to be seen in India, as everything could be repurposed for something.
Our first evening posed another problem. At sunset a massive population of mosquitos visited to dine on us. With no screens or windows in the high parts of the walls, we couldn’t keep them out. Their pitchy hum was loud and hungry, and we were being eaten alive. Sleeping was impossible. Later that night, we heard a new sound. A banging in the distance, faint to begin with. It grew louder and was approaching “Raj’s Taj.” The six of us huddled in the darkness, slapping mosquitos, wondering if the local community didn’t appreciate foreigners in their midsts. Perhaps they were coming to beat us up or rob us … or kill us? We walked up the stairway that led to our rooftop to get a better view, only to see a small group of men with long sticks banging loudly on any home that had a front gate. What were they doing? As it turned out, it was the neighborhood security patrol and they patrolled nightly. The locals we met in the weeks that followed were friendly and interested to meet us. In fact, even those that lived in absolute squalor with barely anything, graciously would invite us to dine with them. We were language challenged, but most children learned English at school, and they helped us communicate with their parents. We exchanged food, kindness and stories and found children very helpful in communicating with adults, many times from then. We bought our food daily from local markets. Never had I tasted vegetables so delicious and sweet. A fresh chicken was truly that. Hanging off the sides of motor scooters by their little legs, they arrived at the market alive. Their squawking heads were abruptly chopped off, feathers plucked before our eyes. Poor things. Jennifer and Stewy took on kitchen duties and had developed a repertoire of two delightful dishes which we affectionately named “Curry Get Fucked” and “Chicken Nepalm.” Thankfully Eddie’s and Melissa’s tastebuds adapted.
Our immediate neighbors were three families and spoke three distinct languages. They appreciated our hospitality, but since they couldn’t understand each other within their own household, any ideas of learning the local lingo were put on the back burner. There were bigger priorities… Mosquito nets were required for our narrow beds of shallow foam mattresses. Over the course of many weeks, Melissa and I spent almost every day trekking from our home to Hyderabad to find our growing need of necessities. They were full day excursions, and always offered a unique adventure. We would walk 15 minutes to the main road to hail an auto rickshaw to Hyderabad, a 12 km journey south. As we later learned, there were 11 tourists in our region and we made up six of them. As a result, the locals were intrigued with white women, and hordes of men mostly, would surround us with interest and questions every time we went out. It was truly daunting at first. When they learned we were from Australia, they would shout “Shane Warne, Shane Warne,” who was the captain of the Australian cricket team. When we responded with “Shane Warne, Shane Warne,” our fears were eased seeing the joy on their faces, laughing and applauding. We had something in common. Cricket is a sport that unites all of India and Australians love their cricket too. A cricket broadcast on TV was the only time we could rely on a constant electric power supply! At other times, we’d have power for an hour or two, before going off again for any amount of time. There was no schedule to it… except when the cricket was on.
Communication with the outside world was a high priority. Melissa and I trekked out to seek how we’d acquire a phone connection. After lining up for almost a day, we received the forms and filled them out, only to learn that the process would take 8 months! This is when we found the “Lady With Two Thumbs”, as we called her. She did in fact have two thumbs on each hand, along with an international phone connection business. Thanks to her, we could now reach out to our families, and let them know we were alive … but be prepared to wait in line for a considerable time, as was the way for most things in India, even buying a postage stamp.
To accommodate the population with employment, everyone had a specific task. In a restaurant, it might be your job to collect the dirty forks, and someone else the knives. At the post office, there were personal to greet you, before speaking with someone else who would enquire what you wanted. If it was a postage stamp, one person would figure what the stamp amount was, followed by a postage stamp person who would issue the stamps. From here, you would see someone else to pay for it, another person to provide you with the goo to affix it, another to do the affixing, another to post it, and yet another to see you out of the building. It seemed that British rule had left India in quite an organizational dilemma. Much of the floor space in government buildings was taken up by hordes of manila folders bound with string, and piled from the floor all the way to the high ceilings. Quite a site to see. How could they find anything? The British systems might be effective in Britain, but not here in India where the population was approaching one billion. Perhaps it helped me with one personal journey … without patience, one would lose their mind. We found out that Garjan lived with his Aunt. We left many messages with her. After a week, he agreed to come by, alas he never showed. Several days later, we reached him on the phone and he explained that his cousin had been bitten by a scorpion and had died. Consequently, he said we should be very careful of scorpions, and couldn’t visit us at this time. What shocking news!
He finally came by the following week. We sat down to discuss the bands touring plans, so we thought. His first point of business … band members. He explained that adding a local singer would be helpful in garnishing more shows for us. He had the perfect solution. Garjan would graciously take my place as the lead singer and I would continue as a vocalist, keyboard and saxophone player. Although we knew of his musical abilities, Garjan was a promoter, video maker and a generation older, so this came as quite a surprise! We carefully explained to him, that while we’d like to keep the essence of the band, he was welcome to sing and play with us. Of course we could learn additional material to accommodate that. We weren’t surprised when he took this as a personal insult, and the meeting was abruptly ended without information about our tour.
