Hjjer Arrives in India

It was New Year's eve; 31st December is cold in New Delhi, India but if you know the right people - and sometimes even if you don't - it can be a wild and fun evening. But for me it wasn't. It was cold alright, but I sat alone in the company guesthouse - a three bedroom sprawl in one of the city's upscale localities - drinking dark rum mixed with warm water flavoured with some delicate spices. For company, I had Vince Gill singing his lonesome "When I Call Your Name". With every sip of the warm beverage I seemed to sink lower into the emotional hole I had gotten myself into.

I rushed home from work like I always do

I spend my whole day just thinking of you

When I walked through the front door my whole life was changed

Cause nobody answered when I called your name

Trying to shake off the melancholy and gloom that seemed so all pervasive, I stood up from the warm comfort of a recliner chair and walked to the glass wall that separated the heated interiors with the chilly terrace garden. Although a light mist had descended across the city, I could see the brightly lit streets and neon coloured signs across this part of the city. The inviting glow of New Delhi's first luxury hotel 40 years ago was barely a hundred metres ahead and I thought maybe I could walk across and spend some time at the bar there. But the mood didn't quite favour company at the moment.

Instead, I slid aside the glass door and stepped out on to the terrace. It was close to freezing temperature and all I had on was a tracksuit top and a pair of faded denims that had been worn thin on account of innumerable wash and dry cycles in the washing machine. My feet were bare as I walked across the terrace and stopped at the edge,the parapet against my thighs. From here, I could see further out across a golf course, twinkling lights in the distance. A gentle breeze fanned across my face, chilling my blood to near zero. I had a fleeting but crazy thought about gliding down from my perch like I had seen peacocks do so often in the mornings across the golf greens ahead. I lingered in the biting cold for about five minutes before I could take it no longer; then walked back to the warmth of the apartment before the crazy thoughts drove me to some insane action.

Sliding the door open, I walked in to the welcoming comfort of the living room. Vince Gill was winding up his number.

Oh the lonely sound of my voice calling

Is driving me insane

And just like rain the tears keep falling

Nobody answers when I call your name

There was a grave somberness that coloured my mood, the rum only deepening it to a blinding darkness. I took my empty tumbler and walked across the room to the bar. Pouring myself a stiff tot of the fantastic Indian Old Monk rum, I added the mix from a saucepan on which I had boiled water with cloves, cinnamon and cardamom. As a thin finger of steam wafted up from the mug, it condensed on the bar mirror in front of me. Instinctively, I raised a had to dry wipe it and saw myself staring back from the glass.

I hadn't shaved for a few days because of the holidays and not going in for work; a dark shadow of blue-grey stubble seemed pasted on my face. I felt the rough bristle as I ran a palm across my chin and jaws. My hair was longer than I normally leave it, which is fairly long in any case, but it seemed somewhat unruly as the dark curls made an untidy frame for my face. I stared into my eyes, wondering if I could call them pools of darkness like the romantic novelists do, but decided that wasn't a fitting description. I took a step back from the mirror, wanting to distance myself from the dismal somberness of the situation, and stared at myself again, this time mug of rum in hand. At 6'0" I was a little taller than the average; there was now a little excess weight across my middle, but otherwise I looked in good shape. Physically, on the exterior, that is.

I took a large sip of rum and turned around to walk back to my recliner. As the warmth burned its way down my gullet, I felt unsurprisingly sad. The occasional firework that lit up the darkness outside the glass wall reminded me of the festive jolly season outside; my own state of lowness constantly trying to dampen further my spirits. I pulled the lever up on the recliner so that my legs rested horizontally on the cushioned extension. As another country singer crooned on the audio system, I followed the words and allowed my remaining consciousness to flow along. It was a cover version of the Dreamgirls' "When I First Saw You".

