Letters From An Indian Summer

By Siddharth Dasgupta

A love story between an Indian photographer and a French artist, Letters from an Indian Summer is suffused with a strong sense of serendipity and spiritually liberal doses of the things Arjun Bedi and Genevieve Casta hold dear in this world. The past, though, lurks constantly around every chosen corner. Will the secrets they harbor end up destroying them, or will the unspoken belief in their entwined cosmic paths be much too strong a force . . . ?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9789358568035

Book preview

Many people familiar with the term ‘Indian Summer’ seem to think it refers to a glorious, never-ending summer. But, as with most impressions, this too, is far removed from the truth. Its lineage can actually be traced back to the Native Americans, who first used the phrase for an unseasonal spell of hot, dry weather in the middle of autumn, which wrecked their chances of a decent harvest and left them vulnerable to the harshness of the coming winter. An Indian Summer then, more than anything, is a treacherous summer . . . perceptible to all the chance follies of the human heart.

Perhaps treacherous would be as good a word as any to describe that swirl of emotions, occurrences, and memories that had defined the summer of 2012 and the months preceding it, which led up to that fateful day in October. While the weather had been a gorgeous antithesis to the cruel vagaries of an Indian Summer, circumstances had rendered the label true with stinging honesty. There had been bruised encounters, discarded relationships, lingering memories, and indistinct directions. Randomness might well have been the theme of the season, tied for first place with penance, and peeking shyly behind all this upheaval, maybe just a sliver of calm. It was under this hazy sway that Arjun Bedi walked into Cinque Terre in Koregaon Park on a beautiful, post-monsoon evening.

Koregaon Park is to Poona what The Village is to New York—an unforced confluence of creative people, nightlife junkies, artistic souls, and travellers from across the world. Within its two-mile radius, life plays out in eclectic abandon, with the mellow glow of spiritual enlightenment forming a ready companion to many a meals, rendezvous, soirées, and flirtations. The presence of the Osho Ashram here has nurtured a spirited vibe that flows through bars, pubs, cafés, restaurants, art galleries, and boutiques with equal élan. Osho’s mystic, masterful existence, perpetuated by a global sect of spiritual addicts and always shrouded in robes of enigma, spills over silently into many of Koregaon Park’s inner spaces. While some of this quarter’s bohemian spirit had had to make way for commercial coffee chains, yuppie bars, and clubs frequented by screaming kids, there were still many nooks and crannies of originality around to keep the imagination sated. Cinque Terre was one of them.

This disarming little tapas bar and Mediterranean bistro, with its charming patio and its heady flow of haunting melodies, had become a sort of refuge for Arjun in the past tumultuous year, when he’d often found himself walking through Koregaon Park’s streets and ducking into its wayward by-lanes. He’d picked Cinque Terre as his preferred haunt without thinking too much about it. The bohemian largesse the place possessed seemed to mirror his character, and it didn’t hurt that their fine selection of melodies and their satisfying food menu only seemed to get better with each visit. He had even found himself a favourite—the Paradiso Panini, a sumptuous arrangement of herbs, feta, and tomatoes dressed in balsamic vinegar and farm mustard, laid out on hearty Italian bread and served on a traditional wooden platter. Within the distinctly free-spirited flavour of the surroundings, Arjun found himself decidedly at home.

Born in Poona, Arjun was a celebrated photographer who had exploded onto the scene as a bit of a prodigy when he was just nineteen. Since then, he had gone on to make the world his experimental canvas, his career affording him the luxuries of constant travel, little attachments, and endless love, the last one fed through a steady diet of one-night stands and seasonal dalliances. But a selfish philanderer he was not, just a man consumed by the endless pleasures of love and, though he was loathe to admit it, a search for something beautiful and permanent to preserve his heart. Tall and ruggedly striking, his was a countenance finessed through years of travel and worn rich with encounters that had left remarkable lines on his skin, each a rich experience, each with its own story to tell. Whether professionally, personally, or spiritually, there was no mistaking it—Arjun Bedi was a relentless nomad always in search of ‘somewhere’.

As a result of all these ingredients, his photography was coloured by a rare sensitivity in the fact that he could easily leap from exclusive fashion shoots for Vogue and Elle to extensive photo-essays for the likes of Harper’s Bazaar and Condé Nast Traveller. Now in his mid-30s, he bore the easy charm of a man at ease with himself, at peace with the world around him, and in love with the possibility of what could happen next. And yet, there was that cloud. That cloud which hung above him silently, hovering, barely visible at times, but never too far away . . . leaving him vulnerable to the world.