Several days later, Garjan reappeared with the news that our equipment had arrived. This was a relief. Three days later, Gene and Stewy returned with a truck and driver and our musical gear. Not a single road case had been tampered with, not a lock broken. All of our musical instruments, computers and studio equipment were in tact. I had been worried for nothing. We were eager to begin rehearsing and working on new tracks. Our living room was assigned for rehearsing, a back room for the studio and part of the dining room for our office.
The dry season and dust go hand in hand, and it was incredible how much dust would accumulate everywhere, every day. In preparation for the studio, I swept the back room, when suddenly I felt tiny biting sensations all over my body followed by my skin feeling like it was on fire. Flinging the dust brush, I ran out of the room screaming “aaaaaahhhhhhhhh!!!!!,” with my hands and legs flying about like a crazy woman. Ripping my clothes off, I jumped into the shower to find we hadn’t pumped the water and only a few drops trickled out. The boys ran out front to start the pump, but it wouldn’t start, and I continued to run around the house in a wailing, infected frenzy. Eventually the pump started with its clunking sound, and in time, the water flowed up to our roof top reservoir, to flow back down the shower pipe. We never found out what the invisible critters were. I was red, itchy and tentative as I resumed building the studio just in time for the power to turn off … as it did several times each day. The boys had been setting up their instruments and rehearsal space. We were intending to keep our rehearsals quiet and acoustic, but then Stewy hit his snare drum for the first time. Pow! As we suspected, our home was a reverberating amplifying chamber. We had another task to address. Sound proofing! Meanwhile, Melissa had set up our office, only to find when the power came back on, the office computer wouldn’t fire up.
Now that our equipment had arrived, Garjan had regained his interest and agreed to take us to a computer repair shop. The technicians were confident they could repair the 486 DX PC, and asked us to return on Saturday to collect it. In the meantime, Melissa and I trekked into town and purchased at least a dozen dhurrie rugs and pillows of all shapes and sizes. The rugs covered the floors and walls, attached to the wrought iron up high. The pillows filled the ventilation openings and windows and the living spaces lost their light. Although this somewhat reduced the mosquito population, the house had become “Raj’s Taj’s Sweat Box.” It must have been 110 degrees. At least we could begin rehearsing and recording without bothering our neighbors.
I had finished writing the lyrics for a song called “Holding Onto You,” and it was the first song we recorded. The studio was set to go, and the power was on, but every time we touched the powered equipment, we’d get shocked. If my lips ventured closer to the microphone than half an inch, a spark would bite them. There were a lot of cuss words flying around that day, but this was a problem with no solution, as the electrical system in “Raj’s Taj’s Sweat Box” had no ground. Being zapped, and losing any recording you hadn’t saved when the power went off without warning, was more than really frustrating.
Holding Onto You
I’m playing every day now
from early in the morning,
to so late in the evening that I could cry
Thinkin’ ‘bout the feelings that 3am brings with it,
The sun can shine in many colored skies,
I’ll be with you if your sun sets tonight.
“Cause I told you once upon a time,
I’ll tell you every time,
I’m holding onto you.
”
“I told you once upon a time,
I tell you day and night,
I’m holding onto you.
I say I’m holding onto you.
“And wherever you are right now,
I’m following you babe, so let’s figure it out.
Whatever it takes, I’m holding on and out,
and something tells me you’re here with me to love me
right throughout …
I told you once upon a time,
I’ll tell you every time,
I’m holding onto you.
I told you once upon a time,
I tell you day and night,
I’m holding onto you.
I say I’m holding onto you.
“Lately I’ve been thinkin’
How life can be so pleasin’
I’m turning slowly round inside my head.
And when I look around me,
I’d probably say that I should be
in love with life and you and
everyone that stands beside me.
I can see a little clearer now.
There might be many more years,
gonna figure it out.
Whatever it takes, I’m holding on out,
And something tells me you’re here with me to love
me right throughout …
I told you once upon a time,
I’ll tell you every time,
I’m holding onto you.
I told you once upon a time,
I tell you day and night,
I’m holding onto you.
I say I’m holding onto you.