I needed a dream to make me strong

You are the only reason I had to go on

I live in Europe and I speak English, Spanish and French. I've been visiting India for a little over nine years, making at least four trips annually - sometimes more. Unfortunately I have not been able to pick up the language here, my Hindi vocabulary being limited to what I find the most useful 100 words. I work for a global engineering firm based in Europe and have grown professionally in that organisation. My international career with them began about ten years ago, and since then I have traveled all over Asia. For the last four years, I have an operational base in New Delhi which I use as a hub for my fairly large geographical coverage. During my visits here, I usually spend four to six weeks during which I need to travel frequently to various destinations for short two-day visits across the continent.

I have a small office in that luxury hotel two blocks down that the company contracted to keep for five years, and I've recently renewed the contract for another five. Its staffed with more technology than people although we do have a small complement of administrative personnel. The technical people we hire in India - as in Thailand, Malaysia, Sri Lanka, Vietnam, Japan and South Korea - are all housed in large offices situated in industrial zones earmarked for engineering and construction firms. In all cities where we have corporate offices, the company has rented on long term leases accommodation of visiting management and technical specialists that fly in from Europe whenever contractual assignments demand. The house I live in is the exception; it is exclusively for my residential purposes when I visit. Although I spend only about 60-70 nights a year in it, our financial gurus at headquarters feel it is far more economical than my staying in a hotel. I have no complaints.

And yes; sorry I forgot - my name is Hjjer. That's what everybody calls me in the company and in the limited friends circle I have. It's pronounced Hyair. My staff call me either Sir or Sahib.

Supporting me in this house is a driver - his name is Bahadur - and a maid. Her name is Sunita. Both live relatively close by. Bahadur arrives at 6:00 every morning on his Honda 250 cc bike and Sunita pretty much runs the house. Ran it. I have no idea where she stays but it seems to me she lives here. Lived. Irrespective of what my travel or stay plans are, she's always there when I wake up and she's always there when I go to bed. Was. Bahadur is always with me when I'm on the road - in the city or outside. Nowadays he drives me around in a Porsche Panamera when we're in town and a Cayenne Turbo when we need to go within a 1000km radius around Delhi. Cool wheels, both of them.

When I first got here almost ten years ago, it was the month of March. The city was experiencing some very pleasant weather after the winter. I enjoyed that very much, being innocently clueless about the impending Indian summer whose onset was hardly a couple of months away. I landed at Indira Gandhi International Airport very late at night on an Air France flight from Paris, but well rested in the business class cabin for what must have been about a 12-hours flight. Immigration and baggage formalities took as long as they usually do at international airports; nothing new there. When I walked through the exit gate, I read my name and saw the company's logo on a placard being held up by a smartly liveried chauffeur whom I walked up to. Introductions done - I didn't catch his name - I was told to wait by the curbside with my luggage while the vehicle was fetched. Four minutes later I saw a huge box-on-wheels SUV roar up to me, braking to a sudden halt, and spewing out my driver all in what seemed like a fraction of a second. I later discovered it was aptly called a Sumo.

An uneventful 45 minute drive later we arrived at the hotel - the same one I can now see from my terrace. This was my first visit to India, in fact to Asia. In the busy environment of the airport, my focus was on the various formalities and chores as a result of which I hadn't really noticed or absorbed anything. The drive through relatively dark and empty roads didn't make much of an impression either. But here, in the elegant surrounding of Delhi's No.1 luxury hotel, I felt a comfortable smile playing on my lips. The decor, the lighting, the ambiance all gelled perfectly to exude a feeling of distinguished well-being. And the beauty of the women behind the reception counter was quite intoxicating. I suddenly realised, while checking in, that I had heard so much of the fragile Indian beauty of its women - and here I was, experiencing that first hand. At least the urban version. That first sight and the feelings that accompanied the experience,has stayed with me all these years. It is not something I am able to describe or articulate well but in my heart and mind, it was momentous.

They spoke politely of course, but gently as well - almost like a classical damsel whispering into her lover's ear. Dressed elegantly in the Indian saree wrapped around the waist, with the loose end of the drape neatly over the shoulder, baring about a three-inch swathe of the midriff. The top was a perfectly fitted blouse that caressed the curves of their bosom, a modest neckline and sleeves that covered half the arms. The colour combination was dark midnight blue with thick red and gold borders. I fell in love with the ethereal concept that is Indian woman.