On that particular October day, Arjun had walked into the bistro around half-past four in the afternoon, intent on catching up on some reading as Poona, blessed with perpetually pleasant weather, prepared itself for an especially enchanting evening. As the afternoon eased into fading sunlight, each frame resembled a classic movie visage, painted with the leftovers of an unprecedented monsoon that had only just bidden them a tearful farewell, a month later than its usual routine. The city had now slipped silently into that magical space between seasons where soft skies and a gentle breeze seemed to be the order of the day.

When his mind, quite predictably, began to wander a little while later, distracted by the people and the conversations already bristling in the café, Arjun allowed his eyes to roam, following a natural pattern from left to right.

A young couple lost in the nuances of their fledgling romance; a beat poet, by the looks of it, scruffily jotting down his next ode to rebellion; the lazily-scrawled chalk board messages and special menus dotting the place; a woman lost in the pages of a book, her blonde hair shielding much of her face; a group of . . . his eyes rapidly scanned back: A woman lost in the pages of a book, her blonde hair shielding much of her face.

He studied her more closely this time, with intensity. Her body was draped in beautiful ethnic chic—a ruffled fuchsia gypsy skirt, an off-white top with tender frills around the neck, and exotic jewellery that spoke of eclectic voyages. There was an air about her, like an invisible halo placed gently above her head, ever so softly, like a whisper. And that ring, the one he could recognise from a million miles away—slender, circular waves of silver circling and intertwining before joining a single stone of sapphire. It could only be her. Genevieve.

Arjun froze. It felt like being suspended in a surreal, dream-like state where, for an instant, reverie and reality didn’t really seem to have much distance between them. He forced his numb legs to stand up and walk over to her table. And with uncertainty, he uttered a hello.

The woman looked up, her sparkling blue eyes the colour of the Corsican Sea, a raging turquoise that seemed lost within its own beauty. Her reaction to finding him there was equally extreme, but she rose, half a minute later, gradually, appearing only a little more certain of this happenstance, and wrapped her arms around Arjun. And there they stood in the heart of the bustling urban scene, oblivious to the confines of time and space.

The woman finally drew away and broke the stillness.

It’s been what, two years now?

Yeah, roughly. Istanbul was 2010, so yes, that’s about right.

You look wonderful. You’ve been well?

I have, for the most part. He fiddled around with his words. This is just a bit too incredible to take in all at once . . . even with all the crazy stuff that keeps happening with me.

She smiled. I knew this was your hometown. And I guess there was always this feeling I had that I might just run into you, but for God’s sake really, what are the odds?

Well, I have too many questions floating around in my head and I don’t even know where to begin. He noticed the empty cup of coffee on her table. Another coffee? Some wine?

I’d love another coffee.

I think we’re going to need lots of cups of coffee to try and make sense of this.

Genevieve laughed, the sound of it a memory that was seared deep inside Arjun’s consciousness. It was one of the purest, most innocent things he had known in all his life and hearing it now, after what seemed like decades, it was as though the years between them had simply dissolved themselves.

Over the next couple of hours, through several cups of strong Java, Arjun and Genevieve tried to piece together something resembling a picture of their lives, filling in the blanks where needed and leaving details out where appropriate. There was an easy camaraderie to their exchange, a natural flow to their body language which betrayed the fact that their romance had not died a bitter, rancorous death, but had, instead, been simply left alone to the whims of destiny.

How long have you been back home? Genevieve asked.

Been a year now. It’s the first time I’ve actually stayed put in Poona for anything over two weeks in well over a decade. I left home when I was seventeen, so it’s been like just another journey to me really.

What do you mean?

"It’s like discovering a city, only I’m rediscovering my own hometown. Having been gone for so long, mostly nothing seemed familiar at first, but suddenly I would come across something or someone or someplace that would open this floodgate of memories and things would come rushing back in a hurry. It’s been surreal really, this last one year . . . there’s this sensation of anonymity together with this strange feeling of déjà vu that never lets go."

I feel the same way about Paris sometimes. I feel she’s quite generous to keep taking me back in even though I stray away from her so often.

Arjun nodded in agreement, and, as their conversation continued, he found himself reflecting about this beautiful woman who had filled every day of his life for two rollercoaster years.