We were getting little work done and the band was becoming cranky. Bouts of dysentery plagued us too. Moral was low. One of the computer studio monitors, an old Samsung with a green and black screen, was now being used as a TV monitor for our VHS player, on which ‘ScarFace’, a stowaway tape, was our only video. It played 24/7. What a mood enhancer! Perhaps I was going slightly mad, as I packed a small backpack with water and went ‘walkabout’. Without telling anyone, I left. I had no idea where I was going other than heading away from town, out into the countryside, somewhere quiet, somewhere away from people … somewhere away from Al Pacino! I was keeping track of landmarks, or so I thought. At one point, I was stopped by a military vehicle to learn I had wandered into a military camp. I was promptly escorted out the other side. My mind was frazzled and I continued to walk and walk. Eventually I stopped and sat upon a large grey rock and drank some of the water I’d packed. It was another scorching day and I was soaked with sweat. Regained some kind of reality check, I realized I had no idea where I was or which direction was “Raj’s Taj’s Sweat Box. It was going to be getting dark in a couple of hours and I’d been gone for four or more. I wasn’t even sure which way the military base was, and how’d I’d manage to get back through to the other side without being arrested. Jumping back on my feet and walking fast, I found a dirt road and continued walking in the direction I hoped would take me back to Trimulgherry. Other than some buzzing insects, it was silent until I heard the sound of a motorbike. It was gradually becoming louder. A few minutes later an older gentleman in military uniform pulled up beside me. His English was poor, but he was asking if I’d like a ride. Although I was reluctant, hitching a ride seemed like my best option, and I told him I was headed to the Petrol Pump near Trimulgherry. He nodded and ushered me to sit behind him …side saddle of course. After we had been traveling a short while, he pulled over and stopped the bike. He turned around and asked “You like lic lic?” My mind could only imagine what ‘lick lick’ was and I was hugely worried. “No lic lic!!!” I responded frowning. We were out here alone, so with lots of gesturing, I tried to tell him, “meeting, … friends, … Petrol Pump, NOW! … they wait for me …
No lic lic!!!” He then, gestured a drinking motion and repeated “lic lic?” Is he thirsty? I opened my back pack and offered him my water, but he declined and then again repeated “lic lic?” He added to his drinking motion gesture, this time grinning and rolling his eyes. Aha! He was offering me liquor. Since the women of Andhra Pradesh ‘abstain from drinking’, I was suspicious, especially as he was also pointing to a small wooden shed standing solitary a few hundred yards from the road. As Andhra Pradesh was an alcohol free state, few people could access booze, military excluded. Tapping firmly at my watch, I repeated my story, emphasizing my friends were waiting and would be worried. He understood. When we arrived at the petrol pump in Trimulgherry, I bought us both a bottle of Mirinda, orange flavored soda and thanked him. Once he’d left, I scurried home and was grateful to be back at the noisy, dark, sweat lodge. The band truly needed time out, and surely some ‘lic lic’ after 6 weeks in the dry zone.
We broke our golden rule, leaving “Raj’s Taj’s Sweat Box” housing all we owned unattended. The six of us headed to Secunderabad, and enjoyed the air-conditioning of a five star hotel and cold beer … well sort of cold. There was minimal ice in the warm mixers they served, but it was still a treat! During these dry state years, foreigners could partake in alcoholic beverages as guests at international hotels. A tourist ‘booze permit’ was otherwise required. It gave you access to the alcohol depot that opened only on Tuesdays. You can imagine the time that would have taken to arrange. Perhaps the bar staff presumed we were having a drink (or ten) before checking in. Once they’d checked our passports, they served us. We cut loose as Aussies can do, and we were probably lucky we weren’t arrested that night, but we came up with a new expression … “aaaahhhhh In-di-a, get it in-to-ya!!!” Our camaraderie had returned.
Saturday came around, and Garjan arrived to take us back to the computer store to collect our repaired PC. Upon arriving at the store, it was closed with a sign in the window that read “Second Saturday.” What? Garjan explained that every second saturday was declared a public holiday, dating back to the days of the East India Company. What we discovered in time, is that no one seemed to know exactly which Saturday was the “second saturday”. We also learned that irrespective of a holy day’s dedicated creed, being Hindu, Buddhist, Christian or Muslim, everyone took the holiday. In fact, Indian culture in general, preferred to do everything “tomorrow”, and tomorrow is always tomorrow.
We returned to the computer repair store the following week and took delivery of our repaired computer. The power supply was fixed which was great news. We returned to our hot box and plugged it in, and to our shocking surprise, out of our ‘repaired’ computer, thick white smoke began billowing out, filling the room. We were totally stunned and had never seen anything like it. It was like a party trick. When the computer was ‘repaired’ the second time, not only did they fix it, they kindly gave us computer viruses and worms (at no extra charge). With that, another new band saying emerged … “Ohhhh, very sad”.
From the hip
If you want to learn to fly
no one is gonna make you try
just do it, hey just do it.
If you want to stand beside me,
that would be real nice without the price,
but I don’t need that,
no I don’t need that anymore …
I feel ferocious ‘bout what I like,
no more life in a circus – animal ride.
Deliver, that’s what I’m here for
so do what you say, or don’t say anymore,
cause over and over and over you disappoint me.
Don’t walk away,
it will not please you,
from a land where tomorrows the day,
we’re gonna dance from the hip.