I took the elevator up to my room on the club floors; in fact I was escorted up by one of the young ladies but was completely tongue-tied and unable to make any worthwhile conversation while she tried her absolute best to engage me. Her name was Anita, I still remember. Of course, I stayed at the hotel for almost 100 nights in that first year so I ultimately got to know all their names. But Anita was the first. She was the first Indian woman I met.

We got to my suite, Anita explained everything about it to me, told me to call her if I needed anything (I wondered, but gave up that line of thought!), wished me a pleasant night - what was left of it - and left. I was in a swoon. I was 30 years old then, not married, no serious relationship back home, a maybe girlfriend who was more excited about my being in India so she could visit than sorry that I had left, and a huge professional responsibility ahead. After Anita left the room, I couldn't stop thinking of her and picturing her in my mind. I felt stupid at my inability to have sustained any kind of conversation with her. But the five minutes I had spent with her at the front desk, and briefly in the elevator, were moments etched in my brain.

I sat down on the bed and stared into oblivion, day-dreaming of this first Indian woman I had ever laid eyes on. Her perfectly featured young face, framed neatly in jet black hair that draped her neck and ran down to her hips. The rounded bosom demurely covered by the silken cloth of her saree. The smooth light brown skin of her midriff, a deep navel so enticingly winking every time I caught a surreptitious glance of it. The saree neat and tight over the swell of her hips and thighs, before flaring into a full flow down to her delicate looking ankles. Her sweet toes with their painted toenails peeking out occasionally from under the hem of the saree. I could almost feel my hands running over these contours as I pictured every inch of her in excruciating detail.

I leaned back against the headrest and let my imagination run a little wild. I wondered if it would ever be possible for me to make love to this woman. I knew that hotel personnel tended to avoid fraternising with guests but that didn't stop me from picturing Anita in my room. In the silence of the night and with lights dimmed, I thought of how tasteful a kiss on her lips would be as her body pressed against mine. I thought of the drape of her saree falling off her shoulder and seeing how the close fitting blouse would enhance the roundness of her breasts. Maybe, with the first electric touch, her nipples would swell - I wondered if they were brown or pink...

There was a quiet knock on my hotel door. My baggage arrived and was laid out in various corners of the suite as I directed; then there was silence peace and quiet. Even my heart took a breather. I drew aside the drapes but a sudden tiredness overtook me so I lay down on the bed without getting undressed, not even removing my shoes. And I was out like a light moments after my head hit the pillow.

Three hours later I awoke just as suddenly as I had fallen asleep. There was the faintest hue of dawn as I looked out of the large windows that overlooked a wonderful display of greenery stretching out into the distance. Between the trees I could just about make out flat green that looked like a golf course. I got off the bed and realised I still had my shoes on. Kicking them off and stripping out of my clothes, I went into the bathroom and had a revivingly cold shower, brushed my teeth and slipped into one of the hotel dressing gowns.

After getting myself a cup of coffee from the machine in the suite, I walked into the living room to draw the curtains and let in the gradually increasing daylight. On the work desk was a large company folder along with some additional files. Also, there was a Blackberry devise and another cell phone, a laptop computer and charger for all gadgets. Clearly, I was expected to hit the road running. I was here as a Deputy Manager, reporting to a regional head based in Kuala Lumpur. I knew my day had started when I heard the mobile phone ring. I had arrived at my new assignment. India.

Before my arrival here, a start-up team had been sent in from Malaysia to organise the essentials of setting up an India office for the company. By the time I got in, administrative staff had been hired, an office was taken on lease in the hotel where I was staying, transport vehicles had been purchased, communications networks and other basic infrastructure had been taken care of.

In less than a week of my joining, I found myself in the same vehicle and with the same driver that had collected me from the airport. He told me his name was Bahadur, that he was my driver, and that he had been hired two months ago and had been awaiting my arrival ever since. He lived in Delhi not too far from the hotel, but his home and his family lived in a village some 400 kilometers north of Delhi, somewhere in the foothills of the Himalayas. In fact, the area we were visiting today, and for the next three days, would take him past his village.