Genevieve Casta was roughly the same age as Arjun, a fact that had cemented their relationship as instant soulmates. For both men and women, while savouring the conquest of a younger lover or craving the affections of an older one can be an attractive proposition, it is for the most part, and on most occasions, a fractured one. But love that evolves between two people of the same age can be a richly symbiotic, endlessly fulfilling journey, for not only have you been through much of the same trials and tribulations that life has had to throw at you at almost the same time, but more importantly, you’re open and eager to experience many of the things life has in store for you—people, places, art, culture, books, films, photographs, words—together.

Genevieve and Arjun’s lives, though separated by three thousand miles at birth, had traversed a remarkably similar course. She too, had left home at an early age and had found all her passions for this world satiated within the arms of travel—the joy of waking up anonymous in far-flung cities, the thrill of pushing herself to take a chance without the safety net of everything she held dear, all the new people, the lives, the journeys, everything. And like him, she had nurtured her unbridled hunger for her art. A gifted pianist since childhood, she’d been torn between her attachment to music and a flair she’d picked up slightly later in life—painting. She’d chosen the latter, finding herself hopelessly addicted to the worlds that emerged from her imagination. And travel was the invisible glue binding everything together, helping fuel her passion and enabling her to take her craft to another level.

But where Arjun and Genevieve converged most profoundly was in their utter disregard for everyday mores and societal expectations. Relationships and love, though experienced deeply and with full sincerity, were never clung on to, attuned as each was to a karmic philosophy of impermanence and detachment. It was the same for their travels as well. They could be completely taken over by a certain city in a certain part of the world, but after a three-month dalliance with nomadic permanence, they wouldn’t think twice about packing up and leaving. It was like they knew, always, that a particular love, a certain city, a specific moment in time was never theirs to own. It was just something the universe had granted them to live, breathe, and love . . . before simply letting go.

It was this, this approach to life which had ensured that when they drifted away, there was only sadness with a persistent ache in their hearts, and no forced melodrama, no guilt, and certainly no hatred. And it was this same approach to life, this same karmic belief, which ensured that now, two years hence, after that first moment of understandable trepidation and numbness, they warmly eased into each other, slipping into the old, familiar shadows that exist between two people who have known each other intimately. Just two long lost lovers sharing cups of coffee in an accidental Indian city.

So what’s brought you to India, to Poona?

I don’t really need a reason to come to India. But in that one previous visit, I never managed to reach Poona. So, when my agent in Paris met me a month ago to tell me about a hotel here that wanted to exhibit my work in their in-house gallery, how was I going to refuse?

And you’re putting up at the hotel?

I was, initially. The exhibition lasted two weeks, and when it ended, I wasn’t ready to leave Poona just yet. She considered her words for a bit before continuing, I guess there was something holding me back. It’s a lovely city you have here.

Arjun pondered over the cosmic naughtiness that had set this chain of events in motion and smiled. Where are you staying now?

Here, in Koregaon Park only. I found myself a lovely, spacious outhouse. It’s part of an expatriate couple’s villa, but I’ve got my own garden, a beautiful space in which to paint, and complete privacy . . . it’s perfect for now.

And how long are you going to be here?

Genevieve drew a few strands of hair away from her face and thought about it for a while. I really don’t know. I’m supposed to head back to Paris in a month’s time to discuss another showing, but I haven’t committed to them yet. I’m just going to go with what the stars tell me.

Arjun looked at her mischievously, In that case, I really hope it’s not going to be cloudy.

There was a warmth and tenderness in his words that seemed unforced, unhurried.

Genevieve smiled at him and looked up to try and grab a waiter’s attention. "What I do know is we have to meet up again and catch up at length. I’m sorry I have to leave, but I’m meeting a journalist at home. The day after?"

He nodded his approval, and when the waiter arrived with the bill, he pocketed it, waving aside Genevieve’s protests, before scribbling a number on a napkin and handing it to her.

That’s me. You take care and I guess I’ll see you Friday.

Friday it is. This has been, I don’t know, this has been special and pretty unforgettable, she laughed as she rose to leave.

Arjun rose too and hugged her warmly, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, as though he was reassuring himself that it wasn’t an apparition that stood in front of him, that his unruly mind hadn’t whipped up yet another daydream.

Arjun, Genevieve said softly, just about to step out of the café. Everything’s all right with you, yeah?

Arjun smiled and simply waved goodbye, and watched Genevieve disappear into the fancies of the crisp Poona evening.