If you want to learn to fly,
It’s really gonna take some time,
It’s not a race.
if you want to stand beside me,
somehow you keep your poker face just lookin’ fine,
well all of the time.
Well did you feel a little nervous?
“
hey what about we
jump from this plane and leave the circus”
Anticipation, I’m sick and tired of waiting,
so I’ll do what I say if that’s what I think,
or over and over and over I’ll disappoint me.
Don’t walk away,
it will not please you,
from a land where tomorrows the day,
we’re gonna dance from the hip.
Don’t walk away now, don’t walk away now, don’t
walk away now
Oooooh and I’ll dance for you,
dance for you,
Dance from the hip.
There wasn’t a thread of evidence of any band tour and Garjan’s excuse for canceling our next scheduled meeting was a doozy! Another of his family had found trouble. This time, a different cousin had murdered his own mother in cold blood! She was attempting to stop him from drinking. Whether his excuses were fact or fiction, our faith in him was gone. It was time we found our own way. Surely we could make something happen without Garjan’s help. Jennifer and I attended expatriate events, but didn’t garner any immediate interest. With dual citizenship, I began communicating with the Australian and USA embassies. Gene and I also decided to visit the Minister of Cultural Affairs. Surely there might be opportunities for a contemporary band of foreigners. We arrived at our appointment and were led into the minister’s office. We joined others awaiting their own ministerial meetings, seated in velvet and satin cushy chairs that were arranged around the perimeter of the regally decorated room. The minister was sitting at the center of a long wooden conference table, conversing with two appointees with an attendant at either side. An unusual arrangement, as everyone heard everyone else’s issues and requests … that’s if you could understand. We were offered delicious coffee while we waited, as he met his appointments that had arrived prior to us. After an hour, he invited us to sit across from him. We presented him with our band biography and music, and explained that we were very interested to perform in Andhra Pradesh. Within several days, we were invited back to meet with him, and were offered an opportunity to perform at an event planned the following week. We eagerly accepted and we’d finally accomplished something.
Rehearsing in our hot box wasn’t easy, but we’d compiled a great set to kick off our Indian performances. Alas, when we arrived at the venue, we weren’t permitted to play … ‘ohhhh, very sad’. The minister’s office had received a fax from an attorney stating that, as we were under contract, we were not allowed to perform. There could be but one person behind this, and we had signed NO such agreement with Garjan. But our word was no good that night, and we were returned to “Raj’s Taj.”
Several days later, Gene and I returned to the minister’s office. This time, he had three appointees at his side. He greeted us with irritability and asked why we had breached an agreement, presenting us with the fax his office had received. The fax was issued by an attorney representing a company we had not heard of. It was time to tell our stupid story, but we’d agreed not to state Garjan’s name, fearful of repercussions. But the minister wanted to know who the man was I spoke of. Gene and I glanced at each in agreement and I turned to the Minister stating his name. With the words ‘Garjan Reddy,’ the third attendant slapped his palm to his forehead, shaking his head saying “Ay Yi Yi, Garjan Reddy strikes again!” This was Narendra Singh, documentary film maker, producer of advertising campaigns and the husband of the minister’s sister. He explained to us that Garjan was a well known scammer. This wasn’t the first time he had taken advantage of a foreign act. He would lure artists to India upon making promises to cut video clips and facilitate touring opportunities. Once he had the act in India, he played whatever game he believed would benefit him. Whether it was inventing deals in order to garner control of their music copyrights or blatantly thieve their musical instruments and equipment. His reputation was that of a dangerous manipulator with an unpredictable nature. The Minister and Narendra said we urgently needed to vacate our premises since Garjan knew where we resided, and possibly had access as well. To that end, a ‘secret meeting’ was arranged for 1am the following morning. For now, we were directed to go straight back to “Raj’s Taj” and start packing.
Our ‘secret meeting’ took place at the very exclusive Secunderabad Club. Upon giving our names, Gene and I were ushered outside to a lush torch lit and very beautiful courtyard that could probably seat 500 people or more. Our table was discretely hidden amidst vines and shrubs, probably the ‘secret table.’ Shortly after, Narendra arrived and introduced us to the three men who accompanied him. One of them, an immediately likable man named Aasim, was Narendra’s business partner sharing an advertising company. Narendra began explaining the plan. At 5:00 a.m., a truck would arrive at “Raj’s Taj” to collect our belongings. The band would travel with Narendra and Aasim. We would be relocated to the Dwaraka Palace Hotel in Hyderabad owned by Aasim and his brother Biren. Narendra and Aasim would assist us in finding a more permanent abode and it shouldn’t take longer than a week. We were so grateful but stunned that we’d had fallen prey to Garjan’s contrived scam. Our experience made some sense now and at least from tomorrow, he wouldn’t know our whereabouts.
