How I ended up in the country that taught me burlesque
In an earlier blog, I mentioned people often ask me how I ended up in New Zealand. Well, this is that tale, and because it’s a bit of a long story, I’m writing it in three parts. What follows is my experience of India. I have no doubt the country has changed since I was there 17 years ago, and from what I have learned since my journey, everyone who has travelled there experiences a different version. But here’s what happened on my journey…
India is a country of contradictions and beautiful landscapes. From the lush green tea plantations to the sandstone of Hampi – India’s Bedrock. The cities are crammed with people, rubbish piled high, the swirling smells of spices, diesel fumes and the sickly sweet aroma of jasmine from women’s hair as they brush past you in their brightly coloured saris. The sound of India is a cacophony of horns, cattle, rickshaw engines, and chatter.
In January 2007 I’d flown out there to learn yoga and complete the Sivananda TTC (teacher training course). But most importantly I was going there to attend my friend Sarah’s wedding (if you’ve read my blog before this is a different Sarah). I lived with Sarah in London, and due to tight budgets, we shared a room. Sarah, because she was saving to return to India to be with Sanjay, (her fiance). Me because I worked in the Arts and was paid fuck all. The joys of working at the Harrow Arts Centre is a whole other blog.
We were opposites in many ways, Sarah and me. Sarah, a tall, blonde, blue-eyed Australian working in the corporate world and me; short, dark brown hair, with green eyes working as a tech in the Arts. Sarah worked 9-5 and I worked evenings. It helped that she was friends with my older sister Katy and her boyfriend Jonny first. They’d met while travelling in China and all moved to London at the same time. They were already living in a flat together. I followed a few months later. Staying with them was intended to be temporary, but the low pay meant a room share was all I could afford. Sarah and I hit it off and our opposing schedules actually worked out. We had a great time the four of us living together in a two-bed flat in Clapham Junction.
Sarah met me at Chennai airport with her driver; how things had changed. As it turned out the driver had become necessary due to a couple of incidents on the work bus. When Sarah told me this I nodded with understanding. This was not my first trip to India; a few years previously I had sworn I would never return. But upon receiving the invitation, and the way my work was at the time, I decided to say “fuck It” and go anyway. I promised myself this time would be different. I would not get overwhelmed by the chaos and the constant badgering by Indian men. I knew there was more to India than that.
I spent a couple of days in Chennai to sort out my outfit for the main wedding event then headed straight for the yoga ashram. My reasoning for the yoga ashram was not because I loved yoga. I’d only had one lesson in yoga before I arrived. An actor I recently toured with had recommended it. She had done the Sivananda TTC a few years ago and she talked so enthusiastically about it that I couldn’t help but feel I should give it a go. The course dates fell perfectly between a tour finishing and the wedding. It was meant to be.
The ashram was amazing and I met so many people from around the world and across India. Located further south of Chennai outside Madurai in Tamil Nadu, the ashram was a half-built cluster of huts surrounded by lush green hills. Even in this remote space the noises of India penetrated the yogic calm. A motorbike zipping along the country road, a bus honking its horn and the regular call to prayer from the nearby mosque. I loved it.
I spent the full four weeks in that very tranquil setting, getting stronger both physically and mentally. I was a bit broken when I arrived. I’d just come off a tour in America, which was awesome but the constant moving and the working hours had taken its toll. Before that my grandad had died suddenly. He’d had a good innings, and always said he was in league with the devil. His funeral was a celebration but with everything going on I hadn’t had time to grieve. The ashram gave me that space and time.
Mind you it was a pretty full-on timetable:
Despite the ridiculously early mornings (I am 100% a night Owl), I left the yoga retreat lighter and in a lovely calm bubble, along with a certificate to confirm I had completed my yoga TTC. I was ready for the Indian wedding!
Upon my return to Chennai, Katy and Jonny arrived at the same time as me. We were the first guests to arrive and were treated to the news that we would be learning a Bollywood dance routine to perform at the wedding reception. Sarah told us not to worry, by Indian wedding standards it was going to be small, only around 200 guests. I was possibly the only person excited about the prospect of learning a new dance style. I hadn’t danced for years! The routine would involve Sarah’s friends from India and around the world. Jonny was learning a routine with the boys and Katy and I with the girls.
Years later Jonny and I were in an Indian restaurant in Clapham Common and the tracks from both our routines were playing in the background. Thankfully we couldn’t remember much from the routines. Jonny could remember where to point and I could remember where to shimmy! The waiter looked confused so we decided to stop.
A small wedding was the plan with only three official wedding parties. The bride’s welcome dinner, the Mehndi and the wedding itself. Other unofficial parties were planned, along with the all important dance rehearsals. It was going to be a busy week!
On the day of the welcome dinner, shopping had been planned. I needed to pick up my wedding outfit from the tailor and others in the group were looking to pick up last-minute outfits for the events coming up. I wasn’t particularly keen to go but I’m glad I did because things were about to take a turn.
There were at least ten of us being shuttled between clothing boutiques, jumping from an air-conditioned van to air-conditioned shops. I was glad I’d sorted my outfits when I first arrived because the places we were being taken to were expensive; it was not your typical Indian shopping trip. My sister and I had decided to wait outside one of the boutiques. South India in February is hot and balmy, I’d spent the past month without air-con and wanted to warm up outdoors. We found ourselves a bit of shade by the entrance of the shop overlooking a little garden of banana trees.