There is a certain sky-blue that brims with possibility, a colour that takes you back to your childhood and the memories of days spent in the freedom of summer; when you knew that each sun-dappled day and balmy night would bring with it the likelihood of opportunities and discoveries and that elusive first crush . . . a blue to the sky that doesn’t shy away from an impromptu romance, that cajoles you into sudden liaisons and then crushes you with mysterious pleasures.

As he walked out of his apartment on Friday evening, Arjun realised that his mind was much lighter than it had been in over a year, and that while he’d been slowly working on regaining a sense of spiritual balance, his meeting Genevieve on Wednesday had obviously served as a catalyst in the process. He played one of his recurring games, trying to weave together photographs from the past, drawing a clearer picture of the woman who’d been gently dropped into his city, almost on a whim.

Genevieve was a tall woman, almost the same height as Arjun when in heels. Her precious porcelain skin had been kissed with just the right amount of sunshine, and her face, the only word with which one could describe her face—with those soft full lips and those deep blue eyes vying for people’s attention, drawing them in with laughable ease—was ‘angelic’. She was delicate in her movements, never rushed or awkward, gliding across the world on her own enchanted cloud. And she was all woman too, not afraid to own her curves or exercise her charms, though never with a shred of vanity. She and Arjun were the sort of pair that would make heads turns when they were together, wherever in the world. What he held most dear about her were the contradictions that seemed to define who she was—her fierce independence tempered with a broken frailty that compelled you to take care of her; her heightened maturity negated swiftly by a childlike abandon that wouldn’t think twice about skinny-dipping under a full moon sky; that genuine warmth and sense of affection lightened by the veneer of indifference that was common to them both . . . it all added up to one rich cocktail.

Still wrapped in his chain of thoughts, Arjun kept adding more layers to the photograph of Genevieve he was trying to replicate in his mind. Her beautiful golden hair fell softly upon her shoulders in long loose curls, often shadowing her face. Carrying the grace of a ballerina, Genevieve brought with her a sense of rare, old-Hollywood charm. To Arjun, her subtle ways and quiet mannerisms seemed seeped in vintage sepia, accented by a rich, vivid, and very real colour that belonged to the present. She reminded him of a divine coming together of Catherine Deneuve and Julie Christie. Indeed, he could easily see her in Doctor Zhivago, waging that perpetually sad battle to foster an epic love. Arjun had always found it life-affirming that a soft, serene soul such as hers could flourish in a world where most women he came across appeared garish, inelegant, and empty.

As he walked into Dario’s—Poona’s best Italian place and their agreed-upon meeting point—he found her waiting there for him, lost in her book.

Is that the same one from the other evening? he interrupted her. She rose and greeted him, then showed him the book’s cover. Desolation Angels, Jack Kerouac.

Takes me back to when I was nineteen, that one, enthused Arjun.

It’s my favourite Kerouac actually, she replied. "On the Road makes me want to travel and make these big plans. But Desolation Angels makes me want to paint and make love."

Then by all means, don’t let me stop you.

They laughed, and making themselves comfortable, settled into some great food. At Dario’s, the expertly prepared pasta and the authentic, wood-baked pizzas were able companions to the restaurant’s beautiful outdoor garden space, graced with a central courtyard replete with a majestic focal tree and a carpet of stars. They ordered a bottle of red too, and began to fill in some more of the blanks that had carried themselves over from the past couple of years.

Your family still lives in Poona, right?

Yes, my folks love this city. More than any other city in the world, this one feels like home to them.

And your sister?

Arjun moved in his chair slightly, looking a touch uneasy. I don’t have any siblings, remember?

Genevieve seemed surprised. She thought he’d mentioned a sister to her in the past, but then again, there were a lot of details about their lives that had simply been either left out or misheard over the years.

So why did you come back to Pune, sorry, Poona? Wait, how come you’re the only person who always calls it Poona, not Pune?

Arjun laughed. Because to me, Pune is a vulgar viewpoint, something this city sometimes threatens to become, but will never descend into fully . . . a sort of close-mindedness of thought, a narrow-minded view of the world, of life . . . of shutting the doors on anything different and remaining within the few square feet that you know.

He took a sip of his shiraz and continued, Poona, on the other hand, is what this city has always been to me—a liberal space open to different people, different cultures, different mores . . . accepting of anyone from anywhere in the world. And you must admit, Poona sounds so much more elegant than the gruffly localised Pune.

This time, it was Genevieve’s turn to laugh, because this was classic Arjun, the laid-back rebel who held on strong to what he felt was right.

"And where