Shortly before dawn, we heard the large flat top truck roll up. The severity of our situation was realized, when on the back of the truck were not one or two, but 13 military personnel armed with bayonets. Their faces were serious and they were poised … for what? Garjan? Who was this man? We rolled out our massive road cases, numerous smaller ones, our weighty luggage, dhurrie rugs, power line conditioners, and all we’d collected over the past two months. Dawn was breaking and our neighbors began emerging from their homes with raised eye brows and shocked faces. If they still recall that scene today, they probably remember us as the noisy Aussie terrorists extradited from Trimulgherry. Eventually we had the truck packed and everything secured with ropes and soldiers. We said good bye to “Raj’s Taj,” Trimulgherry and hopefully to Garjan Reddy.
On our journey to the Dwaraka Palace Hotel, Aasim told us of the loss of his father. His brother Biren was currently with their family, in mourning in a different city. It was customary for Hindu’s, that whilst in mourning, one was not permitted to do business or participate in any festivities. Possibly we would meet Biren when they traded places the following month. We looked forward to meeting him, as his brother Aasim was a kind and joyful character … and with Narendra, our saviours.
Since we had so many belongings, Aasim gave us three rooms that sat on top of the roof of the seven story Dwaraka Hotel … a palace it was not. These rooms evidently weren’t used, but they opened onto an expansive rooftop which, for the most part, had it’s own roof, and a birds eye view overlooking the ‘old city’ of Hyderabad. For what we needed, it was a perfect space, and they encouraged us to use the roof top area for rehearsal. Later that day, Aasim and Gene commenced seeking a house for us, and Narendra sat me down for a little chat. Firstly he told me the great news that we had a rebooking at the Secunderabad Club. He then proposed, that we might be interested writing and recording several music projects he had. Finally, he asked me if the band would be interested in participating in a documentary film he’d produce. An Aussie band ‘on the road’ touring India! The deities were finally shining down on us!
We reorganized the roof top space shifting old beds, tv’s, cupboards, old sinks and odds and ends. We laid down our dhurrie rugs, and set up the most wonderful rehearsal space. Everything had survived the flat top truck ride, and the power was far more regular in the big city of Hyderabad. We fired it all up, and commenced running our show set, when it hit me. Something was really wrong. In a moment from feeling hugely elated, relieved and positive about our new Indian prospects, I was giddy, hot and cold, sweaty, vague and nauseated.
When I came back to consciousness, I was in bed, and that’s where I remained for nearly next two weeks while enduring the worst case of dysentery I’ll ever experience! The sound of the fan slowly whirring above my bed filled the spaces between excruciating cramps, urging me to crawl to the bathroom frequently. Eliminating something the size of a small pea gave me huge relief, before the cycle would start again. These delightful details and blurred memories of Gene explaining that it was proving impossible to find a house for us, make up the memories I have of those days. When I emerged, my knees were the widest part of my legs and I looked little different to many of the Indian’s that shocked me when we first arrived. With the show less than a week away, I rejoined the band for rehearsal. We were excited about playing our music and by this time, had incorporated some beautiful Indian samples we’d collected on our journey thus far. Narendra and Aasim enjoyed our rehearsals visiting us daily, and Melissa and Jennifer were ensuring the word was out. With an oversized safety pin holding my pants up, ‘The Jacinta Band’ played a fantastic and successful show at the Secunderabad Club. We were thrilled and optimistic, despite our extended stay at the Dwaraka Hotel.
Narendra and Aasim had new plans, and suggested we give up our search for finding a new home. The property owners in the more affluent areas of Hyderabad, where it was suggested we relocate, were reluctant to lease us their properties. We were foreigners, and we were not Hindus. We were also a band. Narendra and Aasim’s partnership began assigning us the music projects, and in return, we could continue residing at the Dwaraka. This was a good arrangement. Our projects commenced with three musical pieces to write and record. Jingles for Hali Rams potato crisps and the launch of the innerspring bed mattress, and the most challenging, a song for the first Indian breast cancer campaign. For the latter, they requested a track that encouraged woman to take an interest in breast cancer awareness, but within a society with such conservative attitudes about the female form, this song needed a great deal of care. In creating this, I imagined images of a mother nursing her baby girl, and while losing her own mother to breast cancer, educates her daughter as she becomes a woman. The song we recorded was called “Need To Know.”
Need to know
“Hello to you, my precious new world,
I look at you and see my image not so long ago.
I can nurture you, when you’re close to my loving heart.
I won’t ever let you hunger, you will blossom like a flower, a perfect rose.
I will watch you grow, hurt and heal,
and I’ve already felt what you’ll feel.
While you become older and taller, you’ll remind me of when I was younger,
there’s so much you’ll want to know
And there so much in life to learn today.
And there’s some things you need to know, you need to know,
Like how to treasure and understand whatever
makes you cry, laugh and shine,
fear, fight, define,
love, live and die …
(as a woman)
I want the best for you,
when you fly and dance and find romance.