Sarah’s dad, Roger appeared with a new guest who looked familiar but I knew I hadn’t met him before. He was also one of the fittest guys I’d ever seen. Broad shoulders but not too muscular, dark brown hair, a set of eyes that had a story to tell and, a massive bonus for me, he was a below-average height for a man. Perfect, I’m 4ft 11. I’d had a string of relationships with men who were over 6ft tall and I was over it; the logistics were a pain in the arse. The good-looking man in front of me had ticked a lot of my boxes and he hadn’t even said a word.
“G’day Katy, how’s it going?”
I snapped out of my daydream, ‘Katy knows this man?!’
“Hey, Jamie!” as they embraced I clearly looked puzzled.
Roger jumped in, “Emily this my son, Jamie.”
“Ohh so your Sarah’s brother!”
And that was it, we were then rushed back into the van, and whisked to our next destination.
I turned to Katy.
“You never told me Sarah’s brother is fit.”
“Is he? Well, I guess so.”
“Is he single?”
“I think so.”
Well, now this was a turn of events. Maybe I’d get the holiday romance I’d secretly wished for. But then the voice in the back of my head kicked in ‘You do realise he is way too fit for you. He won’t be interested in you.’ I did my best to kick that insecurity to the back of my mind.
At the bridal dinner, I was both intrigued and nervous. I always feel anxious about going to big events, but also I’ve never been very confident when sparking up a conversation with someone I don’t know and fancy. So I decided he wouldn’t be interested in me and who needs a holiday romance anyway?
Upon arrival at the hotel, my sister, Jonny and I had split up to explore the bar and various rooms. The party was on the top floor of a pretty swanky hotel. There was a rooftop pool, the breeze and the height drowning out the constant honking of car horns from below, my yogic calm was still intact. The place was filling up, everyone was staying indoors in the perfectly air-conditioned bar. I was casually keeping an eye out for Jamie. Just because I had decided nothing was going to happen didn’t mean I wasn’t going to look.
I was unsure what to make of Jamie’s outfit when I clocked him. A bright blue and white patterned shirt, (the blue pattern reminded me of pebble dash), with the classic tucked-in and perfectly bagged back-out look, the extra button undone, revealing a small amount of a smooth bare chest, giving 90’s boyband vibes. Dark trousers and a pair of bright white shoes finished off the look. I couldn’t help but respect the white shoes. As he walked by I couldn’t help myself; I had to check out his arse as I suspected it was cute.
“Oh-my-god have you seen the painting in the other room.” Once again I was knocked out of my Jamie daydream by Katy and thrust into a room with a painting of a giant crotch. We of course posed for a photo beneath those muscular thighs.
Playing it cool I thought ‘Fuck it, I’m going in’ and asked the question;
“Soo, what do you know about Jamie?”
“I only met him the once, he seemed nice. His wife was weird though.’’
This gave me something to think about. It transpired he had married young and divorced in his mid-20s. I can’t remember how old he was when we met, I think he’d just turned 30 maybe. I was 26. I made a judgement based on the outfit and the information I was given. I figured player, making up for lost time after his marriage. It raised the question: was I interested in that?
As it turned out we sat opposite each other at dinner, a coincidence or planned I’m not sure. Either way, we had to make conversation. I think I brought up the white shoes and told him about my friend who also had a pair and cleaned them with Jif. Not the best way to chat up a man but It broke the ice.
I discovered he was single, an engineer in the Australian Navy (probably explained the white shoes) and was currently posted in Sydney. At this point I was cooling towards him, but then he gave me this look. I’d like to say it was smouldering and intense but it was the opposite. The look he gave was quite possibly the most gormless look I had ever seen on a man and I got butterflies in my tummy.
What that says about me, I have no idea. Maybe it was because the façade had been broken. He wasn’t that fit, he was just a guy. Either way, flirtatious Flynn came flying out of the gates. I had my eye on the prize. I was gonna get that holiday romance.
It took a couple of days and a bit of alcohol but I got there. As one of the unofficial events, Sarah had organised a party at a friend’s beach house. Jamie and I had been chatting and flirting a lot by this point and if he didn’t make a move soon I was going to. We left the madness of Chennai behind and trekked out to the coast for an afternoon of fun. The Bollywood dance instructor had other ideas. We hadn’t been doing too well in the rehearsals, the wedding was now a day away and she wanted perfection.
The beach house was more like a beach mansion. I don’t actually remember going down to the beach, I just remember a massive courtyard with pristine white pillars, terracotta floor tiles and palm trees growing out of white-bordered planters. It was peaceful and tranquil. It was in this courtyard that we had our final rehearsal. The boys rehearsed first, followed by the girls and then we all came together to dance around the bride and groom. As Jamie was one of the last guests to arrive he had opted out of dancing. He instead was casually resting against one of the pillars, watching. I’m not gonna lie, I put an extra bit of effort in. Finally, when our dance instructor was satisfied, we were allowed to go and have some fun. I sidled over to Jamie and asked if he wanted to dance. He swore he could not dance so I took it upon myself to teach him.
He was right, he was not a dancer. After he stepped on my foot at least four times I thought “Fuck it, I’m going in”; and pulled him down to me and kissed him. He did not disappoint on the kissing front. All the right amount of pressure and not too eager. His look, when we separated, was all I needed to know. I wasn’t going back to my hotel that evening.
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