Santanu Mitra:

I met Rebecca while waiting for a morning bus from Pokhara to Chitwan Reserve forest. We both had tickets that assured us seats in a ‘luxury’ coach. “Tourist bus chha, two by two”, I had been led to believe. The bus that stood before us that chilly morning was a van, packed to capacity with foreigners, backpacks, sleeping bags, didgeridoos and foreign cultural paraphernalia copiously poking out of sundry windows.

The next bus was a bit spacious. Numerous stops later, I disembarked with a sigh of relief at Narayanghat waving my farewell to Rebecca. It’s a long haul from Sydney to Chitwan I thought. The next day I went to Chitwan. The Narayani flowed sluggishly, the ripples oily in the golden light of the setting sun. I spied Rebecca, a bit aloof sipping beer. Her face lit up as soon as she saw me. After the usual exchange of pleasantries, she told me the source of her woes. Krishna, her guide, sitting so handsome at her feet, in jungle fatigues. The boy was “in love” with her and asked for her hand in marriage. Impressed, I asked her tongue-in-cheek if it was the first proposal she had received. “Not at all” she retorted. She was the darling of the constabulary it seemed. The next day, I bumped into Rebecca again, petting baby elephants. She looked haggard, followed by a relentless Krishna. “You know I hardly slept last night? Krishna was banging at my door at two at night!” This was serious, but she seemed resigned to her fate. We planned to meet in Kathmandu. Cut to Kathmandu. Breakfast at a Thamel eatery. Rebecca and me. “So how is Krishna?” I asked. “Pretty sad and irritable” was her answer. Well, that’s the way the cookie crumbles I thought, or more aptly, that hearts break. I could sympathise with Krishna, trying hard to go abroad, far from rough and tumble of home.

I returned to India and so did Rebecca on her own itinerary. She did call me from Mumbai and before long, we were together sipping coffee at Barista in Delhi. “So any more Krishnas?” I asked. “Oh! Lots! I actually had to barricade myself inside a phone booth in Jaisalmer where four auto drivers wanted to me all together!” “And I was propositioned ceaselessly in Mumbai.” I was hurled into a bout of introspection. What is wrong with our men? Why do innocent travellers feel threatened, their pleasure trips ruined by the unnatural interest that our men have in them? I’m sorry Rebecca, our Krishnas are blacker than the black Lord. His appetite for cream has given way to his hunger for the green card. His Vrindavan is in Los Angeles.