You may one day find you’re a mother and feel that
special glow.
I’ll always understand,
cause I’ve already felt what you’re feeling now
that you are so much older,
you remind me of when I was younger,
there are things I wish I’d known.
And there so much in life to learn today.
And there’s some things you need to know, you need to know,
Like how to treasure and understand whatever
makes you cry, laugh and shine,
fear, fight, define,
love, live and die …
(as a woman)
It was time for Aasim to commence his mourning period for his father, and sadly we said goodbye. We did however look forward to meeting his brother Biren … that was until we met him. Biren was an immediately unlikeable man, and it was obvious from the outset he didn’t appreciate ‘The Jacinta Band’ residing at the Dwaraka. Nor did he wish to honor the agreement we had made with his brother Aasim. It also became apparent that he didn’t like Narendra. He demanded immediate payment for our stay thus far, which was now more than a month and delivered our bill. Narendra said the solution was simple and not to worry. He would smooth it over with Biren, and pay him as soon as he was paid. Living in the land where tomorrow’s the day, and with Aasim absent, Narendra wasn’t finalizing his projects as quickly as Biren’s demands. As a consequence, Narendra like Garjan before him, became scarce.
Despite living in a dry state, the ‘upper caste’ had means to access alcohol, even if it meant paying for it at an inflated price. But it was easily attainable if you were a member of the Secunderabad Club, with its government and military association. Biren was not welcomed there. He soon figured out how he could make use of his Australian guests. In an endeavor to appease his bad mood, whilst we patiently awaited Narendra’s payments, (that would arrive “tomorrow,”) we accompanied him weekly acquiring a tourist liquor permit and alcohol from the depot for him. Further plans with Narendra and Aasim had dwindled in their absence. Our allies had become invisible and we were unwelcome guests. Although having met with representatives from the Australian and USA embassy, they weren’t responding either. It was becoming apparent. We needed an exit strategy. Jennifer departed first, returning to Australia. We missed her, but in her place, she left us with two new friends she’d made, Anshoo and Kaylash. These young muso dudes had been friends forever and shared with us their hugely amusing sense of humor, which was somewhat lacking at this point. Our nights were about to become more interesting.
The band was awakened by loud banging drums and people cheering and singing with festive music. One by one, we met at the edge of the rooftop to peer down to a long, colorful, noisy parade. At the head was a fancy dressed groom riding a decorated elephant with his new wife walking at their side. They lead the lengthy wedding party that danced and sang through the streets and setting off loud crackers along their way. Nuptials are celebrated at an appointed time determined by an astrologer. For this couple, their stars aligned at 4:00 a.m. We gathered on our roof top again in the nights that followed as our small world was going mad. Both the general and state elections were on the horizon, and public protests began occurring in the streets below us along with a small bomb exploding one night. On the inside, Biren had figured out there were now only five of us. He was enraged, possibly fueled with the booze we’d made available to him. Food we ordered was no longer being delivered, and any service to our rooms had ceased. Then came the random crazy phone calls with a woman’s voice screaming things like “your mother is dead … your mother is dead,” and someone reached through my window while I was sleeping, grabbing and shaking my legs before scurrying off. Garjan Reddy had found us by way of mail too. He was mortified that we had fled Trimulgherry, and playing a new game without him. His tone was vengeful, probably annoyed as he had garnered nothing from us. What would he do next? Again, we reached out to Narendra and again, a message is all we could leave. He was traveling interstate and would be away a while. Biren’s demands had to be met so we could get the hell out of there. But now it seemed we had become prisoners. The following day, a guard watch appeared on our seventh floor … along with a guardian angel, James.
Dwaraka
I’m sitting comfortably in my hotel room.
Hindi TV with all the dancing girls with bells on.
I can’t believe the other day I dared to drive a car
(to the Dwaraka) That’s where we’re living at the Dwaraka,
And I can’t understand the man talking to me
on the end of the line.
Something ‘bout
“
I can’t stop, it won’t stop,
I can’t stop all the people dying.
I can’t stop, it won’t stop for love.”
We watched a wild exchange of government,
(everything could change)
And I met a magic man, he was riding on an elephant.
(I think he’ll stay the same)
He’s lived a thousand years, an original spiritual man,
And he can’t understand the ruler of the land,
he wants to build a front line.
He says
“I can’t stop, it won’t stop,
I can’t stop all the people fighting.
I can’t stop, it won’t stop for love.”
All the enchanted people sing their prayers and hey
they sound just fine
(I think they almost shine)
Right about the time the day ascends and floats above
the skyline
Did I tell you Mumbai was as crazy as I’ve ever been …
And then the sun drowned in Arabia’s Sea
and warmed the backs of many men who strolled
along toward heaven’s thrown …
It makes them feel good.
I can’t stop, it won’t stop,
I can’t stop all the people dying.
