Octopussy – a short story from India.
In March 2004 I was 25 years old. With not a care in the world, no particular place to be and zero commitments to speak of, I packed up a rucksack and headed off to India. The future lay sparkling and I thought it would last forever.
‘‘Hey, you want Bond?’’ asked the goofy man, shoving a paper menu into my hand. ‘‘Yes! yes! … shaky shake but not stirring’’ he continued, directing his charms towards a sniggering Lindsay. It was the third time in as many minutes that we’d been accosted by a restaurant tout championing delicious home-cooked dishes, ice-cold beers and around the clock screenings of the classic James Bond movie Octopussy. In fact, just about every restaurant in town offered up exactly the same deal.
‘‘super sexy spicy!’’
The thirteenth instalment of the 007 film series had been mostly shot on location in Udaipur back in 1983. Director John Glen had made great use of the city’s misty and atmospheric Lake Pichola, while there were also stunning exterior shots of The Monsoon Palace. All in all Udaipur was a beautiful city and the locals were clearly proud of their little place in film history. ‘‘Try our Q salad!’’ said another young hustler through a grin of rotting teeth. Elsewhere, a further hopeful recommended his ‘‘Moneypenny Masala’’, which he described as ‘‘super sexy spicy!’’
In the end we found a rooftop restaurant with gorgeous views of The Monsoon Palace, an ethereal 19th century royal household hovering atop the rocky Aravalli Hills. Settling down with a round of creamy chicken curries and a pitcher of Kingfisher, Allan, Holly, Lindsay and I watched the movie on a huge projector screen while we ate. While I’ve never been much of a James Bond fan, it was nevertheless quite the experience watching the palace scenes. After all, we had the actual breathtaking views directly behind us on the rooftop.
‘‘I hear the island is exclusively for women’’ said Vijay, Bond’s trusty Indian ally. ‘‘Sexual discrimination, I will definitely have to pay a visit’’, quipped Bond. A ripple of laughter cascaded around the restaurant and it was impossible not to join in. The more Kingfisher we consumed, the funnier it all became. By the time the end credits had begun to roll we’d made a unanimous group decision. Fuelled by the heady combination of alcohol, Bondmania and the considerable magnetism of Udaipur itself, we decided to head out to the palace and see the old joint for ourselves.
Octopussy , a short story from India.
Hailing a tuk-tuk, we clunked through the city streets for a while before coming out into an open road. This, the driver informed us, was the gateway to our steep ascent. It wasn’t long before we were puffing slowly upwards, our vehicle making heavy work of the climb. I couldn’t help but wonder how Roger Moore would’ve fared in the movie if he’d had to give the bad guys the slip in a vehicle as pathetic as this. As if in answer, we subsequently fizzled to a stop around halfway up the mountain.
‘‘Please helping push’’ he said, without a hint of embarrassment.
‘‘Uh oh’’ said Holly as we sat waiting for our driver to do or say something. After a brief pause he turned towards us with a silly smile and said we all needed to get out. ‘‘Please helping push’’ he said, without a hint of embarrassment. But for a moment all we could do was stare back at him with a collection of our most uninspired expressions. ‘‘Just to top of next part’’ he pleaded. ‘‘Then everything Ok’’.
Thus the five of us pulled together to shove the sorry machine forward, the fierce afternoon sun beating down on our backs. By the time the road levelled out at the next ridge we were all ripe with sweat, but laughing nonetheless at the absurdity of it all. Hopping back on, I was relieved to see our chariot crank back into life. Then… ever… so… gradually… we crawled to a sluggish finish a kilometre or so later. The driver did not get a tip.
The Monsoon Palace, once a grand old structure of white glimmering marble, was now in a state of total disrepair. Nevertheless, the old joint still succeeded in channeling an alluring air of mystery. Peering down from its numerous crumbling balconies, there were magnificent views over the ochre-shrouded Lake Pichola. The city itself meanwhile looked similarly picture perfect. Not a trace of movement below as we took in a breathtaking sunset.
Exiting the complex sometime later, we bumped into a Canadian solo traveler called James. He was certainly happy to accept our offer of a shared ride back into town. Since setting foot in Udaipur the poor guy had been pummelled by the locals with endless Bond gags. “James? Ha ha!! Like Bond yes? James Bond!!’’ It hadn’t been funny the first time around and now, a few days later, he was fully prepared to commit murder.
Octopussy, a short story from India.
With Udaipur’s unique 007 experiences out of the way, we came to discover a handsome and bewitching city. And so a series of lazy days unfurled. We took a boat cruise across the lake to Jagmandir Island and went on a self-guided tour of the city’s art studios. Along the way, I picked up a framed painting of Lake Pichola.
Holly and Lindsay did some meditation at Jagdish Temple and of course there was meal after long, languid meal, which meant further viewings of Octopussy. At some point I could even quote a few scenes by heart, a sure indicator it was probably time to move on.
One day, over breakfast, the girls informed us they were heading northeast to Dehra Dun where orphanage work awaited. It was Holly who broke the news, Lindsay looking down into her plate as her friend did all the dirty work. After a torturous pause where nobody knew what to say, Holly spoke at length about the work they’d be doing. About the free accommodation they’d been given and the local travel opportunities. I didn’t hear any of it, I just kept glancing over at Lindsay who was doing a sterling job of avoiding eye contact.
On the big screen Octopussy’s right hand woman Magda was gazing up at Bond with an aching look. ‘‘I don’t know how to say goodbye’’ she said. ‘‘Actions speak louder than words’’ replied Bond with a silky wobble of the head. Maybe the suave old dog was right. But real life rarely works out like it does in the movies and the next morning, with minimal fuss, the girls boarded a nine o’clock train to Delhi.
Helping Lindsay with her bag, there was a clumsy hug, a nervous smile and a perfunctory ‘‘keep in touch”. We’d had a great adventure over the past week, but I’d always known we were on borrowed time. ‘‘Safe travels!’’ shouted Holly, rolling down a window. ‘‘See you later!’’ waved Lindsay as I responded with a half-hearted, raised hand. There was a rippling wave of metallic clangs as carriage doors closed across the platform like falling dominoes. Then, moments later, it was pulling away and I caught one last glimpse of Lindsay fishing around for something in her bag. I never saw her again.
Octopussy, a short story from India.
‘‘Mumbai?’’ asked Allan cheerfully, the two of us speeding back to the guesthouse in a rickshaw. Once again it was time to be practical. We had to pack up, check out, collect laundry and pick up our bus tickets. ‘‘Yup…’’ I replied, looking out at the passing traffic… ‘‘Mumbai’’.
‘Octopussy’ is the ninth installment of my short story series Incidents In India.
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