The company was on the verge of reaching an agreement with a local corporation that would see us working on a series of projects involving the construction of small bridges and dams in the upper reaches of some of the rivers that flowed from the Himalayan glaciers into the mighty Ganges. They had, to my ear, exotic sounding names like Mandakini and Alaknanda and Vasukiganga. They went through and into towns like Rudraprayag and Devaprayag and on into Rishikesh and Haridwar. Most of these were of major religious significance for those who followed the Hindu faith. Some of these towns we drove through; others I read on the road signs. And the entire experience was astoundingly uplifting. The people, the towns, the rivers. I hadn't yet met government officials and the bureaucracy but that was something I encountered soon enough. Now, ten years later, I am a wiser man.

Bahadur and I stayed three nights in various corporate or government "guest houses", and I spent the days either meeting people or doing preliminary surveys. It was now late March but the hills were still chilly in the nights, although the days were comfortably pleasant. On the fourth day we started back for Delhi; I was really looking forward to the comfort of my hotel room after this grueling trip over uneven roads and often through dirt terrain. There was a weekend coming up so I would have time to recover. Bahadur had asked me the previous evening if we could stop for about an hour at a point on the highway from where he would take a brief sojourn into his village. I had agreed, so we decided to leave as early as possible so as to accommodate the stop for his village.

We left Devaprayag at 7:30 in the morning, driving downriver towards Rishikesh which was about 75 kilometers on the national highway (NH 58 I think). To our left was the river which I could spot every time the hillsides didn't obstruct my view. About an hour's drive downhill, Bahadur pulled over to the right side of the road at a small shack which functioned as a tea stall, or maybe even a breakfast halt, for bus and truck drivers. Since I have dark hair and am not as fair complexioned as most Europeans, I didn't attract the kind of attention that another westerner may have done. Bahadur apologised and thanked me simultaneously like he had done almost twenty times since I had agreed to accommodate his request the previous evening. "I go quickly Sir, then I come soon. Very sorry. Thank you very much Sir". And with that, he was off, leaving me behind in the Sumo as the sun began to climb over the mountains.

I got out of the car, locked it and decided to wander off the road for a bit. On the right side of the road was the tea stall, to the left (facing downhill) was forested hillsides. I walked back upriver for about ten minutes till I saw the semblance of a dirt track going uphill. Leaving the road behind and forging my way ahead, the spirit of adventure still ripe in the first ten days of my arrival in India,I began to walk into the forest. It was quiet after a while, the noises from the highway very faint. After about another ten minutes I crested the hill and saw the lovely river about 40 feet below. It was a steep drop but didn't look particularly dangerous. Between me and the river, the trees grew fairly thick, but they were deciduous trees with pine needles carpeting the forest floor. I used the trees and their branches as handholds to descend towards the river.

It took me only a few minutes to walk all the way down where a flat ledge stretched in both directions along the water's edge. Below the ledge was just a five-foot drop to the gushing river. I could see its pretty rough torrent and eddies along the bank and had an uninterrupted view upriver, downriver and across to the other bank. Not another soul in sight and only the sound of the water for company. I sat down on the ledge with my back against a pine tree, lit a cigarette and gave myself to the peace and beauty of my environs.

I must have been sitting there for a quarter of an hour when I thought I heard human voices filtering through the noise of the waters; high pitched female voices. But when I tried to listen more attentively, I didn't hear anything again. Intrigued, and a little inquisitive, I got up and walked along the ledge in the direction from which I thought the sound of voices had come. About 50 metres on I was surprised to see a small inlet in the side of the forested hill, creating a sort of lagoon about the size of an Olympic swimming pool. All around the land bound sides of the lagoon was the same forest that I had walked through. There was no ledge like the one I had been sitting on; instead the riverbank looked almost like a narrow sea beach. While I was looking at this absolutely idyllic spot, I heard the voice again.