I can’t stop, it won’t stop for love.”
“I can’t stop, it won’t stop,
I can’t stop all the people fighting.
I can’t stop, it won’t stop for love.”
James had in fact been present all along. He worked at the hotel and had serviced our floor, until recently. He spoke little English, was very shy, and we didn’t communicate other than our small and respectful acknowledgements. We only knew that he was studying to be a priest. From the time this new wave of madness commenced, he would visit each day, but with a new service. He’d sit by my door and pray aloud and sing prayers with a sweet and angelic voice. It gave me comfort and courage. Anshoo and Kaylash had become our collaborators and we had ‘secret meetings.’ Plans were now in place for Melissa, Eddie and Stewy’s departure. What kind of wrath would this invoke from Biren? It was best we sneak them out in darkness, via the rickety, metal steps on the outside of the building. This was a bit of a trick that required ropes to lower their larger luggage floor to floor as the steps were very narrow between floors. We delivered their bags and suitcases to the street outside, avoiding the lobby and our guards. Several hours before dawn, Anshoo and Kaylash were waiting around the corner from our hotel to collect our three friends. They would drive them to the airport. I waived goodbye until they disappeared out of site. I knew they would soon be on a plane, each enjoying a really cold beer, (or maybe ten). Gene and I climbed quietly back up the little metal stairs. Back on our roof top, it was lonely.
Gene and I, and the bands equipment was what remained. Muso’s aren’t complete without their instruments and I couldn’t get my head around how we were going to move our half a ton of road cases unnoticed. I never considered leaving all we had left in the world behind. That wasn’t an option.
After a restless night, we discovered that our three comrades weren’t the only ones who had left town. We were thrilled to hear that Biren had left the previous day and would be gone for three days more. It was quite possible that he was none the wiser that just two of us remained at the Dwaraka. We had some days to make more plans to escape. James came into my mind. His prayers were helping. Thank You … Amen!
We spent the day that followed booking our equipment on a cargo ship back to Australia. Before it could leave, it required the inspection from customs to ensure we were leaving with everything listed on the ‘carnet’ document it arrived with. We booked a truck for it’s relocation. Still, the major concern was getting it out of the Dwaraka and it wasn’t going to fit down the tiny staircase on the building’s edge. How were we going to move it from the seventh floor, through the lobby and onto the truck? Our guards, ever present had me concerned, along with any ‘eyes’ Biren might have, looking on his behalf in his absence. More secret meetings with Anshoo and Kaylash.
Again, in the dark of night, our two dear friends arrived to help us with our ‘secret plan,’ but this time in the truck. Everything was packed so we could move it all in three trips with smaller road cases piled on top of the big ones. As the four of us commenced the escape of our equipment, we began pushing the first load nervously down the hall way. We had to go by the guards to the elevator. As we approached them, they motioned towards us, raising their arms in the air with their hands in the stop position. My heart was absolutely pounding, and I almost felt like ramming the road cases through them if that was our only option. As they came closer, they ushered me aside, and I wondered what on earth we were going to do now. But what was this? They stepped into my place, and with Gene, Anshoo and Kaylash, recommenced pushing the road cases towards the elevator. We were all pleasantly relieved and somewhat stunned. This task, we had so been dreading, was made easy with the wonderful assistance of these two burley blokes. In less than two hours, everything was secured and we were on our way.
Bunched together in the cab of the truck, the four of us uncomfortably waited, half awake, half asleep, in the parking lot for the customs office to open. It would be several hours. So completely exhausted, I felt like death as we wheeled and carried it all in. The lads weren’t as jovial that morning. The ‘carnet’ was two pages long and specific. Everything had to be unpacked, cables counted, serial numbers noted. It was a long and tedious process as the equipment was checked off the list one by one … but then, a guitar processor was missing. Eddie had taken it with him. The customs agent looked at us shaking his head while we explained why it wasn’t present. Cheekily I added, that we hadn’t sold it undermining the local music business economy. With one eye brow raised, he proceeded to check it off, chuckled and continued down the list. Nice!!!
After packing everything up once more, we repacked the truck and headed to the shipping company. Each road case was weighed and once it was all accounted for, I stepped onto the scales. Being a broad shouldered girl and standing five foot ten, (175 cm), weighing in at 114 pounds, (52 kg) was not my ‘ideal weight’. I was an emaciated mess. Our equipment was out of hands now, and I didn’t care if I never saw it again. If we’d had time to book our own flights, we could have departed right away, but thankfully we still had a day left before Biren returned to the Dwaraka. The truth was, I wanted to confront him before we left. My fear had become anger.
