Driving is something I learnt when I was 15 to make a living soon after Baba fell from the coconut tree faster than the coconut that landed on his head. My father was trying to fetch it for the guests. His skull cracked open, and the coconut rolled away from the bloody slush. We learnt that from Lijo, Baba’s colleague and our neighbor. “We were told to use the same coconut to make chutney. So insensitive …no?” Uncle Lijo said, trembling like a palm tree on a windy day as if the fruit harbored a demonic spirit.
The management blamed the death on Baba’s recklessness. Mãi was told that the coconut could’ve hurt the guests. No compensation offered. Only the last pay cheque for the number of days Baba worked. He hadn’t finished the month.
That November was the last Sunday I created sandcastles with my brother, a routine we looked forward to all week–post church service, Xitti Kodi lunches and afternoons on the beach. Fish curry and rice were our treat meal reserved for the holy day of the week, a family meal that we devoured without Baba. It had become a regular occurrence. Baba would either be at the hotel, working overtime, or at the local liquor stall, consuming copious amounts of Feni. “I drink for its medicinal purposesh only. You know, it clearsh my sinushes and helpsh me breathe better,” Baba reasoned in his slurred speech.
Post lunch, we strolled down to the beach, where Mãi would sit under the canopy of the almond tree safely away from the harsh afternoon sun, holding onto her rosary beads, and reciting prayers, whilst my brother and I built dreams with precision. He created towers, and I carved defined castle walls, keeping out pesky crabs invading our territory, and when it got too hot, we jumped into the calm Indian Ocean.
A couple of years younger than me, Xavier and I were inseparable. We shared a special bond–felt the same pain, and enjoyed cricket and building sandcastles. Baba’s death hit him hard. The goriness of his demise robbed Xavier off his sleep, and then our separation dispirited him. Whilst I drove long hours for us to survive, Xavier struggled to stay afloat in a pool of desertion and depression, until the day he decided to accompany me to work.
***
“Xavier, I am telling you; this damn dust is going to take my life one day. If it doesn’t choke my lungs and suffocate me, it will definitely clog my Ana’s engine and kill her. That’s it. The End. Oh, here comes your Bhabhi. Let’s speak later. You know she gets funny about me speaking to you.” I picked up my packed lunch and drove off on the dirt trail.
My main customers, Russians and Israelis, weren’t big at chit-chatting, Xavier’s presence made the daily grind fun. In between the journeys of transporting beach lovers from their hotels to sandy stretches, Xavier and I shared stories from our childhood days, Baba’s jokes, Mãi’s laughter, the Indian cricket team’s wins and losses, and whined about Goa’s oppressive muggy summers and what it had become—a state of confusion where Christians grappled with their identities under the uncompromising right-wing Hindu dictatorship.
***
The sound of his sharp tone rang in my ears. “You shouldn’t neglect me around your customers.”
“Xavier, people won’t understand us. Forgot how that Russian girl dashed out when she heard us fighting. I have to make a living also. How will I feed the family? Huh?” I turned on the AC for him, and the cool air worked as magic–his annoyance dissipated with claggy air.
From our waiting spot under the shade of the mighty banyan tree, we saw the light seekers–the young Israelis approached us with beaming smiles. After finishing the mandatory military service, they escaped their nation seeking a deeper meaning in life. Like other young Goras, they too looked to Goa for light, searched for it under the lustre of the full moon beach parties and in the bags of champagne-quality Himalayan Ganja.
“Shalom, Leahsister. Shalom, Sarahsister,” I greeted my regulars as they dumped their backsides in the backseats, “Where to? Anjuna? Vagator?”
And so, the slog began.
We drove back and forth between Arambol and the boho watering holes of North Goa, as we listened to music and gossiped, but only when we were on our own.
***
The last customer of the day, Arne, a German man, one of my regulars, was the only one who understood Xavier and my relationship. He moved to Goa two years ago. Just as lost as his brother, whom he’d been searching for.
“Good afternoon, Arnesir. Are we going to the police station? You already been there this morning?” I asked him, as he settled down in the front passenger seat.
He looked at me, lit a cigarette and said, “How’s Xavier doing? Tell me more stories about him.”
I turned the car towards the police station and joyfully blabbered about my brother.
***
The sunset had painted Goa in a flaming red glow, transmuting it into a meadow of red Palash flowers, and it was time for me to return home and for Xavier to hide out until tomorrow.
He left. Begrudgingly.
A frown welcomed me home. “You’re late. Mãi is waiting for us. Hurry now,” the missus said as she passed me a clean shirt. “You forgot, didn’t you? Today is the ten-year anniversary of Xavier’s death. First stop cemetery and then Mãi’s. She has cooked his favourite meal, Xitti Kodi. Come on, hurry.”
My chest tightened.
Xavier’s voice appeared in my head again. “I miss our Sunday routine-Xitti Kodi lunches and beach afternoons.”
With sandcastle dreams and Xavier’s voice in my head, off we went to honour the undead’s anniversary.
Glossary
Baba – father; Mãi – mother; Bhabhi – sister-in-law; Gora – foreigner, Xitti Kodi – fish curry and rice meal.
Heena Bapodra is a traveler and an accidental writer. She was born in India, moved to London when she was 21 and after spending two decades there, packed her life and went traveling for a year with her husband. Since then, Heena has quit the urban jungle’s relentless cycle and enjoys a nomadic lifestyle. She has designed advocacy and social enterprise projects to address injustices. Heena aspires to inspire fellow travelers to travel responsibly. She is writing a novel, highlighting discrimination that people from the Dalit community face in India. Heena is currently exploring South America.
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