The Long Con For a Short Shlong.

I first met Raksham when I had hired a car and was driving from Rishikesh to Gangotri, the source of the Ganges River. I was going alone except, just as we were leaving, my driver stopped and two strange men piled in. My driver informed me they were two friends of his and would I mind if I gave them a lift to Uttarkashi, about 2/3s of the way to my destination.

I threw a temper tantrum and screamed, "I'm not running a fucking bus service!" I jumped out and tried to drag my luggage from the boot and as I did I caught sight of the second stowaway, he had the face of an angel and a humble mien. I immediately relented and, beaming upon him, got back in the car and urged him to join us, turning to face him and gloat upon that gorgeous visage throughout the journey. Eventually he taught me a hardwon lesson, a handsome face and a winsome smile doesn't necessarily mean a good heart.

Halfway to Uttarkashi we stopped for lunch and to thank me for the lift he bought me a banana sandwich. I was most impressed as in my experience very few Indians have bought me anything, they expect me, the Angrezi Maharaja, to pay for everything.

We talked in an almost intimate, friendly manner, I found him quite charming and dreamt of him being my close friend. We dropped him and his friend off at the place they requested and I promptly forgot him.

Three years later he reappeared as a waiter in my friend Pankaja's restaurant. I didn't recognise him and he reminded me where we'd first met. I was swept away, stunned that my fantasy of getting close to him could come true if I pumped out the good vibes. Over the weeks we conversed, laughed and flirted but as he was straight I saw little chance of seducing him and gave up on it. What O didn't flash on was him being an expert in the ling con and he slowly reeled me in.

I noticed he was often sitting with a young woman who looked upon him adoringly. On talking with her I discovered she was Israeli, a psychologist by profession, and was very hard-arsed about her opinion of everybody's approach to life, particularly mine, sternly informing me I was a naive fool.

Pankaj, who knows everything about everybody, told me Raksham had been fucking her for 6 months and that they were possibly going to get married. I didn't care about what they were up to and turned my attention elsewhere, there were adventures to be had and Raksham didn't figure.

One day I saw her sitting in the restaurant, staring into space, not just glum but quite distraught, devastated actually. She moved as if in shock, in slow motion, like a zombie. Raksham sat distant from her, not kooking in her direction, with an unconcerned, blank face, as if to say, "Who me? It's got nothing to do with me."

She soon disappeared and on questioning him he confessed she was coming on too strong, saying "I love you!" a hundred times a day, insisting he go to Israel with her, he was the man of her dreams, she even swore they'd shared a past life together. And he wasn't ready for such a heavy relationship.

I asked him if she'd given him any money and he replied, "A little." Hmmm.... a little, that's interesting, usually the guys get a lot. He told me he wasn't interested in money, he wanted to be free to choose his own destiny and I agreed with him, she was a tough lady, a psychologist carrying a huge psychodrama in her head, things in Israel probably wouldn't have run smoothly with her as boss.

Sometimes I think yoga and meditation are not the only tourist attractions in Rishikesh. Every second doorway is an adventure business with a sign that says, "Rafting. Trekking. Camping." I think a more truthful sign should read, "Rafting. Fucking. Camping." So many Indian guys sniffing around the tourist areas have white women hanging off them, as if the poor cows aren't getting fucked enough at home. Or maybe their Indian sojourn must include a holiday romance with a brown guy as something neccesary on their bucket list.

Over the next few weeks Raksham and I developed quite a friendship though nothing too intimate, me telling stories but ommitting my queer nature as it was simply inappropriate. He knew damned well where my eyes strayed. He seemed a genuine fellow, honest, hard working, curious about the greater world. Eventually I returned to Australia and again forgot about him, as a political artist I had much to do in my fight against the neo-fascist govt that was poisoning Australia.

Then I got whatsap messages from him and I was quite chuffed, it looked like I mattered to him. Then he sent me a dick pic, I was quite surprised, he wanted an affair with me, he promised a torrid romance if I ever returned to India. His dick looked like a little black worm that even a starving fish would flee from so I can't say I was very attracted. But I thought I'd play along with him to see where it led. After all, he had that incredibly beautiful face and I have a gut-dropping face fetish.

I should've remembered that one clear sign you've got a Rakshas on yourvtrail is the fact that they're always eager to drop their pants, and their genitalia is malformed. Another sign is tbeir feet are turned backwards and Raksham never would show his feet, always tucking them out of sight.

2020 churned on and COVID took over, all planes grounded, no visas to anywhere and 2 years of lockdowns crashing upon our heads. India was out for the forseeable future and I filled my isolation time completing my second novel "Punk Outsider."

I got more messages from Raksham, he had COVID and was wasting away. He lived on  a mountaintop, medical treatment was hard to come by, his weight was down to 49 kilos, he was dying and was desperately afraid.

I freaked out. My dream boy on his death bed! Oh no, what can I do? I sent him money to buy nutritious, fattening food and any medical treatment he needed. His condition didn't improve, he continued to lose weight, things looked grim, months drifted by and I was distraught, I even cried in terror for him, fearing the worst.

He kept asking for money, only that would save him. "What is money compared to human life and health?" I quivered. 2022 finally dawned, vaccines were keeping Covid in check, planes started to fly, visas were again offered for India, and Raksham informed me he had now recovered thanks to my munificense.

He asked me for one last tranche of money to help him get on top of things and start life again and I, as a ditzy dope, sent it to him. Then he went silent, he disappeared, I even feared he was dead. I finally tracked him down where he was working in another cafe and rang him. In so many words he told me to "Fuck off!" He was never interested in me, he despised me for I wanted to "fuck him like a woman!"

I laughed bitterly, "No, if I wanted to fuck you it would be like a man! But you're ugly, behind that angelic face you are a demon, preying on whoever you could to gain their confidence!"

When I got back to India Pankaj informed me Raksham never did have COVID, it was all a ruse to get money. He had a few other firanghi suckers also sending him money. He was seen buying an expensive Smart phone. He wore a brand new three piece silk suit to a wedding. He was a complete cheat. In Indian mythology demons are called Rakshas and that's what he is, his name suited him perfectly. 

Now I know why the Israeli woman looked so shocked. I'm sure he'd promised her marriage, and for sure he took a lot of money from her. Demons like him think they've gotten away scot free with their egregious behaviour but that ugly nature is what he will carry with him for the whole of his life and that is not a measure of success.

We foreign tourists are seen as ATMs on legs, we're all rich, and I suppose we are in comparison to many of them. When tbey crack a firaghi tbey call it "capturing" them, it's an unspoken project they work on. And quite a few of tbose women captured by a horny brown man are in for quite a shock. I myself have recovered from the betrayal. What did I expect? Farrrrk, I pray I don't get sillier in my old age.