Whether it was Garjan’s or Biren’s doing, we’ll never know, but the following morning Gene and I had visitors from a different government agency. Immigration. Two men dressed in suits presented us with their cards. They were polite but direct. They asked if we’d answer some questions. What were our nationalities? Had we been working in India and how regularly? Were we aware that working without a work visa was illegal in India? How much money had we earned in India? What was our visa status? How much longer did we intend to stay in India and finally, were we planning to return? The truth is always best, so my answers were Australian America …Yes, every day since we had arrived … yes … none, (we hadn’t received a single rupee, nor ever invoiced anyone) … we were tourists … uncertain … and hopefully. They explained they’d be back in touch, thanked us for our cooperation and left. Oddly, I wasn’t worried about anything anymore. Only surprised by my last answer. According to me, I was ‘hopeful’ to return to India. How could that be?
It was our last day. We had booked our journey as far as Singapore where we’d stay with my Uncle, Aunt and cousin. They would fatten us up before we returned to Australia as my Uncle knew my mother would be horrified to see me in my current condition. Anshoo and Kaylash spent the day with us while we packed our swollen suitcases. They had been so good to us. We’d probably never see them again after this day, nor Garjan, Narendra or Aasim.
I wandered down to the lobby and asked for our room bills. To my surprise, it was a meagre amount remaining. Two of the three payments had already been made by Narendra in the weeks that preceded. Why didn’t we learn of this? With our fee for the last and most substantial project still to come, I knew our bill was covered and I trusted Narendra would honor it. I returned to the lobby several times looking for Biren. Had he returned? Well apparently he had and yet he wasn’t pounding his big sweaty weight up to the seventh floor to harass us. Had he been amusing himself, playing a game with us too? When I finally saw Biren, he tried to avoid me, but now I was in pursuit. I saw him in a different light and I was beyond his intimidation. I handed him the bill, turned and walked away. I could feel his energy burning in my back and he probably figured I now knew that most of the bill had been previously paid some time ago. When I reached the seventh floor, the guards had vanished.
I glanced around my room for the last time. I clicked off the slow whirring fan and closed the door behind me … but then my phone began to ring. Hmmm, I was curious and stepped back inside to answer it. “We would like to speak with Jacinta to discuss booking her band for a series of shows we are planning.” The voice was calling from the USA embassy. For a second, I thought I would stay, but then I heard myself saying, “Thank you for your interest, but we are no longer available.” I hung up the phone and flopped back down on the bed. We had in fact missed the tide. It could have been so different. I was overwhelmed with disappointment, but then there was a gentle knock on my door. Someone was standing at it’s entrance, but I couldn’t see their face as the top half of their body was behind an extravagant arrangement of beautiful flowers. The slim body presented me with an elaborate bouquet of intoxicating color before throwing themselves down at my feet, holding them, kissing them and weeping. It was James in his timely manner. Perhaps he understood all of this better than me.
In the light of day, Gene and I departed the Dwaraka, strolling through the lobby before exiting through its front doors. Anshoo and Kaylash drove us to the airport. The colorful flowers sat on my lap. We were leaving this enchanting and cruel land of extremes, where every day we’d witnessed something strangely unique. As we drove, I thought about the time we were chased from Garjan’s neighborhood by territorial monkeys and then the skinny, thirsty elephants, horses and donkeys being whipped as they hauled carts so heavy, it would tear your heart out. I remembered how happily a family of five could safely travel themselves on one tiny motor scooter, but in giving a street person and their family a competitive edge, they’d readily mutilate and amputate their owns limbs. How joyful woman and girls were as they selected new Sari fabric, and how miserably hopeless the haunting eyes were that peered at us through hot, black burkas. I pondered how decent people would treat those in their caste and above with thoughtfulness and respect, and of their disregard for anyone beneath their class.
India’s stench could be so disgusting and overpowering you could taste it, the mixture of excreta and thick toxic exhaust fumes. But the sweet fragrance of Indian blooms could truly lift your spirits in an instant. I embraced my flowers. Thank You, James. It was the end of the dry season and just a few drops of rain began to fall on the cars windscreen. I wondered how awful it would be when six months of dust would become six months of mud … or maybe there’d be laughter in the rain.
Caste
Don’t want no one but you,
And I can’t deny it.
Can I share my dreams with you?
Would you like to try it?
Want to feel I’m alive and in love all the time like a
brand new season. Want to rid of the tears I despise
and love you any.
Get to know me,
Don’t caste me away.
Don’t want no one but you.
Should I try to hide it?
Can I share my world with you?
Would you try to find it?
Want to be there when it takes some lust to start a fire.
Want to be there when it takes two minds to work it out.
Get to know me,
Don’t caste me away
Don’t want no one but you.
Don’t make me fight it.
Can I share my thoughts with you?
Would you listen to me?
Want to rid of the lies you trusted all the times without reason.
Want to rid of the tears in your eyes, who’s looking anyway,
Who’s listening anyway to a word that I say,
Get to know me,
Don’t caste me away
Don’t caste me away
Excerpt From
Stories from the Crowd
Scott Ballew
This material may be protected by copyright.
