deepak rattani
This is another Tale where I am sure every participant saw it differently and would write a version which matched this one only at certain points of fact, not helped by my having moved through this time in a haze of hashish and being in love.------
I returned to New Delhi early in 1974, thoroughly depressed by the enforced departure from Kathmandu, a state of mind which grew even worse when I received a letter from my mother informing me they thought it was "for my own good" that I returned to the West and they would not send any more money to me, despite the fact that it was my money, but would hold it until they heard I had returned to London.
I had by then twice cashed in tickets which had been arranged for the return, so it wasn't just my parents whose patience had run thin. However, I had finally gotten the dwindling proceeds from business sales during my absence so was able to settle in at the YMCA again and to resume the stoned life of hanging out in juice bars and cafes, with occasional evenings at the luxury hotels with my English friend, Mark. Then he fell victim to a particularly virulent form of intestinal disorder, rare for someone who had been there long enough to build up more immunity to such things and was quite demoralized by an enforced diet consisting primarily of plain boiled rice. He asked if I would move into his apartment to keep him company since he was unable to spend much time out of it, and I was happy to accept the invitation.
Mark lived in a second floor, two bedroom flat in the suburb called Defense Colony. Since he was still able to go into his office to work, I had the days there mostly to myself until the elderly Muslim cook arrived to begin dinner preparations. I would make weekly excursions into town to acquire more smoking materials and enjoy a few hours in the Mohan Singh juice bar which had for so long been my general headquarters in Delhi. With no rent to pay and all meals except lunch provided, it was a rare time of no financial worries, the first since my earliest months in Delhi.
One afternoon at the juice bar, a young Indian lad sat in the booth next to me. He didn't look at all like the local fellows who were usually seen there, was wearing dress trousers, black shoes and a white shirt. But he was a handsome lad with wonderful smiling dark eyes. I was talking with some old friends and noticed him listening to the conversation, eventually made some gesture welcoming him to participate, and then offered to buy him a soda. He was Deepak Rattani from Kanpur. My readings in London had made that city an unforgettable place, thanks to the Cawnpore (as it was called during the Raj) Massacre, when many British were killed and the bodies stuffed down a well.
Deepak had been sent to Delhi by his family to look for work, and with a spirit of independent enterprise had also brought along a bottle of hashish oil which he hoped to sell. After sampling it, I was determined to acquire it, not only because I liked him very much, but also because it was a first class product. He agreed to meet me there the following day.
When I told Mark about him that evening, he suggested that I invite Deepak to dinner the next night. Deepak was happy to accept the invitation and after an hour or so at the juice bar, we returned to Mark's flat and enjoyed another sample of what was then my bottle of hash oil. He wanted to press his trousers, so we had an amusing time trying to sort that out in a kitchen where neither of us knew where anything was. I suggested he might like a hot bath, since my bedroom had its own attached bathroom. The water pressure there was a trickle and it often took half an hour for the tub to fill. So while it was filling, we returned to the front room, sat on the floor, dipped another cigarette into the oil and lit it. By then I was so spaced, all I could do was drown in his beautiful eyes and smile. I was totally caught off guard when he leaned over and kissed me. The bath had to wait until later.
When the cook arrived, he was thoroughly disgruntled by his kitchen having been slightly disarranged and he wasn't at all pleased by having to serve a young Hindu lad dinner, either. Mark and I were rather amused by his blatant snobbery, but I am sure it must have been uncomfortable for Deepak. At one point when Mark and I were alone, I asked if it would be all right to ask Deepak to stay the night and he readily agreed.
That was the beginning of my happiest time in India. Deepak was a wonderful lover for me, a kind and sensitive friend to both me and Mark. Even the Muslim cook, who was devoted to Mark, was eventually won over by Deepak's kindness to Mark and began to treat him in a fatherly style which amused Deepak as much as the former snobbishness had amused Mark and me. As Mark's health improved, we began to go out for dinner occasionally, usually at the Oberoi Intercontinental where they had enough style to conceal any reactions they may have felt about such an unlikely trio. Mark met a Swedish air stewardess there and our trio became a quartet.
She was a very beautiful young lady and delightful company. My favorite memory of her was one night out by the pool of the Oberoi when she looked up at the full moon and asked "is that the same moon as in Sweden?". We assured her it was. A less happy memory of that pool was a later evening, when my visa had expired and I was in India illegally, everyone had gotten fairly drunk at dinner and the three of them stripped naked and went swimming in the pool. I was sure we would all be arrested and I would be thrown in jail and deported. Fortunately, yet again the impeccable style of the Oberoi staff came to the rescue and bath towels were provided instead of police officers.
Mark wanted me to do some paintings, and Deepak encouraged the project. I had no idea how to set about obtaining the supplies and if I hadn't been living in such a hash haze, would probably have had the sense to stop in one of the more modern galleries in New Delhi and seek advice. Instead, Deepak and I set out to get the wood needed for stretchers (which turned out to be such hard wood, no nail would go through it), canvas and paints. I actually managed to finish a couple of small canvases but never got them on stretchers. They liked the paintings, I didn't. For me, they had absolutely nothing about India in them and it was stupid to be making paintings which looked like they could have been made in NYC.
I think it was partly that, and partly the paranoia which extended heavy use of hashish always tends to introduce, which aroused the Steppenwolf in me. After a few stupid quarrels with Deepak, I decided I wanted to get really high for a change and drank some of the oil. What I didn't know was that it contained a high dosage of belladonna. I regained consciousness about 48 hours later, in bed, with Mark's Indian doctor at my side. My body was covered with horrible hives and I don't think I have ever felt worse in my life. Once I recovered, Mark and I spent a very stormy evening discussing everything and I decided to move out.
Although I hadn't expected him to, Deepak wanted to stay with me. So we got a room in a small hotel in Old Delhi near the Railway Station. I think the room only cost about fifty cents a night and the hotel was occupied mainly by Westerners who had gone completely native, including many, like me, who couldn't produce their passports at an establishment which would require to see them since the visas had expired. Despite the sharp drop in standard of living, I was actually happier there with Deepak than I had been at Mark's. I had him all to myself, with no worries about a cook showing up half an hour earlier than expected. We spent much of our time just hanging out on the roof of the hotel, smoking hash and chatting with the ever-changing parade of guests in the hotel. Or we wandered around the narrow streets of Old Delhi, much of which I had never seen, having tea and cheap meals in little hole-in-the-wall places. And we made love, as they say. I said in another Tale that I would choose the Hyde Park Gate time to re-live, given the chance, but that's probably untrue. Perhaps it would be those last months in India.
Eventually, even with such a small overhead, the money ran out. No one in the West would listen to my pleas anymore. Only when I was finally able to convince Frances that I absolutely had to return or face prison did she arrange a ticket to London. I didn't use it until the last minute, and then only because I felt sorry for Deepak who could have at any time returned to his family instead of half-starving in Old Delhi with me.
That was the most difficult farewell of my life, saying goodbye to India and goodbye to Deepak. We spilled tea on my passport to slightly obscure a sloppy attempt at altering the visa date. When I went through the exit check, the young man looked at my passport, looked at me, looked at the carton of cheap Indian cigarettes I had bought duty-free. I said, "would you like some?". He took a few packs of cigarettes and stamped me out.
When I was arranging the journey, Air India's advertising slogan was "India. You'll never be the same again". That was indeed truth in advertising.
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